Snippet #1500468

The burning of House Greyhardt's fleet was a lovely sight against the foggy, black night. Lionel watched the crimson flames from less than a mile away, arms crossed with satisfaction as a small team of Mummers wove through the harbor, setting ships ablaze with torches and buckets of oil. That had been the first part of their strategy, to destroy as many ships as they could while the rest of the fleet hid several miles away in the cover of the mist. An alarm had already sounded, and judging by the shouts, Greyhardt's men were flooding into the harbor to douse the flames. Only two or three ships would be destroyed beyond function, but that didn't matter. They had razzed their opponents' nerves and crippled them somewhat, making the ensuing battle far easier for them.

They had decided to move in on Winterfell from the East, where the majority of the Greyhardts' fleet was harboured. Winterfell itself was further in land and would take a day of riding to reach, but Lionel intended to take White Harbor as shelter and then sail his forces down the White Knife river until they reached Winterfell. All along the coast of the Three Sisters, the Tyrell's ships were lined up like a pack of wolves, waiting to attack. The Braavosi were nowhere to be seen. Lionel had wisely decided to separate his forces. The Braavosi were waiting on the other side of the harbor to fend of attacks from incoming ships. Lionel had decided to place Ser Quincel on one of the Braavosi ships. He doubted that Ser Quincel would be able to lead an attack on his former fleet, much less on his brother's home. Better to place him away from the brunt of action, on the defensive. The Bloody Mummers, the primary ground combat unit, had been scattered along various ships. Once they docked, the sellswords would be deposited on land to storm Winterfell from the back. Aboard the Firestorm, Lionel and Leliana would be leading the attack, while Lord Tyrell operated the torch messaging system.

The shouts were growing louder and louder. Ship after ship lit up as the Greyhardts finally realized that they were under attack. One by one, the war galleys began sailing towards Lionel's fleet. On deck, Jans looked to Lionel expectantly, waiting for the signal. Lionel ignored him, eyes fixed firmly forward on a burning ship that had not yet been doused with water. Not yet… The flames continued to crackle, despite the men's best efforts to put them out. Finally, with a splintering crash, the masthead of the burning ship broke in two, smashing into the deck of the galley beside it.

Men from the ships around it immediately rushed to its aid, trying to make sure that the fire did not spread any further. It was the havoc that Lionel had been waiting for.

Lionel turned to Lord Tyrell and lifted an arm. "Go."

They sailed straight forwards, meeting the enemy fleet from a diagonal. The Firestorm cut through the water with powerful, elegant ease. The winds were on their side, the moon behind them. Everything was to their advantage, everything had been calculated and carried out with deliberate precision. It would be a close battle, but a decisive one. By the end of the night, Winterfell would be under the control of the Bastard King.

The first ship passed them, close enough to board. Lionel turned to Jans and nodded.

With a blood-curdling cry, the Mummer seized a rope and hurled himself over, followed by a group of ten. The ringing of steel and shouts of men echoed through the air as Jans took down the first enemy ship. It was like knocking down the first card in a tower; more cries pierced the air from different directions as Lionel's fleet clashed with the Greyhardts', hurling them into a bay of chaos and destruction. Lionel ignored the noise as the battle raged on behind him. His eyes were fixed upon the craggy outline of White Harbor, far in the distance. As more and more ships were destroyed, the Firestorm sailed straight ahead, until a bump that reverberated through the deck told Lionel that they had docked.

Only then did he unsheath Night.

The first two soldiers to assault Lionel were met with a watery death as he kicked them indifferently out of the way- after slashing their jugulars, of course. He managed to get off the ship without too much trouble, unless four more bodies counted. Then came the bloody business of cutting himself a path through the swath of soldiers that overwhelmed him on the dock. Night sang a haunting, whistling song as it flashed in the moonlight like some eerie herald of death. As Lionel lost himself in the bloody dance he was so fond of, ridiculous, crazed thoughts raced through his head, thoughts that could only be found in the mind of a berserker. Who were these people? How dare they stand in his way? He just wanted to reach the end of the dock, so why were they in his way? Who did they think they were? By the Seven, he was going to smite them…cut them to pieces...

Perhaps "pieces" was taking it a bit too far, but by the time Lionel reached the end of the dock, there was not a soldier left standing. He'd been too caught up too actually kill them all, but the ones that weren't dead were legless, and the ones that weren't legless had fled in fear. Then again, it wasn't entirely Lionel's fault. The flood of Mummers and Braavosi that had come running off the ship, howling with delight, probably had something to do with it.

He watched from the shore as Jon Tyrell made short work of the woefully unprepared Greyhardt fleet. As soon as the Braavosi had docked, the men immediately began hauling boats off the side of the ship. The plan was to sail up the White Knife river to Winterfell with the entirety of their force, where they would use a variety of tactics to overtake the castle. Without their fleet, the Greyhardts wouldn't be able to sail reinforcements in on time. The wolves' strength lay at sea; purely on land, they were mediocre at best. The Mummers, on the other hand...

The last remnants of a battle was still raging in the bay, but Lionel had no patience to stick around and watch. Jon Tyrell could take care of himself; if he survived, he'd come up the river after them. If not, then they didn't have time to wait around for a funeral. The Mummers, upon landing, were all for plundering the nearby towns, but Lionel ordered them onto the boats with the promise of better wine and whores at Winterfell when they reached it in a day or two.

Lionel was just about to board when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye- some sailor who had survived the initial attack had lunged at him, hoping to kill the Bastard King before he died himself. Night flashed in a circle, once, twice, and then the sailor was on his knees on the ground, howling as he stared at the two handless stumps that were now his arms. Ignoring the man's cries, Lionel dragged him to his feet and gave him a shake. "Run on back to Winterfell," he told the sailor, and then released him. "Tell them I'm coming." The sailor let out a whimper of terror and scrambled away, cradling his stumps in his elbows. Laughing, Lionel wrapped his fingers around the side of the last boat and hauled himself upwards.

"Now begins the plundering and pillaging," Reuben commented cheerfully, helping Lionel on. "And raping and murdering."

Lionel sat down and grabbed an oar, jerking it back with a savage force. In the moonlight, his grin looked almost disembodied. "Here comes the raping and murdering indeed."

He was going to rip Richard Greyhardt's head off, right before his parents, and kick the headless corpse around until he'd had his fill of the parents' screaming. Isabel Greyhardt would go to Jans. Lady Greyhardt could go to whatever Mummer wanted her, if anyone was still interested in a wrinkly old crone. Nathaniel Greyhardt would serve no further purpose, although Lionel suspected that Ammon wouldn't complain about having him, if he was still around. Either way, the Greyhardt family, his father's closest allies, would be brought to ruin, ruin and total destruction. If Leliana thought that he was going to spare any of her family, then she was wrong. She was about to truly see how cruel Lionel Storm could be.