Page 216: Here Be Sea Dragons
Here Be Sea Dragons
Summary: The seas are on fire as the Westerosi invasion of the Iron Islands begins.
Date: 18/02/2012
Related Logs: The Greyjoy Rebellion logs in general.
Aleister Bruce Gedeon Jarod Keelin Kell Kittridge Marsden Martyn Pariston Quellyan Rowan Tommas 
The Perilous Sea
Water and ships and such.
Sat Feb 18, 289

The waters about the Iron Isles have long had a sinister reputation. For the Riverlords who have filled the cogs and galleys of the Redwyne fleet, the day is particularly ominous. Storms had delayed their crossing for a time, and the passing of rain and wind has left the waters of Ironman's Bay still and shrouded in a low lying mist. Visibility is lost past a hundred yards or so, just enough to keep sight of a few vessels to either side, the sort of day at sea that conjures to memory tales of krakens, leviathans, and fire breathing sea serpents.

The bulk of the fighting men (as well as their horses, supplies, and war machines) have been packed aboard the cogs- comandeered trading vessels- leaving the Arbor's war galleys free to screen to screen the westerly voyage of the naval formation. Sea sickness is common, especially with the lost visibility.

One thing about years of living as a mercenary is that the travel, some of it by boat, does tend to give one a pair of sea legs, or at least preserve hem from upending their most recent meal overboard. So, Gedeon Rivers is doing well enough, standing on one of the cogs and peering out at the soupy mist drifting over the sea, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

Jarod is packed in among the other cogs which are the knights of Westeros, looking decidedly green. The Rivers is not a born sailor, as he's learned from his stomach during the voyage. He has planted himself by side of the ship and is grimly waiting for his time at sea to mercifully end.

Luckily for Kell the passing weather had left the waters still or he would be in bad shape right now, either huddled in some dark corner of the ship trying not to hurl or failing that, at the railings of the vessel heaving whatever is in his stomach, if anything, overboard. So for now, the Hedge Knight is holding his own against the battle of sea sickness, but who knows when his willpower will fade. He certainly doesn't look pleased, though knowing it is what must be done, his lips thinly pressed together and unsmiling.

Tommas stands, hands braced against the edge of the rail galley. His bow hangs, unstrung but ever-ready over his shoulder as he does — recalling those tales of monsters in the deep and watching the mists uneasily. The tinge to his skin is still a little green, food sitting uneasily in his stomach. "I do not like the lay of this weather," he mutters, looking along the rail to the other men who stand there. "This is the sort where the deeps take their own."

"Ships. Why must it be ships," comes the muttered words of Aleister, who has taken on a rather interesting greenish hue. Resting at one side of the ship, his arms are drapped along the rail, head tilted down and eyes partially closed. Clearly, the man isn't used to travel by ship and judging from the sounds that follow his words, it seem as if his stomach threatens to revolt again.

The Nayland militia is tucked safely aboard the sea cogs, some alternately retching, dicing and cursing the Iron Isles and their Drowned God. On the other hand, the Nayland Guardsmen are already outfitted and ready to go, on deck unlike their levy counterparts. They've got their crossbows draped over shoulders or leaned against the walls, along with other fighting implements, and wait patiently. Not all of them look good with the sea, but some seem to tolerate it better than others - Ser Bruce Longbough is one of them, though he by no means looks happy to be on board a ship. His rather new, short reddish brown and grey beard is soaked in sea water, and he grips his crossbow tightly.

Filling out the ships had been a logistical challenge of its own, keeping Brackens apart from Blackwoods, Freys apart from Mallisters, and Flints on their own boat. While imperfect, the organization of the armada is impressive, as the long day at sea grinds on. Whether for the slow setting of the unseen sun (awareness of time is another casualty of the passage), or for a greater thickness of mists, the air seems to have grown darker.

Calls between the ships when one starts to drift closer to another are among the only sounds from beyond the boat to hold a man's attention. That is, of course, until an unseen ship ahead raises a trumpet signal.

Amongst those packed up on deck of the Nayland's cog is one who stands out, only because of his drab surcoat of brown, and the fact that he's been dry heaving for the better part of an hour. "If the mother could calm my stomach, I think it'd only be long enough to retch anything else I could swallow back out." A sniff before he's rubbing the back of his hand along his scarred mouth. A turn of his bald head and the Chaplain manages a weak smile, towards the knight close by. "You'd think growing up by running fucking water I'd be able to handle a boat. Sure- I can east and drink. See a man grip his own innards, but you put me on a boat, and I cannot hold a damn thing down.." Pausing long enough to spit out into the waves, Marsden Streem does manage to stand a little straighter. "How close are we?" As if the knight would know.

Squire Rowan stands solid and loyal by the side of his pale green Ser, looking — while not delighted by his circumstances — certainly better off in the seasick department. He reaches out a hand to steady himself as she craft lurches and bobs, placing the other on Jarod's shoulder. "Anything I can get you? Other than the fuck off the boat?" he asks in wry sympathy.

Kittridge doesn't look green, or uncomfortable, except for his constantly obvious dislike of this entire war thing. He stands at the rail beside Tommas, hair whipping about his head in the wind, catching mist and spray and sending it flying again. He's given up trying to keep his face clear, just turning it into the wind. "If we wait for a perfect day to cross we'll be waiting months," he remarks to the big man beside him, "This is the best it's been yet. Just be glad it's not so cold here. Up at Gulltown the spray's so cold it's like knives in your face."

Keelin is not a sailor by any means. He's simply curled up by one of the railings, more than a little green and not the least bit happy. He's not currently retching, but that's mostly because he already has emptied his stomach completely. Not a word is spoken to anyone, as he just sits there, until he moves into sudden motion as he has to dry heave once more over the side, before he settles down and growls at the indignity of it all.

Having been on boats before, but not for much time on larger ships, Martyn's avoided most of the seasickness that a number of other people's been hit with, at least. So he stands on deck, looking out into the sea a bit carefully. He's a bit away from the railings for now, leaving that spot to those in more need of it, like the seasick ones.

A hand moves out towards Aleister's shoulder, as the gloved hand simply squeezes down in it's usual vice like hold. "Oh, I don't know Coz." the weathered voice, could only belong to Ser Quellyan, as well as the grip. Unlike his good cousin, the Blackrood seems rather undaunted by the ship. In fact, he seems quite-oh what's the word? Merry. A grin their fierce on his face before he is looking back to the Master At arms, and leader of the Charlton contingent. "I think it's slightly calming. You know when we're not pitching about." A chuckle there before he's draining something from the wineskin in his opposite hand. "Also, If you drink enough, everything balances out. Now I understand why the sailors flock to the taverns." a beat. "Well, one of the other reasons, at least. Maybe we should take up sailing.." or just Quell should-to go with his drinking.

"Aye, m'lord. That'd be colder than hell's tits that would, sharper too…but I don't like the look of this fog. You know my ma used to say that the Seven used the fog to hide their intentions," Tommas remarks uneasily to Kittridge, leaning forward slightly to peer over the edge of the galley and into the swerling waters. "Probably to keep us out of the orchards so as we wouldn't be running to the trees, not that we minded her much. It's just damn errie. It makes a man think of blacker things."

The first trumpet blast is followed by another, more rapid series of blasts, accompanied by a rising chorus of shouts from one of the unseen war galleys. Agitation spreads quickly aboard a ship, as captains are summoned and sailors rush to ready station. Ominously, amidst the shouts from the unseen vanguard are calls to either break- or keep- formation, and the two words, "Sea dragons".

"This isn't water, ya damned fool Halfsepton." Jests Bruce to Marsden, though by his tone it's a half hearted attempt at humour to relieve the thought that they will soon be landing on the Iron Isles. Bruce, normally inperturbable, seems a mite jumpier than usual. Perhaps the massive scar on the left side of his neck has something to do with that. "Close." He replies, without any real idea where they are. His sleepy blue eyes gaze forward, into the fog, but he perks at the sound of the trumpet. "Stand by, Guards."

"Sea what?" Gedeon queries to no one in particular, though his hand moves to rest on his blade. He moves closer to the edge of ship, near where Tommas and Kittridge stand.

"Fuck off the boat'd be most appreciated," Jarod mutters wry to Rowan, turning his head upward to briefly look at his squire. He crooks something that's probably supposed to be a grin. But it winds up as something of a grimace. And he has to promptly lean back over the side, groan, and retch some more. It's only after he's finished throwing up whatever was left in his stomach that he pulls his head back to blink back out to sea. Squinting.

Trying to keep his mind off of his rebellious stomach, Kell moves on the ship he is on which is occupied by Terricks since he has sworn to fight beside them for the campaign on the Iron Island. His feet brings him towards Jarod and Rowan, sea legs found by now opposed to the unsteady gait he had when he first boarded the ship. Now he wouldn't be able to climb the mast or riggings with easy but atleast he is able to move about the wooden deck with certainty. "Ser…" He greets Jarod and then Rowan with a nod before looking out towards the sea, "If only there was a wide and long bridge that connected the islands to the mainland, we don't need to take to the boats." He manages to say before any other words are interrupted by the first trumpet, then the subsequent trumpets that follow. At the warning of Sea Dragons, Kell's brows arch up as he looks at the others, "Surely he jests, dragons have been long dead."

Every bed time story of fire breathing wyms of the deep creeps into the mind as a flare of light in the mist. A source of shouts and panicked screams is revealed to be the burning shape of a Redwyne war galley, one of the many vessels of the seaborne vanguard, with sailors and oarsmen leaping off the burning deck into the (realtive?) safety of the water.

"Well, it sure isn't piss, Ser." Marsden quips, with a mirthless laugh, before heis looking back towards the bow of the ship and then over towards Ser Longbough. "Sea Drgaons? Surely they have to be fucking jesting.." And with that he's looking for his spear which was set carefully close to the railing. Snapping it up, he's fumbling to pull his coif over his bald pate. "Seven keep us." muttered before he is fumbling back for his helmet. The septon almost wretches before swallowing down nothing but cramps. "Though I 'spect, it's nothing to worry about.." a grasp at courage. Hopefully, for the Septon it will last

A look is passed over to his companion once the helm is slipped down. "Sea Dragons?"

The grip from Quellyan doesn't cause Aleister to lift his attention from the floor and it's only when the other Charlton begins to speak that the Master at Arms affords him a glance, one that comes with the hint of a frown and a soft snort, "Calming? I fear, cousin, that you are getting foolish with age." The frown shifts to that of a smirk, broken by another dry heave that makes it's threat, yet doesn't calm. When he's sure that his stomach will be still, he's looking back to Quell, "Bloody fucking s.." Wait, what? Sea Dragons? That draws a lift of the Knight's brow and as a hand comes to rub upon his face, he's muttering, "I am clearly not drunk enough for this voyage." But he makes no move for the wine skin, for the faint flare of light in the distance has seemingly drawn his attention.

"Shit," breathes Rowan, gripping the rail tight with both hands as though his first instinct is to jump in the water and swim to aid the burning vessel. "Shit, shit fuck shit — what the fuck is going?"

Keelin pauses and glances over to Martyn, the Mallster Lord and Knight obviously not too far away. "Maiden's tits, did I hear that a'right?" he asks, cause well - dragons surely can't be. No, there must be some mistake, mustn't there? "D'you think there's something in the drinking water? Or Maybe we better try to be ready for a fight." Like that'll work against a dragon. Warrior preserve us all.

Bruce's quick, purposeful steps take him towards the bow of the ship, and he gets his crossbow ready to load. Holding it with one hand, one foot in the stirrup, he fastens his helmet on with the other, and offers a shrug to Marsden. "I don't.." And then, through the fog, the Nayland Captain's eyes meet with the sight of the burning Redwyne galley. They go wide. "Ye Gods… Guards, ready yourselves." He repeats, more urgently.

Built of cured timber and with ropes lathered in tar to prevent fraying, one unfamiliar with ships might be surprised at how quickly a vessel built to pass over the water succumbs to fire, but the conflagration quickly swallows the doomed Redwyne vessel, which lists amidst the roaring sound of hungry flame, and begins to sink; the silken banner at its stern is the last thing to take fire. A fresh worry is added to the dread as sailors aboard the cog begin scrambling about with shouts of "Soak the sails! Water the fucking sails!" and seeking to take whatever small steps they can to prevent drifting sparks from swallowing their own ship.

"Foolish?" Quellyan parrots back with a grin. "No- not entirely foolish. Drunk, yes. But not foolish." and with that he's releasing Aleister's shoulder before he's reaching to cork his wineskin and let it hang by his side, uselessly. One hand rubs over his mouth as he squints out into the horizon. "I don't see anything. But, to be fair, Aleister…" Quellyan says as he looks to help his cousin up, a little straighter, if the man will allow "I don't know what a fucking sea dragon looks like. It could be a snake, or an actual fucking dragon. Which means I can cross that off the list of things to see and do before I do perish." A pause as he looks on and out. To where the flaming Redwyne cog can be seen. "Though- right now I can safely say I would not do a dragon…" And with that a hand points out. "Look." If there was mirth in the other Charlton knight- it is gone now.

"Sea dragons?" Kittridge wonders, right along with Gedeon and everyone else, "Is that a type of ship?" he guesses, before pointing, "Look!" as the burning galley comes into view through the mists. "Seven," he says, "That's not good. I knew this was a fucking bad idea. Look sharp, boys," he says to his fellows around him, "Who knows what's out there."

Sea Dragons. Tommas shoots Kittridge a pointedly bland look, unslinging his bow from his back to string it neatly. He notches an arrow in place, attention returning to the waters with a dark frown. "Sea Dragons, Ser," he drawls in answer to Gedeon. Didn't you hear the man? The newly burning Redwyne galley pulls his attention, pale eyes watching it for a moment before looking with renewed attention to the fogs. Stupid mists.

"Seven help them…Fuck," Jarod breathes as he slowly recognizes the light as a burning ship. He reaches out to clap his squire's shoulder, briefly. "Steady, Rowan." His mind is now off being seasick, at least, though this doesn't seem much of an improvement. He looks over at Kell. "Some sea trick by the squids, maybe? Just…stand ready." For what, precisely, he likely doesn't even know.

"Something with fire, apparently," Gedeon replies for what's out there, watching as the sea swallows the burning galley, "though I'll wait to see the scales and teeth before I concede they're dragons. Can we help those poor sots?" He leans a little further over the deck, peering at the men int he water.

"Sea dragons?" Martyn mutters to himself as he hears that, and sees the burning ship. "Oh…" Grimacing momentarily, before he looks over towards Keelin, offering a momentary grin. "In the drinking water? Ever seen a sailor drinking something as mild as water?" Yes, a joke in the face of danger. "I'm not sure, probably a good idea to be ready for it, just in case…"

Hearing the string of obsenities from Rowan, Kell answers in return, "I am sure they don't mean real dragons… they haven't existed for quite some time." However, the sight of the burning Redwyne War Galley coming into view shuts up the Hedge Knight very fast. "Shit. That thing lit up like a damn tinder box." Then it dawns on the knight that every ship can go up like a tinder box and on queue, the call for sails to be soaked is shouted. Jarod's words has Kell nodding, "I'll be standing ready and till the end, I for sure can't swim in the deep seas."

The reports of trumpets signalling between the scattered galleys of the Arbor fleet are pierced by a deep throated, thrumming groaning bellow from deep in the western mists. Of greater throat than any trumpet of any castle known to Westeros, the report roars on for several long heartbeats, before ending in an unseen splash.

In the moments that follow, the oarsmen and sailors which had fled the dying warship swim toward whatever friendly vessels they can with frantic desperation, calling for help in getting out of the water.

A sound similiar to that of a grunt escapes Aleister's throat as he gives a slight shake of his head in Quellyan's direction, "Bloody stomach is going to be the death of me, cousin." But, nothing else comes to be offered, for the site of the burning galley beginning to sink beneath the waves draws a slight shake of his head, "Something isn't right, Quell. Should have kept ourselves upon steady ground." That other sound, the one that comes much different from the other trumpet, has his head canting a touch to the side, lips curving back into a frown.

There's a frown from the halfsepton before he's looking out towards where Ser Bruce is spying out over the ocean. A swallow and he's looking back to the other guardsmen on deck, catching his shield off his back, the man moves to kneel down quickly and briefly. "Let us pray.." Some make to bow their heads, before the septon is barking back towards them "Eyes up, lads. The Gods' know your hearts!" a pause before he lowers his eyes. "Oh Holy Seven, we call on you today to guide us in mour mission against the heaten drowned men, but to you-oh smith we call out. See these ship to the shore, so that those watery bastards can see your craftmanship and fear for their crimes against us, your faithful..Warrior guide our swords, and our spears, as we meet our enemies, either on the sea-or on the Land." and there he thumps his spear as he moves to syand. "Stranger keep yourself far from us this day, and go for those that would harm your beloved.." and a turn of his head with another thump of his spear before he's looking on towards where the report comes from..And he breathes out. Just so. "And Father, judge those bastards that died before they could have vengeance…Fairly.." And with that he turns, to look out to the sea..As if the septon could glean something in this mess.

"Guards, get your covers off and load your crossbows." Ser Bruce yells to the Nayland men around them, leaning down as he does to remove a leather cover that is protecting the strings of his weapon. As he does so, he hooks the "cat's paw" on his belt into the string, lifting upwards with his body to wrench it back into the weapon's notch. A bolt is loaded. Once the weapon is ready, Bruce grips it tightly. A nod of appreciation is given to Marsden and his prayer. Some of the more sea sick and less experienced Guardsmen are steadied by it, somewhat. "Keep your eyes out for the treacherous bastards, lads."

"Still don't think that here there be dragons?" Tommas queries to those who stand with him, voice quiet in the echoing silence that follows the beast's great roar. "I bet she's quite the sight." That almost sounds fond, Tommas. The big man plants himself firmly where he stands, arrow notched as he watches the seas with a hunter's patience.

Rowan lurches across the deck, grabbing a coil of heavy rope and (after making sure it's tied to something secure, like the a mast) throwing it over the edge. "Whoever's not shooting fucking bow, tie off a rope and get it over the side!" the boy shouts. "There's men alive out there!"

Quellyan brings his hands to grip the railing of their cog, as he allows a nod back to Aleister. "Somehow, Aleister..I do not think we need to worry about your stomach ending you before whatever that was…" The man's face twitches for but, a second. "Oh, I will agree to that coz. For there is some bloody fucking devilry out there.." A pause as the other sound echoes out across the waves, and Quellyan grits his teeth and hardens his jaw. "Seven save us.." Fear, or realization?

The sounds and shapes of other Redwyne war galleys can be seen as the cogs sail on westward, maneuvering frantically against unseen enemies. The cog's captain shouts for his men to trim the sails, once those bold souls who balance their weight atop the yardarms in order to haul up buckets of seawater with which to soak the canvas against the embers and ashes of the burnt ship have done their work.

As the echoing bellow fades off into the mists, leaving only the shouts and cries of the Riverlords in its wake, fingers of fire begin to flare up to the west.

"Tie off here, lad," Jarod says, moving aside from the railing so Rowan can get the rope situated properly. "Give a hand with this," he says to Kell, squinting some more into the foggy waters. Trying to look at the waves themselves and not off toward where the Redwyne galley went up like a tinder. Though another flare of flames to the west makes his head twist in that direction. "What the fuck is out there?"

<FS3> Jarod rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Aleister rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Bruce rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Kell rolls Alertness: Failure.
<FS3> Pariston rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Kittridge rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Tommas rolls Alterness: Failure.
<FS3> Quellyan rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Martyn rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Keelin rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Marsden rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Rowan rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Gedeon rolls Alertness: Good Success.

"Can't be good, that?" Keelin says, hearing that sound and feeling it through the nape of his neck. "But we're here for vengeance, and what those nasty sons did to our Lord Jason. And a lot of other folks as well." He catches sight of the sinking ship, and that definitely brings the entire seasickness thing right out of his head. "Oh, bugger," he says, almost mildly all things considered. "Well, if we do die, it's been nice knowing you, m'Lord Ser Mallister," he says to Martyn with a nod of his head. "Meanwhile, I'm thinking that we might do better with ranged weapons. If we brought any. And had any targets.

Kell is already in motion when Jarod tells him to lend his assistance as saving men who are overboard is the priority right now, with no one to fight on the ship. For now, he is too busy focused on securing the ropes and getting ready to pull any soaked survivors onboard the ship that he doesn't really notice what the other Redwyne war galleys are maneuvering against. "Pray it not be dragons or this will one short campaign."

Gedeon's brows lift at that strange bellow that came from something other than trumpets. He squints out into the fog, drawing in a soft breath as he points towards the north. "There's more ships aflame!" he calls, "and… that's not a dragon, it's a ship with the head of one. They've loosed a ship afire!"

Bruce's eyes are darting around in an alert, controlled fashion, searching for danger and, well, anything through the fog to explain this situation and the chaos that begins to engulf the Riverlander fleet. He spots to the north, and to the south of the fleet more burning ships. "Captain!" He turns back, his voice carrying over the waves and screaming. "We've got flaming galleys to our north and south!" His eyes go back to watching, and he notes to the Guards, "Make sure if you've anything, you pass it up. Captain's gotta know what we see so as we don't go under, lads."

Martyn grimaces a bit as he hears the sounds and watches the happenings for a few moments, before he nods a little bit to Keelin, "We are… And if we die right here, at least it will probably be quick, right?" Always seeing the positives, it would seem. "But it's been nice knowing you too. And I hope it will stay that way for a long long time…" Moving over to the railing, he frowns a bit as he looks out there.

"There, there!" Marsden cries out, as his spear is pointing out to the north of their little cog. "Look, Ser Bruce. Those crafty ass bastards. That's what the sea dragon is…A burning ship." And with that the Septon is turning back towards the men, quickly "Lads! Those bastards who worship the dead are afraid of us! They are afraid! Those cowards know that the might of the seven, and the might of the Nayland Spears are coming for them! They've abaonded their ships afire! They hold no power over things of the deep! They hold no faith in their gods! have heart, my brothers-Have heart!" the septon yells. "They are pissing themselves, for their god cannot stop us! We will crush them, and make them see what those of the true Faith can do!" a glance back is given over towards Bruce with a shrug. "Best we can do is hope not to crash into them..Once they hit us, we'll come on fire…" Unless you can steer them away.

Keelin cusses again, moving to spit over the side of the boat, glancing out through the mist to see what he can see. "There's more ships afire, Ser Martyn," he says. "And the bloody ironers have sent out burning ships! With dragon heads, and afire. It's a dirty trick," he grumbles. His words are probably loud enough to be heard. "Looks like they might be ramming us with 'em. Or at least, they did one." Huh. Crafty bloody … Keelin goes off into a mental fugue of cussing out the ironborn, not that it helps other than giving him something to focus through.

Seeing the burning ships as he moves around Pariston moves with quick feet. Running around and doing what he has been told by superiors. Eyes spotting something that looks like a dragon. But does realize that it is a ship and turn his head back to the mission at . For the moment staying silent. Paying attention to everything around him.

"Well, I will be damned and buggered." Quellyan says with a half laugh. "They've lit ships on fire. Well isn't that a fucking lark." And with a snort, the knight relaxes a little. 'Surely our men at the helm and on the sails can dodge those things?" and he moves to brace himself slightly. "I bet it's like listing in the joust- We should skirt through like cake, eh coz?" That would be the drunk confidence in the older Charlton.

The sailors of the Reach know their trade well enough, and the cogs of the Redwyne fleet do not founder on the burning wracks of the dying galleys. To the south, unseen, a crash indicates that at least one vessel was not so fortunate, and to those of a military mind aboard the scattering armada, any sense of formation among the ships is shattered.

The other men shout and point through the mists, their cries of SHIP falling on deaf ears as their eyes see what fits their mind — but not what is. Tommas's jaw drops as he peers into the fog, watching the flames flames illuminating the beast's glorious shape along the waters. Its breadth curved like the prow of a ship as it turns, but until it as a flower is truly to a maiden. "Death itself," he murmurs reverantly, lowering his bow in the face of such a goliath.

Martyn grimaces at the mention of the burning ships, letting out a few choice words, before he looks to the sailors briefly, then back towards Keelin. "Makes sense, doesn't it. When such an army comes towards you with boats, do your best to take out the boats, and create panic…" He glances back towards the sailors again. "At the moment, they're the one that has to save us, I guess." Not liking it too much, it seems.

"Haven't been dragons in Westeros for hundreds of years," Jarod says grimly to Kell, gripping his knuckles tight around the rope once it's over the side. "Whatever's out there, it's no mummer's story. Oi! Oi! This way!" Shouted at the water. He pairs it with a sharp whistle, an attempt to beckon whatever men might be in the sea beneath them. Though with his attention at the waves, something else gets his attention. "Fuck…" he breathes again at the sight of the flaming ships north and south of them.

"Fire ships!" Kittridge spots, around the same time as others do, "Not dragons. I guess that's a good thing," he says, though he sounds vaguely disappointed as he says, "Sorry, Tomm." He hasn't got a bow, so he gets to just point them out and watch, which is a dubious sort of privilege, and one he bears tensely, with white knuckles and a tight jaw.

"Come on! You can make it!" Rowan leans over the rail, bellowing encouragement to the sailors foundering in the water. He goes to fetch more rope, skidding on the wet deck.

Kell can only grunt in agreement at Jarod's reassurances, "And let's hope it stays that way." He then leans over the railings, calling out loudly to the water treading sailors and men, "Swim hard! To the ropes, we'll pull you up! C'mon!" He can see the bright lit ships that are on fire on the northern and southern horizon but for now there are more important things on his mind, plus it is up to the sailors and Captain of this ship to see them safely to the other side.

Perhaps a dozen Redwyne men- sailors or oasmen, but smallfolk all- make their way to the cog as it sails past, hanging onto the lines and climbing aboard with a desperate dread of remaining any longer in the salt waters of Ironman's Bay. Gratitude and blessings are espoused in great volume to those who lend them assistance.

Bruce nods and looks approvingly at Marsden as the Halfsepton continues his frenzied sermon, but for now, the Captain of the Nayland Guard has nothing more to say himself. He's concerned with watching the waters to their ship's front, waiting for the apperance of Ironborn longships, or well, anything.

Pariston has bow around his body but he has other things needed at the moment. Helping out to try and get down ropes to those that are around in the water. Staying calm. "If anyone got a hand to help, it would be appreciated." He calls out. Though keeping a rather light tone even in the situation they're in. As for those that still believe it to be sea dragons he call out. "Those things are as much dragons as the ship we stand in. So forget about them for now." Continuing to pull up those in the water.

"Nae, my Lord. You're just not seeing it," Tommas disagrees, gaze following the drawn line of Kittridge's fingers. It is a Sea Dragon. He does not raise his bow again, staring at the beast with the body of a whale and a dragon's breath.

"It's a fire whale!" shouts another, confused man aboard the cog, pointing towards the flaming shape in the distance.

Keelin is spurred into action to try to help the men in the water. He glances around, then heads to find rope, blatantly copying an idea from someone else and tying one end to the railing, letting the rope hang down. Course he does skid across the deck a bit, and once he ties the rope, he has to retch again, his stomach still not happy with him. "Swim for the ropes!" he calls out, once that's done.

He's not much of a hand with a bow, so Gedeon moves away from the rail to fetch another of the ropes, tying it off and tossing it over the side for whatever men can reach it. "Here, lads!" he calls, "This way!"

Jarod continues whistling, which cuts louder than his bellowing, at the water as some men manage to reach the ropes. He takes one hand off to help haul one of the smallfolk sailors aboard. Then he grips with both again. "After this whole mess is done, if I never go to sea again, it'll be too soon," he mutters to Kell. His opinion of travel by boat is low after this voyage.

Marsden adds a half grin and more of a strained sneer on half of his mouth, due to his blasted scar. His spear moves to tap against his helm in a salute to the Captain of of the Nayland Guards. There's a turn of his head for a moment to look out as the Redwyne sailors do their things. "See, Captain. Every man likes to know where his heart is. And right now, ours think the Ironborn are in their arse. Seven keep us.." a kiss to his knuckle and the Septon nods on. "Smith, get us through.." muttered as well. No need to profane anything and jinx the lot of em.

As some of the men reach the wet ropes and begin climbing up, Kell waits until one is within reach of his arms and reaches down. Grabbing the survivor with a firm grip, the Hedge Knight hauls the man up over the railings with strength before falling backwards due to the momentum and force he used to pull the man to safety. He is quickly back on his feet again, to assist more overboard men to safety.

Like some of the others lacking bows, Kittridge steps up to the rail, grabbing a rope and doing his best to fish out survivors as they flail within range. "It's a boat, Tommas!" he insists over his shoulder.

Seeing the work with the rope and trying to get people out of the water, Martyn moves over to try helping with that. After all, he might not be a sailor himself, but he's done some fishing. Getting a rope fastened, he looks out into the water. "Get to the ropes!" In case those out there didn't hear the words from the others, after all.

A laugh leaves Quellyan at some poor bastard's shout. "Fire whales indeed, lads. Fire wha-Oh hellow.." And with that he's reaching his hand down to grab someone clambering up their cog's hand. Lifting the fellow, over the railing he's looking back to is cousin. "It's like fishing, this." A look down the rails to see others helping displaced men at arms and sailors lucky enough to make it to the boat and not drown. 'See, cousin..Nothing to fear..Except.." a nod off to somewhere hard to percieve on the cog. 'Fire whales.." and there he waggles his fingers as he laughs. And then he's reaching for his wine skin with a burp. "I need more to drink.."

"It looks ot be a fire breathing whale, my Lord Kittridge!" Tommas refutes with a wry note of frustration, shaking his head at his lord. Sea Dragons come in unexpected shapes. Despite being one of those with a bow, he isn't doing a lot of point it out towards the sea — perhaps in respect for the beast.

<FS3> Elf rolls Sailing: Good Success.

On past the burning wracks the cog drifts. Trimmed sails make picking up errant sparks less likely, but so too do they make the travel slower. Drifting past the sinking hulks of several fallen war galleys, the sound of distant trumpets of ships trying to signal each other can be heard, but not seen in the heavy mists which shroud the Iron Isles.

As soon as enough men are at the ropes, he pull out his bow just in case. Moving to stand ready. Hearing the words from people still confused. "If that's a dragon then call me crazy. That looks more like a boat." He says. Some of the men around him seeming to calm down.

"The Ironborn hearts beat slow, but I think they're at their feet. We'll see what the beachhead holds for us." Answers Bruce to the Halfsepton, not tearing his eyes away from the sea. "Curse this damneable fog!" Exclaims the Stonebridge knight, in frustration.

Rowan reaches down and hauls a sodden, exhausted sailor onto the boat, then reaches down for the next. When the rope goes slack without the weigt of a climber, he gathers it and tosses it out far as he can, trying to put the end within easier reach of those whose strength is flagging.

"It's but smoke from the smith's fires, Captain." Marsden answers. His stomach and his feet, for once sure on this damned voyage to the isles. "As it aids them, it aids us as well. They won't know how many ships they got, let alone how many men are landing. We could use this to our advantage." A look over towards Bruce. "If we all carry two torches..We could make it seem as if all the West landed on Harlaw..and buy us some time until the fucking fog moves..Ser." Whether or not that idea would work and they would all be slaughtered while holding torches? Well…Marsden is not worrying on that. "I'll feel better when we're on land.. At least they cannot drown us on land.." the septon adds, with a nod out to sea. "We're sailing now, Ser."

Jarod keeps whistling at the water while he keeps his hand on the ropes. A sharp, piercing sound rather than a pretty tune. But it's more easily heard than a song. He'll stick to focusing on hauling whatever survivors of the other wrecks he can aboard. He has little ability to slay sea dragons.

Soon enough, all too soon, there are no more hands to grasp at the ropes, as once the galleys begin to sink properly, they drag down the doomed with them. The lights of the burning ships are lost one-by-one to salt sea and mists, and the air seems that much darker for their passing.

Keelin continues to help as he can, reaching an arm to help out one poor bugger, and then another, before the rope goes slack. He does keep trying, but with faint hope as the burning hulks sink and the lights go out, making it darker than it by rights ought to be. "Not looking good," he says slowly, shaking his head.

"And down they go.." murmurs Ser Quellyan as he pulls up his wineskin only to uncork it with his teeth, and take a swig, before pouring some over the side for the drowned men of Westeros. A shake of his head, and he moves from his Cousin. "I'll go see to our men, and horses.." And he is moving from the railing. Having seen enough of burning ships and drowning men for one time..

Getting one of those sailors out of the water, Martyn shakes his head, "Didn't know they had that ugly fish around here," he remarks to the man with a shake of the head, as he pulls him aboard the ship. Then looking to see if he gets another of them aboard, but there doesn't seem to be any more that's grabbed the rope. "That's not good…" he mutters.