A pall of mist clung to the decks as the longships slipped into the harbour of Great Wyk. No lanterns burned; no horn sounded. The only light came from a ragged sliver of moon, and the black sails of the Northern fleet, repainted with direwolf banners, were half-hidden in fog. The clinking of armor and the soft slap of oars against water were the only sounds breaking the pre-dawn hush.
Jeor Mormont stood at the prow of his ship, Longclaw sheathed at his hip, eyes narrowed into the gloom. Beside him, Ethan Forrester crouched low, spear poised, breath even. Both men had fought beside each other before in the rebellion and now they led the assault to reclaim these islands that had long tormented the North's coast.
When the keel scraped on sand, Jeor stepped down into knee-deep water. The rest followed in disciplined silence. No Northman cheered. No song rose on the wind. Under Mormont's quiet command, they formed a loose wedge and waded ashore.
On the beach, the stench of salt and decay greeted them. Old piers lay broken, half-submerged in shallow tide. A single torch burned near the shrines of Drowned God—an insult now ready to be answered. Jeor signaled, and the line advanced into the dunes, shields locked, blades ready.
Moments later, a lookout stumbled into view—a greasy-haired Ironborn thrall, shaking where he stood. When he saw the wolves on the shore, he raised trembling hands. Mormont gripped Longclaw's hilt but did not draw. "Stay back," he ordered, voice low and steady. "You are safe. Lay down your burden."
The thrall sank to his knees, clumsily dropping a rusted blade and raising his face to Jeor. "Please," he rasped. "I am free."
Ethan spat into the sand. "We care for thralls later. Keep moving."
Jeor nodded once. "Go." He gestured to a small knot of Mormont archers, who stepped forward to escort the trembling man away from the coming slaughter.
Beyond the dunes, torches glimmered at the base of the curtain wall. Guardians of the island had made their stand here, spotters for raiders to cripple Mormont's ships before they could land. Though outnumbered, they had held for three days, killing dozens of deck-hands and carving oaths into the woodland.
Jeor's jaw tightened. "No mercy," he whispered.
At his signal, the archers loosed a single volley. Flaming arrows arced into the night, crashing into palisades and thatch. Screams rose as guards scrambled for pitch and tar, but the Mormont force was already moving. Leather-clad attackers poured forward, axes swinging in wide, brutal arcs.
The first blow shattered a shield, wood splintering like dry bone. A man's cry cut through the din, then two more, then silence when his throat was found. Mormont men surged past the palisade, thrusting spears through the narrow gaps—caught one shoulder, another in the ribs, red rivers gushing over mossy stone.
Jeor pressed through the breach. His sword came free, and winter steel met shell-mail with a crack like thunder. He drove the blade home, felt the warm pulse beneath, and pulled free, crimson trailing down the sunken steps.
All around, the beach erupted in a maelstrom of violence: lanterns shattered, torches fell and ignited brush, waves lapped at steel-slick sand, and the smell of charred wood mingled with iron blood.
Ethan Forrester fought at Jeor's side, spear sweeping through the chaos. He twisted free from an Ironborn axe and drove the haft into an attacker's gut. The man fell with a gurgle, bowels spilling onto the stones. For a heartbeat, Ethan hesitated at the horror he'd wrought—then charged again, voice a roar in the darkness.
Inland, the main gate had been breached Ethan knew Mormont's charge would draw defenders from the outer court. This was by design. As he advanced, he caught a glimpse of the mormont bear over the wall, hear the clash of steel and shield, the guttural cries of men cut down where they fought.
Jeor holstered Longclaw and called out. "For the North!"
A wild cheer answered, echoing off the rocky hills, but it was swallowed by another sound—the thunder of metal on metal as the island's lord led a last stand in the courtyard beyond.
Jeor broke into a run, cutting down a shield-bearer before he could raise it. The lord stood with two dozen men, sword in hand and fury in his eyes. He swung wildly, but Mormont sidestepped, driving Longclaw's point through the man's throat. The head fell away, eyes still wide in shock, as the warriors around him faltered and were cut down.
The courtyard fell silent, save for the rasp of Jeor's breathing and the dying sputter of nearby fires.
Ethan joined him, wiping gore from his spear. "They fought bravely." His voice shook with adrenaline.
Jeor regarded the fallen lord's body. "Bravery does not save iron from a hammer."
He turned back to the walls. Above, torches lit as other gates caved beneath Ethans men. Jeor raised Longclaw. "Douse the beacons."
A squad of Mormont men ascended the nearest tower, buckets in hand. They stamped out the braziers, plunging the island into deeper darkness. The sea beyond lay black and empty, unaware its shadows had shifted.
Far on the horizon, the next assault force circled—Glover, and Umber had arrived at Old wyk. Mormont had bought Cregan's tide one island closer to conquest.
Jeor wiped the hilt of his sword, watching the longships ease forward. Ashen dawn teased the sky, and he felt the weight of uncounted deaths settle in his chest.
The sky brightened, pale gold drifting over the tide, and Jeor walked back to the shore, calling for Ethan.
"Gather the thralls," he ordered. "Bind their wounds. Feed them. When the sea is free, send them home."
Ethan nodded. "They will remember why they serve."
A savage squall tore across the sea as Galbart Glover's longships carved through churning waters toward Old Wyk. Thunder rumbled beyond the horizon, and waves slapped ragged planks, but the Glover host pressed on, oars falling in disciplined rhythm. No lanterns burned; no horns announced their coming. Only the faint, pale glimmer of torchlight in the mist hinted at the isle's defenses—tiny flickers among the standing stones.
Galbart stood at the prow, cloak soaked, eyes narrowed against stinging spray. Greatjon Umber's warhorn sounded once—a bone‑shattering blast that cut through storm and sea. At that signal, Glover's men spilled ashore, armor clanking, axes raised. They formed two tight ranks: Glovers on the left flank, Umbers on the right, advancing under the shadow of towering monoliths carved with ancient runes.
The first Ironborn defenders emerged from between the stones, bearded warriors in rain‑slick leather. They bore the banner of House Drumm: a black kraken on storm‑grey. Harwyn Drumm's heir, the young lord Ryon, led them, his eyes on Red Rain the blooe red blade gleaming in the moonlight in Galbart Glovers hand and voice booming with fury. "THAT IS MY SWORD!" Glover lifted his helm, meeting Ryon's gaze across the broken field.
Then the storm broke.
Glover's archers, concealed behind dunes, loosed a volley of flaming bolts. Each arrow found its mark—lighting leather, shredding sinew, sending defenders crashing into spray and blood. Those who stumbled reached for weapons only to find axes at their throats.
Galbart charged. His newly acquired swordbit through Drumm's shield with a crack like breaking ice. He spun, catching Ryon's arm, driving the blade home through gauntlet and bone. The young lord's scream was cut short as he slumped beneath a standing stone, kraken banner tumbling into water dyed red,
A moment's silence followed, the thunder of the storm and the crash of waves swallowing the fallen boy's last breath. Then the Glover host broke, surging forward in a single wave of steel.
The standing stones became executioner's posts. Ironborn defenders rallied around the largest circle—a crude arena beaten smooth by centuries of salt wind and rain. They clenched spear and sword, forming a desperate ring of defiance beneath the carved faces of drowned gods.
Greatjon Umber hacked through the first line; swings fell in brutal arcs, scattering shields and blood alike. Galbart seized the moment, vaulting the perimeter and facing down two Ironborn brothers who rushed him in tandem. He parried one thrust, stepped inside the other's swing, and drove his sword through the man's eye.
Behind him, Drumm kin fell by dozens. Glover's men fought with grim precision—no cheer, only the steady rhythm of steel on steel. One raider, bloodied but unbowed, caught Galbart's thigh with a savage cut. He snarled, and Galbart met him blow for blow, until the raider's life was cut short shattered beneath a thunderous swings his head bouncing down the steps of the keep.
When the last defender collapsed, Greatjon roared and toppled a monolith, the stone crashing through arch and body, dust and blood mingling in the storm.
Glover sheathed the sword and looked across the clearing. The standing stones were slick with gore, arrows and axes embedded in carved faces. Around him, his men rounded up any surviving thralls—shivering fishermen and craftsmen, eyes wild with terror. They knelt and wept; Glover's captains directed them to the ships, where blankets, bread, and water waited beneath Northern banners.
Above the mist, the forge's glow marked the island's foundry. Ironborn smiths had tried to melt weapons into new shapes for the coming war.. Nearby, a blacksmith's apprentice knelt, trembling as he was spoken to by a northern solider.
"Stand," Glover said quietly. "You are safe now. Go home with tales of the North's justice. Let your lords whisper of these stones for generations."
The boy panted, eyes wide. He managed a shaking nod before stumbling toward the docks.
Galbart stepped back into the hall, every breath a ragged cut of cold air and triumph. The greathall's long table was overturned, casks cracked and emptied, goblets shattered. Murals of krakens and drowned priests were splashed with gore.
He spat on the floor. "This isle learns its lesson."
Greatjon appeared beside him, rain streaming off his helm. "Then we sail to pyke to join the wolf.," the Umber growled, voice low as falling rocks. "Let the krakens on that shore drown in their own pride."
Galbart nodded. "Raise the sails. Let the next ride begin."
Beyond the slashed doors, the storm slackened, and the Northern host moved again—axes in hand, thralls in tow, the standing stones of Old Wyk left behind as relics of iron‑born dreams shattered.
Blacktyde burned before the first horn sounded.
The Bolton and Manderly longships rowed ashore beneath smoke-dark skies, the thunder of surf drowned only by the deeper thunder of screaming men. A curtain wall had once ringed the island's stone hall, but fire danced now across its palisades—set alight by torchbearers disguised as reavers, hooded in kraken sigils stolen from Greyjoy corpses.
Roose Bolton disembarked in silence, pale as the fog rolling in from the bay. His men followed like ghosts—flayed men stitched onto their banners, blood-red and grim. Lord Wyman Manderly, wheezing slightly beneath his layered mail, moved slower but no less determined. The sea had taken much from White Harbor; tonight, he would answer.
The first Ironborn warriors charged across the stone bridge that led from the hall to the old docks, axes raised and voices high with war cries. They didn't see the oil until it was too late. A single arrow arced from the slope behind them—lit, silent, final. It landed between their feet and kissed the soaked ropework with fire.
In moments, the bridge was a screaming pyre.
Manderly's men surged around the left flank. Club and cleaver slammed into the disoriented defenders. Roose's voice never rose—he simply walked through the carnage, dagger glinting in hand, his mailed fist closing on any Ironborn throat not already open.
The hall itself gave stiffer resistance. House Blacktyde had raised its banners here—green tentacles on a black field—and the last of its line stood defiant in the doorway, a two-handed war axe clenched in calloused hands. Roose Bolton didn't pause. He ducked beneath the first swing and plunged his dirk into the man's groin, twisted, and stepped aside as he collapsed in a wailing heap.
Wyman Manderly followed with a roar, shoulder-barging through the doorway, his hammer swinging with ruinous weight. The entry was cleared in three heartbeats.
Inside, defenders rallied around the altar to the Drowned God, singing through bloodied lips. They didn't last long.
The flayed men struck them from behind.
When the fighting ended, the stone floor of Blacktyde Hall was slick with blood. No prayers lingered. No songs rose.
Roose stood amidst it all, untouched, and gestured to his bannermen. "Take the thralls. Burn the rest."
Manderly looked down at the fallen noble of House Blacktyde. "His blood won't quench the sea," he muttered. "But it's a start."
Outside, smoke spiraled into the sky as every structure of status or Ironborn pride was put to the torch. Croplands were spared; women and children—marked as thralls or captives—were ushered gently aside and offered bread and boiled water. But no kraken-blooded man left alive.
Roose surveyed the burning hilltop.
"I will salt this land myself," he murmured.
And he did. Behind him, the snow began to fall.
Blacktyde was no longer Ironborn. It was empty, ash and cinders and blood and gore.
Salt spray hammered the northern shore of Harlaw as Karstark longships punched through the surf, hulls lined with heavy iron plating taken from shattered Greyjoy vessels. Rickard Karstark stood at the prow, rain sheeting from his pauldrons, the cold wind snapping his black-and-white banner above him. His sword was bare before the keel touched sand.
The defenders were waiting. Black-armored Ironborn surged down the slope, war cries drowned by the crash of waves. Karstark didn't speak. He led the charge himself, boots splashing through brine, shield raised, sword driving into the first man's neck with a wet crunch. Behind him came hundreds more—axes, hammers, pikes. They didn't shout. They didn't chant. They killed.
On the southern flank, Howland Reed's men scaled the cliffs on rope ladders, light and fast. His crannogmen slipped through rocky defiles and over crumbling walls, dropping sentries with arrows and short spears. They cleared the watchtowers in silence, then lit signal torches—cold green fire that flickered three times, then vanished.
Karstark saw it and drove forward.
The outer forts fell within the hour. Stone shattered under siege picks, Ironborn cried out in vain, and the beach ran slick with blood and seawater. No quarter was given. Thralls were pulled from cellars and kitchens, herded behind Manderly-trained healers, offered bread and warm cloaks. The rest—those who raised steel—died on it.
By nightfall, the great hall of House Harlaw stood alone, gates barred, torchlight flickering behind arrow slits. Karstark ordered the battering ram brought forward. The Ironborn within responded with fire, pouring boiling pitch and flaming brands onto the heads of those who approached. Reed's archers picked them off one by one until the ramparts fell silent.
The doors came down with a roar.
Inside, the last sons of Harlaw stood behind overturned tables and the tattered remnants of their banners. At their center stood Lord Harras Harlaw, clad in sea-black plate, the balckened steel of Nightfall in hand. The steel of the blade shimmered like oil in candlelight—Valyrian, ancient, cruel.
Karstark stepped into the hall first. Rain still clung to his cloak, his beard glistening with seawater and someone else's blood. He raised his sword and pointed it at the sword.
"That will be mine"
Lord Harlaw snarled and came on.
They met with a crash of metal so loud it silenced the rest of the hall. The Valyrian sword struck sparks from Karstark's blade, carved a gash in his shoulder guard. Karstark responded with a shield punch that cracked ribs, then slashed low and caught Harlaw across the thigh. The man staggered. Karstark kicked him to the ground and ripped the axe from his grip.
Harlaw reached for a dagger. Karstark buried his sword in the man's chest.
When it was done, he stood panting over the corpse, black blade in hand. Around him, the rest of the Ironborn were being dragged from hiding places and executed. Reed stood at the shattered window, watching the sea beyond.
"That blade belongs in Karhold now," Karstark muttered, running a finger along its edge and wincing at the cut it delivered.
Reed didn't turn. "So long as it isn't used as they did."
"It'll see better hands," Karstark said. He slung it across his back.
Outside, his men doused the fires and began carrying coin, maps, and weapons from the vaults. Thralls were sorted and healed. A dozen asked if they could swear to the North. Reed nodded once and marked their names. Karstark gave them meat.
By dawn, smoke curled from the main hall. The bodies had been burned. The banner torn. On the eastern wall, a direwolf banner hung limp in the wind.
Rickard Karstark stood before it, sword at his hip, axe across his back, watching the tide go out. The Iron Isles would remember what happened here.
The sea boiled around Pyke.
Cregan Stark stood at the prow of the Frostfang, wind tearing at his cloak, eyes locked on the scattered towers of black stone rising from the surf like the broken teeth of some drowned god. The Iron Islands' capital loomed across bridged islets, every causeway guarded, every gate manned. But it was not the towers that held his gaze.
It was the fleet.
Dozens of Greyjoy warships lay anchored in the bay—sleek, fast, reaver-built. They bristled with kraken banners, their decks lit with sullen torchlight, crews shouting across gangplanks, oars resting ready for flight or fight. A retreat, if permitted. Cregan would permit nothing.
He raised one gloved hand.
From the longships behind his own, flame arrows soared into the sky. Firepots followed, spinning like falling stars. The night exploded in screams and burning sails. A dozen Ironborn ships caught fire within the first minute—pitch and canvas igniting instantly. Some broke anchor and drifted, flames consuming them as panicked sailors leapt into the freezing bay.
"Sink them all," Cregan ordered coldly. "None leave this island."
Archers loosed another volley. A Greyjoy ship turned to flee—its stern caught a firepot, and the explosion sent it careening into the rocks, splintering apart in a shower of oars and limbs. The sea began to glow with fire. Men thrashed, burning alive or dragged under by their armor.
Rodrik Cassel's longship ran ashore first, its iron-plated prow smashing through a half-formed barricade at the seagate. Northern shields rose in unison as crossbow bolts hissed down. Rodrik raised his voice.
"Hold the line!"
Shields locked. Arrows struck home, glancing off oak and steel. The moment they slackened, the Northerners surged forward, axes biting into flesh and plank. The beach was taken in less than three minutes.
Cregan landed next, war mace already in hand. He stepped over a screaming Ironborn clutching his leg, trying to crawl away.
Cregan didn't speak. He simply brought the mace down in a single, crushing arc. The man's skull split like overripe fruit, blood misting across the sand.
Ned Stark joined him a moment later, Ice drawn and wet with blood. His grey cloak was already dark from the spray.
"They're retreating to the bridges," Ned said.
"Let them," Cregan replied. "Let them bunch up where we can break them all at once."
Behind them, more ships landed. Manderly colors, Glover steel, Karstark helms. A wall of Northern iron spilled onto Pyke's cliffs.
From the rocks above, Whisper's team moved ahead of the main host, slipping between shadows. They scaled the walls of the smaller sea towers, cutting throats before alarms could be raised, pulling down braziers before they could signal for help. In twenty minutes, Pyke's outer sentries were gone, and none of the main keeps had yet stirred.
"They think the sea protects them," Cregan muttered. "Tonight, the sea delivers them."
Thunder cracked in the distance. Another Ironborn ship, too slow to burn, was rammed and split in two by a stolen longship flying Northern sails.
A signal horn sounded once from Rodrik's flank. The lower rope bridges—connecting the towers of Pyke—were taken.
Ned looked toward the keep. "We're in."
Cregan nodded once. "Then let's finish it."
The sea walls of Pyke were jagged and cruel, shaped not by masons but by centuries of wind and salt. The Northern host didn't slow.
Under the shadow of the Great Keep, Rodrik Cassel led the vanguard to the gatehouse, shield raised, shouting for the ram. Two dozen men hauled it forward—an iron-shod log mounted on wheels, wrapped in sodden hide to keep it from burning. Arrows rained down from the battlements above, striking shields, glancing off helms. One struck a boy from Barrowton in the throat; he fell without a sound.
"Press forward!" Rodrik roared. "Break it!"
The ram thundered against the gate. Once. Twice. On the third strike, the iron bands groaned. Oil spilled from a murder hole, but it struck empty stone—Whisper's team had already cleared the upper walkways. A muffled cry echoed above, followed by the clatter of a falling body.
From the cliffside, Cregan and a separate spearline moved up the rear stairway, slaughtering the gatehouse guards from behind. An Ironborn tried to swing a halberd; Cregan smashed his ribs in with the Fist of Winter, sending him crashing into the sea below.
The gates burst inward.
Ned Stark was the first through, Ice held high, grey cloak sweeping behind him. Ironborn charged to meet him—ragged, roaring, desperate. One swung low with a hooked axe. Ned caught the blow on his vambrace, twisted, and brought Ice down across the man's chest. Steel split bone and mail. A second raider lunged from the side; Ned moved like a storm, carving him apart in two clean strokes.
Rodrik's men swarmed the breach. The fighting was vicious—axes and spears in narrow halls, boots slipping on slick stone. Manderly's troops pushed through the rear corridor, cutting off retreat. Screams rang from the upper floors. Doors were kicked in. Hammers broke through barricades. Blood painted the walls like waves.
Cregan moved with practiced efficiency. A cluster of Ironborn tried to hold the stairs above the kitchens; he didn't slow. He barreled into them, mace swinging, the head a blur of blackened steel. The first went down screaming, jaw shattered. The second raised a shield—Cregan crushed his knee, then caved in his helm with a backhand swing. The rest fled and were cut down before they reached the courtyard.
In the cellars, Reed's men found thralls chained and half-starved. Some wept. One tried to crawl into a firepit to avoid another beating.
"No more," Reed said quietly. He cut the chain himself. "You're free."
Elsewhere, the Greyjoys burned their own archives to deny the North their records. It didn't matter. The halls were already lost. Soldiers fell one by one, trying to bar bedroom doors, hide behind collapsed furniture, plead for surrender. The North had given none.
By the time the sun crested the edge of the sea, the stronghold's outer towers were ablaze. Black smoke curled from shattered windows. The bridges were seized. The inner courtyard was slick with blood."
Ned turned to see where his nephew was, he was taken about with the view he was presented with, cregan stood his armour once grey now lay blood red, the mace in his hand had bits of ironborn hanging from its edges and cregans only focus was on the steps in front of him, he slowly started walking toward his nephew and put his hand on his shoulder. "You okay?" he asked.
Cregans answer was to nod and look towards the stairs again, "They're up there. Let's finish this, he said as he started to slowly advance"
Smoke and salt wind curled through the shattered walls of Pyke's Great Keep as Ned Stark stepped into its hall of stone. The torches had long been doused, but firelight still flickered—reflected not from flame, but from the glistening blood across the floor. The heavy iron doors behind him creaked open wider as a line of Northmen poured through, forming a tight wedge behind his advance. He could feel Ice in his hands, impossibly light despite its mass, alive with purpose.
Across the hall, a single figure stood at the foot of the black throne. Towering, shirtless beneath battered maile, an axe the size of a man resting on his shoulder the folded steel pattenr showing that this was of valyian decent, where the greyjoys had gotten it from who knew it was not theirs to begin with. The kraken was painted in ash across his chest.
Victarion Greyjoy.
"Your people are no kings ," Ned said, voice calm, even over the pounding in his chest. "Just pirates and slavers dressed up to pretend to be more.."
Victarion didn't answer. He swung the axe once, testing its weight, and came forward. No flair. No taunt. Just death on legs.
The first blow came faster than expected. Victarion brought the axe in from high above, and the stone beneath Ned's feet cracked from the force of his retreat. Ice met haft, sparks burst between them. Ned circled, keeping his stance narrow, waiting.
The Ironborn lord charged again—low, savage—and this time Ned stepped inside the arc, carving along Victarion's ribs. Blood sprayed, but the man barely staggered. He slammed into Ned with his shoulder, knocking him back against the central pillar of the hall. Ned's vision blurred for an instant, but he ducked under the next blow, felt it pass like thunder overhead.
Victarion swung again. Ice caught the blade and slid down, teeth grinding against the shaft. Then Ned kicked his knee.
The Ironborn grunted and reeled—but retaliated with a wild elbow that cracked against Ned's jaw. He tasted copper.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Ned came forward in silence. He parried high, struck low. He danced left, cut right. His blade left ribbons across Victarion's arms, chest, side. But the man would not fall.
He returned with swings of his own, Ned knew he could not afford to be caught by any, he stayed light moved away and waited for an opening that didn't seem to come
Not until he overreached.
Victarion brought his axe overhead again, roaring as he threw every ounce into the swing. Ned dropped, rolled, and came up behind him. Ice rose.
It fell.
The Valyrian steel cleaved into his back and burst through his chest.
Victarion Greyjoy collapsed to his knees, one breath rasping out—and then he toppled forward like a broken mast, blood pooling beneath him.
Ned stood above him, panting, Ice still humming in his hands. The valyrain axe was taken to be given to a new owner in the future.
He turned toward the upper tower.
Toward the storm still brewing there.
------
Cregan found him in the tower of bones.
The stairwell twisted upward into the black, slick with damp and the blood of retreating guards. The walls here were carved with grotesques—krakens devouring men, drowned priests with tongues pulled out, fetid gods nailed to reefs. At the top, behind an iron-banded door, stood Euron Greyjoy.
The silence inside the chamber was absolute. The only light came from a tall iron candelabra beside a shattered throne, the flames casting shadows like clawmarks across the broken stone. Euron stood alone. He wore sea-blue breastplate etched in gold, salt and soot crusting the cape thrown over his shoulder. One eye was black as pitch, the other wide and pale. His axe rested at his hip.
He hadn't moved when the door opened.
"So," Euron said at last. "The stag king sends a wolf pup to do his job.
Cregan stepped forward, wordless, the Fist of Winter already gripped in both hands. The floor beneath them was layered with ash and bones.
Euron's grin widened. "Come, then. Let's see if the man at least chose well."
He launched forward, no roar, no wind-up—just raw, brutal speed. The axe came fast and low, a hook meant to open Cregan from thigh to throat. Cregan twisted aside and deflected it with the haft of his mace, sparks jumping in the dark. The force numbed his fingers.
Euron was faster than expected—faster than Victarion had been. He fought like a storm tide, unpredictable and relentless. He spun on one foot and swung the axe high; Cregan blocked, boots skidding on the stone as the strike jarred his shoulder. A second blow came before he could reset—Euron slammed the haft into Cregan's ribs, and the younger Stark staggered.
Cregan gritted his teeth, retreated two steps, then drove forward. He feinted low, drew Euron's guard down, then pivoted hard and hammered the mace toward his neck. Euron ducked by inches, the blow grazing his temple and shearing hair from his scalp.
They broke apart, both bloodied already.
"Still quiet?" Euron rasped. "What's wrong, wolf? Too cold for your voice?"
Cregan answered with his mace.
He came in hard and fast, step-thrust, step-thrust—striking high, twisting low, then stepping inside the arc of Euron's next swing. He cracked the pirate's wrist, but Euron twisted through it, grinning through the pain, and drove his forehead into Cregan's face.
Bone met bone.
Cregan reeled back. Blood poured above his left brow where Euron's helm had split the skin. It blurred his vision instantly.
"Better," Euron hissed. "Now you look like the rest of us."
Cregan shook the blood from his eye, lowered his stance, and moved again. The floor around them was slick now—mud, blood, old wine. Each step echoed through the ruined chamber. Cregan struck high. Euron dodged. Euron countered low—missed. Cregan swept the mace across his knees. Euron leapt the blow, then returned one of his own.
The axe sang past Cregan's jaw and struck the wall with a clang, shaving stone. A half-second later and it would've taken his head.
Cregan twisted and swung for Euron's ribs. The mace struck true.
Bone cracked.
Euron grunted, breath leaving him in a rush—but he spun into it, elbowed Cregan hard in the temple, and forced him to one knee. The axe came again, this time vertically, meant to split his skull. Cregan rolled beneath it, came up behind Euron, and brought the mace down with both hands.
Euron turned just in time. The Fist of Winter collided with his pauldron. Metal collapsed. He dropped to the ground in a heap—but snarling, not retreating. He kicked at Cregan's shin, then scrambled to his feet, dragging a smaller blade from his belt.
The knife flashed—cutting across Cregan's thigh, then again across his ribs.
Cregan growled and lunged, fists clenched around the mace's haft. He beat Euron backward, strike after strike, forcing him past the firelight and toward the broken throne.
Euron's breath came ragged now, one arm dragging, blood streaming from his side. Still, he came on.
"You fight like a man" he spat.
"I am a Stark," Cregan answered. "You're nothing but a squid"
Their weapons met again—steel to steel. Euron's axe splintered on the fifth clash, haft cracking down the center. Cregan caught his forearm mid-swing and twisted. The blade clattered to the floor.
He didn't stop.
He brought the mace down—once, twice—breaking shoulder, collarbone, pride.
Still, Euron laughed through blood-flecked teeth. "I'll drown and rise again. I'll tear your throat out in your dreams."
Cregan didn't speak.
He drove his knee into Euron's chest, knocking the air from him, and slammed him face-first into the stone. He still refused to go down as he flailed below him, cregan swung his mace at both knees shatter them both.
"You'll die soon that i swear" Cregan said quietly. "But not yet."
He turned to the door.
Whisper stood waiting, silent as always.
"Chain him," Cregan ordered. "Bind him for the rocks. I want him alive when the sun rises."
Whisper bowed.
Cregan didn't look back.
Euron's laughter echoed once more—thin, cracked—before Whisper struck him across the mouth and dragged him into shadow.
The sea howled against the cliffs outside, but inside the tower, Pyke had already fallen.
The screams had stopped.
Not because the killing was done—there were still blades being drawn in the shadows, still wet sounds from back halls and broken chambers—but because no one left alive on Pyke had the voice to scream.
The last of the Ironborn lay in heaps: cut down in the kitchens, stabbed in their beds, dragged out from priestholes beneath shattered shrines. No mercy. No pause. Northern soldiers moved through the fortress like winter winds—cold, final, unrelenting.
The purge spared no freeborn soul.
Rodrik Cassel led the executions in the eastern cellars, putting two dozen youths to the sword as they wept and spat curses. Greatjon Umber hanged a shieldmaiden who killed three before they brought her down. Roose Bolton's men cleared out the war kennels, fed the starving dogs the flesh of their former masters.
Only the thralls were spared.
They were gathered by Wyman Manderly's healers—trembling, pale, many barely old enough to speak their names. Children taken from the Reach and Riverlands. Salt wives. Captured sailors. Men with the branded wrists of bondage. They were wrapped in wool, given broth and bread, then led down the stairs to the lower docks where ships waited.
Ships bound for the North.
Cregan stood at the edge of the seaward tower, one hand resting on the stone, his mace still bloodied in the other. The wind tore at his cloak. The sea below smashed endlessly into the cliffs, frothing white against jagged rock. Euron Greyjoy hung unconscious behind him, bound in chains, propped like a broken carcass against a post—still breathing, but only just.
Below, across every shattered rope bridge and ruined gatehouse, Stark banners now flew. The grey direwolf over white. Over black krakens. Over nothing at all.
He could see it all. The battlements where Ned had fought Victarion. The tower where the priests were drowned in their own fonts. The hearths that would never be lit again.
And then—on the horizon—he saw sails.
Dark hulls cut across the early morning sea, heading for Pyke. They came from every direction: from Great Wyk, from Old Wyk, from Harlaw and Blacktyde. No signals were given. None were needed.
Each ship flew Northern banners.
The fleets returned victorious, black smoke trailing behind them like cloaks of ash. Dozens of them. Dozens more than he'd sent. Silent. Swift. Unstoppable.
The Iron Islands had fallen in one night.
Cregan said nothing.
He turned from the wind and looked back into the dark halls of Pyke. The blood hadn't yet dried on the stone. The men had not yet sung. And the gods, if they watched, had said nothing.
There was only the silence. And the North. And what came next.
--
They came with the dawn.
Black sails marked with white wolves, curling over iron-gray waters. Dozens of ships. Dozens of victories. Each one scarred, scorched, and streaked with salt and blood—but each one returning.
The docks at Pyke filled with Northmen, silent as they disembarked: Mormonts with axes crusted in dried gore, Glovers dragging salt-rusted kraken helms behind them, Umbers still laughing, their laughs hollow and spent. From each ship came offerings: torn banners, shackled Ironborn champions, twisted relics of houses now ash.
At the summit of Pyke's seaward tower, Cregan Stark stood with blood drying beneath his armor and gave no greeting.
The lords approached one by one.
"The sea runs red at Great Wyk," Jeor Mormont said, offering the salt-caked blade of a drowned priest.
"Old Wyk is ours," said Galbart Glover, tossing a torn banner marked with black krakens into the firepit.
"Blacktyde no longer speaks," came Roose Bolton's flat voice.
"Harlaw was taken before moonrise," Rickard Karstark confirmed.
Howland Reed spoke last. "We found their maps. Their vaults. Their priests. All gone. The children and thralls have been sent home."
Cregan nodded once. Then raised his voice.
"All ships carrying treasure and thralls will sail by nightfall. Manderly guards them. Any Ironborn chained aboard will be tossed to the sea before the tide turns."
No one questioned it.
A dozen ships were filled: gold and armor stripped from the fallen, crates of salted meat and stolen books, whole chests of Valyrian silver. And in their midst, the freed—the beaten, the branded, the forgotten—were wrapped in wool and layered in bandages. Some wept. Others prayed. But all obeyed when the Northmen ordered them aboard.
And still Cregan said nothing.
Not until the iron cross was raised.
It stood at the cliff's edge, blackened from sea wind, forged of melted anchors and chains. Euron Greyjoy had been stripped, dragged, and bound against it with his arms outstretched and ankles lashed to the base. Blood already ran from where the bindings bit into his wrists. His head lolled once, then rose.
He laughed. Spat. "Go on then, wolves. Show me your mercy."
Cregan stepped forward, stripped to his undershirt, arms bare and red with drying blood. He unslung the hooked obsidian knife from his belt himself. No servant touched it.
"You are guilty," he said, voice cold as Pyke's wind. "Of piracy. Reaving. Slavery. Rape. Murder."
He looked once toward the gathered Northern lords. They stood silent—Bolton motionless, Greatjon pale, Galbart unreadable. One of the young Forrester knights turned and vomited in the grass. No one mocked him. None spoke. They realises what cregan was going to do.
Cregan faced Euron again.
"Today, you face Northern justice for your crimes.
He drove the knife in behind the right shoulder blade, slowly.
Euron's scream was shrill, wet, full of life refusing to let go. Cregan worked with steady hands, drawing the skin back in slow ribbons, exposing the ribs one by one. He did not rush. The crowd did not look away.
Once the ribs were bare, Cregan took the brace hammer and broke them outward—splintering bone, peeling the cage into wings.
Euron howled and thrashed, but the iron held him.
His lungs were the last. Cregan reached in with a butcher's calm and drew them free, red and steaming in the dawn air, draping them gently over the jagged bones.
Euron still breathed—barely.
Cregan stepped back, took a handful of coarse salt from a leather pouch, and scattered it slowly across the exposed tissue.
Euron shrieked again, louder than any storm Pyke had ever known.
Cregan dropped the empty pouch, turned, and walked away.
And on the sea wind, there were no prayers.
Only silence. And the sound of lungs that refused to stop breathing.
The royal fleet crested the horizon at sunrise. Golden sails catching a cold wind, Baratheon stags snapping in the sky above rows of white-cloaked knights. The ships were fresh-painted and polished, filled with Lannister gold and Crown steel. They came for a war.
What they found was ash.
The Iron Islands did not greet them. There were no drums, no horns, no arrows fired from the cliffs. Just wind and smoke and the slow rise of burnt kraken banners from smoldering pyres along the shoreline.
At the bow of the lead ship stood King Robert Baratheon, his heavy shoulders squared, a hand resting on the pommel of his warhammer. Behind him stood Jon Arryn, Stannis, Ser Barristan Selmy, and the highborn lords of half the realm.
As they made landfall at the Pyke docks, not a single Ironborn was seen. Instead, Northern soldiers stood at the pier—silent, armored in soot-streaked steel, eyes hollow from a night of blood. They offered no greeting, only a clear path inland.
Robert mounted his destrier in silence and rode with his host toward the keep.
No resistance. No barricades. Only bodies. Hundreds of them. Some stripped, others burned beyond recognition. Ironborn men, women, even babes, laid in heaps or still slumped where they had died, curled in corridors or pinned to walls. Saltwives butchered. Priests with their tongues nailed to their palms. War banners trampled into the mud. Every hall smelled of smoke and iron.
The wind shifted as they approached the western cliffs. A new sound met them—high, broken, rattling.
Screaming.
They rounded the final stair toward the seaward tower and saw it.
The iron cross had been driven into the stone at the cliff's edge. Its arms outstretched. And on it was nailed Euron Greyjoy—stripped, bled, flayed. His ribs had been cracked and peeled back. His lungs drawn out and rested like wings along his back, crusted with salt and twitching still.
He was alive. Barely.
Stannis turned away. Jon Arryn closed his eyes.
Robert stared.
Above the corpse-that-would-not-die, a wolf banner flapped from the highest tower. Stark grey on winter white above an upside down Greyjoy banners.
The king said nothing.
He dismounted. He did not ask for Cregan Stark. He did not call for a council. He simply stood beneath the banner and watched the blood drip from Euron's feet into the sea below.
The Crown had arrived.
The war was already over.