Land of the King, Chapter 69: Drowning

The hardest choices require the strongest wills.

A massive water spout rose from the river, shielding the fleet as the dragons dived in to blast them with fire. Aragost ducked to the side to avoid the massive splatter of water as it fell upon the ships, knowing it would likely be painfully hot.

The moment the water spout was gone, the Arnorians counterattacked with the usual hail of arrows and bolts, driving off the dragons.

“Quickly men! The dragons will be back! We need all our men and supplies on the north banks before they return!” Aragost ordered his men.

Obeying his command, the men set course for the banks of North Morlond. The harbor had been annihilated over months of battle so they had to load the men and the supplies onto skiffs. Other parts of the fleet began mooring at the less damaged southern harbor where they could more safely unload their men and supplies and slowly ship them across the river in the coming days.

Aragost was on one of the very first skiffs to land at the northern bank and he ordered every soldier that landed to ready for battle as they would soon be charging north into the city to reinforce the garrison.

All too soon the dragons had returned, carrying large boulders between their legs before they dropped them onto the Arnorian ships and regiments.

“EVASIVE ACTION!” Aragost screamed at his men as the rocks came falling down upon them.

Superheated with dragonfire and dropped from a high altitude, the resulting impact more often than not saw the rocks explode into thousands of tiny pieces.

Several ships were broken or damaged severely by the boulders. With forewarning, most of the Arnorian soldiers managed to evade the massive boulders that landed on top of them, few however were uninjured from the pieces that blasted into them in the resulting explosions. Aragost was thrown off his feet by the explosion, with a piece of rock slamming into his chestplate.

As he struggled to his feet, he bore witness to the dragons descending upon them to burn them all before the water mages again managed to barely deflect the flames, but their defense was not perfect, and in places where their strength failed, hundreds burned.

Coming from the north, a squadron of giant archers stepped out from the broken ruins of North Morlond and loosed upon the dragons attacking the fleet.

With a savage twang, the massive arrows launched from their bows, cleaving right through the dragons’ bodies. The water mages pulled the injured dragons into the river to drown while the survivors fled.

Wincing from the pain of his bruised ribs, Aragost stood up and ordered his men to swiftly disembark and reassemble before thanking the giants for rescuing them. The ape-like archers nodded in acknowledgement and stood on guard with their eyes on the sky as the fleet made use of its breathing room to finally unload all its men, artillery, and supplies.

Barely able to breathe with the pain of his ribs hindering him, Aragost handed over command to one of his officers and told him to take the uninjured and able soldiers north into the city and reinforce the garrison before he was frogmarched to the healers. He, the King of Arnor!

Yet as King, the Arnorian soldiers considered his safety and health paramount and so the Royal Guard saw fit to ensure he was treated first but he refused.

“I have but a minor injury. Treat them first,” he told the healers, gesturing to the hundreds of injured soldiers being carried into the tents. All of them sported broken bones, burns, lacerations, punctures, and gashes of all kinds, the product of rock bombardments and dragonfire.

The scene was familiar, far too familiar. Aragost had fought in the Second Dragon War and borne witness to the First. Now the reality was setting in and sinking into his being like a stone in water. He was fighting this war, witnessing this conflict yet again for a third time. How many more had to die until it was resolved once and for all?

With the adrenaline from the battle fading, Aragost felt the pain in his chest grow stronger, almost agonizingly so as he fell to his knees from the pain, struggling to breathe as the healers dragged him to a bedroll to treat him.

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With the reinforcements that the King had brought, Boromir and his men had been able to drive the Valyrians away from the city and finally retake the outer walls of North Morlond within a week.

Several days before the arrival of the King’s army, Arnorian forces in the north under Prince Aravorn’s command had launched their attack. They had managed to push as far south as Duskendale, cutting the Valyrians’ supply lines. Encircled and vulnerable, the Valyrians had had no choice but to evacuate the mainland by ship at Rosby, withdrawing to the isles of Blackstone and Driftmark.

A meeting had been called in one of the few intact buildings left in Morlond to discuss what was to be done now that the Valyrians had been driven from mainland Arnor. King Aragost had been seated on his throne-like chair when Boromir arrived and took the seat at his right hand as was his place as Steward.

Boromir observed his liege, who showed no signs of pain or discomfort despite his injury. The King had been injured by a piece of stone which had shattered off a rock dropped in a Valyrian bombardment. Though his armour had protected him from most of the damage, the sheer blunt force had dented into the chestplate, throwing the King backwards and bruising several of his ribs and breaking two more. Thankfully it was not a major injury, but Boromir had noted that it still pained the King slightly in their private meetings prior to this war council.

As the last officer entered the room, the King stood up and addressed all of them, his expression not giving away the slightest hint that his injury hurt him in any way though Boromir heavily suspected it was just a façade. “My lords, you all know what you are here for. We have come to a crossroads in this war.

“In the Vale, our armies, joined with the strength of the Northmen have secured the Bloody Gate and the Gates of the Moon, preventing the Valyrians from breaking through for the foreseeable future. My son Prince Aravorn has just reported to me that he has seized the last Valyrian stronghold in Nammatil.

“To the east, in Essos, resistance to Valyrian rule in Braavos continues with my brother Prince Túrin leading their efforts. Myr remains under siege, barely holding on with resupply from the Stepstones as the Valyrian Navy continues to push southwards. With the loss of Lys, there are many concerned that the Stepstones may soon come under attack from both the north and south.

“However most direly of all, the Valyrians still hold the Isles of Morfalas and with them they not only secure their supply line to the Vale and have a potential launching point for another invasion, but they also control the Narrow Sea and limit our access to Myr and the Stepstones.

“Suffice to say that all our efforts in Essos and the Stepstones may be at risk if something is not done to drive the Valyrians off the isles and therein lies the primary obstacle to our war effort. So long as the Valyrians control Blackstone and Driftmark, they can choke any attempt to relieve Essos and East Arnor and all our people there are as good as dead. The tide of war has turned, but if we are to capitalize on that we need those islands.”

“Your Majesty, is not the costly but only possible course of action to take the islands by storm? We have no other choice, surely Prince Aravorn has enough men in Nammatil to lead an assault on the islands? They do not have many dragons anymore do they?” the Prince of Dol Amroth, Edrahil asked.

“It’s impossible, putting aside the unfeasibility of an amphibious assault on the isles, we don’t even have the ships. The Valyrians annihilated the Eastern Fleet during their invasion. There is no armada, either here in Blackwater Bay or in the Bay of Crabs that is large enough to carry an army to assault the isles. And lastly, this came by raven from Blackstone this morning,” the King finished as he sat down, drawing out a letter from his breast pocket and handing it to Boromir who stood up and read it aloud.

“To the armies of Arnor, know this. Any attack upon the isles of Dragonstone and Driftmark will be met with extreme prejudice by our dragons and will be weighed against the lives of the inhabitants of those isles. – Signed, Baela Belaerys, Lady Freeholder of the House of Belaerys.”

“This is outrageous! I say let’s bring all the fleets from the west and then storm the islands and put this Baela Belaerys and all her dragonspawn allies to the sword!” one hotheaded officer shouted. Some others chorused his words eagerly in agreement.

Boromir interjected. “Such a course of action would be nothing short of foolishness! It would take months to bring the western fleets through the canals and then prepare an army capable of assaulting the isles! And for what!? For all our men to die in a costly assault and for the Valyrians to carry out another massacre like Rosby?” he finished to the grimaces and dark expressions of all.

When the Battle of Morlond had ended, the Valyrians had used their dragons to blast their way out and north towards Rosby, where their scouts had reported their fleet had shipped the Valyrian army back to the Isles of Morfalas. As they left Rosby, the Valyrians had sacked the town, looting and plundering all its wealth and massacring its people before they had reduced it to rubble with dragonfire, all but extinguishing the House of Rosby save for some distant cousins. The reports had said that the fires could be seen burning for days as an entire settlement was wiped from the face of the earth. The death toll was catastrophic, with at least two hundred thousand, if not more believed dead.

“But my Lord Steward? Surely our forces can reclaim the Isles? And though many of our people will die in the chaos, may Eru rest their souls, many more would rise up and greet our forces as liberators! We can reclaim the isles!” the same rash officer suggested.

Boromir opened his mouth to speak but the King answered first. “Ordinarily we would agree with you Colonel, but not in this. The Isles of Morfalas are near impregnable to storm, only dragonfire and our unpreparedness let the Valyrians take them in the first place and with dragons, no ship can approach those islands, not even with water magic.

“As Lord Boromir and myself have noted, we do not even have the ships to launch that attack in the first place. It would take months to rebuild all our infrastructure and to move ships from the western fleet. Even with sheer numbers I fear that will not be enough. We cannot reclaim the Isles by storm and if by some miracle we do, what then?

“By that time, Myr would have fallen and we would have bled so dearly to reclaim the Isles, we might not even have the strength to defend Raumdor, Vinyambar, or the Stepstones should the Valyrians choose to attack there next.”

“Your Majesty, if I may?” One of the few women at the table spoke up, a water witch by the name of Elurdis and one of the senior commanders of the water mages.

“You may, Captain,” the King said, giving his permission. Some male officers grumbled at that, wondering aloud what a woman would know of strategy but Boromir’s glare shut them all up.

With the King’s permission, Captain Elurdis began to speak. “I had a conversation with one of my acquaintances in the Skinchanger Corps, she said that their scouts had found the Valyrians reinforcing the Isles of Morfalas with more and more dragons, men, and ships. Is this correct?”

“It is. We hope to have reclaimed the Isles before it is too late somehow, but it may soon become completely impossible for us to do so in any way,” Boromir answered.

“So with every day that passes, the Valyrian garrison on the Isles will become stronger and harder to overcome. Even if we gave the order now, by how soon could we have an armada ready to assault the Isles? Months at least, maybe even longer with how destroyed our infrastructure is. And in that time the Valyrians could have exponentially increased their number of dragons and men, ensuring we could not hope to take it back, conventionally at least.”

“Conventionally?” the King raised an eyebrow.

“Yes Your Majesty. Correct me if I am wrong, but you fought in the War for the Rhoyne did you not?”

The King narrowed his eyes at her question. “I did. Why do you ask?”

“Because the primary tactic that the Rhoynar used in that war is relevant here. Just like how Garin the Great flooded Valysar and Volon Therys with water magic, just like how he called upon Mother Rhoyne to drown Chroyane in the Sorrows, I am proposing that we coordinate our water mages in Nammatil… to drown the Isles of Morfalas.”

For an instant, there was a dead silence in the air before pandemonium ensued. Almost everyone at the table stood up from their seats and began roaring against and in support of the idea.

“Are you insane woman!? You want to drown Arnorian islands!??? How many of our people would die!!?” Prince Edrahil demanded

“It’s a cruel plan but it’s the best we have!” another water mage defended Captain Elurdis.

One officer rose from his seat, all but screaming as he did so. “By Eru this is Akallabêth come again!! To drown Blackstone and Driftmark like Númenor!?? There are a million of our people on those islands!!! It’s madness!”

The shrieks and shouting grew so loud and fierce that Boromir could not even hear himself think and he was on the verge of snapping before the King barked at all of them to shut up. “Enough! Take all your seats gentlemen, I would hear Captain Elurdis’s defense of her plan first.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I beseech all of you to think about it more. How many of our soldiers will die if we are forced to storm the Isles? What is at stake if we fail? If the Valyrians keep control of the Isles, we can forget about Essos, Westeros will remain under threat forever. Our capital will be forever blockaded and at risk from a Valyrian attack, in fact the whole east coast will be! And as we are distracted and paralyzed, unable to act, the Valyrians will mop up Myr and the Stepstones, maybe even start landing in Raumdor and Dorne, and we will have lost this war.”

The officers sagged into their seats, unable to deny the truth in her words, as bitter as it was.

“Still though… how cruel must we be, to condemn a million souls to die? Who can make that decision?” Prince Edrahil asked in despair.

Boromir laughed soullessly. “There is only one man that can give that order and expect it to be obeyed.”

All eyes turned to the King whose mask of stone-faced calm and passiveness had been torn off by horror at the realization that this cruel decision rested entirely on his shoulders.

“Is there any other plan, any other suggestion that that any of you may have?” he asked almost… pleadingly. But Kings did not plead and the mask of the stern King fitted back on when not a word was said in reply.

“Then what use are any of you? Out! You are all dismissed from my presence!” he barked in anger.

Fearful of their King’s wrath, all of them scurried to leave, but as Boromir made to do so, he was ordered to remain.

“Not you, Boromir.”

Obeying his King, Boromir returned to his seat at the King’s right. As he did so, a startling realization came to his mind.

“Your Majesty, you had already thought of Captain Elurdis’s plan before this council, didn’t you?” he asked. It made sense, why else would he pose a question to the council that had no other solution? He had known about it before and had hoped to learn of a better option. Clearly though, there was none.

“I did yes. Every single time I thought of an answer, that was the only thing that came to mind. I had hoped that the ‘fine officers of the King’s Army’ could give me a better solution, but they couldn’t. It all leads back to the same thing. Tell me Boromir, what am I to do?”

“You will do what you must, as you always have Sire,” Boromir answered neutrally. Outwardly he did not presume to tell the King what to do on this dire matter but they both knew what had to be done and Aragost understood the hidden meaning in his reply immediately.

“Dutiful to the end… yes,” Aragost said with a sigh, crumpling further into his seat. “That is how my father trained me, how he trained all of us. Arnor comes first before everything. If only he had kept to his own philosophy before he dragged all of us into these never-ending wars. How foolish he was… how foolish I was.”

A courier entered the meeting room then, his pace urgent and hurried as he handed the King a note.

King Aragost opened the message and read it before asking the courier, “This has been confirmed?”

“Yes Your Majesty, by both our scouts and the palantir.”

He crumpled the piece of paper as he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it on the table.

“You have my gratitude Boromir, for your steadfast service and counsel. I trust the realm will be in good hands with you and your son to advise Aravorn when this war is over,” the King said, his decision seemingly made, as he stood up from his seat, wincing slightly at the pain from his ribs.

“Your Majesty?” Boromir was confused.

The King smiled bitterly. “Come now my lord steward, you do not truly think that Arnor will suffer me as its king when the war is over? If I must save Arnor by making it hate me, then so be it. I will live up to my namesake and all shall dread me, be they foe… or friend.”

As the King left the room, Boromir opened the crumpled note and read it. The note was a report on the estimated numbers of dragons, men, and ships on the two isles. But what drew Boromir’s attention the most, was the very first line.

Wingless armoured dragon spotted on Blackstone. 

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When Aravorn had received the order, he could scarce believe it. It was so radical, so ruthless… and yet so necessary. He knew it in his heart, there was no other way, yet that did not mean he liked it.

For the Royal House to survive, Aravorn knew his hands had to be clean of this atrocity as much as possible. Which was why once he had relayed the orders to the commander of his water mages, he retired to a nearby cliff; sitting on the edge as his aide Cirion stood with their guards behind him.

In the coming days, much would have to be done to land troops on the flooded isles before the Valyrians did, with anything they could find. Fishing boats, merchant vessels, maybe even rudimentary rafts.

Yet for now, they could do nothing but wait. The water mages had taken what few water-craft they had and rowed out as close to the islands as they dared. It was a dark moonless night, with any luck the mages would be able to sneak close enough to the isles without the dragons detecting them, though Aravorn wondered if he actually wanted them to succeed given their mission.

Miles to the south, thousands of water mages snuck up on two unsuspecting islands, using their magic to calm the sea. It was dark and cloudy, with not a dragon in sight, though a few skinchangers had accompanied them to help watch the skies as the mages began their cruel task.

Soon the waters rose, thousands of mages working in tandem to gather two massive waves off the coast of Nammatil, one for each island. Ever so higher the waves climbed into the sky, gathering more water and energy as it rose hundreds of feet into the air, pulling the water from the beaches into it… and then it was done. With a push of their hands, the water mages sent the waves forward. Back on the cliff-side, Aravorn saw the water pulling from the beach, and he knew the moment had come. The hourglass had been turned. It was only a matter of time.