The sun climbed higher each day, but for the Ironborn, a chilling twilight had descended upon their islands. Pyke, once the defiant heart of their realm, now pulsed with the grim, alien rhythm of Skardheim. Its great stone walls, once manned by Greyjoy loyalists, now bristled with Loki's warriors, their dragon-prowed banners snapping in the constant sea wind, mocking the tattered kraken sigils that lay trampled in the mud below. Balon Greyjoy, the proud Lord of the Iron Islands, was a broken man, chained in a dungeon cell, a living testament to Loki's cold power. His pleas to the Drowned God were met only by the mocking laughter of his captors.
Loki Bloodaxe sat upon what remained of the Salt Throne, a crude, yet undeniably imposing, seat constructed from driftwood and barnacle-encrusted whalebones in the center of Pyke's great hall. The original Salt Throne had been tossed into the raging sea by Loki's command, a final insult to the Drowned God and a clear statement of dominion. Around him, the hall was filled with the low murmur of his Jarls and captains, their Nordik voices echoing off the stone walls that once celebrated the Greyjoys. The smell of victory, a potent mix of blood, sweat, and sea salt, hung heavy in the air.
"Great Wyk is secured, Jarl," reported Jarl Ragnar Stonehand, his massive frame filling the doorway as he entered the hall. Ragnar, whose feint had so cleverly drawn the Ironborn fleet, bore a fresh scar across his cheek, a testament to the heavy fighting he had endured. "The remaining Farwynds have been rooted out or broken. Their keeps are now strongholds for our garrisons. No ships move without our leave."
Loki nodded, his gaze unwavering. "And the fleet? Casualties?"
"Minimal, Jarl. A few drakkars damaged, easily repaired. The Ironborn fought bravely, perhaps, but without cohesion. Their Drowned God did not save them from the waves, nor from our axes." Ragnar grinned, a wolfish display of teeth. "They truly believed themselves superior sailors. It was… amusing to watch them drown."
Thora, who stood silently beside Loki, gave a rare, almost imperceptible nod of agreement. Her own shield-maidens had been instrumental in clearing the castle's twisting passages, their ruthless efficiency leaving a trail of dead Ironborn in their wake.
"Good," Loki said, his voice carrying clearly through the hall. "Now for the other islands. Orkmont, Harlaw, Old Wyk. Send out the fleets. No respite. Crush any resistance swiftly. Take what is of value, destroy the rest. Leave no doubt as to who now commands these seas."
He unfolded a crude map of the Iron Islands, spread on a table fashioned from a salvaged longship deck. His finger, calloused and strong, traced lines of conquest. "Harlaw will be a challenge. Rodrik Harlaw is a capable man, and his castle of Harlaw Hall is well-defended. But he is a warrior, not a strategist. He will meet us head-on, honor-bound. That will be his undoing."
Jarl Kael the Silent stepped forward. "I will take Harlaw, Jarl. My men are eager. We will break their 'finger dance' and show them true steel." Kael's reputation for grim, unstoppable force was legendary even among the Skardheimers.
"You will, Kael," Loki affirmed. "Leave nothing but ashes and fear. Make them remember the day Skardheim came calling."
The Jarls received their orders, their eyes burning with shared ambition. They had tasted victory, and it was sweet. The plunder from Great Wyk and Pyke was already being sorted – chests of silver, stores of dried fish and salted meat, iron ore, and most importantly, the Ironborn's own longships, many of them captured intact and added to Loki's burgeoning fleet. These would be re-crewed by loyal Skardheimers, or by the strongest of the Ironborn captives, forced into servitude.
The psychological impact on the Ironborn was profound. Their entire identity was built upon their strength, their mastery of the sea, their unwavering faith in the Drowned God. Loki had shattered all of it in a matter of days. Their greatest warriors had fallen, their proudest keeps had been breached, and their very deity had been mocked and defiled. The systematic execution of their captive lords, performed not with a swift, honorable stroke, but with chillingly ritualistic Nordic methods, spread a terror far deeper than simple death. The Blood Eagle, a gruesome punishment Loki rarely employed but now showcased in public for specific, defiant Ironborn lords, left an indelible mark of horror on the minds of those who witnessed it.
The Brutality of Harlaw
Jarl Kael the Silent's fleet, a formidable armada of a hundred drakkars, reached the shores of Harlaw three days later. Unlike Pyke, where Loki's magical mist had allowed for stealth and surprise, Kael chose a direct, overwhelming assault. He was a master of brute force, and Harlaw's defiance called for a direct lesson.
The drakkars beached with thunderous impact, their dragon prows rearing against the grey sky. From their holds poured thousands of Skardheim warriors, a disciplined, unyielding tide of axes and shields. Lord Rodrik Harlaw, alerted by frantic ravens and the sight of the massive foreign fleet, had gathered every man capable of wielding a blade. His army, perhaps six thousand strong, awaited them on the narrow, rocky plains outside Harlaw Hall, shields interlocked, a defiant line of iron.
"For the Drowned God! What is dead may never die!" Rodrik's voice boomed, attempting to rally his men. He was a proud, capable fighter, renowned for his 'finger dance' swordplay, a deceptive, swift style. But today, he faced a different kind of foe.
Kael gave no grand speeches. He merely raised his own monstrous, two-handed axe, scarred and notched from countless battles. "For Odin! For Skardheim! Charge!"
The Viking line surged forward, a terrifying wall of men, their guttural war cries drowning out the Ironborn chants. They moved with a disciplined ferocity, their shield wall a formidable barrier against the Ironborn's desperate charges. The initial clash was a horrific maelstrom of steel. Axes rose and fell with sickening thuds, swords clanged against shields, and the ground quickly became slick with blood.
Rodrik Harlaw fought with the desperation of a cornered beast. He was a whirlwind of steel, his agile swordplay cutting down several Skardheimers. But for every one he felled, two more took their place. Kael, a hulking figure of death, pushed through the chaos, his eyes fixed on Rodrik. Their clash was inevitable.
When they met, the impact was bone-shaking. Rodrik's quick, precise strikes danced around Kael's massive axe, but Kael's blows carried the force of a battering ram. The Ironborn lord dodged and weaved, but Kael was relentless, his movements deceptively fast for his size. A swift parry, a brutal counter-swing, and Rodrik's sword was knocked from his grasp. Before he could react, Kael's axe connected with his chest, a sickening crack of bone and armor. Rodrik Harlaw fell, dead before his body hit the blood-soaked earth.
The fall of their lord shattered the Ironborn's remaining morale. Their line broke. What followed was not a battle, but a slaughter. Kael's warriors, unleashed, showed no quarter. Berserkers, frothing at the mouth, tore through the fleeing ranks, their axes indiscriminately cutting down warrior and non-combatant alike. The screams of the dying echoed across the plains, mingling with the roars of the victorious Vikings.
Harlaw Hall, the ancient seat of the Harlaws, met a similar fate. Defenders within the castle were overwhelmed, trapped and butchered. The castle was systematically plundered, its valuables seized, its stores emptied. Then, under Kael's grim order, fires were set. Great gouts of flame erupted from the towers, casting an ominous, flickering glow across the island. Harlaw Hall burned for three days, a terrifying beacon of Skardheim's might.
Old Wyk and Orkmont offered even less resistance. Their lords, hearing the horrific tales from Pyke and witnessing the apocalyptic smoke rising from Harlaw, quickly offered surrender. Loki, ever pragmatic, accepted their capitulation, but not without demanding a heavy price. The Lords of Old Wyk and Orkmont were forced to watch as their most prized possessions were taken, their eldest sons conscripted into Loki's growing thrall armies, and their family gold sent back to Skardheim. Any hint of defiance was met with swift, brutal punishment. Loki's message was clear: resistance brought annihilation; surrender brought a different, yet equally absolute, form of submission.
News of the fall of Pyke, distorted and exaggerated by fear, began to spread like wildfire across Westeros. It did not come by raven, for Loki's archers and spell-weavers had systematically intercepted and brought down every bird trying to leave the islands. Instead, it arrived first by desperate merchant ships that had escaped the initial chaos, then by whispers from terrified fishermen, and finally, by the few Ironborn raiders who, returning from distant reaving parties, found their home islands utterly transformed, their proud krakens replaced by dragon prows.
In King's Landing
In the Red Keep, King Robert Baratheon, perpetually more interested in wine and women than ruling, merely grunted when his Master of Whisperers, Varys, brought him the first, vague reports.
"Some foreign raiders, Your Grace. Northmen, perhaps. They've landed on Great Wyk, it seems. A petty reaving, no doubt." Varys's plump face was unusually serious, however. His little birds had whispered of something far more organized, far more brutal.
"Northmen? Send Eddard to deal with it," Robert slurred, waving a dismissive hand. "He knows how to handle wildlings and such. What's for dinner, Varys? And send for more wine!"
Grand Maester Pycelle, ever the sycophant, stroked his long white beard. "Indeed, Your Grace. The Ironborn are a troublesome lot, but Lord Balon is a strong hand. He will handle these… barbarians. A momentary disruption, nothing more." He worried about the academic implications of a new, unknown culture, but his fear was secondary to his desire to please the King.
Only Lord Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, watched Varys with an unreadable expression. He saw the flicker of genuine concern in the eunuch's eyes, a rare sight. "Foreign raiders, you say? With what ships? And from where do they hail? The Iron Islands are not easily taken." His mind, ever calculating, began to spin possibilities. A new player on the board. A wild card. This could be useful.
In Winterfell
The news reached Winterfell like a chill wind from the sea, carried by a lone, battered merchant ship that had limped into White Harbor. It was a week later, fragmented and shocking. Great Wyk sacked. Pyke under siege. Not raiders, but an army. A foreign power from beyond the maps.
Lord Eddard Stark, grim and stoic, listened intently to the trembling captain's tale. His brow furrowed. "An entire army? From where? There are no lands to the west of the Iron Islands for a thousand leagues save the Sunset Sea itself."
Maester Luwin, always pragmatic, examined the reports. "The captain speaks of 'dragon-prowed ships' and 'warriors like demons'. He claims they spoke a tongue unknown to him, though they understood the Common Tongue. And their cruelty… he speaks of horrors beyond typical reaving."
Robb Stark, young and eager, clenched his fist. "If Pyke falls, Lord Father, it means these aren't mere raiders. They're conquerors. And they're on our doorstep. The North's coast will be next."
"Aye," Eddard murmured, his gaze distant, already turning towards the sea. The Ironborn were a nuisance, but they were their nuisance. An unknown, brutal force was far more concerning. "Summon the banners. Not yet for war, but for readiness. Send word to King's Landing. Though I doubt Robert will take it seriously." He already knew the King's penchant for denial.
Beyond the Narrow Sea
Even in the Free Cities, whispers began to stir. In Braavos, the Sealord heard hushed accounts of strange ships appearing in the west, and a new kind of power emerging. The Iron Bank, ever alert to shifts in power, began to make quiet inquiries.
In Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis, the wealthy Magister, shared wine and roasted pheasant with a gaunt, angry Viserys Targaryen.
"These rumors, Your Grace," Illyrio began, his voice smooth as silk. "Of strange men from the western seas, conquering the Iron Islands? They speak of a power unlike any seen since the Doom."
Viserys merely sneered. "More savage barbarians. Let them fight over their rocks. When I cross with my Dothraki, I will crush them all. They will bend the knee to the true dragon." His arrogance, as always, blinded him to any real threat or opportunity.
But Illyrio, ever the schemer, had a thoughtful look in his eyes. A new player. A disruption. Such things could be very useful for those who knew how to manipulate them. He thought of Daenerys, and the dragons that were yet to hatch. Perhaps this Loki Bloodaxe was not a rival, but a chaotic force that could clear the path for the dragon queen.
Back on Pyke, Loki Bloodaxe received his own reports. The Ironborn had fought hard on Harlaw, as expected. Rodrik Harlaw had been a stubborn bull, leading a charge from his keep directly into Kael's waiting axes. The fight had been bloody, but decisive. Harlaw Hall now burned, a beacon of Loki's absolute dominance. Old Wyk and Orkmont had offered even less resistance, their lords surrendering or fleeing as soon as Loki's drakkars appeared on the horizon. The conquest of the Iron Islands was complete.
Loki walked to the cell where Balon Greyjoy lay, still bound, his head throbbing, his eyes vacant. The dungeon reeked of damp stone and despair.
"Lord Balon," Loki said, his voice flat, devoid of triumph, merely stating a fact. "Your islands are ours. Your men are dead or broken. Your Drowned God has abandoned you."
Balon merely stared, his eyes wide with a desperate, shattered fury. "He will rise! He will claim you for his own!"
Loki merely chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Your god is a weakling, old man. Mine are not confined to the depths. They command the sky, the land, and the hearts of men. They demand conquest. And I have given it to them." He knelt, placing a hand on Balon's shoulder, his grip like iron. "You will live, for now. You will be a lesson. A living monument to what happens when pride meets true power."
He stood, his gaze sweeping across the dark, damp cell. The Iron Islands were merely the first step. The true game had just begun. The whispers of his name would soon reach every corner of Westeros, and they would learn the taste of fear. The world would never be the same.