Festival of Lannisport

The Festival of Lannisport was a great and glorious festivity, one boasting of wealth and prosperity, one which only a single branch of the wider Lannister family could hope to enjoy. Yet, as night dawned on the festival, so too did the Ironborn arrive. Late, but on time, the Ironborn sacked and burned the city for all it was worth, destroying the Lannisport fleet in the process, and made off with gold and plunder of immeasurably amounts. But, most notable of all, was the kidnapping of the sister of the Lord of the Rock himself.

Festival of Lannisport
In 212 AC, the Lannisters of Lannisport declared they would host a great and mighty celebration of triumph, one that would, no doubt, eclipse the wealth of the Rock. It was to be a celebration of peace, of victory in Dorne, of men returned home, of newborn babes, and a good harvest. The Festival of Lannisport, or, as it would come to be known, the Slaughter of Lannisport, would be a great event, filled with dancing, drinking, feasting, merrymaking, music, slaughter, death, looting, burning, and a great bout of laughter.

Beneath a bright sun, on a warm day, within the walls of the golden city, lords and ladies, knights and singers, poets and fools, whores and smallfolk alike had piled into the city, all to take part in the great festivities, in the great show of wealth which the Lannisters of Lannisport had so planned. A tourney, some would say larger than any in the last decade was called. A joust, a melee, archery, and much more blessed the fields outside Lannisport as knights and warriors from across many a kingdom rode, fought, and loosed their shot. But, as the men and women of the West, of the kingdoms surrounding, as they partied and drank and ate their fill and as the sun set upon the Sunset Sea, a great fog rolled in, setting itself over Lannisport and the Rock, covering the Westerlands from north to south, for a great many leagues.

While the Westerlands, while Lannisport had partied, had engaged in merriment and festivities, the men of the Iron Islands had drowned their boys, danced the finger dance, sharpened their axes and their swords, set black sails upon their longships, gazed across the seas, and set sail for Lannisport, fierce in the Old Way. As the Westermen sang their bawdy songs, watched whores dance, and ate and drank themselves into a slumber, the men of the Iron Islands cried war.

Little had the Westerlords realised, but under guise of a merchant ship from Seagard, a dozen Ironborn had stolen into the city, paid off a number of the harbour guards, and secured entry for the Iron Fleet. And so, with the great fog set up and down the coast of the Westerlands, with vision reduced to nigh an impossibility, a silence fell over the Iron Fleet as the lights of Lannisport dawned upon them. There was no moon that night. Only fog, only clouds.

It seemed an instant. One moment, the Ironborn had not been there, the next, they were. The harbour was alight, any ship not of the Iron Fleet was set to flame, the streets were filled with Ironborn as they ran red with the blood of the Lannisport City Watch and any unfortunate enough to be confronted with an Ironborn warrior. Manses saw their great and proud doors smashed down, looted, their occupants, butchered, or thrown aside, salt wives, thralls, and their bounty looted for all its worth, and when they were done, when there was nothing left, the city was set to flame, as were the ships in the harbour.

Lords, ladies, knights, great names from across the West fell dead in the streets, found axes in their skulls, and cried with fear as the havoc of the Ironborn ripped through Lannisport. Of great note was the sister of the Lord of the Rock, taken hostage by the Ironborn during the Great Sacking. But, through it all, through the fog, the blood-stinking streets, and the grotesque groans of agony, this night, this Great Sacking of Lannisport, it had been a matter of honour. The Lord of the Westerlands had rebuffed the Greyjoys, the Ironborn, had issued them great insult, and now, the debt had been paid.

Yet while the Ironborn dealt in blood and gold, the Westermen were left with pain and rumour. Whatever the truth may be, since that fateful night, popular rumour has long spread across the West. . . As Lannisport burned, Lord Lann Lannister laughed, for now the fortunes of Lannisport were as meagre as the Rock’s.

By the time the dawn had come, and with a relief force from Casterly Rock now inside the city walls, which had fast fallen to the Ironborn, the city finally began to fight the flames, to clear the dead, to wash the red from their streets, and salvage what they could.

As for the Ironborn, they were long gone, sails filled with a strong breeze as their hulls were topped to the brim with plunder, thralls, and salt wives alike. And nigh as quickly as the Ironborn had arrived, as the fog had arrived, did it depart. Many would later claim the Ironborn used witchcraft and black magic that night, and that they fought not alone, for their Drowned God sent the tide to take Lannisport and wash it away, that those Ironborn had not been men, but krakens.

Aftermath - The Crown's Command
In the weeks following the events that would fast become known as the Slaughter of Lannisport and the Great Sacking of Lannisport, the Ironborn did not sit idle. Lord Dagon Greyjoy, a proactive and cunning man, and one who had not himself taken part in the great raid, ordered that some dozen longships filled with loot and plenty be sent back to Lannisport, returned, before royal order came. The Ironborn had taken so much more than they had ever seen, what was a dozen ships, Lord Greyjoy is said to have remarked. The Ironborn travelling the ships, of course, abandoned them outside of the Lannisport harbour, for the Westermen to come collect themselves. They had no death wish, even if they danced the finger dance at times.

But, as expected, royal command came calling. The West had written to the Crown, the West had demanded justice, revenge, the return of their gold, of their bounty, of the few people stolen, of Lord Lannister’s own sister. The West had called for blood. Yet, in an act which would surprise many in the Capital, so too did the Lord Greyjoy write the Crown. Greyjoy spoke of honour, of justice, of a House, a people, insulted by the turncloak and craven nature of the Lion, of how the Lannisters had sullied their own honour and torn asunder a betrothal sworn on before all the gods.

And so, the Crown, the Princess of Dragonstone, seating the throne as Regent for her mother, the Queen, had a decision to make. Ravens flew, letters were read, orders were issued. No matter the insult at hand, Lord Greyjoy was ordered hand over the commanders and captains of this great raid, they would be sent to Lannisport, where they would die by the justice of Lord Lannister, a right granted him for this occasion by the Crown, in an attempt to sate his appetite for blood.

Lord Drumm, a pre-eminent and experienced warrior, a long-lived raider and sea captain, a man of grizzled grey hair and a sombre disposition was named as the man in charge, the man guilty of the crimes of the Ironborn whole. With him would sail some two dozen captains, a lesser Harlaw, a Wynch, a Sunderly, a half dozen Pykes, and more yet without great names. Nigh on half of these men sent to die by the Lion’s maw looked akin to the aged Lord Drumm, in just that way - they were aged.

All the while, back home, the Lord Greyjoy was determined not to allow the young men of the Iron Islands to grow fierce and angry when they saw the toll paid, and so sent those whose blood would boil south - toward the Summer Isles - for a bout of raiding and reaving. Out of sight, out of mind. ..

Alas, whether or not the wounds of the West were truly healed by the death of Lord Drumm and his captains alike, only time will tell. ..