Harry stared into the turbulent seas from his war camp. A small storm had descended upon the seas, turning the waters around Pyke treacherous. This state of the sea ruled out a naval blockade of Pyke. The ships under his command had retreated to the safe harbour of Lordsport.
But that didn't mean Pyke was saved from the ravages of war. If anything, the hurdle only made Harry order a relentless siege.
He made sure the catapults shattered each one of the towers of Pyke and brought them down upon the stubborn Ironborn cowering inside the castle. Even when he offered them terms and made them aware Victarion was his prisoner, the Ironborn were stubborn enough to reject his mercy.
So, Harry made sure he never had the misfortune of suffering their existence.
The sound of bombardment stopped suddenly, leaving the battlefield silent save for the crashing waves and the whistling of wind in his ears.
'Hmm. The battle should be winding down.' Harry mused as he leisurely sipped the finest wine he brought from his cellar.
The sound of hooves suddenly attracted his attention. Harry remained seated outside his tent, keeping his eyes on the sea turtle nibbling on a piece of meat he threw away.
Harry heard the sound of hooves draw near and stop before his keen ears picked up on the clinking of armour. The guards standing vigil around his tent allowed the messenger to approach his side.
"My prince, word from Prince Jon from the frontlines. Pyke has fallen." the rider said.
"Finally!" Harry jumped to his feet and stretched his limbs. "It's time to finish this for good."
Harry rode out of the war camp, quickly joined by Fenris, who was excited at the prospect of a battle. The few skirmishes he had come across whilst marching against the Ironborn were of great interest to his direwolf companion. He didn't know why, but Fenris seems to have developed a taste for Ironborn blood. His wolf had taken great pleasure in jumping at unsuspecting Ironborn soldiers to tear open their necks.
"Behave, Fenris. There might be some danger lurking in the ruins of the castle." Harry warned his companion, but Fenris showed no signs of a dip in his excitement at the prospect of battle.
When he finally reached the frontlines, he saw the rubble left in the place of House Greyjoy's castle. The ruins of Pyke steamed in the morning light. Smoke still coiled from the fallen gate tower. Ironborn bodies lay strewn across the rocks like driftwood. The wildfire jars had left a pile of blackened rocks in place of some of the castle's towers.
The land now smelled of blood and smoke. He saw some of the dead floating in the churning sea. He turned his eyes on his army and saw the men stare silently back. What remained of Pyke's jagged beauty now lay in ruin—its bridges shattered, its halls gutted, its iron walls slick with blood.
He dismounted his horse when his men brought Victarion Greyjoy to the forefront.
Harry stood on the shattered remnants of a tower's courtyard, where the stone was scorched black from wildfire and the corpses of men—Northmen and Ironborn alike—were strewn in the dirt like discarded dolls. His direwolf, Fenris, prowled beside him, ears flat, fur slick with water. The beast's breath steamed in the damp air, the only sound save for the crash of waves and the crackling of dying fires.
At the centre of it all knelt Victarion Greyjoy, stripped of his armour, hair matted with seawater and blood. His once-proud face was swollen and broken, yet his eyes burned with undiminished fury. He was bound at the wrists with chains with which the Ironborn had taken glee to bind thralls to row their ships.
Harry stared at Victarion in silence. His sword, Godkiller, rested in his gloved hands. The steel shimmered like moonlight, and Harry wielded it with practised ease. His cloak, once bearing the black direwolf of House Stark of Avalon, was ripped and darkened, heavy with seawater and ash. Though he had made Godkiller for killing the enemy spirits, he found it necessary to do this deed with the sword that fell from Doom of Valyria.
After all, with one swing of his sword, he was about to end the story of the Ironborn for good.
Harry stared into the maddened eyes of his enemy, who held nothing but spite in his eyes.
"Do it, boy. Pay the iron price if you dare." Victarion spat a glob of blood at Harry's feet.
"You, Victarion Greyjoy, will not be remembered. You'll be forgotten in the tide of time, just another petty pirate who thought himself a king powerful enough to challenge House Stark and the North." Harry said with a snort. "With your death begins the end of the Ironborn plague in this continent. Thousands of years of your kind's barbarity end in one bloody war."
The chains clinked as Victarion lunged, trying to rise, but Fenris snarled, teeth bared, and the Ironborn froze.
Victarion regained his wits when Fenris calmed down on Harry's order.
"You want vengeance?" Victarion sneered. "Then you've learned from us, haven't you? You've become what you hate."
"Hate? I don't hate the Ironborn. You assume I give much thought to easily disposable scum like you." Harry laughed with a mocking smile. "If anything, I consider you a minor obstacle that should've been eradicated long ago. My only gripe is that I wasted my time dealing with you fools when I could've done something far more productive. But no matter…"
Harry nodded at the Northmen, who formed a ring around them. One of them brought a block of wood and set it on a rock while the other pushed Victarion onto the block, forcing the man to show his head for execution.
"You die nameless and bannerless. Your name will be struck from the memory of this world."
Then, without another word, Harry swung Godkiller.
The blade struck true. In a shower of blood, Victarion Greyjoy's head rolled on the rubble of Pyke.
"Throw the rest of his body into the sea. Let the fish have a feast of this fool." Harry ordered while he cleaned the blood from Godkiller and sheathed it.
"Brother." Jon acknowledged forcing his horse to a stop beside Harry.
"Are there any survivors left?" Harry asked as he too climbed on his horse.
"The chances are slim. If there are, I have tasked the men to make sure there are none." Jon said.
"Good, come with me. Let Lord Fisher handle the rest." said Harry, turning his horse away from the rubble after Harry cast one last long look at the fallen castle.
"Some remnants of Victarion Greyjoy's army have fled to the interior of the island. I suspect we will see increased bandit activity on the island for some time." Lord Fisher said, having chased some of the fleeing Ironborn to the edges of the woods.
"They will have to be dealt with." Harry commented.
"I shall send men to hunt them down, my prince."
"Have it done – fast. We don't have much time to dally on this island."
"With Pyke and Lordsport in our hands, where shall we strike next, brother?" asked Jon.
"Saltcliffe." Harry said shortly before riding towards the camp.
The days that followed were filled with motion—steel ringing against steel, shipwrights hammering, ravens flying. Blacksmiths from Deepwood Motte worked beside Ironborn thralls, reforging broken blades and patching hulls.
In the docks beneath Pyke's cliffs, the fleet made ready. Sails were repaired, hulls tarred, and provisions loaded. The Northern banners flew beside the direwolf: Manderly mermens, Cerwyn axes, Mormont bears and Forrester trees—all gathered for a single purpose.
Each night, Harry and Jon would inspect the progress of the ships and speak with the captains.
By the fifth night, the plan was in motion. After some rushed patchwork, a swift strike at Saltcliffe was decided, and the ships were ready to sail once more. With this, a new phase of the war was opening. It was the phase of the war that required them to wipe out the Drowned God religion from its roots.
******
"We have received word from Pyke, my lord." Harras said with a grim note.
Rodrik closed his eyes, knowing it must not be good news. His niece might accuse him of treason and a cold heart, but he cared about her inheritance all the same. He wanted his sister's children to live their lives to the fullest.
But that was now a distant dream thanks to the actions of his niece.
"What happened?" he asked curiously.
"It's to do with Asha, my lord." Harras said.
Rodrik rubbed between his eyes, feeling a headache from thinking about his troublesome niece.
Unfortunately, Asha was too blinded by rage and pride to see that the Old Ways were no longer conducive to their survival. The Ironborn were no longer the strongest naval power in the Sunset Sea. This was a singular fact some of his fellow Ironborn refused to acknowledge, and they were suffering for it.
He was disheartened to see his people suffer the ravages of war. But he knew this was necessary. The North under House Stark was waging a brutal war. When the dust settles, he hoped the Ironborn would embrace change as opposed to clinging to the Old Ways that brought them nothing but steel, blood and death.
Therefore, he had written off Asha and her cohorts. He knew their survival was slim considering the trajectory they were adopting. It was now inevitable his niece and her foolish supporters would end up earning the ire of the North. When that time came, he was prepared to sacrifice her on the altar of the negotiating table.
"What has my niece done now?" he asked tiredly.
"She is enticing many captains in our harbours to sail with her, my lord. I have warned her repeatedly not to do so, but she doesn't listen. I believe it's time we do something lest she attracts the ire of the wolves on our island." Harras reported with a frustrated look in his eyes.
Rodrik knew why his heir was invested so deeply against Asha. They were privy to the news of Pyke's fall thanks to their connections within the Northern fleet. It was now clear that whatever plans Harrion Stark holds for the Iron Islands, it was not based on House Greyjoy's restoration.
At least, not the way they assumed it'd go. They had thought House Stark would grant Pyke to Theon, but they no longer saw that happening with Pyke destroyed.
Sailors from Harlaw reported that the Northmen were rebuilding Lordsport. To what end, he didn't know. He hoped that House Stark would grant the island to Theon. Though he often didn't show it, he was concerned for the well-being of his niece and nephew.
However, his niece had shown she was going down the wrong path, influenced by grief and wounded pride. He had tried his best to rein her in, but now he had no other option but to let time decide the fate of his unruly niece.
Now, his hopes for House Greyjoy rested on Theon. From what he gleaned so far, his nephew was good friends with the Stark children. He hoped that connection would one day benefit the Iron Islands. He knew of Harrion Stark's plans to curtail the autonomy of the Iron Islands and wipe out the Ironborn culture. However, he hoped Theon could be the bridge through which the Iron Islands could recover even a sliver of their autonomy.
So, he found it less heartbreaking about what he was about to do.
"Harras."
"My lord."
"Expel my niece from Harlaw and any of her supporters. They will have till tomorrow to leave the shores of Harlaw." Rodrik ordered with some reluctance.
"As you wish, my lord." Harras nodded with a relieved expression.
"Also.." Rodrik said before Harras left his chambers. "…make sure the Northerners are warned of my niece's inclinations. We must not give cause for the Northerners to accuse us of treason."
"It will be done, my lord."
Rodrik stared out the window of his tower, watching the seas surrounding his castle. He refused to place his island in a position where his harbours would fill with the massive armada of the North. Even if he had to sacrifice his own blood to protect his people, he was willing to make that sacrifice.
It was that resolution that gave his heart the strength to declare his niece a criminal.
'No doubt, this will further estrange my sister.' Rodrik thought morosely.
But this was the burden of leadership – to save many by sacrificing the few. He hoped the sacrifice was worth it.
*****
The sky above Dragonstone was veiled in ash-grey clouds, and the sea raged with unrest as though it, too, sensed what was coming. From the tallest tower of the keep, Daenerys Targaryen watched the horizon with a forlorn look. Her silver hair stirred in the wind, her violet eyes reflecting the storm-churned waters below.
"Tonight," Melisandre said, stepping beside her, "the sword shall be born."
"So you say." Daenerys said airily.
"Ancient power stirs in the Dragonmont. Its power is diminished, but tonight, the Lord of the Light shall give it the divine spark to light the Dragonmont." said Melisandre.
The ancient volcano that formed the island's heart rumbled softly. Deep within the Dragonmont's belly, lava surged like lifeblood waiting to be called upon.
"Your coming is the fulfilment of an ancient prophecy. From slat and smoke, you were reborn to make the world anew. You are Azor Ahai returned ... and your triumph over darkness will bring a summer that will never end ... death itself will flee at your sight, and all those who die fighting in your cause shall be reborn with the Red God's blessing." Melisandre said passionately, her ruby necklace pulsing with a blood red light.
"Lightbringer… the famed sword wielded by a hero in the fables of Essos." Daenerys whispered with some reluctance to believe.
Though she had to concede that miracles were now a part of her. After all, hatching dragons from eggs turned to stone was a miracle.
"Not fables, your grace. It is the true history of the world, the Great Other and his agents have struggled to suppress for thousands of years." Melisandre said.
When night came, Daenerys followed Melisandre into the bowels of the castle, connecting it to the Dragonmont. Melisandre walked down the long-forgotten corridors with a confident stride as if she knew the place while muttering prayers to the Lord of the Light. The walls grew warmer the further she walked, damp with heat and the scent of rotten eggs.
At last, they came upon it: a chamber carved into the mountain's heart, its floor glowing with runes in an ancient language unknown to her eyes. An obsidian altar stood at the centre, surrounded by blackened stones. Beside the altar stood Euron Greyjoy holding a familiar sword in his hand.
"Forgive me, your grace. I had the blade brought from your chambers for the ritual." Euron said before unsheathing her brother's sword and laying it on the altar.
The sword forged using Valyrian steel in the hearts of the Fourteen Flames, etched with dark ripples, once belonged to someone other than her brother. It used to be the family sword of House Lannister. Its name was Brightroar, the infamous sword last seen in the hands of Tommen Lannister in his quest to claim the treasures of the Valyrian Freehold.
Daenerys was already weary of Melisandre but had followed the Red Priestess to this dark chamber because the flames whispered her to do so. Seeing the crazed glint in Euron Greyjoy's lone eye made her question her decision to abandon all reason to come here without an armed escort.
"What must I do?" Daenerys asked, hiding her apprehension expertly.
Melisandre set the torch in a holder and faced her.
"To forge the sword that will stand against the Great Other, one must give of themselves. Azor Ahai tempered his blade in the heart of Nissa Nissa."
Those words only inflamed her concerns.
"You want me to stab this sword in the heart of someone else?" Daenerys asked with a tremble.
"Of course not, your grace." Melisandre with a knowing smile. "You have the blood of Old Valyria and the blood of kings. Your blood is all that is necessary to ignite the flames and awaken Lightbringer."
Euron plucked a dagger from his belt and presented it to Daenerys.
"Shall I, my queen?" Euron offered with a sleazy smile.
Daenerys reluctantly presented her hand. Euron didn't waste a moment pricking her thumb and letting the blood flow onto the sword.
Melisandre reached into a pouch and scattered a powder across the altar. A gust of wind swept through the chamber. The fires surged forth from beneath the altar while Euron placed Brightroar on the obsidian altar. The runes in the chamber and the altar glowed with otherworldly power for a brief moment before they dimmed down.
"Light your flame among us, R'hllor. Lord of Light, give us wisdom. Lord of Light, protect us from the dark. For the night is dark and full of terrors." Melisandre shouted into the flames.
The chamber plunged into an unnatural darkness with wind howling in Daenerys' ears.
Suddenly, the sword blazed with golden light.
"Lightbringer," Melisandre whispered, falling to her knees.
Daenerys tried to pick the sword from the altar, but it was too heavy for her. Suddenly, she froze as she felt Euron move behind her, far too close for her comfort. Her heart beat faster in fear and something else. She gasped lightly when a hand snaked around her waist and pulled her back against Euron's body.
Euron picked the blade from the altar and raised it above his head, bathing the chamber with light. The stone beneath her feet glowed. The darkness in the corners of the chamber fled.
"I shall wield this sword in your name, your grace. I shall avenge your brother's death by drenching this sword in the blood of your enemies."
AN:
To read ahead of the update schedule; pat(r) eon. C (O) M/Dragonspectre.
For artwork related to the fic:
https://discord.gg/Nw2JH25fJf