Shireen Baratheon-Stark-Targaryen
Sky around Torhern's Square.
Flying, like this, with the wind against her face, and padded into a thick fur goat. Seeing the sun rise in the east was still the most amazing thing she had ever done, perhaps second only to marrying Orys. Both filled her heart with joy, as did the child growing within her. It had been two weeks since the maester had confirmed it at Deepwood Motte.
It had been a wonderful but also overwhelming feeling. Orys had told her she would be a great mother, and she had told him he would be a wonderful father. As for herself, she now felt ready, even at four-and-ten. Being married and possibly having a child was a normal thing after you had flowered. Some girls married early. Yet, for the past two years, that had not been allowed for it, and she had been glad it didn't happen, because she found a man she loved. When she flowered at three-and-ten, she had been at the Wall, without any valid options besides some of her father's bannermen. Yet none had truly known her, or even talked to her. Orys had long before they both survived the flames and rode dragons.
Now, she was to be a mother. And if the gods blessed her, it would be a boy. Not that she cared whether it was a boy or girl, but a boy would give Orys the heir he needed, no, that they needed. It would secure the succession. If the gods were just, most of the time they weren't. She would have a another child, a future that could carry on the Baratheon name, she thought with a smile, and rule Storm's End after her.
She looked around, and as the sun began to rise on the horizon, she said, "Time to land, my dear. We can't reveal you yet." She patted the scales of her Silver Lady. Silverwing gave a discontented growl, but she began to circle downward. Shireen watched the sun bathe the land in a golden glow.
As they landed, the freefolk that had been her guards and the other dragons came into view. They were mostly spearwives, but also some men. All of them were still in awe of the dragons. After she dismounted, she gave Silverwing a pet on the snout. "Thanks, girl," she murmured. The dragon gave a purr, and then she walked off.
Nightwing looked at her with protectiveness. Orys had told her it was because of him, that he and Nightwing were connected, and that sometimes either's feelings would transfer to the other. She had noticed it too. Ever since his return, Orys had grown more ruthless, more precise, and his eyes had developed flecks of red that started to appear in them. Yet with her and his family, Orys was still kind and caring.
Then a voice called out to her. "My Queen, we received a reply to the parley offer. Dagmer Celfjaw will meet us after midday," Howland stated with a smile.
"Very well, I'm quite sure my husband will be fine in the parley. Yet we never know these damn Ironborn." She stated with a growl.
"Indeed, we can never know. Just look at Theon, he might not have killed Brandon and Rickon. He still burned two farmboys, captured Winterfell, and by all accounts, betrayed his brother by choice. I heard of how close Theon was to Robb." Howland noted.
"He's dead now, my father saw to it. Offered him to the gods of the North, to make sure the North stayed with him, even ransomed Asha to keep them in line. Yet where is my father now, rotting at Wall, contemplating on what he has done, until he draws his final breath." She added, and felt the pain of betrayal, and he knew it would never go away.
"Indeed, he will, I saw him, my lady, his face breaking with every scream you made. He regretted what he did, and I knew even if he won his wars, he would not have lived, he would become a broken man of what he was." Howland noted as he gave her a sympathetic look.
"Indeed, he would, but no longer speak of my father, let's join my husband. See Torrhen's Square put to rights." She stated.
Outside Torrhen's Square.
The castle was the second-strongest keep she had seen so far. The Last Hearth was larger and had more towers, yet compared to Deepwood Motte, this one looked sturdier, if not grander. Still, she was impressed that the Ironborn had managed to take it, likely by ambush.
Torrhen's Square had four towers and an inner keep, with nine-meter-high stone walls that overlooked Torrhen's Lake. On the far side of the castle was the harbor. She wondered if that was how the Ironborn had taken it that way.
Soon, the drawbridge groaned open. It creaked, slowly lowering, and before long, a big man stepped out. He had grey hair and an ugly, tangled beard; his bulk was wrapped in mail, and a blackened breastplate bore the kraken of House Greyjoy.
Beside him walked a girl, around Shireen's age, if not a little younger.
Her heart clenched. Lady Eddara Tallhart.
The girl's eyes were hollow, and a bruise bloomed across her cheek. Shireen's breath caught in her throat. She prayed to the Old Gods that even Ironborn scum like this still held some decency.
Behind the man and Lady Eddara marched five other warriors, all in similarly armored. Yet less grand than the sea captain.
As they stepped off the drawbridge, the man spat toward Orys.
"King in the North," Dagmer Cleftjaw sneered. "What are you doing here? I acquired this land with the proceeds from the iron price. I even married this pretty little thing. I've a claim now, and soon, my seed will take root."
His gnarled fingers traced Eddara's cheek. The girl flinched away, but he gripped her arm and held her fast.
Shireen felt like she might be sick.
Then Orys spoke, his voice cold and clear. "Yield the castle. If you do, your men will be allowed to leave these shores unharmed. But you, Dagmer Cleftjaw, will die, for what you've done here at Torrhen's Square, and for aiding in the fall of Winterfell."
Dagmer laughed, a wet, mocking sound. "You little twat. I paid the iron price. You can rot outside my walls. Siege if you want, we've stores enough to outlast you. My walls are high. Come and take it."
Orys's stare didn't waver. "Very well," he said. "I am willing to pay the iron price. I offer you a challenge, old man. Fight me one-on-one. If I win, I take the castle, and the rest of your men will be given a choice: lose their heads, or take the black. Lady Eddara will be reinstated as the Lady of Torrhen's Square."
Dagmer's eyes narrowed. There was a flicker there of pride, of ambition. Greed for renown. A chance to kill a son of a Stark.
Shireen's heart quickened. But she knew her husband. If Dagmer accepted, Orys would win, and she had no doubt.
"And if I win?" Dagmer asked.
Orys's voice was grim. "Then your claim to Torrhen's Square will be honored by right of conquest and combat. Even your so-called marriage to Lady Eddara will be recognized."
Eddara's eyes went wide. Tears welled in them.
Shireen's heart ached for the girl. Gods, she thought, she will be shackled to that pig for the rest of her life, she is probably thinking.
She glanced around. Howland, Maege, and Galbart Glover on their horses beside her, all of them looking at the Ironborn with open disgust.
"I accept your challenge," Dagmer growled. "I will fight you, boy. I'll take a son of Eddard Stark from this world, as he and Robert did to the sons of King Balon."
With that, he shoved Lady Eddara into the arms of one of his men.
The two parties withdrew. Orys dismounted and drew Longclaw from its scabbard.
He stepped close to Howland and murmured something low. Shireen caught his expression, and she understood. I know what you intend, husband.
"Be safe," she said, kissing him softly on the cheek. As he went over to her.
Orys gave her a knowing smile and turned to walk toward Dagmer, where the Ironborn waited, axe and shield in hand.
The countryside outside Torrhen's Square was silent, save for the steady creak of banners in the wind.
Dagmer Cleftjaw stepped forward; he now wore a helm that had no visor, revealing a face carved from storms, lined with age and malice, eyes gleaming with bloodlust. A heavy round shield was strapped to his left arm, and in his right hand, he held a brutal axe with a broad, curved blade and the point on the other side salt-rusted from years of pillaging.
Across from him, Orys unbuckled his cloak and tossed it aside. His armor gleamed, steel breastplate displaying the direwolves of House Stark, with shoulder guards, polished greaves strapped over his boots, and chainmail glinting beneath. Longclaw was in his hands, its patterns rippling with shadowed light.
They circled.
Dagmer struck first, quick for a man of his years, his shield raised high as he came in with a sweeping arc of his axe meant to crush bone and break balance. Orys stepped aside with ease, the wind of it brushing his shoulder. He pivoted and slashed, but Dagmer's shield intercepted it with a metallic thunk. Yet Longclaw bit into the steel rim.
"I killed my first man before you were born," Dagmer grunted, pressing forward.
"Well, and you have killed your last, and my face is the last one you will ever see," Orys replied, his voice level.
They clashed again, steel ringing on steel, the shield battering like a ram, the axe a flash of iron fury. Orys gave ground, turning, letting Dagmer swing wide and overcommit. He ducked beneath a crushing overhead strike and slashed for Dagmer's exposed thigh, the hauberk broke, and Longclaw sliced through the padding, yet it was just enough to stop the cut from cutting flesh.
Dagmer stepped back, breathing heavily, his shield raised. He banged it twice with the flat of his axe.
"Come then, pup," he growled. "Let's see what the wolves taught you."
Orys didn't answer. He struck.
Fast. Fluid. Longclaw danced, aiming for gaps in the mail, for wrists, for the hollow beneath the armpit. Dagmer blocked one, two, three strikes with his shield before lunging forward, ramming it into Orys's chest. Orys staggered back two paces. The older man moved in for the kill, axe aiming for Orys' neck.
But Orys twisted to the side, and drove his boot square into Dagmer's knee, and a loud krack was heard, the Ironborn grunted in pain, and stumbled back. Orys seized the moment.
He stepped in close, Longclaw in both hands, and drove the point forward.
The point of the Valyrian blade found the center of Dagmer's breastplate and punched through it with a sickening crunch.
The mail broke under the plate, and she heard Dagmer's bones crack. Orys shoved the sword forward until the crossguard met armor.
Even here, she could see Dagmer choked, blood foamed at his lips.
She saw Orys holding the man's gaze. "Died, you scum of the sea, and when I'm done with Ironborn. The old ways will be done." Orys stated. Then he twisted the blade.
Dagmer crumpled, with a gasp. Orys wrenched Longclaw free with a wet hiss, his breath coming hard now. The Ironborn lay still. Their champion was dead.
Shireen let out a relieved sigh. Then for a heartbeat, there was silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then chaos.
The Ironborn holding Eddara stood frozen in shock.
"No!" one shouted. "Raise the drawbridge!" barked another from the battlements above. The chains screamed as they pulled taut, groaning under the strain. The drawbridge began to creak upward, slowly cutting off their window of assault.
Shireen's eyes snapped to Howland, who stood behind the lines, horn in hand. He gave a sharp nod and raised it to his lips.
The blast rang out like thunder across the field.
And from the treeline to the North, three ballista-sized arrows screamed through the air, missiles of iron and wood hurled by the giants hidden in the woods.
They missed.
One slammed into the stone wall, splintering on impact. Another tore into the corner of the gatehouse, ripping chunks of timber. The third buried itself deep in the earth, useless.
Seven hells, Shireen thought, if they miss again, we'll have to take the castle by storm.
The Ironborn scrambled, trying to drag Eddara inside, but in the chaos, Orys moved.
He was a blur of steel and fury.
He closed the distance in moments, cutting down one man with a slash to the throat. The second tried to run, but Orys caught him mid-step. Longclaw pierced the man from behind, piercing mail and spine alike.
A third raised a spear too slow, Orys grabbed it, and cut the man's throat. The fourth man tried to switch cut, but in the panic, they found Orys' shoulder piece. Orys then drove the pommel of his sword into the man's skull, and she looked as Orys popped out the man's left eye, and cracked the man's nose. The Ironborn dropped to his knees, screaming.
Orys screamed then, as arrows filled the surrounding area, Shireen looked and saw an arrow strike him in the upper leg. As well as one striking of the breastplate, yet in glanced off.
Shireen gasped, her heart lurching as she saw the shaft jutting from his thigh.
More arrows came, and Shireen saw it too late.
But Orys didn't.
With great speed, he turned, pulling the girl into his chest, his own body shielding hers. The arrow struck his back, glancing off the layered steel of his armour. Many thanks for the armorer of Ironrath and their ironwood underpaddings.
Then came another volley of arrow bolts.
This time, they did not miss.
The first arrow struck the right-hand chain of the drawbridge, snapping it clean. The heavy iron whip recoiled with a shriek of tortured metal. The second arrow struck the wood of the bridge itself, sending sharp splinters flying into the defenders nearby.
The third, and final arrow, slammed into the left chain with all the fury of the gods. The weakened links were snapping under the stress.
With a deep crack and a thunderous snap, the final chain gave way. The great wooden span crashed down across the moat, splintered but intact enough for soldiers to cross. A roar went up from behind her, and she looked to see the banners of the North flapping behind, as well as the giants and freefolk. Some of the freefolk were holding banners of a white wolf, while others held news ones. Banners of chieftains of the freefolk, that were now hers and Orys' new bannermen. Sworn to their cause.
The drawbridge shuddered, groaned, and fell. As expected, the portcullis was down, yet it wouldn't be obstocal for long. Soon enough, more arrows came in, some missing, and hitting the gathouse, yet most hit their target. Soon enough, the portocluis was insplinters, and many dead Ironborn lay between the debris.
Maege Mormont bellowed a war cry, and as did the others, the assault had begun.
Orys had returned to them under the cover of a shield; he picked it up.
Shireen rushed forward to Orys, who was kneeling beside Eddara, blood soaking through the mail around his leg.
"Orys!" she cried.
He looked up, grim and palebut still standing. Still strong.
"I'm fine," he said hoarsely. "Get her behind the lines."
Eddara was sobbing, barely able to stand. Shireen wrapped an arm around the girl and called for guards.
Orys rose again, Longclaw still slick with blood. Then the men of the North formed a shieldwall in front of Oyrs and marched. "Men of the North, take Torren's square, leave no Ironborn scum alive." Orys roared as he turned toward the broken drawbridge, where his men were marching.
Shireen held Eddara close and whispered, "It's over. He's here now. You're safe. Come, we return to the camp."
Chapter 16 Maege Mormont
Maege Mormont
Courtyard of Torren's Square
Her mace cracked against another skull with a sickening crunch. The Ironborn's helm buckled, blood spraying across the mud-caked stones. The reek of sweat, steel, and death filled her nostrils.
"Die, you scum!" Maege roared, swinging again, her bear-cloak soaked through. "You're fighting bears from Bear Isle!"
It had been a savage, glorious mess.
The king's duel with the Ironborn chief had been a sight worthy of the old songs. Foolhardy, yes—but bold, and it had worked. Dagmer Cleftjaw's death had cracked the enemy's spirit wide open. And while the Ironborn tried to slam the gates shut and scurry behind their walls like rats, it had already been too late.
They had giants.
Giants who wielded scorpions like toys—flinging bolts thick as tree trunks into the gatehouse, snapping chains, smashing the portcullis to splinters. No wall could hold against that kind of fury.
And when the drawbridge fell with a thunderous crash, they had marched.
A tight, disciplined shield wall, Northmen and wildings, and a few stormlanders, and her.
It was her first battle since the bloody marches through the Westerlands. Maege had missed the sound of it. The weight of the mace in her hand, the scream of foes, the thump of bodies hitting the earth.
Orys, or Jon, as she had once known him, had led them. Even with an arrow wound in his leg, the man had pressed forward like a storm given flesh. He fought like a wolf, but there was something else beneath it, too, a fire, a wrath that reminded her not just of Targaryens, but of dragons.
Now she saw him for what he was. The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna.
And she hated that she hadn't seen it sooner.
Maybe she hadn't wanted to. The Rebellion had cost the North too much. And now, after everything, if they learned part of it had been for nothing. Aerys had needed to fall, yes, but what happened to the rest of the Targaryen was a horror. They wanted change, justice for Rickard, Brandon, and supposedly Lyanna. Yet in the end, Robbert was king, and Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna were all dead.
She marched at his side now, through the bloodied keep.
"Orys," she greeted, her voice gruff.
"Lady Maege," he replied.
His eyes shimmered faintly red, like the eyes of his direwolves, and the red on his house was his sigil. She frowned. "Your eyes…"
"I know, it's been happening more and more. It's clearer now, flecks of red at first. I doubt one can come back from death without side effects." Orys replied sullenly. Then he shook his head and nodded toward the hallway. "Stay with me as we clean this place of the scum," he said, voice hollow, already stepping forward.
They moved as a unit, Orys, Maege, and two dozen spears. A Northman's justice followed in their wake.
Down one corridor, a man came stumbling forward, unarmed, blood on his shirt, shaking.
"Please," he stammered, dropping to his knees. "Spare me, I'll take the black. I swear it."
Orys didn't speak, only growled. He stepped forward. The Ironborn barely had time to flinch.
With one clean, downward stroke, Longclaw opened the man from navel to groin.
The man's eyes went wide in agony. He let out a choked gasp and crumpled forward, intestines slipping through his fingers as he hit the floor.
"Pathetic," Orys muttered, voice colder than the Wall. He stepped over the dying man and kept moving.
Maege said nothing. They swept through the keep like a winterstorm or fiery blaze, room by room, hall by hall. No parley. No mercy.
The Ironborn tried to hide. To flee. To kneel and beg. Orys gave them all the same response. Death by nightfall, three hundred and twenty Ironborn lay dead.
Only one was left alive.
The last one they found in the great. Hiding in a damn closet. He was dragged out into the courtyard where the dead were already piled up. Where the men were raising the banners of the Starks and Tallhart.
"This one lives," Orsy growled, shoving the wounded raider to his knees. Maege looked at him questioningly, as did the rest who surrounded them.
The man looked up, his face bruised, his lips split, one eye shut from swelling, a small hope rising in his eyes.
Yet Orys looked at him like a man appraising cattle.
"Don't worry, this one…" he said slowly, "will not be sent to the Wall."
The Ironborn looked further hopefully.
"I will feed your guts to a heart tree," Orys said, voice low. A small smile crossed his face as the ironbron paled, and he shit himself. "In the Wolfswood. And let your screams echo through the woods until even the Drowned God hears them and knows this: the old ways are dead."
After that, the man was dragged toward the dugenos; however, the man pleaded for mercy.
He turned to Maege.
"Send word around, I want the castle cleared by in two days. We hold a council meeting in the morning to discuss our next steps. And in the morning, we honor our dead and the gods."
Maege nodded. "And the girl?" she asked.
"Eddara will rest. We'll give her time. When she's ready and of age, she'll rule this place again. She did have an aunt, still the wife of Robert Glover. She and Robert can be her regents until the time is right. " Orys replied, and she nodded.
"Now, I need to find the maester if he hasn't killed him. Otherwise, find me, Howland. I need stitching for my wound. Tell him to find me in the quest tower." He noted.
"As you wish, my king." She stated that she gave him a small bow and walked away to relay the orders.
Chapter 16 : Orys Stark Targaryen
Orys Stark-Targaryen
Near a heart in the Wolveswood
Torrhen's Square was liberated. The last of the Ironborn were gone from the North. When the time came, they would either submit to his rule—or face his wrath. And if they chose defiance, he would unleash fury upon their isles, as Theon the Red had done on Andalos, as Johanna Lannister had once brought down upon the Iron Islands after the Red Kraken raided the shores of the Westerlands.
Orys clenched his fist. It had become a habit, something bubbling just beneath the surface. The wrath. That old part of him he always felt, the part that wanted to fly to the isles and burn them—burn them like Aegon had burned Harrenhal and Harren the Black.
But not yet.
Now, he had to care for his people, and bring this offering to the Old Gods—something not done in generations. Yet with winter creeping closer, perhaps it was time for some of the old ways to return.
He looked around at the gathered folk. Many had come to see him make the sacrifice: Maege, Howland, Galbart, Asher, and more stood silent beneath the moonlight, waiting for him to begin.
He drew a deep breath and stepped forward.
"Let this be the end of the Ironborn in the North," he declared. "Let this be the beginning of the end for the reaving and the raping of our lands."
He unsheathed Longclaw.
The blade gleamed silver in the moonlight. The man bound to the weirwood whimpered and pleaded once more, begging for mercy. Orys saw weariness on the faces of some of the stormlanders, but curiosity too.
The Ironborn was pale, his breeches fouled. Orys placed the tip of Longclaw against the man's belly. The man shuddered, and his bowels loosed again. The stink rolled off him, but Orys pushed through it and pressed the blade slowly into his gut.
The man screamed as Longclaw sank in. Slowly, deliberately, Orys dragged it sideways, carving open the gut. Steam rose in the cold air as entrails spilled out. The man's shrieks became gurgles, then whimpers. Blood mixed with the sap of the weirwood, crimson upon red.He laid Longclaw down.
Then he bent over the man, pale-faced and faint with pain, and gathered the steaming entrails in both hands.
"Please…" the man murmured weakly.
But Orys showed no pity. The Ironborn had shown none to his country. None to the North.
Orys draped the entrails across the low branches, an offering of pain and blood. A sacrifice, as the old kings of winter had done. The man was barely alive until Orys ended it, driving Longclaw through his chest and into the trunk of the tree, letting man and steel pierce the sacred heartwood. He held the blade there a long moment, until it hissed as he pulled it free.
Then came the howling of Shaggydog, wild and long. On Shireen's shoulders, the two young hatchlings hissed and puffed out smoke. And Ghost only stared at him, silent, solemn, his blood-red eyes like the weirdwoods around them.
That night, in Torrhen's Square
He walked alone through a throne room black as night. There were no walls, no torches—only endless dark stretching out beyond the stone beneath his boots. He could not hear his footsteps, yet he knew they echoed. The air clung to him like fog, heavy and still.
Ahead, the floor sloped upward toward a seat of stone, vast and jagged, as if carved from dragonglass. It rose like wings, dragon wings. Upon it sat a woman.
She was young. Silver hair flowed about her shoulders like moonlight on water. Her eyes burned with violet fire. She did not speak. She did not move. But she saw him, and he knew her.
"A dragon has three heads," something hissed inside his skull, soft and urgent.
He turned his gaze upward.
Above her, three dragons circled in silence.
One black as shadow, with eyes like bright rubies. One emerald, with wings tipped in bronze. One pale golden horns and wings. Mix with cream white, a shimmer in the void. They moved without sound, save for the slow beating of three hearts.
To his right stood Shireen, watching in the same silence as him and the women.
Above her wheeled Silverwing, her wings pale as mist. And above him soared Nightwing, his dragon. The largest of them all. His eyes glinted green, speckled with purple. His scales were black as coal, glistening in the dark.
And then, all the dragons opened their jaws and breathed flame.
Their fire rose toward the sky, and above them blazed the sigil of House Targaryen, three-headed, red and burning bright red against the black.
"A dragon has three heads," the voice whispered once more, close as breath.
Orys woke with a gasp, sweat cold upon his skin. Beside him, Shireen stirred, eyes wide and wet with the remnants of the same dream.
Torrhen's Square has been liberated, and the Ironborn have been destroyed. This was retribution pure and simple. They raided the North, and now they must pay for their actions.
One change I've decided to make going forward is to Orys's eyes. Over time, his eye color will shift, becoming red, like Ghost's. It's a subtle transformation, but an important one. It also represents the change of Orys/Jon becoming more ruthless and wrathful.
As for the dream, it's only the first of many. Soon, the identity of the other head of the dragon will be revealed, though I suspect some of you may already have your guesses. You're probably not wrong.
Thanks, as always, for reading. I've got a few ideas for what comes next, still deciding which path to take first.
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