The Icefyre Conquest 35

Visenya wasn’t really enthused with the prospect of standing guard at the docks. Oh, she understood the importance of her task, she thought

Visenya wasn’t really enthused with the prospect of standing guard at the docks. Oh, she understood the importance of her task, she thought to herself as another arrow entered an Ironborn’s arm, before he was taken down by Dacey’s axe. She was honored by the trust her Uncle had shown in her capabilities, giving her joint command over the company of archers alongside Dacey, and she was even more thankful for the armor he had provided her with. A layered marvel that had already saved her life thrice, once from an overzealous Ironborn who had tried to hack at her shoulder with his axe, and twice from archers that never got the chance to shoot again.

But yet, she longed to fight at the frontlines. To see the light leave the Ironborn’s eyes up close as she carved them up with her sword. She knew that it was a foolish thought, especially since she didn’t have the element of surprise on her hand, and neither could she use her magic like the last time she had been in the Islands. Anger surged through as she remembered those days, sitting bound in the cage as Harras’ ship had made its way through turbulent waters, and the time when an Ironborn had almost gotten his hands around her.

Truth to be told, if it had come to that, then she would have used her magic and killed everyone before turning their ship around, the revelation of her magic be damned. But thankfully, the storm had been bad enough that no Ironborn wanted to do so, especially after one had cracked his skull open in a moment of imbalance. Thankfully, by some freak coincidence or the grace of the Old Gods, it hadn’t.

Taking another set of arrows from the stash by her as she found an empty quiver upon reaching back, Visenya aimed the dozen Ironborn making way towards the little bit of sand on the northern side of the shore. “Near our boats!” she called out to the archers by her side, before closing an eye shut as a sudden draft of wind blew in from the sea, she shifted her bow a little to the right, and with a twang let the steel-tipped arrow loose.

Five arrows flew besides hers, three of them striking true and sinking into the backs of the Ironborn making their escape. Narrowing her eyes as her own arrow stuck a fallen barrel instead of her target, she picked another and drew it back. However, before she could shoot it, Alyssane rushed the remaining reavers with the Mormont soldiers, finishing them within moments.

“I had them,” she called out to the older woman as they drew nearer, the last of the Ironborn being handled a few dozen yards away by Dacey and her team. She sighed, moving her fingers around to alleviate some of that stiffness, “You are such a spoilsport.”

“Aye, that I am,” the woman snorted, gruffly sitting down on a barrel and laying her axe sideways on her lap, giving her a look before her eyes turned towards the Pyke, “But your brother would not like if something happened to ye or Dacey, and tis my task to protect your hides. I owe him that much.”

Nodding slowly as she considered Alyssane’s words, Visenya sighed and looked down at the bow in her hands, brushing her thumb on the little bear and wolf carved along its length, a gift from Maege to her on reaching ten and six namedays. Near the leather grip were three small, sharp spikes that curved out along one of their edges, giving her an option if someone came too close to her, and Visenya looked at the drying blood on the steel, thankful for her foresight.

“Hey…look, they are tearing down Greyjoy’s flag,” one of the soldiers—Elbert, she realised as she saw the slashed eyelid—pointed towards the dreary towers of the Pyke and she turned around with everyone else to look at the skeletal structures, watching the flag of the Greyjoy fly off in the wind as it was replaced by Baratheon heraldry. Minor cheers drifted through the wind, more for the sake of Greyjoy and the Ironborn being dead than the King’s victory, but Visenya could wholeheartedly understand the sentiments of the Northmen.

A scream cut through the sounds of glee, and she turned eastwards, watching a woman crawl through the gaps in the sharp, sky-reaching stones, an arrow buried in her back. Another woman hurried after her, and Visenya quickly downed her with an arrow while a Mormont soldier slashed the first’s throat.

“Fucking reavers!” Alyssane spat on the bleeding corpse as they neared it, before her eyes turned towards the outcropping from where they had appeared, “The fuck is Halbart and Ryswell doing?! Letting these escape out!”

“They must be mixing together with the thralls to escape,” Maege said from a distance as all of them converged at the bodies. The old Mormont looked towards the ocean to their right, before looking at the Pyke, “Next time I am not accepting this position.”

“You are going to butt heads with Karstark and Umber?” Allysane raised an eyebrow as the man who had killed the second woman fished out a couple of gold coins and a ring from her ragged clothes, laughing and cheering along with his friends as the ladies moved towards the boats, and Visenya eyes the numerous corpses upon them as well as the waters around, “You are suddenly full of patience aren’t you?”

“This one and her brother have tested my patience enough to last generations,” Maege rolled her eyes, and Visenya smiled uncomfortably, not knowing how to respond to that. Maege seemed to have caught onto it, as the older woman’s face softened as she shook her head with a much softer smile, “I jest, child, even though I wish you had spared my old heart some of that shock.”

“Regarding Karstark and Umber, they both owe me a favor each,” she grinned at her daughters, removing her helm and letting her sweat soeaked hair free, taking a deep breath of the salty air then blew around them, her nose wrinkling at the smell of the fish that came with it, “Fucking squids, can’t even be bothered to clean up after themselves! What in the name of the Amaroq was everyone thinking for the past seven thousand years?!”

“Clearly not the right things,” Alyssane rolled her eyes, before patting her mother on the back, “It's alright, mother, at least now the squids are dealt with, you can rest that body easy and smoke all the herbs you want.”

“Hah! The day I rest on my behind is when some wildling spear catches me in the back,” she snarked, twisting her torso as a series of pops rang out, and Visenya cringed at the sound of popping joints before she turned around, looking in the direction of the Ironborn’s settlement.

“How much time is it going to take for us to get to Old Wyk from here?” She asked, slinging her bow over her back and taking a seat on a barrel, watching the men pick through the docks, carrying anything and everything deemed useful towards their own boats, while a couple of Ironborn carracks were also being searched through.

“Quite a while,” Maege began, and she watched as Alyssane moved towards one of the boats, Dacey following after he sister while Maege took seat besides her, waving a hand towards the towers behind them, “There are a surprising lot of these fuckers around, and it will take some time to kill every one before we make way to Old Wyk.”

“Aye, that they are,” Visenya agreed wholeheartedly, watching the smoke columns rising from where the Ironborn lived before she looked at the sky above. Gulls circled above them in hundreds, drawn by the death that the North had wrought upon the Pyke and waiting to devour the carrion below, “I don’t reckon they are going to find much meat on these reavers.”

“This is the last time they are going to find any Ironborn, I say let them enjoy whatever they find.”

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“Something is wrong,” I heard Robb mutter as both of us looked down at our fresh kills, blood streaming through the rocky crevices from the disembowelled reaver at his feet, while I casually kicked away the chopped arm down the slope before doing the same with the headless body, “Balon wouldn’t give up Pyke so easily.”

“He doesn’t have that many men remaining, it was just ten years ago that he rebelled,” I answered, finally taking a breather to place Nightfall against the ground as I looked around us. Hundreds of Ironborn lay dead throughout the settlement and the cliffs. And while I could see Glovers and Ryswells too on the ground, for each Northman that died, more than thrice the number of Ironborn were falling. And considering we had arrived mostly unharmed in the Iron Islands, the day was going well for us.

We had better men, better armor and better training. Of course, the fact that the Ironborn simply lacked any tact or training also helped. Even the last one who had come for Robb from behind, the one whose arm I had lopped off before doing away with his head had been a good bit taller than both of us, yet his form had been as open as Theon’s mouth when eating dirt in the yard.

Speaking of Theon, I looked at the shoreline, where Robert had beheaded the already half–dead Greyjoy beore marching onwards into Pyke proper, his head carried by his squire—another fucking Lannister—-as they moved towards Balon’s tower.

“Yes, and father told us that while they crushed his fleet, the reavers surrendered quickly enough that not a lot died to the armies,” Robb countered, and I grunted in acknowledgement of his words as we saw another explosion blow apart a shack in the distance, the stored rum across the settlement coming quiet close to what Vhyraxes, Caraxes and Gaelithox had done moons ago on Harlaw. However, shaking the thoughts of my dragons away, I looked towards my cousin as Robb sighed and looked at the culling going on before them, “and then there is the number of ships we fought. Lyanna and you both reported that none of Harlaw’s vessels had been on the Island save for Harras and Rodrik’s ships, along with a couple of other longships. We have seen none of that today, at least not in the numbers one would expect from Balon. Even now, there are mostly women and children around us, much more than the number of me-”

An enraged shout echoed through the spires across the bridges, and both of us turned around as Robert’s raging voice faded away into echoes. Knuckles tight upon Nightfall’s hilt, I calmed myself down and looked at Robb, wondering just what had set off the Baratheon now—and a part of me equally impressed and scared at just how loud that shout had been. We were standing a fair distance away from Balon’s tower, and yet, I had felt that sound deep in my bones.

“Demon of the Trident, indeed,” I muttered, envisioning the Baratheon King in his prime, and then promptly shoving that image and fear as far back as I could into the recesses of my mind.

“It can’t be good,” Robb stared at the tallest tower, before looking at me, ”We should head towards them. This tower and the shacks below are cleared anyway.”

Nodding at his words, we made our way towards where the King and our father were. Gulls flew away from the bodies strewn across our path, and I almost slipped on a blood-soaked plank in my hurry. Thankfully, I managed to grab the ropes, and Robb latched onto my flailing arm, and I stared at the rock protruding from the turbulent sea below us.

“Thanks,” I breathed out, straightening up and taking care not to let myself slip again as we resumed our run, much more careful than before.

“It's fine, can’t let my guard die anyways,” Robb laughed, and I realised something as his hand retracted. While Robb and I had grown a lot closer over the moons since I had arrived in Winterfell, and I had even come to think of him as a brother in my thoughts…I had never really realized just how our bond had grown. It had been a rough start, but somehow, somewhere, we had both grown past our problems. Laughing along with his joke, I patted his back and continued forward towards the last tower before Balon’s stony home, “Yes, I did promise Alys that, didn’t I?”

“You did, and I need someone to look after Cregan and Sara once we return to the North,” he chuckled, only to sober up as we saw ou-his father exit the tower ahead of us, his face wrathful, unlike anytime we had seen before. Ice was clenched his hand, his rage such that the man didn’t even notice how some of the bodies in his way were being nicked by the greatsword, bloody cuts opening up in the dead reavers.

“That does not look good,” Robb muttered, and I was inclined to agree with him, especially since moments later, Robert and his Kingsguard exited the tower right behind Lord Glover and the company of Northmen that uncle had taken with him.

“What is the state of the Ironborn?” he grunted, stopping by us as he gave us a onceover, before turning his gaze solely onto Robb, “Have the Ryswell and Glover men taken Lordsport?”

“Almost,” he answered, before frowning as he looked back at the settlement below us, “But several women are claiming to be thralls, and many escaped our initial ambush before we could fully control the third dock.”

“Check for scars and bruises on the women claiming to be slaves,” he answered, eyes flinty before he turned his gaze towards the sea as Lord Glover came to a stop behind him, Jory Cassell giving us both a nod before taking his post at his Lord’s right, “as for the Ironborn that escaped, they have no place to go, not as Ironborn. If they go to Harlaw, Karstark and Manderly await them there, while Umber and the others are at Orkmont. The North is well defended at this point for even a considerable number of reavers, so it's of no matter.”

“What happened at the Keep? I can see no one died.”

“Balon was not there. We should have guessed it when his ship was not present at Lordsport!” he grunted in anger, and both Robb and I looked at him with surprise, before looking at the enraged King that was coming towards us from the main Keep, Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan behind him along with Stannis. Nodding his head to the side, Uncle joined us along the edge of the bridge as Robert stopped before us, his stormy, raging blue eyes still glaring at the Pyke, “He escaped.”

“I saw that bloody fucking well on my own,” the Baratheon snarled, thumping his large warhammer on the plank below us, and I winced as the bridge swayed perilously, once of the Ironborn bodies sliding off the wood onto the stone below, “We need to return to the Mainland. Balon must have gone North.”

“We must kill all the Ironborn in the islands, otherwise God knows where they will strike once we leave,” he argued back, and I saw the agreement in everyone’s eyes as he continued, “the North is defended enough for the moment if Balon decides to strike with whatever force he has left. Based on how many longships and carracks we destroyed on the sea, as well as the men below, he will have just north of five thousand men with him. The Moat as well as the western shores have enough men to hold off a force that large, I say we destroy every trace of the Ironborn here before turning home and capturing Balon in a pincer.”

“Lord Stark speaks true, Your grace,” Ser Barristan added, meeting Robert’s gaze with a lowering of his head before nodding in the direction of the slowly stopping battle below us, “Denying him a return and destroying the Ironborn is the best way forward right now. Balon Greyjoy cannot do much harm in the North due to Lord Stark’s prepared measures, but if we leave now, we run the risk of letting him return here and double the time as well as men spent on his eventual death.”

“Alright,” he grumbled, taking a deep breath before nodding at Uncle Ned, “Let’s go to Old Wyk then, the others will meet us there when they are done with their share of fighting and plunder. Make sure not even a single house is left untouched, and take every boat and cog they have on this blasted island!”

“As you command,” he nodded, and Robert grunted as he moved past, both of his Kingsguard and the company of Baratheon soldiers in step behind him.

“I am a bloody fool,” Uncle Ned suddenly swore, removing his helmet and looking from it to the ocean as if wondering the pros and cons of chucking it out into the waters, “This is what the Ironborn had meant!”

“What Ironborn?” Robb asked, right before the others, and I could ask him.

“On the way here one of the Ironborn had gloated about the Drowned God being on the Greenland,” he explained, frustration coloring every words as he resumed walking towards the pathway to the settlement below, and well followed after him as Uncle Ned placed his hemet back on, “I had even gone to Robert about telling him this, but then the mess with Jon happened and it slipped my mind. I am a bloody fool!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I spoke up after a beat of silence when no one seemed to have any words to say to his self-depreciation, and I met his eyes with a shrug as they snapped to mine, “Seagard, the Moat, Torrhen’s Square, Deepwood Motte, all of the quicker options to capture any holding land are well defended. If Balon had all of his twenty thousand swords, then it would be a dangerous thing, but as of now, he is going to have less than half. The men back home can hold that number of untrained, stupid berserkers like Ironborn indefinitely. It's like fighting wildings, honestly.”

“The lad speaks true, Lord Stark,” Jory nodded, “ Besides, there is a chance Balon might not even go North; Lannisport and its riches are far closer and easier to plunder.”

“After ending his line and calling all kingdoms to arms against him, I doubt Balon would go anywhere but Winterfell,” he sighed, before his expression turned and the Lord of the North was back in place, “But you are right, it's of no use worrying about what might be. Order Ryswell and your son to finish the work soon and depart as soon as they have collected all the plunder from the Keep and the island. We are going to Old Wyk.”

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Old Wyk.

The island where the Ironborn gathered every year to worship their Drowned God with slaves and offerings. Ned had heard tales of the holiest of Iron Islands, and he walked inwards the silent, rocky pathway. Somehow, by a quirk of fate or just plain coincidence, everyone else had also arrived either just before or after them. Tywin walked ahead of him, quietly conversing with Jon Arryn, while Mace Tyrell was right behind Robert, talking boisterously to the man about how his daughter was becoming quite a skilled heiress.

Of the High Lords, that left only Oberyn Martell, who was here representing his brother and acting as the leader of the Dornish forces. The fact that the said man had found him as the recipient of his attention was vexing, to say the least. It was not that Ned disliked the man. On the contrary, he felt a kinship with the Red Viper, both of them having lost sisters to Rhaegar’s madness and the aftermath of the Rebellion. 

But yet, it was simply the fact that the Dornish man was the opposite of everything he was. Ned held the idea of marriage and family in sanctity, Oberyn did not. Ned had never strayed from his wife, and yet the tales of Oberyn’s debauchery were famous from the Wall to the Sunspear. Even prior to his marriage, he had never partaken in whores and casual flings any Heir his age did, the closest he had come being a kiss with Ashara in Harrenhal.

He had sired no bastards, and neither did he wish to, but Oberyn flaunted them proudly, caring not for the dishonour and the troubles he brought to their lives. And while he did not envy the man in the slightest, Oberyn was a warrior of legend. Titled the Red Viper after the famous, deadly snake belonging to the Dornish sands, the Martell Prince’s martial talents were well known throughout Westeros, and even some parts of Essos.

While Ned, capable warrior though he was, knew he wasn’t in the same realm as Oberyn, Robert or let alone Arthur Day-

“I still can’t believe you never once participated in tourneys,” the man continued his incessant prattle, and Ned sighed as he heard both Robb and Jon chuckle slightly, his sons walking a little ways behind them. As if his thorough…boredom with the one-sided conversation was not apparent, Oberyn smiled and twirled his spear languidly and pushed the tip against a dried-up cut on his cheek, “Your brother was a fearsome warrior with a greatsword, and I heard tales of your fierce fighting at the Ruby Ford. A pity you were overshadowed by His Grace. What say you, Lord Stark, care to cross swords sometime?”

He got the reason for Oberyn’s good mood, he did. Lorch's story had made rounds throughout the kingdoms by now, and the Martell prince had been trying to get him to spill the beans on what had transpired. Hah! As if he knew just how the despicable sadist had gotten himself skewered. He was glad, though, that the Gods had exacted justice on the man, for he had long left the hope for Robert or Tywin to do the right thing to Rhaenys Targaryen’s killer.

“Respectfully, Prince Oberyn,” he replied with all the respect he could muster as he shook his head, “Tourneys and frivolous displays of fighting skills are something I do not enjoy. If I fight a man, I prefer to do it in battle, without him knowing what I can do.”

“Wise words,” Oberyn nodded, and Ned saw the anger flash across the man’s eyes for a moment as the Dornishman looked ahead, “Fitting, from a man who defeated Arthur Dayne.”

There it was, that subtle bite, that unspoken anger that he had been expecting all along. And he could naught but bear it, not because Oberyn was right in his vindication. But because Ned himself felt ashamed of claiming victory over a peerless warrior such as Arthur Dayne, when it had only been Howland’s treachery that had saved his life from Dawn’s celestial edge that day.

“As you say, Prince Oberyn.” he inclined his head, his eyes following the smears of blood on the rocks that acted as boundaries for the path they were on, before focusing back on the man, “How fares Prince Martell?”

“He is good, managing Dorne and dealing with Lords is Doran’s forte,” the pepper-haired man shrugged, “Something I am glad for, as it leaves me free to pursue the real pleasures of life. Now, since I won’t get to experience the famed Stark skill at arms from you, maybe one of your sons would help me? What say you, Heir Stark, Ser Snow?”

“I am no knight, Prince Martell,” Jon replied before Robb could, or even he could intervene, “But should my father permit it, then I would like to learn from your experience.”

“Hah! As eloquent as a Maester, you have got a sharp one there, Lord Stark!” Oberyn chuckled, and he nodded slightly, feeling a rush of pride and concern both for his nephew-son as he saw Oberyn turn around and walk backwards, “As for being a Knight? You have done more than what thousands across Westeros couldn’t do, Jon Snow. In my eyes, you are more of a knight than perhaps any save the old Kingsguard themselves.”

He saw Jon dip his head silently at the praise, and silently, behind the eyes that had seen everything the said knights of the Kingdom had to offer, Ned agreed with Oberyn. “And Heir Stark? What are your thoughts on a little sparring between us?”

“Perhaps once this campaign is over and my duties as the Heir of the North are finished, Prince Martell.”

Considering the fact that the said duties never ended, Ned was happy about Robb’s response, especially with what had happened to the last Great Heir who had fought Oberyn.

However, before Oberyn could reply with any words, the path in front of them opened up and dipped down, revealing a rocky clearing and th-

“Rhoyne’s tits!” the man besides him whispered, and despite himself, Ned mentally agreed with the man.

Giant, moss covered circular bars arched in a line ahead of them, increasing in size before tapering off, reaching as high as twenty five feet at the center, ridged section joining them in the center as if a sp-”By the Old Gods,” he breathed out, eyes widening even more as he once again took the structure, “It is a skeleton.”

“This could be the Nagga that is said to have been slain in the Age of Heroes,” Oberyn muttered, walking towards one of the giant, arching ribs and placing his palm against the moss-covered bone, “This is not like any bone or skeleton I have ever felt. It feels like solid stone underneath that moss, almost reminds me of the dragon skulls in the Red Keep. Hah! Would love to see those old bats when they catch sight of this thing!”

“You mean the Maesters?” He asked, words tumbling out themselves as he struggled to comprehend the size of the beast these bones must have come from, eyes raking over every single rib and vertebrae over him. For a moment, everyone in the clearing was similarly amazed. Even Tywin, stonefaced though he was, looked impressed as he laid a hand against one of the bones.

“Yeah, they try every moment they can to promote the Andal culture and undermine the Rhoynar history in Dorne. Magic is dead, dragons can’t return, and the Rhoynish people couldn’t control water. Them and those Septons,” Oberyn groaned out, and Ned mentally cringed at the words. But a part of him agreed with the man. While he did not hold the Faith in outright scorn like the rest of his Northern brethren, he was not blind to the fault of the clergies, especially when he had been under the care of Jon Arryn, where the Septon had tried his best to make him see the savagery of the First Men.

“Fucking Hells,” Robert muttered ahead of him, looking from rock to rock as he took in the sights around, “No Ironborn here too? I thought this was supposed to be their holiest site or something.”

“That is true, Your Grace,” Barristan Selmy nodded, his eyes moving over the creature’s remains, but his hand never leaving his sword hilt as he stood close to Robert, “It is where they hold their Kingsmoot, and where they gather every year to pray to their fel god with their ‘Iron Price’.”

“You ever been here, Bold?” Robert asked as everyone started to inspect one thing or the other, now that the novelty of the massive skeleton had somewhat ended. There were other things strewn around, including sacrificial altars, coins covered in dirt, and flagons of rum, as well as bits and pieces of clothing.

“No, Your Grace,” the knight answered, “the Ironborn are not fond of anyone setting foot in Old Wyk. Their priests are very particular about who gets to come to their prayers and rituals here.”

“Then it begs the question of just how we faced no resistance and walked in here,” Robb muttered behind him, and Ned mentally nodded as he stood up, eyes flicking over the dense rocks and sparse foliage around them before returning to the ground, something not feeling quite right to him.

“They must have realised the folly of opposing us, we do have the best knights in the Kingdom with us,” Mace scoffed, pushing a jar of wine off an altar, and Ned saw the dried up head next to it, parched skin and empty holes staring back at him before the Tyrell Lord kicked it away, “We have taken all of their islands, killed their men women and children down to the last, what use is there in resisting the inevit-urkk!”

“AMBUSH!” Garlan Tyrell’s voice screamed out, and Ned turned around as he drew Ice, watching the knight push his father down behind a stone slab, an arrow sticking out of the man’s shoulder, “Behind the rocks!”

“Archers! Take cover,” Barristan called out as they all dove behind any cover they could find, and Ned saw an arrow bury itself into Tywin’s arm, the Old Lion bearing it with a pained gunt as he fell over, “Protect the King! Raise your shields!”

Jaime and Selmy instantly moved behind the Baratheon soldiers as they raised their shields around Robert, protecting him from the arrows as a scream of rage echoed around them, and robed men jumped into the clearing, brandishing axes and swords as they charged them.

“Robb! Jon!” he called out as he felt Jory shuffle behind him, “Slip behind and clear out the archers from one front. Take Edmond with you!”

“We are not leaving you, father!” Robb protested, and he turned around, glaring at both of them as he saw Jon open his mouth with similar intentions in his eyes. Whatever Robb wanted to say, his gaze must have cut it off, and Ned watched as they both shared a look before slowly moving towards the nearest gap in the rocks.

“Jory.”

“Yes, Milord?”

“How is your leg?”

“Eager for crushing some more reavers, milord.”

“Good,” he answered as he saw an arrow sink into a Baratheon soldier’s eyes, downing him in an instant, and Ned took in a deep breath as he saw an axe-wielding Ironborn come close.

Blocking the strike with the flat of Ice’s edge, Ned watched Jory open the man’s throat and as the corpse in front of him fell, two more Ironborn came at them, dressed in similar robes as the first one. Besides them, the melee had expanded across all of the clearing, and out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw Oberyn dance out of a sword’s reach before his spear gored a man’s brain through his nose. However, before he could do anything else, an arrow punctured through his greave, and he grunted as he stumbled mid run, almost tumbling to the ground. 

His eyes met the reavers as the man raised his sword in victory, and while Ned attempted to shift Ice in an attempt to block the blade coming down, he did not have much hope fo-a spear sailed out of nowhere, burying itself in the man’s head and sending him crashing to the ground. Moving behind the nearest cover, Ned looked for Oberyn and found the Martell Prince snapping a man’s neck from behind before he took out a knife from his belt and threw it at another, killing two at once.

Blood flowed amidst the cracks in the stone, and he saw Robert push off a dead soldier off his front as he shrugged off Barristan’s arm,  picking up his hammer and swinging it around with the wild cry of hunger. Smashing an Ironborn’s head into pulp and pieces of skull, the Demon of the Trident roared once more as his hammer swung, and Ned grunted as a renewed vigor filled him. Pushing off the ground, he slashed apart an Ironborn’s back, trying to attack Jory, before he moved towards the Martell Prince, intent on helping the man who had saved his life as he saw him dance around two Ironborn at once.

Ahead of them, Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister both moved like they were dancing, effortlessly shielding Robert while killing man after man with such ease that Ned almost stopped and stared. Thankfully, the arrows coming from behind him had stopped entirely, which meant his sons had done their work, and he grunted, swinging Ice to behead the man in front of him, his eyes meeting Oberyn’s as the Martell prince swayed away from a wild axe.

Ice swung once more, catching the unaware man as Ned slashed the back of his neck, almost severing it. “Thanks,” the man nodded, taking a deep breath as he picked up his sword, and Ned nodded as he too took in a deep breath, the sting in his leg hitting him more as he shifted slightly to alleviate the pressure. His wince however, did not go unnoticed as Oberyn’s eyes shifted to his leg, and man whistled, “Fucking impressed, Lord Stark. I can see why everyone fears the Northmen.”

“Hard lives create hard men, Prince Oberyn,” he answered as he stood side by side with the man, camaraderie beginning where the differences of his thoughts had ended, “I am too old for this now.”

“Hah! Speak for yourself!”

Thankfully, the Ironborn priests didn’t number anything beyond a couple dozen, and with the advantages they had in skill, armor, and experience, it was a trifle matter of dealing with them once the arrows stopped. Bones crunched under Robert’s hammer, while the Kingsguard cleaved through limbs and heads alike in a display of swordsmanship that humbled them all. Their soldiers too, employed the spears and shields effectively, guarding the injured Lords, impaling any who came close. For a moment, Ned thought he caught sight of Aeron Greyjoy amidst the men who had tried to swarm Robert and Tywin, but another reaver came at him, and he lost sight of the men in the robes and clashing steel as Ice claimed another life.

Within five minutes, it was over. Ironborn lay dead across the ground, and blood flowed across the stones in streams as Ned slowly walked towards where Jory was standing with three other Northern soldiers. Jon and Robb both jumped off the rocks encircling them from opposite edges of the clearing, blood on their armor and blades, and Ned exhaled a thankful breath as he saw none of it was theirs.

“Father!” They both cried out at the same time as their eyes snapped to the arrow still buried in his shin, and Ned heard Robert curse a moment later. Slowly leaning onto Jory as the man offered his shoulder, he smiled at his sons as they came to a stop before him.

“Good work Robb, Jon,” he grunted out, “Don’t worry about me, I have had worse.”

He hadn’t really, but the boys didn’t need to know that.

“NED!”

‘Old Gods help me.’

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“-enly! Lord Renly! Someone get a Maester, Lord Renly is waking up!”

Blackness cleared away from his eyes, and Renly coughed as he felt the roughness in his throat as the sound of thunder cracked through his ears once more.

Was he in Storm’s End?

Thankfully, whoever was by his side understood his need, and he felt a flagon pressed against his lips. He drank in greedily, tasting the medicine mixed inside the cool, refreshing water and feeling the coolness seep inside his body from his stomach. 

Clamor came from outside the tent, and Renly watched as a Maester entered the space, but something about his vision felt off to him, Frowning as he saw much less on the left than he was accustomed to, Renly slowly reached up, feeling the ache in his arm as he saw the bandages covering its length. But yet, a sinking feeling grew inside him as despite the protests of the Maester and men crowding his bed, Renly pressed his bandaged hand against his face.

Scarred tissue met his hand, the sensation of uneven skin reaching his fingertips despite the bandages in the way, and Renly choked in his throat as he felt the cool metal where his left eye should have been. Images flashed back to his mind as he remembered just what had happened when he had last been awake. They had been leaving the city as the wildfire explosions had started, and he realised the Red Keep was sure to have some underneath it. 

It had happened just as they had started to cross the Street of Steel to reach the Mud Gate. The pirates had struck from that very part of the city, and it had become a big mess of raging fires and still spamping people. When an arching beam had crushed two of his men right ahead of him, they had decided to turn around and exit through the next gate before rounding around the edges of the city to reach the Kingsroad South. However, right then, another explosion shook the fishmonger square, and Renly had felt his horse throw him off, before he had evidently fainted.

“Ki-King-ackh!” he coughed midway, but it seemed the Maester understood his question, for a sombre expression overtook his face, and the old man sighed, nodding in the direction of the tent entrance as he looked at one of the soldiers.

The man moved and pulled open the curtains, and for a moment, Renly forgot the aches in his body and the sting of his wounds as he beheld the sight. Rain fell in torrential downpour, and lightning flashed through the sky as a storm raged above them.

Only, it was not Storm’s End as he had thought.

Smoke rose in great, billowing clouds despite the harsh rain, and Renly watched the emerald fire still rage inside the smoking, ruined hell that King’s Landing had become. In the distance, the Red Keep loomed, crumbling and burnt with green fire still shining while there. The Great Sept of Baelor was nowhere to be seen, its dome and parapets gone in the black smoke that hid most of the city from his view. 

The next moment, Renly felt the shock and weakness hit his body like a punch from Robert, and Renly collapsed back on his bed.

Half-blind and burnt.