Flames in Meereen

The Iron Fleet carved forward through the bay as a rolling chant began to build. "What is dead may never die!" "What is Dead may Never Die!" "WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" Victarion bellowed over the din to Ralf the Limper and Red Ralf Stonehouse. the Lord Quellon and the Red Jester had swept close enough to the Iron Victory to hear the booming commands of their captain. "Sweep south, around the bay, don't engage until you can figure who is fighting for the Dragon Queen and who is fighting against!" he shouted across the waves to Red Ralf, who would resume command of his small and swift cohort of longships. "Once you've made a determination, see if you can touch down in the city and drive any combatants before you!" As the lean, crimson-painted hull of the Red Joker cut back away, and a small portion of the fleet followed as Victarion turned his attention to the Limper. "Pull half a league North, behind the besieging force, land and move hard toward the city and cut off their retreat!" He then settled his gaze firmly forward. He would lead the bulk of the fleet straight ahead, from the fore, as the Iron Captain should.

The Longships surged forward, forming a sort of van for the host of ships, while the captured merchant vessels lingered behind, ready to divulge a second wave of reavers once Victarion and his men had claimed a beachhead. As the fleet drew closer, he realized that his eyes had belied the scene somewhat. What he had seen the sunlight glinting off of bronze armor was actually the shine of oiled, sweaty, sun-darkened body. The legendary slave warriors of Astapor were lined up across the city, although even from this distance, he could see that their fabled discipline and uniformity was not quite as had been advertised. He hoped that would prove their downfall, as well as their failure to anticipate a strike from the sea, as the shore loomed larger in front of him. These slave-warriors would have to be driven from the field, and then he needed to meet the beautiful Dragon Queen and inform her of the Volantene fleet coming behind him. If all went well, by the time the sun rose tomorrow, he would have command of his Iron Fleet and the ships docked here, to take the fight to those ships before they could threaten this already beleaguered city. And of course, he had a secret weapon of his own. He drew his axe and raised his shield, ready to spring from the bow of the Iron Victory and fall among the besiegers.

Victarion was alight with the fire of battle as he laid about him with his axe. The complete chaos of the Ironborn's arrival had left the disorganized forces ripe the bloodlust of the Iron Captain and the warriors of the Iron Victory. The wicked steel crescent carved easily through the cloth tunics and exposed flesh of the Yunkish slave warriors, and rent into their bronze caps and shields. His battle-wrath was upon him now, and from his throat a mirthless laugh issued as he slew. He almost didn't notice as the blade of his axe glanced against a suit of Westerosi chainmail instead of cutting through the flesh of half-armored slave warriors. He drew back his arm again and swung, harder, and a handful of the rings he struck burst under the fury of his blow. Before he could strike what would have been the third and final blow, red-painted shield blazoned with the horn of Goodbrother slammed into the flank of the Westerosi warrior and swept him from Victarion's path. The Lord Captain pressed forward and continued killing.

To the north, the second-largest contingent of longships reached the shore, and Ralf the Limper burst from the fore of the Lord Quellon, with a sturdy force of reavers who began to rush upon the rear of the besiegers. The heat of the Meereenese hinterlands was greater than they were used to in Westeros, but the ironborn did not often fight heavily armored so it would be some time yet before it began to wear on them. The handful of sellswords and slave soldiers that broke from the uncoordinated ranks of besiegers found themselves welcomed warmly by this flanking force's raised shields and bared blades. Blood splashed across the sands of Meereen, the grains drinking greedily. The Ironborn landing party drove towards the conflict at the gates, the paltry defense swept aside. Meanwhile, on the ships behind them, the sailors upon the galleys began to board the merchant cogs and engage what seemed to be skeleton crews, no more than a handful of warriors left to defend the decks and rowers upon each. Then, the Noble Lady divulged the cargo hidden within her belly. Five dozen reavers spilled forward, boarding planks constructed upon the Isle of Cedars slamming down upon the Qartheen galleys as a vicious Ironborn counter-assault began. The warriors turning around to try and return to their vessels found their path blocked by Ironborn, striding across the gangplanks they themselves had laid down.

On the shore, Victarion found himself puzzling through an unexpected sight. As his body continued to battle on instinct - his shield catching a spear, his axe striking a counterblow and splitting the haft of the weapon before following through to the man wielding it - his mind was dimly sorting through why two men now, clad in battered Westerosi plate, were locking swords when both stood what should be well behind the besiegers lines. The two of them appeared to be exchanging words between blows. A sword glanced off his grey plate and he pivoted, hooking the short, stabbing blade in the half crescent of his axe and pulling a startled-looking mercenary close before slamming his kraken-formed helm against the iron cap, and the smaller man staggered back at the blow. At last one of the two Westerose mercenaries gave a cry, "We're queen's men through! The Second Sons for Deenerys!" Victarion strode forward and bulled the other man down before burying his axe into the shoulder joint of the plate. Perhaps later than another man might have, he realized that it would hardly due to taste the blades of those they would make their allies, and raised his own bellow to echo that of the man he had just aided. "For Daenerys! For the Dragon Queen!" This new cry was taken up by the men who followed behind him, mixing in among shouts of "Greyjoy!" and "What is dead may never die!"

The fog of battle cleared for a moment as the first phase of the landing drew to its bloody conclusion and Victarion Greyjoy was able to take stock of the scene laid out before him. As the various mercenary companies turned on each other, he determined that it was best to leave them to scrap among themselves rather than trying to sort between which of the ragged warriors was a Second Son or a Windblown, or the Company of the Cat. His beachhead force withdrew momentarily from combat with the Company of the Cat, as Ralf the Limper's strong arm of Ironborn broke through and came to join them. The force of mercenaries that attempted to pursue and engage the Ironborn had been intercepted and slowed by the interference of the turncoat companies. "Help those mercenaries break through!" he called out to the Limper, making a sweeping gesture with his axe towards the exposed flank of Bloodbeard's company, "We'll need their help at the gate as soon as possible!" The force turned about and resumed the assault on the mercenaries still loyal to the Yunkai. Behind them, the Noble Lady and half of the captured merchant vessels drew up on the shore, while the rest finished the task of capturing or killing the remaining Qartheen raiders. The full force of the Ironborn could at last be brought to bear.

Among the city's docks, the smallest flank of the Ironborn had just managed to make their own landing. The presence of a handful of fishing boats, galleys, and other vessels stopped them from pulling all the way in, and they were forced to form a treacherous daisy chain with their longships to allow the warriors to make their way from ship to ship, until that at last laid foot upon the dock. Now Red Ralf led the small contingent through the city itself, looking for any sort of commander or authority on the Queen's side.

Once the majority of his forces had amassed, Victarion surged forward again. Trusting in the left flank under Ralf the Limper and the treacherous mercenaries to hold back the Yunkai'i mercenaries, he led the main body of the Ironborn forces further towards the gate. The legions of New Ghis were pushing forward, a tide washing against the unbreakable cliffs of Daenerys' unsullied. The Ironborn force was not large, and despite their success so far their number had dwindled somewhat, but their assault was still ferocious, and they were fresh to the field of battle, unlike the besiegers and defenders alike, who had weathered multiple days of the siege now, and toiled through a handful of skirmishes. As more forces detached to deal with his renewed assault, the Iron Captains face split into a macabre grin, even as the red haze descended upon him once more.

Red Ralf and company suddenly found themselves set upon as their mission to reinforce the city's defenders and establish a parley suddenly turned into a fight for their lives. As the Sons of the Harpy fell upon the new threat. A dozen Ironborn fell, some killed, some wounded, and the rest of the band retreated to form a ragged shield wall against the assailants. After the shock of the initial attack had faded, they were able to hold their own well enough, axes and swords flashed and held the masked assailants at bay, cutting them down when they dared to get too close. One step at a time, Red Ralf led a fighting retreat back towards the docks. where they formed a hard line and held their ground. From further inside the city, the sounds of combat continued, the shriek of men lying wounded and dying, the clash of metal, and shouting commands. Over time, the Sons of the Harpy who had pursued them saw their numbers steadily diminished. Others seemed to take less interest, and the assault against their number dwindled and then ceased. A handful more of the crew had fallen in both the retreat and the stand on the docks, but the men remaining were still a significant fighting force, especially as Ironborn Reavers. Battle was in their blood. Ralf rallied the company and prepared to advance into the city again, more cautiously this time, shields locked and blades ready.

A spear slammed into Victarion's thigh and the head shattered off the weapon as he lunged forward, disemboweling its wielder. The saving grace for the Ironborn currently was that the mighty Ghis legions were largely unable to take advantage of their famed discipline and tight ranks with the head of an Ironborn spearhead thrust deep into their flank. Victarion caught the spear of another warrior on his shield, deflecting the blow and sending it glancing aside as he closed distance and removed the head of the man who had thrust it. He was dimly aware of the form of one of his fellow Reavers going limp to his left side before a flicker of pain penetrated the haze of adrenaline and wrath that fueled him through battle. He pivoted to find himself staring at the white-toothed sneer of a Ghiscari warrior, a short, stabbing sword in his right hand dripping with blood. Behind the warrior, the body of Rolf Drumm slumped to the ground. Based on the ornate horsehair crest flowing from his helm, it was clear this man had some standing within the legions. Victarion lunged at him, shield up to guard against the next strike. As the world seemed to slow around the two of them, Victarion landed his first stroke, but the man caught the head of the weapon on his tall wooden shield.

Their iron dance may have continued for moments, or for minutes, Victarion's sense of time began to fade. He only distantly knew that around him, his warriors fought on, and that occasionally a blow would glance off the plates of his own armor. His axe buried itself in the other man's shield, and he wrenched it free. He strode forward to deliver a killing strike, but wound up having to weave aside instead as a spear interceded between the two of them. As the two of them rejoined, the sergeant tried to strike low and Victarion swept the blow aside with his axe before slamming forward with his shield. The Ghiscari met it with his own. Victarion watched as the warrior sank deeper into a fighting crouch, and saw his opportunity. He raised his shield high, intentionally inviting the same low strike, allowing the man to close in. The stabbing blade pierced the mail rings that protected his thigh, and caught the muscle. Even as the pain set in, the Iron Captain closed in with his uninjured leg and hooked the tower shield with his own round shield, knocking the man off balance and throwing his defense open. With a mighty effort, Victarion brought his axe down and clove both the iron helm and the skull beneath, leaving his foe to fall dead. The battle-rage faded then, receding for a moment like the tide, and Victarion Greyjoy took stock of the battle.

The Iron Legions of new Ghis were not quite the fabled unconquerable lockstep legions of the Old Empire, but they were formidable still. The Unsullied may have been as close to those ancient legions as still stood today, but outnumbered near three-to-one now, they would eventually be pushed back. Meanwhile, the ferocious thrust of the Ironborn assault had been all-but blunted. They had not become fully embroiled in the slog of combat quite yet, and their numbers had not dwindled too far, but the casualties would begin to mount soon as they became saturated into the melee. Meanwhile, Ralf the Limper and his contingent had fallen into line alongside the Second Sons and Windblown, but their companies would now face the front of an Iron Legion shield wall bristling with spears, not the soft flank like Victarion's company had. What was more, while the sergeant's first strike had only been enough to drive Victarion's own mail into his side, the one he had given up to strike a killing blow was deeper than he had anticipated and blood leaked across the still-intact rings of his armor. Swatting aside another spear thrust, he took a look toward the sky at the great green lizard, and then turned back towards the water. It was time. He waded his way out of the combat, bulling straight through his foes when his axe was already busy being bloodied on another foe. He was limping slightly, blood pooling with every stride, when he finally broke through. Claimed... with... blood... The other combatants were too busy fighting for their lives to really take note of one man breaking away and back towards the Iron Fleet. "MOQORRO!" the Iron Captain's voice rang out across the beach towards the ships "MOQORRO! BRING THEM!"

At the prow of the Iron Victory, the Red Priest saw the massive form of Victarion Greyjoy lurching out of the scrum. His voice had been worn ragged by calling out commands and battle cries, but his cry still reached the ship. Moqorro turned from the bow as he heard his name a second time, and retreated to the captain's quarters. He was not as large as the captain of the Iron Fleet, but with his two arms he was still able to heft the horn that Victarion had carried in one. "Come." He commanded the Dusky Woman, as Victarion had asked, "The captain is wounded. We go to him now on the field of battle." She rose sinuously and swayed across the room ahead of him. Carrying the horn, he followed her to the deck, where he turned his attention to two of the warriors who held three slaves in chains. To them as well, he simply said, "Come." The pair followed dragging their charges behind, and the small company made their way down the gangplank, out to meet the Iron Captain on the sands. On the open water of the bay the Ironborn aboard the last few merchant vessels, accustomed as they were to fighting on the seas, had cleared away the last of the Ghiscari invaders, and were pushing their way towards the shore. The handful of men would certainly be welcomed, but their addition was not what would truly be needed to turn the tide...

Even as the Red Priest, the still standing slaves, and the two oarsmen who held the chains staggered back and away from the impact of the dragon's landing, Victarion stood firm. In part, it was purely out of shock as he stood and watched the majestic beast sweep across the lines. More than that though, as the call of the horn ripped across the field, the Iron Captain had decided that if this be his death, it was a worthy one. The sound still shook him, as it did any who heard it, as if there were souls trapped within that screamed for succor. Runes glowed white hot and gold, and the first slave slumped to the ground, and Moqorro reached out and seized the horn before it could fall. Victarion stood transfixed as the above the battlefield, an ivory nightmare descended on the legions of Ghis. The mighty beast roared his answer to the horn's call and circled the sky before it swept down. Mighty jaws opened as flickering gold fire danced from between his teeth. In that moment, no more than fifty feet away from their small company, hell arrived on earth.

Victarion Greyjoy did not have a weak stomach. You could not lead Ironborn Reavers into the thick of battle with a weak stomach. You did not claim a salt wife, or beat a man to death, with a weak stomach. He had waded into the heart of melees and laughed as he shed blood, even as his own was shed, while all around him dying men screamed. He had seen longships shattered and hundreds of warriors plunge beneath the waves with screams and prayers. Nothing he had seen could have prepared him for the scale and immediacy of destruction that dragon fire could wreak. Even so, Victarion did not flinch away, but he did realize in that moment what a foolish thought it was to have thought he could accept his death, as if he had any say in the matter. If this white-marbled nightmare chose to end his life, his acceptance wouldn't matter one bit. So it was that when Viserion, though Victarion did not know him by name, swept down and landed in front of him, the Iron Captain held firm.

Golden eyes met dark ones as man and dragon sized each other up. Within the deep pools of gold, Victarion could see the feral, unchained rage that the dragon had unleased upon the battlefield. More than that though, there was a deep, primordial intelligence. Suddenly, the Iron Captain recognized something of himself in the mighty creature. Both had spent most of their lives being pointed towards foes, being told to kill and destroy. Both had grown into this role, developing the rage and ferocity to suit. And both of them had been called monsters for it. His gaze holding firm, Victarion unstrapped his shield, letting it fall away to the ground, and reaching out the blackened hand of flame towards the crest of the dragon's snout, even as those gathered behind him watched in trepidation.

As he swung onto Viserion's back, relief washed over Victarion Greyjoy, not a feeling that he was necessarily accustomed to. Relief that he still had his head on his shoulders and unburnt, certainly. The fact that he could finally take his weight off of that blasted leg for another. He e was not sure how much longer he would have been able to hold himself upright on it, and that would hardly have done for a show of strength in front of this ancient creature. More than that though, as he climbed upon the dragon, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders that had been there since Euron had forced him to kill his third wife, if not even longer than that. He looked back at the the crumpled form of the Dusky Woman, blood still leaking from her form to slake the desert's thirst. Beside her lay the gleaming, ominous form of Dragonbinder, fallen from Moqorro's hands in awe and surprise. It too seemed to glint red in the sun's light. Two poisoned gifts, had Euron given him, but his arrogant brother had at last miscalculated. He had bent them both to his iron will, and now it was he who was astride a dragon, he who would find the dragon queen. No offer of marriage or alliance would come on behalf of Euron Greyjoy. It would be Victarion of the Flaming Fist and the Mother of Dragons who conquered Westeros. For the first time in his life, Victarion Greyjoy would not be a mere servant to the whims of a father or brother.

He raised his own voice to meet the clamor of the Ironborn, his ironborn. He truly had sailed the Iron Fleet to hell, and they had been with him every step of the way. He knew the men he captained, and every one of them would stand by his side, he was sure of it. They knew what a true Ironborn Reaver looked like, and it was not the Crow's Eye. "We will drive the invaders from these lands for the Queen!" he roared, "Any who do not wish to die in fire should leave this land now, and never challenge her reign again!" He did not know if Viserion spoke common, but he reached his left hand down to touch the mighty creature's neck regardless, and spoke to him - "Up, Viserion, we have work to do." He held his breath then, waiting to see if through their connection, the dragon might know and take flight.

"Seven bloody hells." Tyrion Lannister muttered to himself as he fumbled the oversized half-helm atop his head. He felt as if he was dressed in motley all over again with the mismatched pieces of armor. He hefted his double-bladed axe and waddled along as best as he could. "I'll stay near Jorah and hope that they don't notice me save for the ones whose kneecaps I'll explode." He thought to himself. The Yunkai had the numbers, it was true, but they did have the element of surprise. "And dragons, never forget." He thought to himself. Although as of yet he had not seen one, but he had heard one. "Well, gods willing." He tried to keep up as best he could. Those with horses clambered onto horses. Those on foot ran on foot. He felt himself suddenly in the midst of crossbowmen, loosing quarrels at the Yunkai. He could not tell if they were finding marks. "Would that I could be a crossbowmen, I did good work with one once." The sound of the loosing quarrely brought him back to that fateful night when he learned that in fact Lord Tywin shat shit, not gold.

The battle lines were drawing near. "Are are on their flank!" he thought triumphantly. Perhaps things would not go poorly after all. The line seemed to be advancing, and soon Tyrion was passing over blood soaked ground and soon limbs, and then bodies. Some of the slaver were still groaning, and Tyrion eased one or two deaths. Finally, a man in front of him fell, one of the Second Sons, and a blood soaked slave lost his dagger in the chest of the fallen. Tyrion relieved him of his left knee in a single stroke, and the man fell screaming. The gap in the line was plugged once again, and he advanced. Soon, their advance slowed and then stopped. THe air was choked with dust. "Ah, here is where I might die then." Tyrion thought.