Chapter 234 — What Is Dead May Never Die
On the vast, boundless sea, storm winds gathered dark clouds into a churning mass overhead.
Between sky and water, a massive fleet cut northward through the waves.
Over a hundred warships—of varying size and design—sailed in a loose but steady formation. Tall masts stabbed into the gloomy sky, while swollen sails strained against the violent wind, their canvas booming like distant thunder.
At the forefront, upon the towering flagship—
A broad figure stood at the prow.
Golden hair lashed wildly in the gale. Above him, two great banners snapped and cracked in the wind—the golden lion of Casterly Rock, and the purple grapes of House Redwyne—declaring their arrival to sea and storm alike.
The icy wind, heavy with salt and spray, struck Jaime Lannister's face like needles.
The sting grounded him.
Made everything feel real.
And heavier.
He had grown up near the sea—he was no stranger to ships or storms.
But this…
Commanding a fleet of such scale, for the first time in his life—
And bearing the weight of vengeance for Lannisport… the burden of restoring House Lannister's honor—
That was something else entirely.
"The weather's turning worse…"
Jaime murmured, staring into the endless wall of dark clouds ahead.
The past months flickered through his mind.
He wanted to prove himself.
To become someone new—
A Lannister worthy of the name.
A true knight.
"Hey! Lannister! Admiring the scenery, are you?"
"Hah! What's there to admire in this damned weather?"
Jaime didn't need to turn around.
He already knew who it was.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paxter Redwyne approaching.
The Lord of the Arbor staggered across the pitching deck, one hand waving lazily, the other clutching a wine bottle. His broad frame swayed with the ship's motion, his face flushed—half from drink, half from the biting wind.
He laughed loudly, carefree and loud, utterly out of place amid the fleet's tense anticipation.
Jaime knew exactly why he was in such high spirits.
Tywin's promised payment—those golden dragons—were generous enough to equal five years of Arbor revenue.
"Lord Redwyne."
Jaime's voice cut through the wind—firm, commanding, carrying a tone eerily reminiscent of his father.
"You shouldn't be drinking right now. The storm could worsen at any moment."
"And ahead of us lies battle. You'd do well to remain clear-headed."
"Battle? Hahahaha!!!"
Redwyne burst into even louder laughter.
He staggered closer and clapped a heavy hand onto Jaime's shoulder.
"My dear young commander!"
The smell of wine was thick on his breath, his tone dripping with mockery.
"You call this war? Against those wretches?"
"Those scum with fish-spears and hooks, who do nothing but raid fishing villages?"
"Please."
He tipped the bottle back and took another long swig before continuing, voice swelling with boastful pride.
"Jason Mallister of Seagard—an old friend of mine—deals with these ironborn every year."
"They call it the 'autumn tax.' Burn a few houses, steal some grain, carry off a few women…"
"But you know what happens every time?"
"As soon as a proper fleet shows up—Riverlands or otherwise—those ironborn dogs scatter back into the sea like frightened rats!"
"Every single time."
Paxter Redwyne smacked his lips with satisfaction, as if savoring the lingering taste of wine.
Then he spread his arms wide in a grand, showy gesture, as though embracing the entire fleet.
"Look at this! Just look at it!"
"A hundred real warships! Not the kind of junk those ironborn can scrape together!"
He pointed toward the vessels cutting through the waves.
"And on board? Over eight thousand men!"
"Warriors of the Westerlands, the finest archers and sailors of the Arbor!"
"With a force like this, Jaime Lannister, even old Valyrian sea-dogs would think twice—let alone those rock-dwelling ironborn!"
"This is easier than picking a good bottle from a wine cellar!"
After all that boasting, seeing Jaime Lannister still wearing a stern expression, Paxter shoved the bottle toward him.
"Now then, young man!"
"The last thing you should be doing is brooding at a storm."
"Drink! Five-year Arbor gold—finest you'll get out here!"
The bottle nearly jabbed Jaime's chin.
"Once we reach those stinking rocks, you won't get another drop!"
"And then it'll be your turn to lead us—cutting down those trembling ironborn at their own doorstep!"
Paxter Redwyne's voice rang loud and confident, dripping with certainty and contempt.
To him, the Iron Islands weren't savage raiders hardened by plunder—
Just weeds waiting to be cut.
Jaime listened in silence, eyes fixed on the storm-warped horizon.
He didn't argue.
Didn't agree.
He had seen Lannisport with his own eyes—the wreckage, the drifting corpses.
Even so… like most others, he believed the ironborn had succeeded through surprise alone.
In open sea battle?
Few believed longships and raiders could truly stand against a disciplined fleet of heavy warships.
And yet—
"Before battle, I don't drink."
Jaime's voice was firm, his green eyes locking onto Redwyne's wine-blurred gaze.
"And I'd ask you to stay clear-headed as well, Lord Redwyne."
"Don't forget—by our agreement, I am the commander of this fleet."
Redwyne's grin froze for a heartbeat.
"Is that an order, lad?"
Jaime didn't blink.
"What if it is?"
The wind seemed to strip some of the drunken haze from Redwyne's face.
He studied Jaime closely—really looked at him, perhaps for the first time.
Then—
"Fine! Fine!"
A careless grin returned as he raised his free hand.
"No problem. You're in charge."
"Tywin pays, he appoints—you command. House Redwyne honors its contracts, eh? Hahaha!"
He glanced at the bottle—barely a fifth left.
Without hesitation, he flung it into the sea.
It arced once—
Then vanished into the churning waves.
Jaime gave a small nod.
"Good. I need your judgment, Lord Redwyne."
His tone eased slightly as he gestured toward the looming stormfront.
"That cloud mass ahead—it's too large. The swell beneath it will be worse."
"For the fleet's safety… should we alter course?"
Redwyne's flushed face split into a bold, reckless grin.
"Alter course?"
"No. Not necessary at all!"
His voice brimmed with defiance.
"The Arbor fleet was born to conquer storms!"
"Even the end of the world wouldn't make us turn aside!"
He strode forward as if to meet the storm head-on, shouting with wild enthusiasm:
"Let it come! Let it rage!"
"My men have courage in their blood!"
"Shattered to pieces? Hah!"
"If the sea takes us, then it has chosen us as its eternal companions—what is there to fear?!"
Jaime blinked.
…Was he insane?
Or were all Arbor sailors like this?
Seeing Jaime's disbelief, Redwyne burst into even louder laughter.
"Hahahaha! Look at your face!"
He slapped Jaime's shoulder armor.
"Relax, my dear commander. While we've been talking, my lads haven't been idle."
Jaime followed his gesture.
Through the mist, several scouting vessels were already adjusting course—moving smoothly in wide arcs away from the storm's core.
He shot Redwyne a look.
The man's grin was pure mischief.
He'd been messing with him.
Still—relief washed through Jaime. His shoulders loosened.
"If we change course, how long will it delay us?"
Redwyne smacked his lips.
"That cursed cloud stretches wide—real wide."
"To skirt around it? At least two days."
"I know your thirst for vengeance burns hot, Lannister… but patience. Can you wait?"
Jaime didn't hesitate.
"Two days, then two days."
"We don't take unnecessary risks."
"My father's gold buys victory—not coffins at the bottom of the sea."
"We arrive safely. Then we make the ironborn repay every drop of Lannister blood—with interest."
Redwyne nodded, satisfied.
A predator's grin spread across his face.
"Now that's the spirit of a lion of the West."
"Don't worry, lad. The House Greyjoy has plenty of sons."
"Your sword will have more than enough necks to dull on."
…
Before his words could fully settle—
A dense, freezing fog surged across the sea without warning.
It rolled in fast.
Too fast.
The moment it touched his skin, Redwyne's drunken haze vanished like cold water thrown over his head.
Any seasoned sailor knew—
Fog at sea meant danger.
"Everyone!"
His massive frame tensed instantly, voice booming with urgency.
"Alert! To your stations!"
"Signal the scouts—slow down! Adjust heading!"
"Edge toward the fog's boundary! Maintain signals! Sound the horns!"
"All ships—reduce speed! Half sails! Silent maneuvering!"
"We move out of this damned fog—slowly! Now!"
A signalman reacted first, scrambling up the slick rigging like a monkey.
But when he reached the lookout—
Nothing.
Only endless white.
The fog swallowed everything.
They had sailed straight into death's domain.
"My lord!"
The man's voice trembled.
"I can't see anything! Nothing ahead!"
"The Swiftwind—the Seahawk… they're gone!"
Panic rippled downward.
"Damn it—sound the horn—!"
Before Redwyne could finish—
A violent impact slammed into the flagship's midsection.
The entire ship lurched hard to port.
"Hold fast!"
"What was that?!"
"Collision! Starboard midship!"
Chaos erupted.
Redwyne grabbed the railing.
"Impossible!"
"These are deep waters—no reefs, no shoals!"
"…Ships."
Realization struck.
"Ships! We've been rammed! Prepare for battle!"
Wood screamed as it splintered under immense force.
Then—
Shapes tore through the fog.
Grotesque prow-figures—like beasts clawing out of the abyss.
Iron-shod rams punched deep into the flagship's hull.
"Greyjoy!!!"
Redwyne roared the name.
His eyes locked onto the banner whipping in the mist—
A monstrous kraken, ink-black against pale fog.
Then—
Hooks.
Countless iron hooks screamed through the air, trailing ropes.
They slammed into rails and hull, biting deep.
Lines snapped tight with a groaning strain.
And from the enemy decks—
Came a roar.
Wild.
Inhuman.
Like something dredged from the depths.
"What is dead may never die!"
"What is dead may never die!!!"