----
Snow fell in hushed curtains over the battlements of Winterfell. The sky was grey but full of breath, the kind of cold that made old stone crack and new warriors ache. Dawn had not yet broken. The fire in the solar still smoldered from the night before.
Cregan Stark stood alone by the open window, bare feet on cold stone, staring out over the yard where shadows sharpened with the hour.
A whisper came before the knock.
He turned.
Whisper was already inside.
No creak of door. No swirl of cloak. Just presence.
The masked man bowed his head slightly, robes still dusted with snow. "It has begun," he said, voice soft and sure.
Cregan said nothing. His hands clasped behind his back.
"Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands," Whisper continued. "Not just in word. He held the Salt Throne. Called his captains. Raised driftwood crowns."
Cregan's jaw shifted.
"When?" he asked.
"Just before dusk, yesterday. The first raven left Pyke by midnight."
Cregan raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"I intercepted it. It will not reach King's Landing."
For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind catching snow on stone.
"Good," Cregan said at last. "That buys us a day."
He turned from the window.
"Wake Benjen. Quietly. I want the council in the solar before sunrise. Karstark, Greatjon, Wyman if he's arrived. No servants. No noise."
Whisper gave the smallest nod and was gone before the fire crackled.
---
By the time the others gathered, the sky outside had begun to bleed the first hints of violet and pearl. The solar had been cleared. Maps were spread across the central table, weighted with iron daggers and river stones. The hearth had been fed just enough to take the edge from the cold, but not enough to encourage comfort.
Benjen entered first, cloak thrown over one shoulder, hair still damp from the basin.
"He's really done it?" he asked.
Cregan nodded once.
"And we know before Robert?"
"We do."
Benjen ran a hand through his hair. "That'll go well."
Next came Lord Rickard Karstark, heavy in furs, still smelling of steel and pine. Then Greatjon Umber, all broad shoulders and boiling blood, muttering curses about sea rats. Wyman Manderly entered last, breathless from the stairs, carrying a scroll case and a flask of lemonwater.
They stood in a loose circle, all eyes on Cregan.
He didn't sit.
"Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands," he said. "Salt Throne claimed. Driftwood crown raised. Captains sworn. The rebellion begins—not in fire, but in tide."
Wyman cursed under his breath. Karstark frowned. Greatjon cracked his knuckles like he meant to strangle a wave.
"How long do we have before the realm knows?" Karstark asked.
"A day. Maybe less," said Cregan. "Whisper intercepted the first raven. It will not reach King's Landing."
"And the others?" Benjen asked.
"They'll come. But slowly. Ravens are grounded in the hills and the Neck. I've sent shadowmen to tangle their paths."
"So we strike first?" Greatjon asked, eyes lighting.
"No," said Cregan.
He looked around the table.
"We don't strike at all. Not yet. We prepare."
He unrolled a map of the northern coast, stretching from Bear Island to White Harbor, and then east to the Fingers. His finger landed on a small cluster of isles: the Three Sisters.
"I want raids here," he said.
Wyman's brow furrowed. "The Sisters?"
"They've always been a thorn—pirates and smugglers, petty kings in all but name. We make it worse. Brutal. Bloody. We recreate the last rape of the Three Sisters—but this time, under Greyjoy banners."
Benjen glanced at him. "You want to pretend the Ironborn struck them?"
"They will believe it," Cregan said coldly. "They always believe the worst of the Ironborn."
"And when the Crown hears?"
Cregan's voice didn't shift. "We offer to 'clear them out' before we march on Pyke. For the good of the realm. All we ask in return—"
"—is to keep the Sisters," Karstark finished, a slow grin curling on his face.
"They've never been truly loyal to anyone," said Wyman. "But they'd serve well under Northern rule."
"Exactly," Cregan said. "Let the Crown thank us for taking them."
There was silence for a moment.
Then Greatjon let out a bark of laughter.
"You plan a conquest and a favor in the same breath."
"No," said Cregan. "I plan to win three wars without drawing a single line."
He pointed to Bear Island, Flint's Finger, the Shield Isles.
"We send quiet ravens. Not banners—captains. I want every ship made of saltworthy timber in harbor and ready. No flags raised. No drums beaten. Just sails waiting."
"And if the South calls?" asked Karstark.
"Then they can wait for our reply"
---
Saltwinds struck the North in silence.
From Bear Island to Flint's Finger, from Saltpans to Sealskin Point, the coastal lords read Cregan's raven and moved like stone turning in deep water. Slowly. Reluctantly. But they moved.
At Bear Island, Lady Maege stood at the prow of a half-rigged longship, salt biting her cheeks, growling orders while her daughters hauled ironwood oars to the boathouse.
"We'll be ready," she said aloud, though no one asked. "No grey son of Pyke will land here and live."
At White Harbor, Lord Wyman Manderly's captains convened in secret below the main docks, marking charts with colored ink. No trumpets, no declarations. The orders were clear: vessels armed, rigged, but sails furled until the wolf gave command.
At the marshes near the Fingers, old House Boggs lit nightfires again—smoke only visible from sea. A warning to pirates. Or an invitation.
None of them doubted who ruled the North anymore.
---
Back in Winterfell, in the quiet warmth of the solar, Cregan Stark stood with his family.
Catelyn sat stiffly on the settee, Sansa cradled on her lap, while Jon and Robb knelt on the floor with toy blades, clashing loudly and badly.
Benjen stood by the hearth. Ned leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, waiting for the news Cregan had summoned them to share.
"There's been a declaration," Cregan said. "Balon Greyjoy has named himself king. He means to strike."
Catelyn drew Sansa closer, but said nothing. Ned only nodded once.
"I'll be sending envoys to our coast," Cregan continued. "And you, Uncle Ned, to Moat Cailin. The canals, the towers, the marshland defenses—they are too valuable to lose now. The Moat is the spine of our realm."
Ned stepped forward. "I'll keep it tight."
"You'll do more than that."
Cregan reached behind the desk, drew a long-wrapped bundle and undid the clasp. Valyrian steel flashed in the firelight—Ice, the sword of House Stark.
"It still pulls to my knees," Cregan said, matter-of-fact. "But it's meant to be in Stark hands, and yours are ready."
Ned took it slowly. His breath caught. "It was your father's."
"It was meant for ours. Guard the Moat with it."
Catelyn gave a faint sound, like a held protest.
Jon stepped forward, eyes wide. "Can I come?"
"So can I!" Robb added. "We can fight them. We're quick. And I can shoot now!"
"You'd stab your foot," Jon muttered.
"Would not!"
Cregan knelt between them.
"Your war will come soon enough," he said, touching both heads. "But not this one."
Robb frowned. Jon looked to Ned.
"You'll guard them?" Cregan asked.
Ned nodded. "With steel and oath."
Benjen added, "And I'll stay behind if the North marches. Winterfell won't be left unwatched."
Cregan looked once more to Catelyn. She did not meet his eyes.
He turned to leave.
---
Snow packed hard across the training yard, dulled only by footwork and sweat.
Rodrick Snow ducked low beneath Harrion Karstark's wide swing. The blow missed, and Harrion slipped. Rodrick grinned but didn't press the advantage—he liked his ribs unbroken.
"Again!" shouted Ethan Forrester. "You yield like summer geese."
"Come say that up close," Rodrick called back.
At the edge, Myra Reed moved through drills alone, spear spinning in close arcs. Her eyes flicked constantly—always watching, always adjusting.
The wind cut through them all, but none stopped.
They'd trained under Cregan for years now. What began as curiosity had turned to awe. And awe had long since turned to fear.
They knew what he could do. But today, they were about to see something more.
The gates opened.
Cregan stepped in without cloak or fur, his tunic plain, trousers soaked at the hem.
On his back was no sword.
He carried a mace.
It was dark steel, thick-necked and flanged like a clenched fist. The runes shimmered cold blue along its ridges. The handle wrapped in black leather. It seemed to hum slightly as it moved.
The recruits stopped what they were doing.
He let it fall onto a training dummy with a single backhanded swing.
The head caved in. The chest cracked. Snow sprayed. And the dummy folded like wet bark, if you looked closely the dummy had frostbite where the mace had caved it in.
Myra Reed sucked in a breath. Rodrick stared. Harrion stepped back without realizing.
Cregan adjusted his grip and looked at them all.
"Again, all of you will train like you mean to kill, you will work until your muscles scream, your hands are raw but it will not be said that you died because you were unprepared." he said.
They obeyed.
---
Later, as the yard emptied, Cregan stood alone near the shattered dummy.
He didn't look when the presence appeared in the far corner.
But he knew.
Whisper stood watching, as still as the snow itself.
Cregan exhaled.
"Robert has heard"
---
The doors to the Small Council chamber slammed open hard enough to rattle the carved map table.
Robert Baratheon stormed in like a thunderclap in a corridor of stone, the crumpled raven still clenched in his fist. Its seal—twisted driftwood carved with the kraken sigil—was ground to pulp between his fingers.
"TREASON!"
The word rang off every pillar.
Jon Arryn flinched from his place near the fire. Grand Maester Pycelle nearly dropped the ledger he was pretending to read.
Stannis stood already, calm and composed. Only Varys remained seated, fingers folded gently in his lap.
Robert paced behind his chair like a caged bear. "Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself king! Not of smoke or song—but salt. The Iron Islands have risen. He's declared war."
"Troubling," said Varys smoothly.
Robert spun on him. "Troubling? It's heresy. It's madness. It's open fucking rebellion!"
"We do not dispute that, Your Grace," Jon said evenly. "The matter is how we respond."
"We respond," Robert growled, "with fire. With steel. We burn the kraken off the maps."
Pycelle cleared his throat. "Your Grace, if I might advise caution—"
"No, you might not," Robert snapped. "You might sit and quake and let others do your thinking."
The maester swallowed and bowed.
"We summoned them once," Robert said, pacing again. "When the dragon fell. The realm answered. And now this… salt-stained bastard wants to undo it?"
"Rebellions beget rebellions," murmured Varys. "Especially when peace is perceived as weak."
Jon glanced at him, just briefly.
Renly broke the silence with a half-laugh. "It's been years since they did more than steal sheep and drown their cousins. Are we really surprised they think themselves kings?"
"No," said Robert. "But I'll make them regret it."
He jabbed a finger at Pycelle. "Send ravens. I want the banners summoned. Storm's End. Oldtown. The Vale. The Riverlands. I want sails ready in the Reach, and steel ready in the Westerlands."
"And the North?" Pycelle asked.
Robert paused.
Then scowled. "Send to them too. Stark will march. Always does."
Jon Arryn's lips pressed together.
Robert dropped into his chair and tossed the ruined raven to the fire. "And someone get me a fucking drink."
---
Jon Arryn stood at the window of his study hours later, watching the fog climb the towers of the Red Keep like ivy.
He'd known this would come.
He'd read the reports: longships gathering at Lordsport, priests chanting of the Drowned God's vengeance, Balon meeting in secret with captains and ironborn jarls. And yet, he hadn't stopped it.
He hadn't warned Robert. Not yet.
Not because he feared the rebellion.
Because he hoped it would unify the realm.
The truth lingered in the back of his thoughts like sour wine: the kingdom was fragile. Robert ruled with memory and mirth, not structure. Lords feuded quietly. The Tyrells grew richer. Dorne whispered behind their sun-spear. The North had withdrawn into quiet independence.
The Greyjoys, Jon had reasoned, could be the glue that re-bound the realm.
A short, clean war. A reminder of purpose. A common enemy to stir sleeping loyalty.
But only if the Crown acted swiftly—and with unity.
He turned to his desk. Letters sat stacked neatly beside an ink pot already half-dry.
He opened the first and began to write in a careful, measured hand.
"To Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident…"
---
Varys lit no candles in the chamber that morning.
The dawn light filtered through thin drapes of Myrish silk, casting long shadows that danced across the stone floor like whispers made flesh. The city outside still slept—mostly. But the realm no longer did.
He'd known it was coming.
A kraken does not hide forever. Driftwood thrones are not carved in silence. The Ironborn had made their intentions known to any man who bothered to listen, and Varys always listened. He'd heard the murmurs of drowned priests, the old tongues sung by captains long thought retired. Ravens from the west had smelled of brine and blood weeks before the official seal arrived.
He could have stopped it. Could have spoken plainly to Robert.
But plain speech had its own dangers.
A small rebellion could serve many ends. It could draw the lords together in shared purpose, give Robert something real to strike, remind the realm what unity looked like.
Jon Arryn, in his own quiet way, agreed.
But now the flames were lit, and already they cast strange shadows.
What troubled Varys wasn't the Greyjoys.
It was the North.
The wolves had not howled. Had not stirred. No ravens from Winterfell. No movements from the Neck. The shadows were thickest there, and that silence… that silence was loud.
He stepped away from the window and whispered to himself, "Even a quiet wolf leaves pawprints."
---
Highgarden smelled of crushed roses and wet stone when the raven arrived.
Olenna Tyrell held the parchment between two fingers like it might soil her gloves. "So the fish-faced fool went and did it. A salt-crowned king. How original."
She tossed the raven into a silver dish of pomegranate seeds and sipped her wine. "Fetch me something with less sweetness," she said to the hovering servant. "This vintage tastes like Mace's spine."
Margaery looked up from her embroidery, half-smiling. "Will the Crown act?"
"Oh, they'll act," Olenna muttered. "Robert will rage, Jon Arryn will frown, and Pycelle will tremble until his beard knots itself."
"And the North?"
Olenna's brow arched. "That's the interesting part, child. They've said nothing. Not a whisper. And wolves don't stay quiet out of fear, they stalk and hunt and go for the throat when they attack, listen and listen clearly child, there are only two parts of westeros where the lord paramount will call and every house will answer the North and The Westerlands, the Westerlands is because of fear of Tywin, fear errodes at loyalty and they houses will chafez that region will be civil war after tywin is dead. The North will rise on loyalty to the Starksz only the Boltons will chafe but they have chaffed for 1000s of years and will only move when the wolves are at their weakest. And currently the wolves are not weak.
Margaery nodded thoughtfully, "Will they move?"
"They will. But not with us. They'll move when it suits them. The North doesn't follow the Crown really. It watches it. And it waits."
She plucked a slice of blood orange from a dish. "I wish we could do the same, but your father's actions during the rebellion. mean we have to be seen as throwing our full support behind the crown"
---
At Riverrun, Hoster Tully stood before the hearth, cane in hand, listening as the letter was read aloud again.
Edmure, too loud as always, stood nearby with fire in his cheeks. "We must ride, father. Show the realm we won't be left behind, that the riverlands are strong.
Hoster didn't answer at first. His eyes stayed on the flames, not the boy.
The Riverlands had always been at the heart of Westeros, but that made them soft. Stretched. A crossing for every war, a price for every peace.
Now the krakens rose, and every lord looked south and west and north, wondering who would falter first.
He would not be seen as that man.
"Ready the banners," he said.
Edmure grinned. "We march?"
"No not yet. We show we can and gather our supies ."
He turned slowly. "Let them see the Trident stir. Whether we flow or crash can come later."
---
The first longship slipped through the morning fog like a splinter in the eye of the bay.
It was black and low and silent—no flags, no signal horns, no song. Behind it came twelve more, and then dozens, fanning out like oil across water.
Lannisport's guards were unready. They always were.
Fishermen were the first to die. Then dockhands. Then merchants who ran too slowly.
A strike bell rang just once before the post was burned.
The Lannister ships never made it out of harbor. Euron's reavers had anchored drag weights beneath the bay, bursting holes in hulls as they lifted chains from the depths.
The fourth ship—The lady Joanna —caught fire mid-maneuver and turned to drift into the drydock, scattering men and flame across the lower pier.
By midmorning, the Lannister fleet snf the docks of lannisport was ash and cinder, its sails curling in on themselves like burning wings.
Euron left no sigil. No letter. Just bodies hanging from harpoons nailed into the dock pylons—one of them wearing a gold lion's helm split in half.
---
Casterly Rock overlooked the burning port , the smoke staining the morning horizon with smears of war and death
Tywin stood in silence at the edge of the overlook. Kevan beside him. Behind them, no one dared speak. The tightening of Twyins hand on the bannister relayed his fury to all.
A courier approached, cautious and dust-streaked. He held out the letter. Salt still clung to the edges.
Tywin read it in silence.
"It's dated yesterday," Kevan said quietly. "They declared before the attack, the small council have caused this, they were too slow in warning us"
The Lord of the Rock folded the message once. Then again. He handed it back without a word.
"Ready the men,we march for kingslanding at once," he said.
And turned back toward the keep. The Lion had has its tail pulled, servants scattered out of the way of him as he walked. The door shutting to his solar was the world's notice to breath again.
---
---
The gates of the Red Keep parted without fanfare, but every guard along the walls felt the weight behind them. Two dozen Lannister knights rode in ahead, crimson cloaks damp from the road, gold lions gleaming beneath a sheen of dust. The silence that followed was unnatural. No trumpets. No banners. No welcome.
Tywin Lannister passed through without a word.
He did not remove his armor. The golden breastplate bore soot from the coast. His cloak still stank faintly of salt, smoke, and horse. But his boots rang clean and sharp on the marble as he crossed the Keep's inner court and climbed the steps two at a time. His face, carved from stone and shadow, held no expression.
Not rage. Not grief. Not shame.
Those emotions were reserved for lesser men.
At the top of the stairs, a boy scrambled out of his path—a page, too slow with her curtsy. Tywin didn't even see her. He moved like a blade unsheathed, and the air seemed to pull away from his passing.
The doors to the Small Council chamber opened just as he reached them. The guard outside had either been warned or had sense enough to open fast.
Inside, the chamber was already gathered. The painted table gleamed with candlelight. Scrolls lay scattered and half-read. The air was thick with the scent of ink, wax, and anxiety.
Varys looked up first, his soft smile faltering. "Lord Tywin…"
Tywin said nothing. He crossed the room in four strides and placed both hands flat on the table. His gauntlets clinked against polished wood.
The silence deepened.
Jon Arryn rose slowly, dignified even now. "Lord Tywin, we received the raven. We—"
"You received the raven," Tywin said, voice like carved ice. "Yes. But not in time."
He looked to Varys then, and something passed between them. Not a threat, not an accusation. Something worse. Certainty.
"The fleet is gone," Tywin said. "Lannisport burns. You knew this would happen."
Varys spread his hands, soft and placating. "I assure you, my little birds—"
"Your little birds are dead, or treacherous," Tywin cut in. "And your king drinks while his enemies cross the sea."
A sharp inhale from the shadows. Stannis Baratheon stepped forward, jaw clenched. "The king is aware of the attack. Lord Arryn called this council to begin immediate response."
Tywin turned his head slightly. "And what response did he propose? More ravens?"
Jon Arryn's face was unreadable. "The crown will call its banners. Ships will be recalled to the capital. Gold will be freed for the rebuilding effort."
Tywin's voice dropped. "There is nothing to rebuild."
That brought silence.
He looked each man in the eye—Jon, Varys, Stannis. Grand Maester Pycelle was absent, no doubt still wheezing through sleep or letters, useless as ever.
"I left my lands with confidence," Tywin said. "Because the realm assured me we were at peace. Because the king's advisors—" a glance toward Varys "—told us nothing of Greyjoy movements. Because your council allowed my ships to sit, tied in harbor, like lambs for slaughter."
Stannis's tone sharpened. "The Ironborn have moved faster than anticipated. They struck while we debated. That ends now."
Tywin regarded him for a moment. "Then act."
Stannis blinked. "We are."
"Prove it," Tywin said. "Mobilize the eastern fleets. Recall the royal navy from Dragonstone. Prepare a counterstrike before more harbors burn."
Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "We are already drafting the orders, Lord Tywin. The raven to the North was sent this morning."
Tywin's head turned slowly. "To Winterfell?"
Jon nodded. "Yes. The Starks have not yet declared their banners, but if they act swiftly—"
"Then let us hope they stir quickly," Tywin said. "The North is silent, as ever. Perhaps they're sharpening blades. Or perhaps they'll wait for winter and watch the rest of us bleed."
Varys offered a cautious smile. "The wolves are slow to wake, my lord. But they are not disloyal."
"Disloyalty is not the threat," Tywin said coldly. "Complacency is."
That brought a different kind of silence. Not tension, but realization.
He leaned forward, the weight of his armor groaning faintly.
"I will not sit idly while the lion is shamed. I return to the West. I will raise every banner. And I will crush the krakens with fire."
He looked to Jon Arryn.
"Pray your letters reach your allies before mine reach my enemies."
Without waiting for reply, he turned on his heel and strode from the chamber. The doors slammed shut behind him.
Inside, the council stood frozen.
Only Varys moved. He reached for his wine cup with slow, steady hands—and drank.
The flames reached the clouds above Oldtown before the bells ever rang.
Tomas had been sweeping the flagstones behind the scriptorium when the first plume rose—a thin, oily smear against the horizon. The air smelled wrong. Not just smoke, but pitch and salt and something sharper, something metallic. He set the broom down and stepped forward, hands still ink-stained from morning scriptwork.
The noise came next—cracks like thunder, screams in the distance, and then the city's heartbeat lurched. The bells of the Starry Sept cried out, too late and too thin to hold back panic. From the balcony, Tomas saw the harbor burning. Dozens of masts turned into pyres. Sailcloth snapped as sails burst into flame. One galleon split in half as it listed, crushed by the iron ram of a ship that bore no flag.
Ironborn.
The word spread like fire before the fire itself reached the inner districts. The Hightowers had guards, but not enough—not there, not then. The docks were shredded. The lower ward flooded with smoke and cries. People ran without knowing where to go. Some tried to form lines, tried to save the vessels moored further downriver—but the reavers were already past them, axes in hand, voices raised in that awful drowning chant.
Tomas didn't run. He stood, watching the chaos spread like rot. And in that moment, he thought of the men who had left. The outcasts. The troublemakers. The ones who followed the boy from Winterfell. Marwyn. Luwin. The mad and the hungry.
He whispered, "I should've gone north."
Then the fire reached the quayside, and the sky turned black.
Far to the southeast, the Dornish coast shimmered under a curtain of heat. Atop the sandstone walls of Sunspear, Maester Callas adjusted his copper eyetube toward the sea. A flicker. Then sails. Black, thin, and wrong. They came with no warning, no envoy, no banner.
He lowered the scope. The alarm bell had already begun to ring.
The harbor surged with movement. Flaming pitch was hauled to the ramparts. Scorpions cranked into place with snapping clicks. The ships were fast, low to the water, lean things made for cutting through spray. But they were too close now.
A bolt fired. Then another.
The first longship veered hard and caught the stonework. The second was struck amidships, erupting into fire and bodies. The third grounded on the outer beach—its crew leaping into the surf, weapons high.
But Dorne had been waiting.
A wave of soldiers surged from behind the rocks. Painted shields. Spears. Slings. Oil bladders burst underfoot, and the shallows lit like a bonfire. Men screamed, ran, fell into the surf only to burn anew.
Callas watched as the last of them were cut down. One corpse washed ashore, facedown, the sea turning red around it.
From the tower balcony above, a tall figure leaned against the parapet, watching with dark amusement. She lifted a curved blade and rested it on her shoulder.
Obara Sand didn't say a word.
The sky above Tarth was white with mist. The sea was a mirror—until it broke.
A low horn, then sails, then fire.
Lady Alessa watched from the tower as men poured from the treeline, and longships ran aground in the shallows like hounds scenting blood. The village of Skystone was the first to fall—its wooden gates splintered by a ram, its people screaming into the fog. Fires followed. Always the fire.
Lord Selwyn rode with twenty retainers from Evenfall Hall, armor still half-buckled, rain pounding on the road. They struck the raiders on the bluff above the eastern cliffs. Swords flashed. One man's head rolled into the tall grass. Another Ironborn screamed as his leg was torn from the hip by a Dornish axe taken in a long-ago tourney. It didn't matter.
There were too many.
The clash ended in mud and ash and sobbing. Selwyn was left with a broken helm and twelve dead men.
Evenfall Keep stood, but barely. The stables were torched. The lower kitchens gone. In the nursery tower, Brienne sat curled beneath a bench, face streaked with soot, eyes hollow.
No one dared speak to her. Not even her father.
In Gulltown, the storm hadn't even broken when the reavers came.
House Grafton's ships were lined up in the bay, still half-armed, pennants fluttering uselessly. Men drank in the taverns by the docks, their swords unbelted, their boots damp from celebration.
The first sign was smoke curling from the rigging of the Seafoam Lady. Then came the shouting.
Captain Theron Grafton raced down from the inner holdfast, armor ill-fitted and soaked with sweat. He never reached the pier. By the time the horn blew, two ships were burning and a third was already missing. Gone, taken, dragged out into the mist.
The Ironborn didn't stay long. They never did.
They left behind three corpses strung from the pier pylons, and one nailed to the dock itself. A girl, no more than eight.
Lord Grafton stood over her that morning, white-knuckled, lips bloodless. The townsfolk watched him for command, but he gave none. There was no battle to fight. No answer to offer.
Only the scent of salt and smoke, and the certainty that they'd be back.
The Ironborn came with the dawn.
Sea mists clung to the shoreline of Bear Island like funeral shrouds, rolling softly through ancient pines and driftwood skeletons. The raiders slipped from their longships with axes in hand, silent and certain. They thought themselves unseen, shadows of salt and iron come to strike terror into soft northern hearts.
They found only steel.
Jeor Mormont stood among the trees, breathing slow and measured, eyes fixed ahead, watching the mist ripple. Around him, warriors waited in disciplined silence, longbows drawn taut, arrow tips aimed low. No horn sounded. No shout went up. Jeor simply raised one gloved hand, then closed it.
The arrows hissed out like rain, the first volley scything through the Ironborn ranks before they ever knew death had arrived. Dozens fell screaming, limbs pierced, throats torn. The Mormont archers did not pause—they drew and loosed again, methodically cutting down the invaders stumbling across the rocky shore in confusion.
Then Jeor drew his blade—Longclaw, Valyrian steel glowing pale and hungry beneath the northern dawn—and stepped forward.
"Forward!" he commanded, voice steady and cold as winter frost. "Bear Island knows no mercy."
Beside him, Maege Mormont charged silently into the melee, her heavy iron mace crushing bone and armor alike, her expression merciless beneath streaks of Ironborn blood.
By midday, the tide washed red against the rocks.
—
At the Stony Shore, the reavers expected weak villages, poor fishermen, scant defenses. Instead, scouts landed to find only silence and empty huts, doors swinging open, cold ashes in hearths.
Something felt wrong.
It wasn't until they turned back toward their boats that understanding arrived—a single flaming arrow soared from the tree line, arcing high and perfect. It fell like a comet into the sand.
Then the beach erupted in flame.
Beneath the sand had been hidden barrels of pitch and pits bristling with sharpened stakes. Fire spread instantly, leaping from barrel to barrel, turning men into living torches. Raiders screamed orders that none heard. They staggered into deeper traps, pits opening beneath their feet, spikes thrust upward like blackened teeth.
Northern archers emerged from the trees, loosing arrows methodically, calmly, unceasingly. They fired until no Ironborn remained standing.
—
At Sea Dragon Point, Lord Galbart Glover stood quietly, watching the sails emblazoned with the Bone Hand of House Drumm cut through the waves toward the shore. He had been waiting.
"Hold," he said softly, voice carrying clearly through the wind.
Beside him, his men stood tense but disciplined. Shields ready. Axes sharp.
"Hold," Galbart repeated, sensing their eagerness.
The Drumm ships touched shore, keels grinding loudly against pebbled sand. Men poured forth with roars, rushing toward seemingly undefended ground, confident beneath their crimson banners.
Galbart raised one hand, stilling his warriors. A heartbeat passed, then another, as the Ironborn surged up the slope. Only when the Drumm forces cleared the first ridge, vulnerable and strung out, did Galbart lower his hand sharply.
"Now!"
Northern soldiers rose from concealed trenches, shields locking into an unbreakable wall. Axes swung downward with the precision of harvesters reaping grain. Bodies fell, bones shattered, and the invaders' cries shifted swiftly from battle chants to panic and pain.
Harwyn Drumm, wielding the storied Valyrian blade Nightfall, roared defiance and swung desperately, cutting through shield and armor alike. Yet for every northerner he struck down, two more closed ranks. They surrounded him, relentless and disciplined, waiting until his footing slipped in blood-soaked sand.
Lord Galbart stepped forward, axe in hand, eyes cold and merciless.
"Yield," he commanded.
Drumm spat blood, teeth bared. "Never."
"Good," said Galbart quietly.
When the sun sank low into the horizon, Sea Dragon Point stood victorious, banners raised. Harwyn Drumm lay dead, his sword Nightfall seized as a northern prize. Men already began hauling the captured ships ashore, scraping away the kraken sigils and preparing fresh northern colors.
The North's fleet would grow stronger tonight.
—
Cregan Stark read the reports alone by candlelight, his face calm as still water. The parchment told the same story again and again. The Ironborn had come, fierce and arrogant. They had expected weak coastal defenses, soft prey, frightened peasants.
Instead, they'd met disciplined wrath—Mormonts, Glovers, fishermen turned warriors, unified, prepared, merciless. Each attack had been shattered. Each raider slain or captured. Dozens of ships were taken whole and now belonged to the North.
Cregan felt no pride. Only cold certainty. This was exactly as he'd planned, prepared, trained them for. The enemy had tested the North's edge and found it sharper than iron, colder than ice.
Whisper stood quietly in the shadows near the hearth, watching him silently.
Cregan turned slowly from the table, eyes glinting like black ice in the firelight.
"Send the order," he said quietly. "The Sisters will scream. No survivors."
Whisper bowed once and vanished without a sound.
Cregan turned back to the map, watching the islands beneath his fingertips, knowing tonight their fate was sealed in salt, smoke, and blood.
The ships emerged from the blackness like wraiths, oars dipping quietly, banners hidden beneath oilcloth, faces shadowed under iron helms. The moon was just a pale ghost behind clouds heavy with storm, bathing the islands of the Sisters in a silver gloom.
The beaches of Sisterton lay silent, oblivious, unprepared.
Torren Flint stood at the prow of the lead longship, his breath rising like smoke into the cold night air. Beside him stood his kinsmen, hardened men from the Stony Shore and the deepest forests of the Wolfswood. He wore no wolf today; no Stark sigil adorned his armor, no Northern banners fluttered above. Tonight he bore a darker emblem—the Kraken of Pyke.
The ships ground softly against sand, men vaulting into knee-deep water without a sound. They were grim, silent shadows moving swiftly ashore, forming ranks as they advanced toward the sleeping town.
Torren raised his axe, motioning forward. No words were spoken; they had no need. They moved forward as one, disciplined and merciless.
The first screams rose moments later.
Doors shattered beneath iron axes. Villagers stumbled out half-dressed, eyes wide with terror, only to be cut down where they stood. Fires erupted quickly, lit by pitch and oil, the flames licking hungrily at rooftops, leaping between buildings like wild beasts loosed upon prey.
Torren advanced through the chaos, watching impassively as the men of Sisterton died before him. He stepped over bodies without pause, eyes never wavering from the path ahead. His orders were clear: no survivors, no prisoners, no mercy.
An older man staggered out of a burning house, coughing through smoke. Torren did not slow, simply swung his axe, feeling the dull impact shudder through his wrists. The man fell, gurgling into the dirt.
Behind Torren, the Northern raiders worked methodically, spreading through the streets and lanes with ruthless efficiency. Any who fought were cut down swiftly; those who fled were caught and dispatched just as quickly. It was cold, precise, thorough.
Not far away, at Little Sister, the same scene played out beneath the darkened sky. Men disguised as Ironborn, bearing their banners, fell upon the tiny fishing villages, leaving behind only flame, blood, and silence. Fires leapt skyward, glowing like distant funeral pyres from island to island, a grim message to those who would awaken to witness it.
Across the waters, at Long Sister, House Longthorpe's men fought desperately, rallying briefly before falling beneath the merciless assault. Their bravery mattered little in the face of numbers and preparation. Soon they too fell silent beneath the grey skies.
By dawn, smoke stretched upward from all three islands, darkening the sunrise. Beaches were littered with the bodies of those who tried to flee, villages reduced to smoldering ruin.
Torren moved calmly through the wreckage of Sisterton, surveying the destruction. A young warrior approached, holding a piece of parchment, stained dark with drying blood.
"It is done," he said quietly, handing the parchment to Torren. "The letter is ready."
Torren took it, scanning the hastily scrawled message. The writing was desperate, panicked, the words simple:
The Greyjoys are here.
He nodded once. "Send it by the fastest raven to King's Landing."
The younger man hesitated briefly. "And the name?"
Torren did not falter. "Lord Sunderland," he answered. "Let the crown believe the Sisters fell with their lord still holding a quill, bleeding as he wrote. Let Robert see fear written in every letter."
The warrior nodded grimly and turned away to obey.
Torren stood alone then, watching the smoke rise, blotting out the pale sun. He did not feel pride or triumph. Instead, a heavy emptiness filled his chest, cold as the waves beating endlessly against the shores.
He had obeyed. He had brought death and ruin for his lord, for duty. Yet something in the echoing silence around him stirred deep unease. The Sisters had screamed, and their cries would follow him home, haunting his dreams.
He turned away sharply, shaking off his thoughts. Duty first, always duty. He would let others sing the songs; his task was done.
And as the raiders boarded their ships, Greyjoy banners fluttered above ruined villages, beneath skies as grey and cold as northern steel.
The council chamber within the Red Keep echoed with shouting, yet Robert Baratheon's voice cut through the din like a warhammer through armor.
"I said call the banners!" he roared, slamming one massive fist against the table. "If Balon wants war, he'll have it—by the gods, I'll drown him in his own damned sea!"
Stannis stood beside the king, jaw clenched, face hard as iron. "The ravens were sent this morning, Your Grace," he said curtly. "The royal fleet at Dragonstone awaits your command."
Robert wheeled sharply toward him, eyes bright with fury. "Then send them! I want sails on the horizon before the sun sets tomorrow!"
Jon Arryn raised a calming hand, the only one in the room who seemed steady enough to remain seated. "Ships alone won't suffice, Robert. The Westerlands must be mobilized, the Reach—"
"The Westerlands," Robert interrupted, voice filled with scorn, "are already mobilized. Tywin's raven reached me an hour past. He marches his army to Lannisport, demanding to know where our ships are to ferry him to Pyke. The old lion doesn't fear the Ironborn—he hungers for vengeance."
Jon's expression darkened, but he nodded slowly. "Then he shall have his fleet. We'll send word to Highgarden, Gulltown, and White Harbor as well. The realm must unite behind you."
Robert turned sharply, glaring at the gathered council. "They'd better. By the Seven, I'll drag them all by the throat if I must."
At the chamber's edge, Varys watched silently, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He offered no counsel yet, merely observed, absorbing every shout, every gesture.
Stannis cleared his throat sharply. "And the North?"
Robert met his brother's gaze with eyes like storm clouds. "The North sits closest to the Sisters, does it not? Send a raven to Winterfell. Tell Stark he can bloody well deal with those damned islands himself. I won't waste my fleet cleaning up after the Vale. If he wants glory, he can have it."
Jon Arryn glanced briefly at Stannis, their eyes sharing an unspoken caution. "Cregan Stark has yet to answer our first message, Your Grace," Jon warned quietly. "He may not move without assurances—"
Robert laughed sharply, bitterly. "Assurances? The starks have never forgot an oath, he will movr when asked. Tell him he can keep those miserable rocks for all I care, so long as he marches his wolves west when I call for Pyke."
Stannis spoke quietly, voice edged with caution. "You'd surrender Vale territory to the North?"
Robert scowled, his fury barely contained. "The Vale has never been able to control the Sisters since they took them from the north, if The Stark in winterfell can clear them of the Greyjoys he can have them
—
The raven reached Winterfell three days later, landing silently in the rookery at dusk. The message was carried swiftly to Cregan, who stood beside the hearth in his solar, reading the parchment with careful, expressionless eyes.
Whisper waited patiently, shadows dancing across his hooded face.
Cregan set the parchment down slowly, his voice calm, quiet, and cold. "Robert offers the Sisters in exchange for us clearing out the greyjoys. He then asks for us to sail to pyke to join the invasion.
Whisper tilted his head slightly. "And your reply, my lord?"
Cregan's gaze flicked briefly toward the hearth, the flames reflecting in his dark, calculating eyes. "Send the raven back tonight. Tell Robert the North accepts his terms—the Sisters will be ours, and when he calls for Pyke, the wolves will march."
Whisper nodded once, withdrawing silently to carry out the order.
Alone again, Cregan stared into the flames, face impassive. The South believed him bought with islands of rock and salt, but he saw clearly the deeper game unfolding.
They had given him exactly what he wanted—and soon enough, they would all realize their mistake.
Dawn bled pale gold over Winterfell's courtyard as Cregan Stark knelt to clasp his little sister's mittened hands. Sansa blinked sleep from her eyes while Arya, no more than a bundle of blankets in Catelyn's arms, gurgled at the frost-laced air. Robb and Jon stood rigid beside the smithy door, trying to look unafraid, cheeks ruddy in the chill. Benjen loomed behind them with his cloak drawn tight, the charge of their safety plain in his solemn gaze.
"I'll not be gone long," Cregan told them, voice low enough that only family heard. "When I return, the sea will know a wolf's bite, and the North will wear new crowns of iron."
Robb swallowed. "We'll keep Winterfell ready."
Jon nodded firmly. "And the godswood watched."
Cregan ruffled their hair in turn, then pressed a swift kiss to Sansa's brow. He paused before Catelyn; gratitude and steel flickered together in his dark eyes. "Guard them well."
"I will," she answered, the promise rough in her throat.
With a final nod to Benjen, Cregan turned. Rodrik Cassel and a hand-picked honor guard waited at the gatehouse: seasoned riders, faceless shadows from Whisper's circle, and Marwyn hooded against the wind. The oak doors groaned wide, and horses clattered onto the Kingsroad.
Snow chased their heels southward, swirling over hoar-frosted fields. By dusk of the second day, marshland swallowed the road and the black towers of Moat Cailin thrust from mist like spears of obsidian. Ned Stark—sent only weeks ago to hold this vital choke—strode out to meet them, mail freshly bright, fatigue plain in the set of his shoulders.
"Your timing is cruel," he greeted, embracing his nephew. "Supplies just tallied, walls barely patched."
"All they need do is stand until we sail," Cregan replied. Together they walked the rampart, peat mounds gleaming with new-laid stone, canals beneath buzzing with half-frozen water. Below, thirty captured longships—greyjoy hulls stripped of krakens, rigging repaired with Northern hemp—rocked inside the dredged basin. Thrall oarsmen huddled under guard, spared for their skill at sea.
"At first tide," Cregan ordered, "we divide: Mormonts and Forresters to Great Wyk, Glovers and Umbers to Old Wyk, Bolton and Manderly to Blacktyde. Reed and Karstarks to Harlway We take Pyke." He glanced west, where dusk sank over bog and fen. "Leave the thralls breathing; the rest—ashes."
Ned studied him a moment, then inclined his head. "The isles will remember this winter."
On the fifth night, the fleet slid into the Moon Pool and out to the open gulf, lanterns hooded, hulls silent save for the rhythmic dip of oars. Wind smelled of brine and distant peat fires. Whisper stood at the prow beside Cregan, greyjoy banners folded beneath tarpaulin, ready to unfurl when the first keep burned.
Three days later, storm clouds shredded on the horizon, revealing jagged silhouettes rising from the surf. Towers of black stone bridged by swaying rope walked the sea like broken teeth: Pyke.
Cregan stepped to the prow as oars shipped and the longships glided on cold momentum. Spray kissed his cheeks; wind tugged his cloak. Behind him, warriors settled helms and tested edges. Ahead, torch-lights bobbed atop the sea-gate, ignorant still of what tide crept toward their rock.
Cregan set a gauntleted hand on the rail. "When the first axe strikes," he murmured, "let no song be left in their throats."
Whisper's answer was a whisper of steel. The ships slid forward, silent, inevitable—the winter tide come at last for the Iron Islands.