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GOT Chapter 105: Shadows over the Sunset Sea
🕑 Added 2025-08-30 03:23:58 +0000 UTC“What do we do?” Victarion’s voice growled from within his helmet, his brow furrowing slightly. “We don’t have enough ships. We’ve already left part of our fleet behind to hold Faircastle, Kayce, and Feastfires, which we took.”
Balon knew exactly what his brother was implying—after all, those decisions had been his will.
Balon watched the dark line slowly rising over the horizon. He could tell at once that this fleet was three times the size of his own.
If the Redwyne Fleet bore them hostility, it would be troublesome indeed.
But that concern lasted only a heartbeat in Balon’s mind.
Then he made his decision.
“Bring the fleet to a halt. Turn the ships and prepare for defense.
If this means war, the ironborn have never feared an enemy upon the sea!”
At his brother’s command, Victarion Greyjoy did not hesitate. With long strides he turned, ready to leave Balon’s Great Kraken and return to his own flagship, the Iron Victory, to direct the coming battle.
...
At that same moment, Lord Paxter Redwyne stood aboard his flagship, the Queen of the Arbor.
It was a triple-banked galley, its hull grand and ornate, bearing three great sails of deep wine-red, with oar-blades painted gold and white.
Gliding across the Sunset Sea, it looked majestic against the blue waters, and the hundred-odd warships accompanying it, large and small, made it seem truly like a queen upon her royal progress.
Its master, Lord Paxter Redwyne, wore a long robe of green wool, with fine mail sewn beneath and a cloak of matching cloth over his shoulders.
At his shoulder gleamed a golden brooch carved into a cluster of grapes, painted in shades of blue and deep purple.
The lord of the Arbor stood within his captain’s cabin, holding a brass spyglass of fine Myrish craft, gazing through the window at the distant horizon.
Once satisfied with what he had seen, he handed the spyglass to his eldest son, Ser Horas Redwyne, who stood at his side.
Then Paxter returned to his seat.
Looking at his father—slim of frame, with sloping shoulders and only a few tufts of orange hair left upon his bald crown—Ser Horas spoke: “Is it the Iron Fleet?”
Even as he asked, he raised the spyglass his father had given him and peered out toward the distant sea.
Before Lord Paxter could answer, Horas could no longer restrain himself. Grinding his teeth, he cursed bitterly: “Those damned pirates!”
At his son’s outburst, Lord Paxter’s face betrayed no emotion.
He simply waited, patient, until the boy had vented his anger and turned back toward him.
“And tell me—what would you do, if it were yours to decide in such a situation?” Paxter asked, watching his indignant son.
“Perhaps we should teach them a lesson. They have fewer than a hundred ships!” Horas said hotly, unable to contain his eagerness.
But his father’s expression was far from approving.
He tapped a finger on the sea chart laid upon his desk, his voice carrying pointed weight. “You mean, with the blood of Redwyne men?”
“I—” At so stern a question, Horas faltered, his mouth opening but no words coming, realizing he had misunderstood his father’s intent.
“So what should we do, Father?” Horas asked earnestly.
“That is an interesting question,” Lord Paxter said with a faint smile. “What do you think Balon Greyjoy intends for Casterly Rock?”
“That much is beyond dispute. The news we’ve received makes it clear,” Horas replied, his anger flaring again. “They plundered and slaughtered the Farmans of Faircastle, the Kennings of Kayce, and the Presters of Feastfires.”
“The ironborn are pirates, and the Greyjoys most of all!” he added sharply.
At this, Lord Paxter Redwyne shook his head slightly. “They come for vengeance. And what they have done is not only revenge—it is also a warning.”
“A warning to those who also covet the wealth of Casterly Rock and House Lannister.”
“But surely that warning is not enough for us,” Horas said stubbornly, lifting his chin with pride.
“You are right, Horas. Which is why I ask—why should we stain our own blood over it?”
Lord Paxter’s gaze swept over his son before turning back toward the distant fleet beyond the cabin windows.
“Father, what do you mean?” Horas asked, confused.
“We can wait. The ones who are anxious are not us.”
“Lady Olenna knows what must be done.”
...
Along the Ocean Road, stretching from Lannisport toward Casterly Rock, a cavalry host of no fewer than eight thousand men thundered forward, fully armed and brimming with confidence.
As one of the wealthiest families in the realm—second only to the Lannisters themselves—House Tyrell’s ability to raise and mobilize forces was unmatched across the Seven Kingdoms.
Garlan Tyrell rode at the head, commanding this army. It was a cavalry force built around the military strength of House Tyrell, with other prominent houses of the Reach riding alongside them.
“Ser Garlan, Casterly Rock lies ahead. What are our next orders?” a knight called out.
Speed was of the essence. Once it became clear what part House Tyrell must play in this sudden turmoil that had swept across the Seven Kingdoms, Lady Olenna Redwyne had instructed her son, Lord Mace Tyrell, to summon their bannermen from the Reach.
This levy, however, was not as large as it might have been.
Aside from Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill—ordered to intercept the Dornish army’s northward march—along with several smaller houses under his coordination, the remaining strength that House Tyrell had mobilized was limited to the Redwyne Fleet of the Arbor and certain military forces belonging directly to House Tyrell itself.
This main force had been divided into two armies advancing toward the Westerlands.
Aside from the host currently led by Ser Garlan Tyrell—“Garlan the Gallant”—the other was the naval fleet of House Redwyne.
When he heard his squire’s question, Garlan, riding unhindered along the Ocean Road, turned his head toward the direction of the Sunset Sea.
Even at such a great distance, though the sight was hazy, he could still make out two fleets gradually drawing closer upon the waters.
The sight on the sea stirred a flicker of unease in Garlan’s heart.
Yet as a knight with a clear sense of himself, he kept his composure.
Though he understood the urgency of the moment, he responded swiftly.
“Do not hesitate. Encircle Casterly Rock at once!
But do not arrive in a posture of attack. First, we will seek to parley with House Lannister.”
If possible… Garlan thought to himself.
But that he did not say aloud.
He remembered the decision made back in Highgarden—the stance House Tyrell would adopt as they entered this game, one destined to reshuffle the Seven Kingdoms. Their place had already been chosen.
“Yes, ser!”
At once, the squire broke away from Garlan’s side, slowed his pace, and rode back along the column.
Within moments, Garlan’s command had spread through the host of more than eight thousand men.
Time passed, and as the two fleets at sea drew steadily closer to one another, so too did Casterly Rock rise into clear view ahead.
Casterly Rock—the towering, majestic fortress of stone—loomed above Lannisport and the Sunset Sea.
It was the seat of the Westerlands, the stronghold of House Lannister.
But now, unbidden, a great host from the Reach had encircled it.
And on the waters below, two rival fleets stared each other down.
Garlan halted, scarcely mindful of his horse, panting heavily from the long march. He lifted his brow, heavy with concern, and looked up at the fortress before him.
“What is going on?
Why has House Lannister given no response to our arrival?”
Before the silent and desolate-looking castle, a great question weighed heavily on Garlan Tyrell’s heart.
...
After leaving Saltpans, with his new “companion” Samwell Tarly joining the group, Kal Stone’s “Warden of the East” squad grew from five to six. A day later, they entered the mountain road leading into the Vale, toward the Eyrie.
Samwell Tarly was still riding the same warhorse he had left Horn Hill with, the same steed that carried his belongings upon its back.
It had been a “gift” from Lord Randyll Tarly on his name day.
And it was the only thing truly his when he departed Horn Hill.
This time, however, his destination was not the freezing Wall at the edge of the world, but rather the Eyrie, where he was to accompany the newly appointed “Warden of the East.”
Of course, the Eyrie was not the castle of this bastard knight called Stone.
Which left Samwell unsure of what awaited him.
He gazed at the rugged, desolate, and precipitous path ahead, winding through the Moon Mountains and dense forests.
Riding beside Kal Stone, Samwell felt every jolt of the uneven ground through his saddle, and almost unconsciously cast a glance at the calm and unruffled “Warden of the East” by his side.
