Authors Note:
Heys guys, i forgot to include an image of the canal being built along with the lands that House Stark of High Hill rule over in Winterfell's name, so here it is!
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[Barrowlands Coast, 4th Moon, 289 AC]
The wind was cruel along the Barrowlands coast, biting through furs and salt-soaked cloaks like the teeth of a hungry beast. Victarion Greyjoy stood at the prow of Iron Victory, one gauntleted hand gripping the figurehead as the longship knifed through grey waters. His heavy war axe rested against his shoulder, its crescent blade dark with the memory of old blood. He breathed deeply of the brine and woodsmoke. There was fire ahead—smoke curling up above the trees like a serpent rising from a nest.
A village. Ripe for the taking.
Victarion grunted. "Row harder!" he roared, his voice thick with salt and command. "We take them before they piss their breeches."
The oarsmen obeyed, a hundred ironborn across five longships straining at their oars. Men of Old Wyk, Great Wyk, and Harlaw. Raiders, killers, reavers. And Victarion, captain of the Iron Victory, brother to Balon Greyjoy, stood tallest and strongest among them.
The longships beached in thunder and surf. Victarion leapt from prow to shore, water up to his knees, axe in hand. His men followed, roaring.
The villagers were barely able to mount a defense. A few men with spears, some farmers with axes. It didn't matter. Victarion's axe split one skull, then another. He cleaved a man from shoulder to hip. He crushed a fleeing boy's leg with the flat of his blade, dragging him by the collar toward the boats. Thralls.
They burned what they didn't take. Smoke rose behind them in dark pillars. Sheep bleated. Women screamed. Victarion didn't care. This was the Old Way. This was their due.
"Fast and cruel," he told his men. "The land-crows fly soon enough."
He thought it done.
Then came the sound of hooves.
At first, it was a tremble, a thunder beneath the soil. Victarion turned to the woods, eyes narrowing.
Riders.
They emerged like a tide, dozens of horsemen with varying sigils adorning their frocks, the Dustins' sigil on their banners, coupled with the distinct sigil of House Stark, a gray dire wolf on a field of white. At their head, two men who rode like knights but moved like wolves.
"Shields!" Victarion bellowed. "Line! Spears front, axes behind!"
His men scrambled. They were caught mid-loot, but they were Ironborn. They knew how to fight.
As his men began to form a sturdy shield wall, awaiting the arrival of the riders, Victarion squinted his eyes to try and catch a better look at the fools who dared to challenge him and his men, but it was to no avail, however, as the horsemen were soon upon them.
The Northern riders came down the slope like a wave. Victarion's shield wall held, at first. Spears struck true. One rider tumbled, crushed beneath his own mount. But the North was not soft, and these were not green boys. They pressed hard.
Victarion met them in the center, where the fight was bloodiest. He broke a man's neck with the haft of his axe. Another tried to spear him and was caught beneath Reaver's edge.
And then he saw him, the sigil on his armor, along with the characteristic features of dark brown hair, and a long face left no doubt in Victarion's mind.
He had come upon a Stark.
The man wore a black cloak over mail, the direwolf on his surcoat. Quick with his sword. Too quick.
Victarion pointed his axe. "You! Stark!"
The man turned. Their eyes met.
Victarion surged through the melee, smashing aside a Dustin man-at-arms who tried to intercept him. The Stark fool came to meet him. They clashed in a spray of blood and mud. The Northern warrior struck high, parried low. Victarion's blows were thunder, each one enough to break bone.
He was good. But Victarion was stronger.
A downward blow drove him to one knee. The Stark barely rolled aside, mud smearing his cloak. Victarion loomed over him, axe raised.
"Die," he growled.
Steel flashed.
As he swung his axe, Victarion heard a call, then came a searing pain, "Benjen!" the second man yelled, his armor bearing a direwolf as well, yet different in color.
A blade sank into Victarion's side. Not Benjen's.
A second Stark. Another wolf. Younger. Leaner.
Victarion snarled in pain. He turned, lashing out with the back of his fist. His gauntlet struck the second Stark in the jaw, sending him sprawling. But the wound was deep.
Blood poured down his side.
"Edwyle!" The Stark–no, Benjen Stark, roared as he charged Victarion, who let out a sadistic smirk as he met the wolf's eyes
Victarion intercepted him, but his arm was slower now. Edwyle was on his feet once more, face bloodied, blade trembling, yet still holding on like a warrior from the north should.
'Durable Greenlander, huh?' Victarion thought for but a moment as he swung his heavy weapon
As the two men, Stark and Greyjoy, danced on the battlefield, Victarion began to gain the upper hand yet again, his sheer brute strength winning out against Benjen's skill.
As Benjen slashed at Victarion, the large Greyjoy parried the blow, knocking Benjen off his feet.
Victarion's axe came down for Benjen.
Edwyle threw himself in the way, attempting to block the blow, but to no avail.
The blow cleaved through mail, flesh, and bone. The axe sank deep into Edwyle's chest, splitting him almost to the waist. Blood gushed.
Benjen roared in anger and sadness as he launched himself once more.
Victarion ripped the axe free, staggering back. Benjen's sword tore into his side again, drawing more blood. The pain blurred his vision.
And yet, although blurry, Victarion, with a great blow, flung Benjen to the side once more, not inflicting a fatal wound, but shaking up the man nonetheless
Around them, the tide had turned. The Dustins pushed hard. Ironborn fell. A horn sounded, retreat.
Victarion winced through the agonizing pain as he bellowed to his men. "To the ships! Now!"
He limped through mud and corpses, half-dragged by two of his men. The sea welcomed them, bitter and cold. One longship was already gone. Another was aflame. He found Iron Victory, he quickly boarded his ship along with what remained of his crew.
As they took off from the beach, Victarion could only look back and grit his teeth in anger.
There on the beach, Benjen Stark stood, sword red, watching them flee.
Victarion bared his teeth. Not in fear. In rage.
The sea took them back, leaving fire and corpses behind. Victarion's ribs were broken. His side was stitched by a mute crewman aboard the Iron Storm. He drank seawater to dull the pain.
He remembered the man who threw himself in front of the axe.
A Stark.
He would remember his face.
There would be more wolves to kill.
[Pyke Castle, 4th Moon, 289 AC – Days Later]
The waves crashed like drums of war against the jagged rocks of Pyke. The Iron Victory limped into harbor, her proud black sails tattered, her hull scorched and battered by fire and time. Two longships followed, barely. The rest were ash and driftwood.
Victarion Greyjoy stood on the prow, pale from blood loss, his side bound in thick linen and sealed with a black paste that stank of rot and seaweed. The mute crewman had done what he could to close the wound. It still throbbed, hot with rage and pain. Each heartbeat was a hammer blow against his ribs.
He would not show weakness. Not here. Not before Pyke. Not before his brother.
The Iron Victory scraped against the dock. Her iron ram hissed steam as seawater met ember and char. Victarion stepped down, ignoring the outstretched hand of a deckhand. The dock groaned beneath his boots. Behind him, what remained of his men disembarked, twenty-seven from nearly two hundred. Most bore wounds, some walked on splinted legs or with missing fingers, but they walked.
A bitter wind howled over the cliffs as he strode toward the stone causeway that led to the great towers of Pyke. He grunted with each step, one hand pressed to his side. The sea kept him upright. The Old Way had not abandoned him.
They passed the Seastone Chair in silence. Crows wheeled above the towers. Salt-crusted guards stepped aside, muttering prayers to the Drowned God.
At the bridge to the Great Keep, he was met by a boy in grey, breathless.
"My lord captain," the boy said. "Your brother awaits you."
Victarion said nothing. He pushed past the child, each step up the winding stairs a spike of fire in his ribs.
Inside, the hall of Pyke was dim and cold, the air thick with salt and the stench of smoke. Torches guttered in the wind that crept through the stones. At the high seat stood Balon Greyjoy, hard-eyed and lean, his black cloak swirling around him like stormclouds. Grey streaked his beard, despite only being 8 and 30, and his crown of driftwood and iron sat crooked atop his brow.
At his side stood two young men, Rodrik Greyjoy, a man of 8 and 10, the heir to the Seastone Chair, lean and grim, his features long and sharp like a knife; and Maron, barely a man at 7 and 10, taller and broader, with his father's hawk-like stare but the smirk of a man who hadn't yet earned the scars to go with it.
Balon's eyes narrowed at the sight of Victarion.
"Brother," he said at last. "You look like a drowned dog dragged ashore."
Victarion walked until he stood ten paces from the throne. Then, slowly, he sank to one knee, not in submission, but exhaustion. "The raid was bloody. Dustins and Starks rode us down. Benjen Stark was there, it was as if they knew we were coming."
"Benjen Stark?" Maron frowned. "The runt? Ned Stark's younger brother?"
Victarion nodded. "And another. One I hadn't seen before. Young. Dark of hair, his eyes a sort of sea green. Wore the wolf sigil in different colors." His teeth clenched. "He died for Benjen."
Rodrik said nothing, but the name Stark turned his gaze hard.
Balon descended from the dais, boots thudding softly on the stone. He circled Victarion like a crow around a dying beast. "You lost four ships."
"Five," Victarion growled.
"And a hundred men?"
"More."
Balon's voice remained flat. "Yet you return."
"I killed 20 with my own hands. Burned the village to ash. Took thralls. I made them pay."
"Not enough," Rodrik muttered.
Victarion rose, slow and stiff, his massive form towering above even Balon. "If you want a coward, look elsewhere. We fought, we killed, we bled."
"Did you win?" Rodrik asked sarcastically, already knowing the answer.
"We lived."
Balon studied him in silence, then turned to Maron. "Fetch wine. And meat. My brother looks ready to fall apart."
As Maron moved, Balon rested a hand on Victarion's arm. "You did not run. That matters."
"I never do."
The fire pit was stoked. Bread, smoked fish, and blood sausage lay out. Victarion ate standing, tearing into the meat like a beast. His brother and nephews watched.
At last, Balon spoke again. "It is time."
Rodrik crossed his arms. "For the fleet?"
Balon nodded. "We've nibbled at the edges too long. The North expects our raids. The West thinks us weak. We must show them they are wrong."
Victarion wiped grease from his chin. "Lannisport."
Balon smiled, slow and cruel. "Yes. The lion's den. Burn their fleet in the harbor. Cut their claws before they know they're in a fight."
Rodrik's mouth curled. "The gold fleet is the pride of the Rock. Fifty ships, cogs, carracks, and war galleys, some of the finest in Westeros. Heavily manned. Their captains trained since birth."
"All the sweeter," said Maron, returning with a horn of ale. "Burn their pride, and they'll weep gold tears."
Victarion nodded, the pain in his ribs forgotten. "We'll need more ships."
"You'll have them," said Balon. "The shipwrights of Harlaw and Orkmont have worked through the winter. Forty new longships are ready. Twenty more before the next moon."
"And men?"
"Ironborn, enough to fill them," said Rodrik. "And more boys eager to earn their salt."
Victarion let out a low growl of approval. "Then I will lead them."
"You cannot even walk a mile," Rodrik said. "Heal first."
"Burning the lion's fleet will heal me."
Balon raised a hand. "You will lead, Victarion. But we strike swiftly. No warning. The captains must be gathered soon. The Lords of the Iron Isles must answer the call of the Seastone Chair once more."
Victarion looked to his brother. "The Greenlanders will not sit idle. This war with the North, if the Stark pup unites them—"
"Then we strike before they are ready," said Balon. "They look east and north. No one watches the western seas. No one watches us. That is their folly."
Rodrik leaned forward. "We sail under moonlight. No banners. No drums. We burn, we kill, we vanish. Let them guess how many we are. Let them fear every shadow."
Victarion's lips curled into a grin. "Let them fear me."
"Word has already spread," said Maron. "They say you slew a dozen men while bleeding out."
"I did," Victarion said simply.
"They say the axe shattered a Stark's spine."
"It did."
Balon smiled then. "Good. Let the stories grow. Let them think you a demon of the sea. Fear will win us half the war."
Victarion reached for the horn, lifted it high. "To salt and steel. To fire and war."
They drank.
When the horn was drained, Balon rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we gather the captains. Then the lion burns."
"What is dead may never die," Balon chanted, "But rises again harder and stronger." Victarion, Rodrik, and Maron recited in unison as the four men toasted their premature victory
[Later that night, within the Great Keep of Pyke]
The pain returned with the cold. Victarion sat by a brazier, armor shed, his wound cleaned and rewrapped by a saltwife healer with hands like eel-skin. He grunted through it, refusing the milk of the poppy.
He stared into the fire.
The boy's face would not leave him.
Edwyle Stark. He had called out for Benjen. Thrown himself into the axe's path.
Victarion had killed many men. Crushed them, cleaved them, watched them drown.
But this one haunted him. Not from guilt. No. From fury.
That the boy had dared to block his axe.
That a Stark had drawn his blood.
He thought of Benjen too, the Quiet Wolf's younger brother, with sword and snarl, who had fought like one of his own. There was strength in the Starks. Dangerous strength.
But even wolves drown.
Victarion closed his eyes, listening to the sea beyond the walls, the eternal roar of their god's breath.
He whispered a vow. "I'll burn their fleet. I'll burn their homes. I'll take their women and chain their sons. And if I meet Benjen Stark again, I'll show him what it means to lose everything."
The fire cracked. Somewhere, a gull screamed.
He drifted into sleep with the axe at his side and the sea in his blood.