The Good, the Bad, and the Surprisingly Competent - ASOIAF SI

[DKottar]

Love the chapter! Captures Sansa really well, I think.

 

[Prognostic Hannya]

Excellent chapter, you really got Sansa's voice.

 

[KenNM]

As always, a marvelous job done

 

[Killya-Caesar]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[Jetrick Mcfalcon]

Loved the chapter and I really like the Tywin and Tommen team up when negotiating with Nestor.

 

[Reshi48]

Amazing story. Thank you so much for writing this! I always wondered about a Tomme. Baratheon story, but never found a good one. And this is not just good but great! Truly, thank you for such a hidden gem!

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 51: Jaime VI

No great host encircled Raventree, as one had Riverrun.

No, this affair was a far more intimate one. Seemingly the last chapter in a sordid tale that went back centuries. At best it seemed Bracken could boast five-hundred men around the Blackwood keep. There were no siege towers, no battering rams, nothing to suggest any serious attempt had yet been made on the keep itself. It seemed that Bracken saw no sense in haste. Clearly no attempt had been made to storm the walls, to break down the gates.

Lord Jonos seemed instead content to merely starve his hated enemy out. Doubtless there had been arrows exchanged at first, but now they were almost a year into the siege. The orchards and fields around Raventree Hall had long since been stripped bare, and the meat of Jonos Bracken's force sent home to defend Stone Hedge. In a sense it was genius. Undisciplined and bored as his troops were, Bracken needed nothing more than patience to ensure his house's ascendancy. So what if some Blackwood men slipped through his lines? It would only weaken the garrison holding the keep, and they'd find no succour for miles. In such a state, urgency would only undermine his position.

But with eyes boring a hole into the back of Jaime's head, and Tommen's orders rubbing his breast raw beneath his mail, Jaime could see nothing but the need for haste. Though Daven could be trusted, Jaime could not help but feel that sooner or later the truth of his journey north would be revealed - and striking against the Twins would become all the more bloodier an affair without surprise at his side.

Nevermind the wolves that stalked his dreams.

The sentries around the main Bracken camp eyed his column with fear as they approached, Jaime resplendent at the helm of his men. No, not fear. Curiosity. Nobody sounded the alarm as he rode plainly into their camp, even though men bearing spears and swords lined his path, cloaks wrapped tight around shoulders to ward away the autumn cold, idly watching him pass them by on his way to the command tent. It was plain enough to see, brown and big at the centre of it all, flying the Bracken banner. Jaime dismounted quietly, held his men at bay.

Approaching the tent he could hear voices. A man and a woman. Twitching aside the tent-flaps revealed what Jaime had already suspected.

There was Lord Jonos's bare arse, his cock buried balls-deep, his head submerged between the whore's ample breasts, nuzzling and nibbling. The woman's own head was thrown back, face flushed, eyes screwed tightly shut, lips letting out moans and curses and enticements to fuck her harder and faster that seemed - to Jonos's credit - only half-fake. Her legs were wrapped tight around Lord Jonos's waist, her hands in his hair, tugging and stroking.

Jaime could not help the smile on his face as he crept towards them. He watched the frenzy for a moment, then loudly cleared his throat. "Lord Jonos."

The woman screamed, Jonos cursed, snatched up his blade and tipped the point in Jaime's way, exposing himself fully as he pulled out of his whore. "Who dares-" Then he saw Jaime's golden breastplate, and the point of his sword - mid swing - froze in place. "Lannister?" was the only word from his lips before he lowered his blade and covered his cock with his free hand.

"I am sorry for the interruption, lord," Jaime apologised, struggling to hide the shit-eating grin that fought so hard for control over the corners of his mouth, "but I am in some haste. May we talk?"

Lord Jonos looked like he was sucking a lemon, face flushed with embarrassment and the lasting pangs of unsatisfied lust, but reluctantly he nodded, reached down to a pair of discarded breeches on the ground and regained some of his dignity. Yet as he finally raised his head to Jaime's level, the anger in his eyes was poorly hidden. "You took me unawares, my lord," he explained. "I was not told of your coming."

Jaime smiled at the women in the bed, left to cover herself with her hands, sumptuous flesh spilling between her fingers, nipples poking proudly through, cunt left free in the air. "Are all your camp followers so modest?" he teased.

"I'm not a whore," the woman retorted before Lord Jonos could answer.

Jaime nodded, utterly unashamed as his gaze flitted between her eyes and teats. "My apologies."

Jonos saw Jaime's gaze. "Go on then, Hildy," he told her. "Drop your hands. Lord Lannister wants to see you bare." Hildy hesitated a moment, then dropped them, any pretence of shame abandoned with a sultry, almost Dornish, demeanour. Not as pretty, nor as perky as Cersei, Jaime reckoned. Yet where his sister had to make do with teats the size of apples, Hildy boasted breasts easily twice, maybe thrice the size. Impressive in their own right.

"Do you have a wife, ser?" she asked him as she straightened her tousled hair, turning her back to him and bending provocatively down to retrieve her small clothes.

Jaime simply tugged at his cloak in reply. "I have taken a vow," he told Hildy, almost mournfully.

Jonos saw Jaime's predicament and came to his rescue. "He's seen enough, slut," the lord said, dismissing her with a harsh slap to the behind. "Now get out."

Hildy left, Jaime eyeing her retreat through the tent-flaps. "What brings you here, lord?" Jonos began. "I heard you caught the Blackfish. Has he bent the knee?"

"Has Lord Blackwood?" Jaime retorted. The Blackfish had been quiet the whole way north, not saying a word to Jaime as he rode with his hands bound. His gaze was icy cold, eyes demoralising to meet for the poorly-hidden hatred within them. He'll come around, Jaime told himself, though every passing day made him more doubtful. Tommen told me to send him to the Wall. The truth had not yet been revealed, of course, but still that was no guarantee the Blackfish would agree to work with him.

Jonos snorted. "Tytos Blackwood will be eating his own boots before long. They'll be down to rats by now. By the next turn of the moon, Raventree will have fallen."

Jaime shook his head. "No, my lord. Raventree falls today. I mean to offer him terms and bring him back to the king's peace."

Lord Bracken's face shifted at that, expression tightening with reservations. "I see... And what will those terms be?"

Jaime shrugged. "The usual sort. Lord Blackwood will be made to forswear his allegiances to Stark and Tully, and to confess his treason before the crown. I'll take one of his as a hostage. Some gold, too."

"Merciful," Jonos noted. "One might even say it was overly merciful. Yet what of the lands and castles we were promised?"

Jaime nodded. Tommen had alluded to this in his letters. "Lands you were promised for subduing the Blackwoods. Yet the Stark banner still flies from Raventree Hall."

"Then give me sufficient men, my lord, and let me prove my worth. If you want Raventree tonight, I'll serve it to you on a platter. No need to make terms with one as treacherous as Lord Tytos. I'll bring you his head on a stick. Your father promised me those lands. I fought for you. Your Mountain put my lands to light and raped my daughter. It is said that all Lannisters pay their debts. Those lands are mine by right. The Blackwoods are starved, spent."

"Spent," Jaime agreed, "but not subdued. And you spent longer fighting for Lord Stark than you did fighting for the crown."

"Aye, I did my duty, so long as the Young Wolf treated me fair. And I'll do my duty for you, so long as I'm treated fair."

"Smart man. Well, never let it be said that Jaime Lannister is an ungenerous sort. I'll see to it you get an appropriate portion of the lands."

That seemed to mollify Jonos somewhat. "If I may offer my counsel, lord, it does not do to be too kind to these Blackwoods. Treachery runs in their blood. You would do well to remember that when you are making terms."

Jaime nodded as he turned his hand to the tent-flaps. From his mouth came the command, and without delay he was ahorse, riding at sedate walk to the moat around the Blackwood keep, one of his men bearing the standard of peace beside him. Soon enough the sound of chains could be heard, and the drawbridge began its slow descent.

Lord Blackwood emerged into view, gaunt and pale, barely filling out his burnished scarlet plate, sitting atop a horse so starved its ribs were showing.

"Lord Tytos," Jaime greeted him cheerily. "Thank you for allowing me to enter."

"I will not say you are welcome. But I will not say you are unwelcome either."

"I have come to put an end to this bloody mess. Your men have fought valiantly, but alas for naught. Will you yield?"

Tytos nodded slowly. "To His Grace, or to you." He spat on the ground. "Not to Jonos Bracken."

"Well enough."

"Will you come inside?" Tytos asked. "My knees have precious little flesh on them these days. I would prefer to kneel on a fine rug than on a flagstone."

Having deemed such terms agreeable, Jaime dismounted and followed Lord Tytos into his keep and up the steps to the stagnant cold of his solar, his hearth notably barren. "We ran out of firewood a few moons ago," he explained. Even here, the cold had penetrated deep enough to leave a few wisps of mist trailing up from Lord Tytos's mouth when he spoke. Nothing like a full autumn morning plume in the open air, but notable all the same.

They settled in to talk opposite each other, Jaime relishing the respite from his saddle in the soft cushions of his high-backed chair.

"For honour's sake I must ask after my liege," Tytos began.

"Ser Edmure bent the knee and was granted leave to remain lord of Riverrun, albeit with his land holdings greatly diminished. His wife is there with him, still heavy with child last I checked. So long as he doesn't countenance any talk of rebellion again, or do any other fool thing, I expect he should live a long and healthy life - though neither he nor anyone from his house will ever be known as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands again."

Tytos nodded. "An honourable and merciful punishment," he noted, his lips struggling to hide the question on his tongue.

"Rest assured it was not my idea," Jaime answered the implicit question. Even if his moniker as Kingslayer had been ill-earned, most Riverlords still saw the last name Lannister and presumed him the same ruthless killer. As much as he had come to loathe it, the reputation it carried still had some use. "Nor my father's. His Grace insisted that young Lord Edmure be given a second chance. He hopes to repair any damage done, put past quarrels and spats behind him, and rule as king of a quiet, pleasant, and prosperous country."

Hopeful puzzlement was now on open display on Lord Blackwood's face. "That is glad news, I think. I wish His Grace well in his hopes."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear it. Now, shall we talk terms?"

Lord Tytos nodded tiredly. "Is this the part where I kneel?"

"Spare your bones, Blackwood," Jaime told him. "When the Maesters ask, I'll tell them you bent the knee."

With an agreeable tone struck, it did not take long to haggle out the details. Gold and silver was paid for the Blackwood's pardon, grain was sequestered to fill Lord Tytos's barren larders. Jaime laid down the terms, and Tytos accepted them with barely a token argument. Tytos was gracious enough even on the issue of his lands, though when he heard the Brackens would get a portion as well as the crown a mighty scowl furrowed his brow. But still, he acceded to Jaime's demands.

Jaime braced himself. "We are nearly done, then. Save one issue. A hostage."

Tytos shifted in his seat, suddenly visibly more guarded. "Yes, my lord."

"I know you have a daughter."

Lord Tytos flinched. "Please, my lord. She's a gentle girl, only eight. She has never known life beyond these lands. I have four sons yet living, lord. Take one of them, if you must. But spare my little girl. My sons are young and thirsty for adventure. One is twelve, another fourteen. One martial, the other bookish."

I've gone soft, Jaime thought. He let the silence linger a moment, then nodded. "I'll take the bookish one," he said.

"Hoster," Tytos nodded. "I'll have him ready in short order." Tytos hesitated a moment. "Might I suggest claiming one of the Bracken daughters as well? Lord Jonos was not man enough to sire a son. Still, treachery runs in Bracken blood. It would not be wise to leave them be."

Funny, Jaime thought, though he was not truly amused. That's what Jonos said about you.

And with that, Jaime re-emerged into the brisk air, found Hoster awaiting him by the stables.

The boy gave a nervous bow and introduced himself with a poorly-hidden grin. "Lord, I am Hoster, your hostage."

"He'll serve you well till Kings Landing," Tytos declared.

"It is not his service I worry about," Jaime replied. "One misstep, and I'll not hesitate to send you the lad's head."

Any trace of warmth wilted from Tytos's face. Beside him, Hoster grew pale. "Aye. I remember your name, Kingslayer. Rest assured, I'll not turn my cloak."

"Well enough, I must be away. The Twins await."

"If I may make one more plea to you, my lord," Tytos spoke. "My son passed during the Red Wedding. The Freys have not returned his bones."

Jaime mounted, grasping the reigns with his good hand. "I'll see that they do," he said, and then started his horse at a walk, Hoster following atop his own mare. Past the castle gates and across the drawbridge they went, where Lord Jonos was awaiting them.

"Tytos cheated you," he said, pointing at Hoster. "Weaker than a woman, that one. He'll be no use to you."

Hoster scowled, but was smart enough to keep his peace.

"Have you any children, Lord Jonos?" Jaime probed, following Lord Tytos's counsel.

After Jaime had claimed his second hostage of the day, he rode away with Hoster in tow, Lord Jonos's silent fury bidding them farewell. His men formed up and followed behind him, Daven settling in besides him. Neither outlaws nor wolves troubled them as they went, but still Jaime's unease grew with every yard. Up the road they went, a thousand sets of hooves kicking up clouds of dust in their wake.

The hours passed in silence, plains and hillocks passing by. They forded two streams, Daven testing the frigid water's depth with a waist-high stick. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding that seemed to quieten the usual chatter. Jaime took in the landscape, draped in golden dusk, nose reddening from the cold as the scant warmth of the autumn sun faded well before its time.

They made camp for the night in the shell of a village, homes burned and peasants long sent fleeing or slaughtered, evidenced by the half-rotted bodies strewn about. The Mountain's work. Campfires lit up as Jaime's company settled in for the night, flames dancing merrily with the breeze. The smell of smoked mutton permeated the air, one last meal before the massacre. But it all tasted of ash on Jaime's tongue. Like the ash falling from the sky.

No, not ash, Jaime realised, watching a lone flake melt on his fingertip. Snow. There went Tommen's harvest. Ruined before it could be reaped. Starvation would surely follow.

Did Tommen foresee famine? Jaime wondered, suddenly feeling hollow. Or was the grain truly meant to be more than just a ploy?

Jaime shook his head, threw down his meat, arose to his feet, took a deep breath to brace himself, and turned to the task he had been dreading the past few days.

The Blackfish greeted him with the same baleful stare, hair greasy, food sitting barely touched besides him, clean-shaven face sporting the beginnings of a beard, hands bound tight together. He was half-draped in shadow, caged for the moment in the burnt-out ruin of some poor villager's hut, walls blackened by soot, roof half-collapsed in one corner, floors stained with what was either stale blood or shit. He offered Jaime no greeting.

Can Tommen see me now? Jaime wondered.

"I trust you find your accommodations comfortable?"

"I've been sitting on a bed of roses," Brynden cut back, his voice caustic, dry from disuse. "Why am I here, Kingslayer? Did you drag me all this way just to gloat? To make me watch?"

"No."

"You spoke of justice."

Jaime nodded, his throat suddenly dry. "Get up, ser."

The Blackfish eyed Jaime suspiciously. Nevertheless, he hauled himself laboriously to his feet, blue eyes searching Jaime's features for whatever deception he'd been expecting to find. I'm the same boy you told of the Band of the Nine, Jaime wanted to say. The same lad who asked for tales of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, all those long years ago. Alas, to Brynden Tully Jaime was now nought but the lion on his breast. Kingslayer forever more, even if the stain that had given him the name had never truly existed in the first place. Even if everyone knew the truth.

"Hands." Jaime commanded, gesturing to the Blackfish's restraints, letting his impatience cover for his apprehension. Ser Brynden offered up his arms, and Jaime looped his hook around the ropes, gilded steel slowly working, fraying the rough fibres with every turn of his elbow. "You hate me," he said as he worked, as though it were fact.

Ser Brynden cocked his head, blue eyes cold as ice, so close his breath tickled Jaime's beard. His silence was cause for hope, at least.

"As much as you hate Walder Frey?"

The Blackfish let slip a black breath of joyless laughter. "Is this your justice, Kingslayer?"

"You say you want to duel me."

"Aye."

"As much as you want to duel Walder Frey?"

Ser Brynden hesitated a moment. "No."

Jaime tugged hard at the ropes around Brynden's wrists, severing what remained in one clean stroke, letting the scraps fall to the ground. "You're in luck, Blackfish. His Grace thinks most unkindly of those who break guest right."

The Blackfish raised a lone brow, searching Jaime's features as he rubbed his wrists and flexed his fingers. "Does he? Or do you?"

Jaime didn't answer the man's question. "When we enter the Twins, can I trust you to keep your head? At least till the bloodletting begins? To stay your hand from taking the head of any who did not partake in your niece's death?"

"Aye, so long as I can take Walder's."

"And I can trust you with a blade?"

For a long moment, Ser Brynden's only answer was silence. Then, for the first time, the Blackfish met Jaime's gaze and smiled. Not kindly. Not warmly. But it was a smile all the same.

"Give me one and find out."
----------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Wolffils]

Welcome back.

 

[AAALLlIII333]

Great to see you post again. I real like this smart Jaime.

 

[Jetrick Mcfalcon]

Really glad to see this updated again.

 

[lomantr]

Love this fanfic. Thank you.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 52: Victarion IV

Victarion felt his blood sing.

This was right. To his port and starboard were ships of the Iron Fleet as far as the eye could see. Atop the prow of the Iron Victory he stood, axe in one hand, half-empty wineskin in the other. The drums beat a steady rhythm for the oarsmen. Ahead, Starfish Harbour awaited, a token force of Manderly ships sat floating in the way - no more than two-dozen - to deter an approaching fleet more than a hundred strong.

Several had warned him to stay back, that a king's place was not at the very front. And thus far he had heeded them. Yet the Crow's Eye had not fallen in battle, had he? And the gods had not fashioned Victarion for words, after all. It was enough that Harlaw was his hand, to mind the little matters back in the Shields. No, his place was here. To sweep aside whatever token resistance the greenlanders could muster, to drape himself in enough glories to make all envious.

Besides, there had been scant danger when they last probed the Arbor's defences. His legitimacy was built, at least in part, upon his strength at arms. If he sat behind his men now, like a woman, it would not bode well for the strength of his claim to the Seastone Chair.

Yet not all was well. The sea breeze was flighty behind them, with none of Euron's sorcery to bring the winds to heel. One moment they would billow the Iron Victory's sails, granting them a fresh surge of speed, and the next it was absent, and the next it was pushing back, as though urging the Iron Fleet away. Above, dark clouds were gathering. With the salt spray from below, Victarion could not tell if it had yet started raining, but either way it would not be long now.

As ever, the Storm God tried to frustrate the servants of the Drowned God.

Victarion paid it no mind save a quick prayer. Even if Euron's mongrels had offered him their services to bring the sky to heel, he would have refused. Such heresies were beneath his regard. He had more pressing matters to contend with; the ships before him began to approach, twelve forming a line in front of the mouth of the harbour, masking a dozen behind and what looked like several smaller vessels - fishing boats and barges and trade vessels - scattered between them.

Is this all? Victarion wondered. Even in his wildest hopes he had not imagined such a meagre defence. The Reader had said the Redwyne fleet was off in the Narrow Sea, but had no other Reachlords the wherewithal to defend their fellow greenlanders? Or were the Redwynes the victims of some plot? It seemed likely, given the vessels clogging the Honeywine and Mander.

Yet just as Victarion readied himself for a ramming, the line of ships turned and scattered, half left and half right. A smattering of fire arrows set the small ships alight, bobbing in the waves as they were carried by the current to his starboard. Victarion cursed as he watched near one-third of his fleet tack away to avoid the flames. Yet still some damage was inevitable, and a small handful of carracks caught aflame.

Still, even now, chaos would not persist. Victarion gave his consent for the ships to give chase, and watched as sixty-odd ships peeled away from his fleet to hunt those Redwyne ships fleeing battle. If this was the extent of the Arbor's present naval might, crushing it now was a task worth completing.

Still, even with a shrunken force, Victarion felt confident. The path to Arbor lay undefended, and once their foothold had become entrenched, taking the rest of the Redwyne land would become trivial. The Isle of Pigs and Stonecrab Cay had already fallen to their hands without much blood spilt. Starfish Harbour would doubtlessly be a more difficult prospect, but Victarion had come prepared.

He left his place at the prow, barking orders at his crewmates. The Iron Victory sailed too deep to approach the coast, but his men had rowing boats aplenty to make their way to the beach before the town, bristling with quays and outstretched docks, stripped bare of all ships save a few barges. Aboard they clambered, oars heaving, disturbing water till now almost perfectly still save the occasional pockmark of rain. The land grew nearer and nearer with every passing second, a swarm of rowboats descending on the beach like a silver tide of herring. Eventually they gained ground, leaving their rowboats ready in the sand like lampreys hooked onto flesh, in spite the insistence of the lapping waves.

With an almighty cry, and Nute now by his side, Victarion led the charge, a shower of arrows prickling the sands below their feet as they scrambled for solid ground. Makeshift defences had been erected to fend them away, seemingly half-heartedly. The troops behind the barricades turned and fled the moment Victarion's axe splintered their shields. Fellow reavers at his side, he leapt over sandbags and hacked away. Two fell in panicked flight to the blade of his axe, seven or eight more to his guards.

All across the shoreline, he could see through the rain similar scenes. Some had opted for the beach directly, as he had, whilst others had pulled their boats into the quays and were fighting their way across the docks. His fellow captains struck the defensive lines hard, like the Drowned God's fury made manifest, sending the greenlanders fleeing into the thicket of the town ahead, into narrow streets and alleys and around corners and out of sight. Victarion commanded his men forwards, kicking down the door to the nearest house, intent on slaughtering all its occupants. Yet beside some coins there was little of note to be found. The next house was much the same. All around, he could see discipline wavering.

The taste of victory was already in the air, thick and intoxicating. Men hesitated at doorways, split off into alleys, some already with fistfuls of loot and bags ready to be stuffed with far more. Those defenders who had fled into the town were likely heading for the roads into the forests on the hills above, away from them. Going by the precedent of all the battles they had fought so far, few would remain to oppose them.

Yet even the most craven greenlanders would fight fiercely for their homes. So why were these men so ready to turn their tails? I must tell the Reader when I return, Victarion thought. If there is some rupture in the Reach it could change our prospects again for the better.

Still, rupture or no, now was not the time to begin looting. He rallied those men he could and plunged into the alleys, cutting down all they stumbled across. A few penniless vagrants, the stray town guard. Through deserted streets they charged, a fresh sense of unease growing in the back of Victarion's mind with every step. The sea went in and out of sight as they climbed the gradient, thousands of ironborn flooding the rain-sodden streets like water through a ruptured hull. Yet there was little to find. No women for saltwives, no men for thralls, no children. Starfish Harbour seemed to have been stripped bare of most everyone.

The greenlanders have learned they cannot fight, so instead they flee, Victarion wanted to believe. But he had fought at Pyke. At Lannisport. He had seen how brave a greenlander knight could be. So where are they now?

Starfish Harbour was no trifling settlement to surrender. It hosted many of the shipyards of the Arbor, and was perhaps the third- or fourth-largest settlement on the island behind Ryamsport and Vinetown. If the lords of the Arbor intended to fend off the ironborn, then this town would be central to their efforts. He had presumed till now that there was some grander strategy at play - that the greenlanders were surrendering their peripheries to marshal an insurmountable defence at their core.

Yet perhaps the greenlanders had not been so soft, so craven, as he had believed. Perhaps they had simply been watching, waiting, learning.

Victarion didn't even notice when it first happened. Just a thud. A gurgle. The clatter of armour on stone. He whirled around, and was greeted by the sight of Nute thrashing on the ground, a bolt through his throat, panic exploding out as the ironmen rushed to scatter. Troops seemed to emerge from every crevice and crack. Knights surrounded them, bereft of heraldry, murder evident in the bold anonymity of their approach.

A trap, Victarion thought bitterly, even as he swept his axe in a wide arc before himself, cutting the air in a warning to all around him. What once was a company of more than four-score ironmen dwindled in a matter of moments to half that size, the stench of blood overpowering. From terraces and windows came the crossbow bolts, punching clean through plate and mail. For once the element of surprise seemed to oppose Victarion, and he hated it.

Before long, the clean sweeps of his axe were gone; frenzied slashing and hacking took its place. Air became blood and steel and bone. His shoulder ached as he worked, wrenching free the blade of his axe from a man's ribcage before bringing it immediately back down on another's shoulder. But it was all in vain. Men died with weapons still sheathed, pierced by blades from unseen hands. A spear jabbed at Victarion's side and scraped off his gorget, but the follow-through was too slow. He caught the haft, tore it free, and shattered the shaft across his knee. His axe sang again, biting into flesh, felling another - but for every one he struck down, two more seemed to take their place.

A horn sounded from the rooftops.

Not ironborn, Victarion knew instantly. A signal.

Another volley of bolts screamed down from above. One punched through the throat of a boy from Harlaw, who fell without a sound. His blood joined the puddle growing on the stones, mixing with the rainwater and turning the gutters red.

"Fall back!" someone shouted - he didn't know who. Another man took up the cry, then another. The ironmen were scattering, fear and confusion spreading out like a prairie fire. Not a retreat, not yet - but the chaos frayed their unity like sails in a squall. Victarion roared, cleaving through a knight in a patched cloak, but even he could see it: they were being herded.

Driven into tighter, narrower streets.

A dozen of his men tried to push back toward the coastline, only to be cut down by fresh troops spilling from a concealed alley - silent and grim, armed with axes, swords, spears, maces, cudgels, whatever could punch through mail. There was a trained ease to their movements that betrayed the truth.

Victarion fought his way to a doorway and slammed his shoulder into it. It splintered. He hauled three of his remaining men inside and slammed it shut behind them. They were breathing hard, dripping seawater and blood, faces pale.

A moment's peace.

Then the flames came.

He saw the glow before he smelled the smoke. A street over, the thatch was burning. Another horn, higher this time. Signal fires? Smoke drifted down the alleys and windows, obscuring his vision of battle. They're going to burn us out, he thought. Or blind us. Even if it means burning their own town. Drive us into the open and kill us where we stand. Yet the growing blaze seemed to distract the onslaught as much as it did the ironmen enduring it. Perhaps it is our fire more than it is theirs.

He felt the old rage building in his chest.

"Ironborn don't die like rats lured by cheese," he growled.

One of the men - a squat fellow from Orkmont - nodded. "We still have the boats, if we can get back to the shore. But we're surrounded."

"Then we carve a way," Victarion said.

He clambered up the steps to the highest floor, breaking open a window with his axe. Thunder rumbled far off. Rain conspired with smoke and haze to obscure his vision. But when the wind blew hither and thither, the smoke parted to chart a course. He stumbled back down the steps just in time to see the door be reduced to shreds by a storm of blades and boots, and rushed out the back entrance into an alley, his remaining men at his back.

Columns of smoke curled like eels through the alleys as Victarion pressed forward, axe in hand, boots splashing against the sodden stones of Starfish Harbour's backstreets. His men trailed close behind, gathering stragglers as they went, a grim clutch of ironborn hardened by salt and slaughter. The storm had turned to a steady downpour now, soaking through cloaks and padding, but the fire still burned - choking, oily, clinging to everything it touched.

They fought through intermittent bands of greenlanders and ironborn, emboldened by the chaos, cutting across streets and through alleys and houses. Victarion led from the front, carving a path with steel and fury. A knight in half-plate barred the way in a fishmonger's alley, sword raised in challenge. Victarion did not slow, exhaustion and injury banished by rage. His axe caught the man's blade mid-swing, forced it wide, then crushed his helm like a crab shell. The body fell twitching into the mud.

The alley opened, and suddenly the sea was before them.

And everything was wrong.

The mouth of the harbour - through which he had sailed in triumph mere hours ago - was now blocked, a far larger force than the one that had initially stood against him gutting his hopes of escape. Fire had caught some masts, ironborn sails disappearing in smoke. His ships, a hundred strong, meant for the vast reaches of the sea, were caught in a pond, swarmed by boats both big and small. The Iron Victory stood at the heart of the maelstrom, its sails still proud, its decks crawling with ironmen and reachmen locked in mortal struggle. What ships of his remained free, hunting the meagre fleet he had let slip in his rush to plunder and glory, would not return in time to provide relief - that was if they returned at all.

Victarion staggered forward in disbelief.

A line of soldiers - a dozen at least, shields locked - were advancing across the dock down which he had hoped to escape. From the water's edge, black silhouettes fought back: his men, few now, hard-pressed. He could make out one of his reavers, axe in each hand, bellowing curses as he threw a greenlander into the water. But the rest were falling, and the greenlanders were beginning to sweep the beach.

"No," Victarion said aloud. "No."

One of his men dropped to a knee beside him, blood running from a cut across his face, panting, exhausted. "We're too late."

Victarion clenched his jaw. He was conscious of a throbbing in his shoulder where a stray crossbow bolt had slipped past his notice and through his mail and embedded itself in his flesh. As the rage faded the pain came. The Victory - his flagship, his glory, his home - was floundering in an orgy of steel. And still the greenlanders came, knights and men-at-arms flooding in as if from their seven hells, crossbowmen littering the windows and terraces above.

He was caught between the beach and the blaze. There would be no retreat.

Not by sea. Not by this sea.

The only way out now was back through the streets and up into the hills. Through a wall of greenlanders armed with steel and hate. Then through the forests. Through the inland roads his men didn't know. Through the one place his prayers could not be heard.

Victarion turned to his few remaining reavers, numbers down to scant more than a score. "The Victory is lost," he said, the words tasting like bile on his tongue, dread twisting his stomach. Surrender could still save them, but Victarion knew he could not bear that shame. "Yet we are not. We go back. To the woods. We fight for our freedom, for our way, for our lives, or we die with our axes red."

Someone gave a ragged cry of defiance. Another just nodded. The weight of their situation was settling in now.

Victarion took one last look at the Iron Victory, readied his axe, recited his last rites, and then turned his back to the sea.
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Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[AAALLlIII333]

the Ironborn are good sailors and slavers not soldiers and in a battle where they do not have a surprise attack they can be pushed back with a good strategy.

One thing I like is that you used Tarly to fight the Greyjoy the SI is using his power as king to take back his kingdom and put them under control.

 

[Z3r0Sama]

the Ironborn are good sailors a d slavers not soldiers a d in a battle where they do not have a surprise attack they can be pushed back with a good strategy.

One thing I like is that you used Tarly to fight the Greyjoy the SI is using his power as king to take back his kingdom and put them under control.

Click to shrink...

The Greyjoys have a lot to answer for, they made the Ironborn weak. Just look at how they get kicked about.

Now remember the good old days of the Hoares! When the Ironborn dominated the weak Greenlanders! They held the Riverlands, what was the Crownlands and the Shield Isles. They held it and the North, Vale and Westerlands hid behind their chokes at the Neck, Bloody Gate and Golden Tooth because they knew the would get their shit packed in if they challenged the Ironborn in open combat! Gods those were the days! They were strong then!

 

[iceknight90]

Ironborn Delenda Est.