The queerest thing of all was, perhaps, the absence of everything Myles Crakehall might

have expected for such a day. No harbinger clouds burst beyond the bay, billowing across
choppy waters and roaring cracks of thunder across the coastline. It was a foggy early morn, to
be sure, but the sun still shone in streams through the thick brume; as common as any number
of grey mornings that signaled to the early rising fisherfolk the day’s catch awaited in the
near-shallow waters. Likewise, there was no still silence throughout the whole of the city as the
earth itself drew bated breath. No such ethereal grip upon every man, woman, and babe which
quieted any squabbles and placated any semblance of normalcy. In reality, gulls still squawked
overhead and distant calls could still be heard of the day’s laborers preparing themselves for the
end of dawn. Boatswain’s whistles echoed across the calm waters of the near bay - calling to each
other as their vessels navigated the mists of the moorings in harbor.
Yet there it called again: a thrice succession of bells - deeper and grander than any ship
bell in Lannisport. They were the calls of the warden Rock itself: the Shield of the Western Jewel
which gave warning to the entirety of the portcity. Nor were these bells necessarily grim in their
toll, though all beneath the shadow of the Rock paid them heed when heard. Likewise, did all
that lived in the shadow of the Rock know what such number of bell tolls communicated: and
this - the repeated thrice succession of tolls - was one not heard in any man’s lifetime.
“What is that?” Clarent asked from his pony, turning in the saddle to crane his ear
toward the misty mountain itself, where the calls came down like divine warning. The whole of
the Crakehall procession, short as it was, slowed to a still as the bell tolls continued. Myles knew,
of course, diligent as he was in studying all of the great cities of Westeros he hoped one day to
visit. Though the memory lagged in his mind, perhaps because he very much doubted his
knowledge - but more likely because it meant the whole of his world crashing if it were true.
“Reavers.” old Ser Dunaver croaked from his dappled palfrey. Before his service to the
Crakehalls as swornsword, he had lived in Lannisport itself. A child of the Sunset Sea. Grey and
weathered as the Knight was now, even he had surely not lived since the last time such a toll was
sounded across the misty bay.
*We’re not living in history.* Myles thought to himself, his very heart quickening its pace
every time another succession of tolls sounded, *Lannisport has not been reaved since before the
Conquest.*
Surely, though, the streets became cowed with indistinct cries between smallfolk,
merchants, sailors, and guardsmen alike - and in a matter of moments the whole of Lannisport
seemed to awake prematurely with an unnatural life. Echoed throughout, one word was clearly
distinguishable above all others, *”Ironborn.”*
“We must away.” one of the men-at-arms in their contingent blathered, “Before they’ve
sealed the gates!”
“And whereto then?” Dunaver chided, urging his horse around as the thirty-strong
troops came to a halt in the middle of a cobbled street. Ahead: one of many townsquares that
filtered toward the harbor and moorings - behind: the winding road they’d come which
stretched toward the walls and gates. Beyond: far green country and hills for miles of coastline.
 “Crakehall.” Myles realized, the word muttered on his breath as though involuntarily
slipping from his mouth. Images of home, of kin and kith there, lingered in his mind as the
breadth of the situation unfolded. *It can’t be Ironborn, it can’t…* No such strong, stout walls or
garrison did his home have. *It can’t be Ironborn…*
“Crakehall is there, we are here.” Ser Dunaver urged his horse down the ranks, sword
prominently displayed at his hip despite his age. A seeming lifetime, surely, since the old Knight
had once truly done battle and taken life. *Even then, who? Poachers and Brigands in the
Boarwood? Reavers-* All at once Myles felt very, very sick.
*We shouldn’t have come. Father shouldn’t have fucking sent us.* It was remiss, now, to
dread over decisions past made. Lord Crakehall had ridden to battle the Black Queen’s forces
with Lord Jason Lannister in the Riverlands, taking with him that strong stock of Castle
Crakehall; Myles’ three elder brothers and near all their levies. His two youngest sons, then,
would holdfast the Keep and it’s lands - the youngest though, he shall ward in the bowels of
Casterly Rock should dragonfire and ruin befall Castle Crakehall.
Myles glanced toward Clarent, the youngest of the family, who seemed near to shitting
himself as each toll sounded and more and more people progressively began fleeing through the
streets: toward barracks, toward homes, toward the Rock itself. As far from the Sea as possible.
*Ten years old, he has no idea father has entrusted him as the vanguard of the Crakehall line.*
“Lyle!” Ser Dunaver barked, “Take ten and five men and escort Clarent to the Rock; tell
them who he is and make clear your sigil!”
The hard-nosed Knight nodded in response, bellowing out a list of names of those to
accompany him. The column began to disassemble, Clarent ushered between a group of
men-at-arms before he could and his brother could even say goodbye.
“I’m coming with?” Myles gasped, his stomach in knots as he plainly realized he was not.
“With me, Ser Myles.” Dunaver spoke coolly, slipping a half-helm over his chainhood.
“The rest of us must away to the Docks, lend our steel to Lady Lannister’s host.
“*Lord* Jason Lannister campaigns with the host!” he was panicking now, and this time
he gave no heed if the men around him took notice. *’Myles Hill, more like’.* He had heard them
say time and again. Lord Crakehall was a beast of a man; worth ten of any other on the field - as
were his three eldest boys. *Not Myles though. Born a bastard-Myles, how could Crakehall blood
flow through such a cowardly lad? “What have we to defend Lannisport!?” Bile was building in
the back of his throat, and once again he felt the distinct need to upturn his morning meal.
“What we can.” Ser Dunaver was had-faced, as he always had been - a true Crakehall in
all but name. “*Men?*” The old Knight drew his steel, raised it high overhead.
“***None so Fierce!***” Came the thundrous reply, and all at once their contingent drew
their swords; pounding them against shields and hurling insults to the hazy wind. All it served
was to make Myles feel smaller.
“Clarent!” He called, craning his head back to see his brother - but already his brother
and five and ten mounted knights raced through streets and alleyways toward the Rock.
His horse surged forward with the larger charge, and whole houses slipped by as the
cavalry made toward the moorings and harbor with all haste - all the while the bell tolling clear
through hoof and steel.
 Coming over the hill before the harbor proper, it was plain then to see. Through soupy
fog of the greater western bay, Ironships emerged like great Krakens from the fog - black
banners and masts snapping in the wind. Too many to count - far more than could ever be dealt
with. Already some twenty ships edged toward the moorings where galleys and dromonds
struggled to break from the shallow waters to meet the foe in the larger field. *Too slow.* Myles
realized in an instant, *There’s no chance.* Torches and pitch were tossed from one ship to the
other. One Lannister galley’s rigging caught aflame, then another. Thick, black smoke began to
rise from the waters as Western sailors and crewmen tried to smother the hungry flames and cut
their rigging entirely.
“Away!” Ser Dunaver bellowed, “They’ll make for the shore any moment!”
The Crakehall Knights thundered through the streets, which only seemed to fill with
more and more smallfolk and merchants fleeing the sight. Some, no doubt, would make for the
Rock - but surely the gates would be barred to all once Lady Lannister heard word herself of the
Ironborn knocking down her walls.
It was then that he realized they already *had* made for the shore.