ASOIAF: Celestial Conqueror - Chapter 12 (Patreon)

A Song of Ice and Fire - Celestial Conqueror

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Chapter 12

Chaotic noise rolled across the sea as the northern fleet pressed forward, the clash of waves mixing with the distant thunder of war. The winds had favored them all the way, pushing their ships swiftly southward, as though the gods themselves wanted them here at this moment.

By the time they reached the Bay of Seagard, the invasion was already underway.

The city’s harbor was choked in smoke, black plumes curling skyward in thick, ugly columns. Alarm bells tolled desperately from the walls, but their ringing was drowned beneath the deep blare of war horns and the crash of surf. From the deck of his ship, Jon could already make out the sight of Ironborn longships striking the coast. Warriors poured ashore, splashing through the shallows with axes raised high.

“Seven hells…” Ser Wendel Manderly muttered under his breath. His large hands tightened against the railing, and his broad frame looked heavier than usual, burdened by the sight before them. “We’ve sailed straight into the heart of it.”

Jon’s fingers curled tightly around the hilt of his sword. His eyes, colder than his youthful face suggested, swept over the coastline where the city struggled under attack. In his mind, possibilities and tactics began to form. The Ironborn had tormented the North for generations. Now, finally, it was their turn to be struck from behind.

“They won’t expect ships coming at them from the rear,” Jon said. His voice was young, but it carried a steadiness that surprised even himself. The thought of battle clawed at his stomach, yet he refused to let it show. “If we strike fast, we can cut off their retreat. Seagard will have a chance to breathe.”

Wendel let out a weary sigh, his mustache twitching with the exhale. “A wise plan. But tell me, are you truly ready for this fight? If your father learns I let you throw yourself into battle, I’ll be the one answering for it.” He stepped up beside Jon, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder at the prow of their longship.

Behind them, the Manderly men were already preparing. Shields were lifted, spears stacked, and bowstrings tested. The creak of leather and the clatter of steel filled the deck, a steady rhythm of soldiers steeling themselves for what was to come.

Their approach alone began to ripple across the battlefield. War horns sounded again, echoing over the water and into the city streets, a call warning both friend and foe of new arrivals. The Ironborn, at first, hesitated. From a distance, the ships bore the right shapes and sails, nothing to suggest danger.

Only when the fleet drew nearer did the truth sink in. The sails might have once belonged to Ironborn ships, but the warriors standing ready upon their decks were not allies. They were Northerners, and they had come for blood.

Jon had deliberately left the captured vessels unchanged, knowing the confusion would be their weapon. By the time the Ironborn realized who bore down on them, it would already be too late.

And the effect was immediate.

The moment the Ironborn realized the ships behind them carried enemies instead of allies, their ferocity wavered. What little discipline they had scattered like sand in the tide, and their fighting strength dropped in half—no, even less than that.

For a true army, well-trained and properly led, being struck from two directions was enough to cripple their effectiveness. But the Ironborn were nothing like that. They weren’t soldiers. They were raiders—wild men who thrived on surprise attacks, on catching their prey unprepared and burning villages before anyone could resist. On open ground against a prepared enemy, their strength always withered away.

Now, their situation was even worse than usual.

On land, they were pressed hard by Seagard’s defenders, soldiers rallied and organized under Jason Mallister’s command. On the sea, the escape route they counted on was blocked by White Harbor’s warriors—men raised with salt spray in their lungs, seasoned by years of guarding merchant routes and fighting off pirates. Against foes who knew the sea as well as they did, the Ironborn had no advantage left.

Worse still, every man had to make a choice: cling to the plunder they had taken, or throw it all aside in order to survive. They couldn’t possibly hold their loot and defend their ships at the same time. Their proud “Iron Price” had suddenly become dead weight.

Then, above the chaos, a single voice rang out across the battlefield.

“Let’s show these scum what it costs to cross the North! Bring out the Fire of Armenelos!”

It was a boy’s voice, sharp and clear, carrying over the din of battle. The shout came from the foremost longship of the northern fleet, where Jon stood at its prow, his sword raised high.

The Ironborn, who were scrambling to ready their ships for flight, faltered. Trapped between two enemies, already on the verge of collapse, they froze at those strange words. The Fire of Armenelos? None of them had ever heard of it before. But they knew one thing well enough: fire never meant anything good at sea.

A moment later, their confusion deepened.

From the decks of the approaching northern ships, heavy metallic tubes were wheeled forward into position, each one fastened at the bow. The Ironborn stared, eyes narrowing, unsure whether they were weapons or some bizarre tool.

Then the tubes began to tilt upward, their open mouths glinting in the firelight, and dread pooled in the hearts of every raider watching.

Two men operated each of the strange devices. Unlike the rest of the soldiers on the northern longships, these men stood out. Their leather armor was uniform in design, neat and reinforced, giving them a far more disciplined appearance than the typical northern levy. One of them aimed the wide-mouthed tube toward the Ironborn vessels, steady and precise. The other busied himself with a mechanism attached to a barrel, his hand turning a crank with practiced movements.

At first, the raiders on the opposite ships only stared, confused. They had never seen weapons like these before. Curiosity flickered across their faces for a brief moment—before that moment was burned away forever.

The first blast came in a violent roar. A searing jet of flame spewed forth, washing over the nearest longship. The men caught in its path didn’t even have time to scream properly. Skin blistered and split in an instant, their eyes shriveled in their sockets, and flesh charred away until they collapsed in smoking heaps.

That horrific sight repeated across every Ironborn ship unlucky enough to be in the front line.

Panic followed swiftly after the flames. It was not only men who burned, but the ships themselves. Dry timbers and salt-stained sails went up like torches, crackling as fire spread across their decks. In the middle of the sea, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Their only means of escape—those same longships carrying the loot they had fought for—were now blazing death traps.

Ironborn without ships were nothing but stranded prey.

The sudden storm of fire shattered their resolve. Warriors who had never encountered such a weapon before fell into disarray, their once loud war cries turning into terrified shouts. Some of the smarter raiders didn’t hesitate. They leapt overboard, thrashing into the waves, desperate to swim for the shore. They would earn no glory, no riches, and no songs would ever be sung of them. But at least they might keep their lives, to raid again on another day.

Not everyone was so sensible. Some refused to abandon their pride. Perhaps they were the truest example of Ironborn—stubborn, reckless, and ultimately foolish.

They chose to fight.

A few attempted to smother the flames devouring their ships, only to stumble too close to the Fire of Armenelos and be engulfed themselves. Others, either hot-blooded or outright mad, decided the only path left was forward. With wild cries, they hurled themselves across the gap between ships, leaping onto the northern longships in a desperate charge.

Their reasons were unclear. Maybe they thought they could seize control of the vessels. Maybe they wanted to capture the terrifying new weapons and turn them against their enemies. Or maybe, in the face of certain death, they simply saw no other option.

Whatever their intent, the result was the same. Few of them even set foot on the decks before arrows, spears, or another burst of flame cut them down. Others managed a brief struggle, only to be surrounded and slain.

In truth, their choice wasn’t complete madness. From their perspective, death was certain if they stayed where they were. Between burning alive on their own ships or taking a slim chance by charging forward, some chose the latter. Against overwhelming odds, they gambled for survival.

But to the northerners watching, it was nothing more than another display of Ironborn folly.

Even after the sudden burst of fire and the panic it caused, the Ironborn still underestimated just how heavily the odds had turned against them. They hadn’t realized how many of their number had already fallen, nor did they fully grasp the sheer difference in strength between their scattered rabble and the disciplined northern force pressing them back.

At the head of their desperate charge came a man who stood out immediately. He was broad-shouldered, scarred, and clearly well past his prime. His grizzled hair and lined face suggested an age somewhere in his sixties—an age Jon had rarely seen on any warrior. In the North, and especially in this world where wounds festered and sickness claimed lives with ease, reaching such years was remarkable. To see someone that old still fighting on the front lines was almost unthinkable.

Yet the man moved with surprising vigor. His strikes were brutal, his voice carried authority, and the Manderly soldiers who tried to stop him were quickly overpowered. The years hadn’t dulled his ferocity. If anything, they had hardened him into something even more dangerous.

Then his gaze locked onto Jon.

“You. It’s you, Demon Child!” the old raider snarled, his eyes blazing with hatred. His voice rose to a bellow as he pointed his blade toward the boy. “These cursed devices, this witch-fire—it must all be your work! Why else would a child be here, standing in the midst of battle, if not as a demon wearing human skin?”

Jon stiffened, but before he could respond, Ser Wendel Manderly stepped forward. The massive knight planted himself firmly between Jon and the raging Ironborn, his round face set in grim determination.

“Stay back, Jon. I will handle this one,” Wendel said, his voice steady as stone.

Steel clashed as the two men collided. Jon’s eyes stayed fixed on them, unwilling to miss even a moment. At first glance, Wendel clearly had the advantage in technique. His stance was firm, his blade steady, and every swing carried the weight of proper training. Compared to him, the Ironborn leader’s movements were rougher, more aggressive, the strikes of a brawler rather than a knight.

But skill was not everything.

The raider’s blade was faster than expected. Even burdened by his years, the old warrior’s weapon moved with frightening speed, darting past Wendel’s defenses again and again. Worse still, Jon noticed something unusual: the Ironborn’s sword wasn’t just fast, it was cutting deeper than it should have, biting against steel with unnatural sharpness. Even castle-forged steel, which should have held firm, was not safe against it.

And then disaster struck.

With a sudden surge of strength, the Ironborn leader brought his weapon down in a savage arc. Wendel raised his sword to block, but the blow crashed against it with such force that the blade itself snapped. The strike should have cleaved through him, but Wendel managed to deflect it just enough to avoid death. Even so, the weapon in his hands was reduced to nothing but a broken hilt.

The knight staggered back, defenseless. The bald, scarred raider lifted his sword high, his face twisted in triumph, ready to bring it down and finish the fight.

Jon didn’t think. He moved before his mind could even catch up, his body reacting on pure instinct.

Nobody was paying attention to Jon when he raised his hand slightly. With two fingers, he traced a small sign in the air and whispered under his breath, “Somne.”

It was one of the Witcher Signs—simple magic that could send a target into slumber. Normally, at least. In the chaos of battle, though, it was far less reliable. Adrenaline, fury, and raw survival instinct made warriors hard to subdue with such a trick. Still, among the Signs he knew, this one had the advantage of being subtle. No flash of light, no fire, no obvious sign that sorcery had been used. To anyone watching, it was as though Jon had simply raised his hand for a heartbeat.

The Ironborn leader didn’t collapse as hoped, but the spell had some effect. His eyes lost focus for a moment, his stance faltered, and his movements slowed. It wasn’t much—but it was enough.

Jon had already been closing the distance, and the instant he saw that stagger, he lunged in. His sword arced toward the man’s weapon arm with all the strength he could muster. Steel met flesh, and the limb was severed cleanly at the elbow.

“Ahhh!” The raider’s scream split the air as blood sprayed from the stump. His sword clattered uselessly to the deck, yet even in his agony he still glared at Jon, spitting words between clenched teeth. “You… I’ll kill you!”

Jon’s heart hammered in his chest. Even maimed, the man’s fury was terrifying, but there was no time to hesitate. With his small frame and youthful body, he knew he could not match such an experienced Ironborn in a straight fight. Hesitation would mean death.

Before his enemy could recover, Jon drove forward. He shoved the point of his sword straight into the man’s skull. The blade sank deep, cutting short both his rage and his life in a single instant. The Ironborn collapsed to the deck with a dull thud, blood spreading across the wood and splattering Jon’s clothes.

For a moment, the boy just stood there, breathing hard, the weight of what he had done pressing down on him.

“That was too close,” Ser Wendel muttered, his chest heaving as he steadied himself after the fight. His eyes lingered on the fallen raider before turning to Jon. “If he hadn’t faltered for that brief moment, I’d be dead right now. You saved my life, Jon.”

Jon wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s tunic, forcing his voice to stay calm. “It’s nothing. You’re one of my father’s bannermen. Protecting you is the least I can do.”

Wendel gave a tired but genuine smile at that, though Jon didn’t notice. His gaze had already shifted toward the battlefield. The clash of steel was dying down, the cries of the wounded mixing with the roars of victory. The Manderly men had overwhelmed the last of the Ironborn resistance, and the battle was all but decided.

Farther out on the water, several Ironborn ships had managed to slip past the blockade and flee toward the Iron Islands. No matter how well the northern fleet had fought, they simply hadn’t possessed enough ships to completely surround such a large force. Even so, the enemy had paid dearly for their escape. The sea was littered with burning wrecks and drifting corpses, a grim reminder of the scale of their losses.

“Seems the battle’s finally over,” Ser Wendel Manderly said, his heavy voice breaking the silence that followed the clash of steel. His eyes wandered over the strange weapons still fixed at the prows of the longships, the very devices that had turned the tide. “Tell me, Jon—do you plan to sell them?”

Jon’s answer came without hesitation. He shook his head firmly, his expression hard. “I’m sorry, but no. Not yet. They’re my greatest advantage, and until I’ve established myself properly, I can’t risk giving that up. The mixtures and designs behind them will always remain the secret of my people. Maybe, when I’ve grown stronger and secured my position, I’ll consider selling some. But for now, it’s too dangerous.”

There was no way he would hand over his most important military edge. Countless days and sleepless nights had gone into recreating the fire-spitting weapons using the limited ingredients he had on hand. They hadn’t been ready in time for the Ironborn raid on Armenelos, but while he waited for the northern host to gather, Jon had finally completed them. Today, they had proven their worth beyond all doubt.

“I see…” Wendel exhaled, sounding almost regretful, though he gave a small nod. “That’s a shame. But remember this—White Harbor should be your first customer, should you ever decide to share them. These Fires of Armenelos… they’ll change naval warfare forever.”

As he spoke, his eyes fell on the weapon still lying on the deck. The blade the Ironborn leader had wielded during their duel glimmered faintly in the light. Wendel bent down and picked it up, wiping the blood from its surface before handing it to Jon.

“I believe this belongs to you. House Drumm can hardly complain, considering they stole it themselves.”

Jon accepted the sword, the weight of it heavy and strange in his hands. The moment he touched it, recognition clicked into place. Of course it felt different—it was Valyrian steel.

Red Rain.

The legendary blade House Drumm had stolen from a knight centuries ago. Jon turned it slowly in his grip, admiring the flawless craftsmanship, the rippling pattern of dark steel along its edge. A weapon like this was priceless. He could already imagine the hours he would spend studying its make, and perhaps even using it.

Before he could voice his thoughts, hurried footsteps approached. One of their men stumbled forward, breathing hard, his face pale with alarm.

“M’lords!” the soldier cried, quickly addressing them both. “The prisoners we brought from Armenelos—they’ve escaped!”