The mist, thick and obedient, began to thin just as Loki had willed it. The Serpent's Kiss, followed by the vanguard of his mighty fleet, emerged from the magical shroud like a phantom from the deep, its dragon prow slicing through the choppy grey waters. Ahead, the jagged, unforgiving cliffs of Great Wyk rose from the sea, dark and imposing. This was not the main prize, not Pyke, but a vital staging ground, chosen for its rugged, less-guarded shores where Ironborn strength was typically focused seaward.
Loki stood unwavering at the prow, his Oakhide gripped loosely in one hand. The bone charm, given to him by his mother, still hummed faintly against his palm, a direct link to the swirling energies of the sea and sky. He could feel the pulse of the island now, the faint, unsuspecting stir of life within its cold stone walls. He could also sense the distant, chaotic movements of the Ironborn fleet near Pyke, drawn by the calculated feint of his larger, diversionary force. They were scrambling, bellowing orders, their longships turning to face a phantom threat, leaving Great Wyk exposed. Fools.
"Lower the sails!" Loki's voice boomed, carrying effortlessly over the rising wind. "Prepare for landing! Hakon, you lead the left flank. Thora, the right. No mercy for the weak, no quarter for the defiant. Let the Ironborn feel the true wrath of Skardheim!"
Hakon, his massive frame a shadow against the dawn, responded with a guttural roar, "For Skardheim! For glory!" He raised his own immense battle axe, its edge gleaming even in the dim light. On his drakkar, the men echoed his cry, their voices a chilling, unified bellow that carried across the waves.
Thora, agile and deadly, her red braids whipping around her shoulders, merely offered a grim smile and a sharp nod. "The blood will flow, Jarl," she promised, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her twin axes. Her shield maidens, formidable women who had trained their entire lives for this moment, stood poised, their eyes as cold and sharp as winter ice. They represented a ferocity that few Westerosi had ever witnessed, challenging the very notion of a 'woman's place'.
The drakkars surged forward, propelled by a final, fierce push of the oars. They hit the stony beaches of Great Wyk with a grating crunch, the impact barely disturbing the disciplined warriors within. Ramps clattered down with practiced speed, and like a torrent of steel and leather, the Viking horde poured onto the shore.
The initial resistance was minimal. A few scattered Ironborn patrols, caught completely off guard, stumbled out of hidden watchtowers, their faces contorted in confusion and terror. They had expected reavers, not an army. They had expected skirmishes, not an invasion. Their desperate cries were quickly silenced by the brutal efficiency of Viking axes and the thud of thrown javelins. No warnings escaped their lips, no ravens took flight. The fog, still swirling on the water, shielded the main body of Loki's fleet from distant sight, making the landing appear as a sudden, localized nightmare.
Loki was among the first to leap ashore, Oakhide already singing in his hand. He moved with a speed that belied his powerful build, his movements fluid and deadly. A frantic Ironborn sentry, a young man barely out of boyhood, charged him with a rusty short sword. Loki merely sidestepped, bringing Oakhide down in a swift, devastating arc. The axe cleaved through the man's leather armor and bone, silencing his scream before it truly began. Loki didn't even pause, stepping over the twitching corpse, his eyes already scanning for the next threat, the next pathway to chaos.
"To the village! Secure the harbors!" Hakon bellowed, his voice echoing over the clanking of armor and the rising shouts of the advancing Vikings. He moved like a force of nature, his axe a blur, cutting down any who dared to stand in his path. Behind him, a wave of berserkers, their eyes wide with battle lust, surged forward, their guttural roars a terrifying symphony. Some foamed at the mouth, others seemed to ignore wounds that would fell lesser men, driven by the pure, unadulterated ecstasy of combat. They were Odin's chosen, and they reveled in the slaughter.
Thora's flank moved with equally ruthless precision. Her shield maidens, armed with axes and short swords, formed a deadly wedge, their shields interlocking. They moved silently but with lethal intent, their strikes precise, aimed for throat and gut. There was no hesitation in their eyes, no compassion in their hearts for the enemy. They were daughters of Skardheim, equals in battle to any man, and they fought with a cold fury that would forever haunt the memories of any Ironborn who survived to tell the tale. They didn't scream like the men, they just killed, efficiently and without complaint.
The main village of Great Wyk was quickly overwhelmed. Sleepy residents were dragged from their homes, their faces pale with terror. Loki had given no explicit orders for rape or prolonged torture for the common folk, his goal was conquest and terror as a means to an end, not mindless depravity, but his men, fueled by battle frenzy and generations of Viking tradition, would take what they pleased. The screams of the women and the terrified cries of children soon joined the clash of steel and the roar of the warriors. Houses were ransacked, valuables seized, and any resistance met with swift, brutal death. The smell of burning thatch and spilled blood began to permeate the cool morning air.
Loki did not participate in the plunder or the casual brutalities. His gaze was fixed on the larger picture. He moved towards the small, stone harbor that served the village, his mind already calculating the next moves. Securing the ports was paramount. They would be vital for bringing in supplies, reinforcing positions, and launching further raids on the other islands.
A small group of Ironborn guards, roused from their barracks, bravely tried to make a stand at the harbor entrance. They were grim-faced, armed with rusty axes and a few crude crossbows. "For the Drowned God!" one of them roared, charging forward.
Loki met them head-on. His axe, Oakhide, moved with impossible speed, a blur of polished steel. The first Ironborn fell, his head nearly severed. The second lost an arm as he tried to block. Loki spun, his cloak swirling, and delivered a brutal kick to the chest of a third, sending him sprawling into the rough stone wall. Before the man could recover, Thora was there, her axe biting deep into his neck.
"They are weak, Jarl," Thora said, her breath barely ragged, her eyes cold as she looked at the fallen. "Their faith gives them courage, but not strength."
"Courage without strength is foolishness," Loki replied, wiping a fleck of blood from his cheek. "They die for nothing. We fight for destiny."
Soon, the harbor was secured, its few small longships either captured or set ablaze. Loki sent immediate commands for his engineers to begin fortifying the position, using the very stones of the village. The drakkars that had landed their initial waves now moved to ferry more troops and supplies ashore.
Beyond the initial, pathetic resistance, scattered pockets of Ironborn began to coalesce, driven by desperation and a belated understanding of the true threat. They were not numerous enough to turn the tide, but they fought with a wild, suicidal abandon that spoke of their desperation. A small, sturdy keep, perched on a craggy outcrop overlooking the main bay, had quickly raised its banners, the sigil of House Farwynd flapping defiantly in the morning breeze. From its arrow slits, a shower of quarrels and rocks rained down on the advancing Vikings.
"Stubborn fools!" Hakon roared, as a quarrel splintered against his shield. He gestured towards the keep. "Shall we bring the ram, Jarl? Or let our berserkers scale their walls?"
Loki surveyed the keep, his mind weighing options. A prolonged siege, even a short one, wasted precious time. His gaze drifted to a nearby clump of gnarled, ancient trees, their roots clinging precariously to the rocky soil. "No," he decided. "Neither. They are behind their stone. We shall fight them from above."
He moved away from the main assault force, heading towards the cluster of trees, a small contingent of his most skilled climbers and axe-throwers following him. He used his sense of the land, feeling the subtle weaknesses in the rock face, the hidden footholds. With a series of short, sharp commands in Nordik, he directed his men. They began to ascend the seemingly impossible cliff face adjacent to the keep, moving with the agility of mountain goats, using their climbing axes to find purchase in the unforgiving stone.
Meanwhile, Thora's shield maidens, having secured the village proper, turned their attention to the narrow, winding paths that led deeper into the island's interior. Here, the Ironborn knew their land. They hid behind boulders, sprang from rocky crevices, and tried to ambush the Viking advance. These were not the soft villagers; these were hardened reavers who had survived countless sea battles and skirmishes.
One such ambush erupted as Thora's lead group rounded a blind corner. Five Ironborn, grim faced and armed with heavy axes, burst forth, aiming for a quick, decisive strike. The lead Ironborn, a burly man with a thick beard and eyes burning with fanaticism, swung his axe in a wide arc towards Thora.
But Thora was faster. Her axe deflected his blow with a jarring clang, and before he could recover, her second axe, in her left hand, buried itself deep in his gut. He crumpled with a gasp, dying before he hit the ground. Her shield-maidens moved as one, a whirlwind of steel. Axes rose and fell, shields crashed. The brutal, close quarters fighting was brief but ferocious. Two more Ironborn fell, their bodies rent by multiple blows. The remaining two, seeing their comrades cut down with such terrifying efficiency, dropped their weapons and raised their hands, trembling.
"Mercy, Shield-Maiden!" one of them cried, his voice hoarse with fear. "We yield!"
Thora surveyed them, her face devoid of emotion. She glanced at the dead, then back at the trembling men. "You yield?" she scoffed, her voice flat. "You are Ironborn. Your god demands death, not surrender. You would dishonor him."
With a swift, brutal movement, she brought down her axe, ending one man's pleas. Her shield-maiden finished the other. "There is no mercy for fools," she stated, wiping blood from her axe with a casual swipe of her hand. "Only the strong survive. The weak are fodder."
Back at the Farwynd keep, Loki's ascent had been successful. His climbers, ropes secured, had reached a ledge directly above the keep's main gate. Below, Hakon's berserkers pounded furiously on the gate with a makeshift ram, drawing the attention of the defenders on the battlements.
"Now!" Loki roared, a primal sound that echoed across the rocks.
His axe-throwers, perfectly positioned, hurled their heavy throwing axes down onto the battlements. The axes spun with deadly accuracy, thudding into the skulls and chests of the Ironborn defenders. Screams erupted as men fell, their bodies tumbling over the edge of the wall. Panic flared among the remaining Ironborn.
Seeing their opportunity, Loki and his small team rappelled down onto the battlements, landing silently amidst the chaos. They were a mere handful against dozens, but their sudden appearance and the terror in their eyes gave them the advantage. Loki moved like a wraith, Oakhide a whirlwind of steel, cleaving through necks and limbs. His men, equally skilled, dispatched any who dared to face them. In moments, the battlements were cleared, the last few defenders throwing themselves down to escape the seemingly invincible warriors.
"Open the gate!" Loki commanded, his voice sharp.
Below, Hakon's berserkers cheered wildly as the heavy wooden gate slowly creaked open, revealing Loki standing amidst the dead, his axe still dripping. The keep's remaining garrison, demoralized and leaderless, quickly surrendered or fled into the interior, only to be hunted down by the relentless Vikings. The Farwynd banner was torn down, replaced by the fearsome dragon-prowed emblem of Skardheim.
As the sun climbed higher, burning off more of the magical mist Loki had conjured, the true scale of the invasion began to reveal itself. More drakkars appeared from the grey shroud, a seemingly endless stream of dragon-prowed ships, each disgorging dozens of battle-hardened warriors. The beaches of Great Wyk became a churning mass of Viking might. The Ironborn, those who had survived the initial onslaught, scattered into the rocky interior, their spirit broken, their proud boast of mastery turned to ash.
Loki stood on a small rise overlooking the chaos he had wrought, a grim satisfaction settling over him. He could almost hear the frantic shouts from Pyke, the desperation of Balon Greyjoy as he realized his folly. His diversionary fleet, commanded by Jarl Ragnar Stonehand, was likely keeping the main Ironborn armada busy, drawing their ships into a futile battle while Loki cemented his hold on their homelands. The Ironborn were facing an enemy whose tactics were beyond their understanding, whose numbers dwarfed their expectations, and whose brutality surpassed even their own grim legends.
A chilling laugh escaped Loki's lips, a low, guttural sound that carried on the wind. This was only the beginning. Great Wyk was merely the first domino. Soon, the entire chain of the Iron Islands would fall. And then, Westeros. The soft lands would learn to fear the whispers of Skardheim, and the name Loki Bloodaxe would be etched in the annals of history, not as a reaver, but as a conqueror, a king, a god of war come manifest. The scent of salt and steel on the wind mingled with the rising smoke from burning homes, a grim perfume of his victory. The Drowned God would weep.