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GOT Chapter 104: Fates Chosen, Battles Stirring
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 23:08:40 +0000 UTC“My lord—” Jon suddenly whispered a reminder from the side.
Kal snapped back to himself, realizing Averry had already finished telling him all he knew, and was now sitting there, looking uneasy at Kal’s inexplicable silence.
“Ahem. Thank you for sharing what you know—and I’m sorry for your misfortune,” Kal said with little sincerity.
Averry’s face grew awkward. He quickly waved his hand and replied, “No, no. We too hope the King can bring this war to an end quickly. Everyone is worried about winter’s approach.”
“Mm.” Kal nodded at that. Then at last his gaze turned to the plump man who had been sneaking glances at him the whole time. “The heir of House Tarly. Forgive me, I do not know your name.”
The moment Kal Stone’s eyes shifted from Averry to him, Samwell suddenly felt an inexplicable weight pressing down on him.
He swallowed hard. His gray eyes hid beneath his dark hair, his great round face trembling with fat as his gaze flickered nervously while he stammered, “Ser, my name is Samwell Tarly.”
Sam’s voice carried a timid note, one that gave others a strange sensation—a peculiar itch in the fist.
“To be honest, I don’t quite understand why Lord Randyll Tarly would ‘voluntarily’ send his own heir to the Night’s Watch…” Kal rubbed his chin as he spoke, his tone edged with irony.
“But that’s not something an outsider like me can question,” he went on with a faint smile.
“My company still lacks a steward. I believe you might be of use to me—and to the King. So I regret to inform you…”
Kal’s smile sharpened slightly.
“Your journey with the Night’s Watch ends here.”
Kal’s face wore a gentle smile, but the words from his mouth were nothing short of domineering.
Jon and the others, who had never heard Kal speak in such a way, froze for a moment and then stared blankly at their lord.
And it wasn’t just them. Even Averry and the other two brothers of the Watch looked on in shock at Ser Kal Stone—supposedly the newly appointed Warden of the East.
Their mouths hung open, yet none dared utter a word.
For they knew full well the truth of who Samwell Tarly really was.
And now, with Kal invoking the King’s authority, his words left no room for doubt.
As for Sam himself, he was dumbstruck.
Never had he imagined that after finally escaping one fate, he would so soon be “taken” into another.
Did he truly have no right to choose his own life?
He thought of the cold, bitter land awaiting him at the Wall—and knew that becoming steward to the man before him was by far the better choice.
Yet he could not forget the words of his father, Lord Randyll Tarly, spoken in the woods with stag’s blood dripping from his hands. Those words filled him with dread.
“I… I volunteered to join the Night’s Watch, Ser Kal Stone…” Sam stammered, his voice trembling, his round face contorted as though he might weep.
“Oh? Is that so?”
Kal’s tone turned sharp. “But I recall that those who volunteer for the Watch may freely leave during training. It is only once they’ve sworn their vows that none may turn back."
"But you are not one of them, little piggy.”
As Sam’s protest faltered, Kal’s expression darkened.
Before all their bewildered eyes, Kal rose to his feet, strode over to Samwell Tarly, and with a look of “gentleness” patted his shoulder.
“If Lord Randyll Tarly has an objection, he can come tell me himself!”
With that, Kal turned and walked straight out of the chamber they had borrowed from the Cox family.
...
The Sunset Sea lay to the west of Westeros, bordering the Reach, the Westerlands, the North, the Iron Islands, the Riverlands, and beyond the Wall. Its vast length stretched alongside the whole of the continent.
But today, the Sunset Sea was anything but calm. A fleet of roughly sixty longships was moving together in formation, slowly sailing toward Casterly Rock.
At the prow of the lead ship rose a massive grey iron ram shaped like a kraken, its dark hue giving off a chilling aura.
The sail above bore the image of a golden kraken on a black field.
This marked it clearly as belonging to House Greyjoy of Pyke.
As for the ship itself, it bore its own name—the Great Kraken of the Deep Sea.
Built not merely for raiding but as a true warship, its design was meant to command the seas, lending it an imposing, massive presence.
Its master was none other than the Lord of the Iron Islands—Balon Greyjoy.
Balon’s figure was thin and gaunt, his face sharply chiseled as though cut from stone. His piercing black eyes gleamed cold, and his long, graying hair trailed down his narrow back, fluttering faintly in the sea breeze.
At this moment, the Lord of the Iron Islands stood at the rail of the Great Kraken, his harsh gaze fixed on the distant fortress of stone.
Though from his vantage point the city appeared no larger than a speck, the coast itself only faintly discernible, shimmering on the horizon.
“Brother—”
As Balon Greyjoy stared toward Casterly Rock, lost in his own imaginings, the current commander of the Iron Fleet, Victarion Greyjoy, came up behind him.
Though his hair had gone grey, it did nothing to diminish his towering, formidable frame—a stark contrast to the gaunt figure of his elder brother, Balon.
Victarion wore heavy black plate armor, a massive axe strapped across his back, while in his hand he carried a kraken-shaped helmet.
“Victarion,” Balon answered without turning his head at the sound of his brother’s voice, “are the preparations ready? This is a rare chance—and more than that, a so-called ‘legitimate’ one.”
At his brother’s words, Victarion’s lips curled into a cold smile as he pulled the war axe from his back. Dried bloodstains marred its surface, dark brown with age.
“The Kennings of Kayce and the Presters of Feastfires will serve as examples!”
“So too will the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. Today, the blood of Rodrik and Maron will be avenged.”
Hearing his younger brother, Balon’s eyes grew even colder as he fixed his gaze on the distant stronghold.
“Yes. You are right. Today it shall be done.”
Robert Baratheon had issued his call to arms across the Seven Kingdoms for war against the Lannisters of the Westerlands, though when it came to the Iron Islands, he had pointedly avoided sending word to Balon Greyjoy.
Though he had secluded himself in Pyke for nine years, this did not prevent King Balon from hearing the news.
And this time was different from the last—this time he was acting under the cover of “legitimacy.”
From the very beginning of the war, he had followed its course closely. When he confirmed that Tywin Lannister, under Robert’s declaration of war, had not chosen to hole up defensively in the Westerlands but instead had marched out to strike first, King Balon called for his brother Victarion Greyjoy.
He ordered the Iron Captain of the Iron Fleet to muster their ships and set sail.
Although for reasons unknown he had never received the royal summons that had spread from Winterfell across the continent, in Balon’s eyes he no longer needed it.
As one who followed the “Old Way,” he naturally had his own methods.
And besides, the true reason for bringing the ironborn south to strike at the Lannisters was his two sons who had died—blood that demanded vengeance.
After speaking, Balon Greyjoy stared straight ahead, the corner of his mouth curling upward ever so slightly. “They say Casterly Rock has never fallen.”
Understanding the meaning behind his brother’s words, Victarion Greyjoy raised his helmet and set it upon his head. From within came a muffled, cold voice: “After today, that will no longer be true.”
With that, he said no more and turned decisively to leave.
As commander of the Iron Fleet, he still had a battle to oversee.
But just as he was about to return to his flagship, the Iron Victory, a sudden, urgent blast of the horn echoed from the lookout above.
It signaled the sighting of unknown ships.
And its sharp, rhythmic pattern meant only one thing—an enormous fleet.
Balon Greyjoy’s brow arched sharply, his voice tinged with urgency. “What’s happening? Is it the Lannister fleet?!”
“Wait… no, perhaps not. From the south? Could it be the Lannisters sailing out from Lannisport?”
He fired off questions one after another, and Victarion, who had been preparing to leave, turned back at once when he heard the horn.
“The numbers don’t fit. From the call, it’s at least a hundred warships. Run the signals—find out whose banners they fly!”
Hurrying back before Balon, Victarion barked the order through his helm to the ironborn at hand, who quickly sent for the information.
Not long after, as the distance between the two fleets narrowed, the Ironborn finally saw which power’s fleet was bearing down upon them.
The Redwyne Fleet—House Redwyne of the Arbor.
It was one of the three greatest fleets of the Seven Kingdoms, the other two being their own Iron Fleet and the royal fleet of the Iron Throne, currently commanded by Stannis Baratheon.
And now, before their very eyes, sailed the fleet of House Redwyne.
