The Iron Islands, now dubbed "Skardheim's Fangs" by Loki's warriors, hummed with a restless energy. The brutal pacification was complete, the Ironborn reduced to a silent, laboring force. Pyke, its towers now bearing fierce Nordic effigies, had been transformed into a formidable fortress, a staging ground for the next, inevitable step. Loki Bloodaxe, no longer merely a Jarl from a hidden land, but a conqueror, stood at the pinnacle of his power, his gaze fixed on the mainland.
He had spent weeks in meticulous planning, his visions guiding him, his tactical mind dissecting Westeros's strengths and weaknesses. The whispers of his magic, usually subtle, now thrummed with a fierce urgency, confirming the opportune moment. The Westerlands, rich and proud, with their gleaming gold and fertile lands, were the chosen target. Not just for their wealth, but for the blow it would strike against House Lannister, a blow that would resonate across the entire realm.
"Lannisport," Loki announced to his war council, his voice cutting through the tension in the refitted hall of Pyke. Maps of the Westerlands were spread across the rough-hewn table, marked with symbols of his own devising. "It is rich, well-defended, but arrogant. Tywin Lannister believes his gold and his lions will keep him safe. He is wrong."
Jarl Kael the Silent grunted, his eyes gleaming. "Lannisport. It sounds like a good place to make a lesson." Kael craved direct confrontation, the clash of steel, the test of strength.
"Indeed," Loki affirmed. "But this will not be a simple raid, Kael. This is a siege, a conquest. We will crush their fleet, take their city, and then march on their gold mines. We will show Westeros that their pride is brittle, and their lions bleed."
Astrid Stormchild, her sharp eyes tracing the coastal lines, pointed to a small bay north of Lannisport. "This cove, Jarl. It offers shelter, and a hidden approach. We can land our first wave there, bypass their coastal defenses."
Loki nodded. "Astute, Astrid. You will lead the vanguard again, with your fastest drakkars. Hakon, you will command the main fleet, engaging their naval defenses head-on, drawing their attention. And Kael, your legions will form the spearhead of the land assault, once the beaches are secured."
The strategy was classic Loki: a cunning feint coupled with overwhelming force and a brutal, surgical strike at the heart. He knew the Lannister fleet was strong, but their focus would be on Lannisport's harbor. He would hit them from where they least expected.
The Assault on Lannisport: Dawn of Blood
The voyage to Lannisport was swift, aided by Loki's subtle manipulation of the winds and currents. The magical mist, his constant companion, swirled around the vast Skardheim fleet, a silent, menacing shroud that swallowed them whole, only to unleash them at the precise moment.
As dawn broke over the Westerlands, painting the sky in bruised purples and greys, Loki's fleet emerged from the mist like vengeful spirits. Hundreds of drakkars, their dragon prows hungry, their sails billowing, appeared seemingly from nothing, filling the horizon.
The Naval Engagement: The Lion's Roar Silenced
In Lannisport's harbor, Lord Damon Lannister, cousin to Tywin and commander of the city's defenses, watched in horrified disbelief. He had received frantic, unreliable reports of strange ships, but nothing had prepared him for this. The sheer number of vessels, their alien design, the chilling, guttural war cries that carried across the water, it was a nightmare made real.
"To arms! Man the walls! Prepare the fleet!" Damon roared, his voice cracking with desperation.
The Lannister fleet, proud and formidable, quickly scrambled. Galleys, their prows adorned with roaring lions, rowed out to meet the invaders. They were powerful, designed for broadside engagements, armed with ballistae and scorpions. But they were slow, and their formation was unready.
Hakon, a giant at the helm of the Wolf's Maw, his drakkar leading the main assault, laughed. "They lumber like fat pigs! Show them the speed of the wolf!"
The Skardheim drakkars, lighter and faster, swarmed the Lannister galleys. This was not a conventional naval battle. Loki's fleet didn't rely on cumbersome catapults or ballistae. Instead, they used their agility, their sheer numbers, and the unmatched ferocity of their boarding parties. Drakkars rammed into galleys, their grapples flying, followed by waves of berserkers and shield-maidens leaping onto the Lannister decks.
The fighting was brutal and chaotic. Lannister sailors, though brave, were trained for ranged combat and naval maneuvers, not the savage, close-quarters slaughter that Loki's warriors excelled at. Berserkers, impervious to pain in their battle frenzy, tore through armored Lannister guards like paper. Thora, commanding a group of shield-maidens, moved with deadly grace across a captured galley, her twin axes a blur, her warriors a relentless force that left no man standing. The screams of the dying, the clang of steel, and the splintering of wood filled the air.
Lord Damon Lannister, fighting valiantly on the deck of his flagship, found himself face to face with Hakon. Damon, a skilled swordsman, moved with practiced ease, but Hakon was a force of nature, his axe a monstrous, unstoppable engine of destruction. After a desperate exchange, Hakon's axe connected with Damon's shield, shattering it, then swept up to cleave through the Lord's shoulder and neck. Damon Lannister fell, his death a symbolic crushing of the lion's roar.
The Lannister fleet, broken and leaderless, quickly began to rout, their ships fleeing in disarray or being overwhelmed and boarded. The waters around Lannisport ran red with blood, littered with the wreckage of galleys and the bodies of the fallen. Loki had neutralized the Lannister naval power in a single, devastating engagement.
The Landfall: The Serpent's Bite
While Hakon engaged the main Lannister fleet, Astrid Stormchild, with Loki himself leading the covert landing, guided her drakkars into the hidden cove north of the city. The mist, thinner here, swirled just enough to obscure their exact numbers from the distant walls. The landing was swift, silent, and expertly executed.
Loki was among the first ashore, Oakhide in hand. He felt the firm ground of Westeros beneath his feet, a thrill of power coursing through him. This was it. The true invasion. He led his shock troops up the treacherous, rocky path towards the city's weakest point – a less-guarded section of wall overlooking the northern docks, where the defenses were sparse, assuming no attack from such a rugged approach.
As they ascended, Loki used his magic. He wove subtle illusions, making his climbing force appear smaller, less threatening, to any distant, panicked watchman. He touched the stone of the cliffs, feeling its weaknesses, directing his men to the most precarious, yet undefended, footholds.
The few Lannister guards stationed here were caught completely by surprise. A shouted challenge was met with a thrown axe that silenced the man instantly. The Skardheimers swarmed over the wall, a torrent of steel and fur, cutting down the bewildered defenders. Within minutes, a section of the wall was breached, and the gates leading to the northern docks were flung open.
"To the city! To the heart of their gold!" Loki roared, his voice amplified by magic, carrying across the docks.
The Sack of Lannisport: Gold and Fire
The Skardheimers poured into Lannisport. The city, unprepared for an assault from this direction, descended into immediate chaos. Lannister guards, expecting a direct naval assault on the harbor, were caught out of position. The people, accustomed to peace and the protection of their powerful lords, fled in terror.
Jarl Kael the Silent, leading the main land force, burst through the opened gates like a hurricane of steel. His berserkers, their battle-lust unleashed, roared through the streets, their axes singing a symphony of destruction. They were unstoppable. They cut down any resistance, breached homes, and stormed markets.
Lannisport, a city of wealth and trade, became a horrifying spectacle of plunder and brutality. Gold, silver, and jewels were seized. Fine fabrics, spices, and exotic goods were piled onto carts, destined for Pyke, and eventually, Skardheim. But this was not just about riches. It was about terror. Houses were put to the torch, their flames licking at the dawn sky, casting an ominous red glow over the city. The screams of the dying, the terrified cries of women and children, mingled with the guttural shouts of the Skardheimers and the clang of their axes.
Loki moved through the city, his presence a chilling calm amidst the storm. He did not participate in the plunder, but his eyes missed nothing. He directed his forces, ensuring key objectives were met. The barracks were stormed, the remaining Lannister forces rounded up or killed. The city's granaries and supply depots were secured, their contents earmarked for his own army.
He sought out the city's highest point, a fortified watchtower overlooking the harbor. From there, he watched the remaining Lannister ships flee, their proud lion banners tattered. He saw the smoke rising from the burning ships in the harbor, and the plumes from the city's burning districts. Lannisport, the crown jewel of the Westerlands' coast, was falling.
A chilling laugh escaped his lips. "The lion roars no more," he muttered, his voice cold and satisfied.
Tywin Lannister's Fury and Westeros's Desperate Moves
News of Lannisport's fall reached Casterly Rock with terrifying speed, carried by a lone, terrified rider who had galloped through the night. Lord Tywin Lannister, sharp and ruthless, received the news in his solar, his face a mask of stone, but his eyes burning with an icy fury.
"Lannisport… fallen?" Tywin's voice was dangerously quiet, each word an icicle. "How many ships? How many men?"
The exhausted messenger, a minor lordling, stammered, "Hundreds, my Lord! Dragon-prowed ships! Thousands of warriors! They came from the mist, my Lord, like demons! They crushed Lord Damon's fleet in an hour! The city burns!"
Tywin slammed his fist on the table, a rare display of emotion. "Damon, you fool! You complacent, worthless fool!" His pride, his very legacy, had been tarnished. Lannisport, his family's greatest source of wealth and naval power, was a smoking ruin. This 'Loki Bloodaxe' had struck directly at the heart of his power.
"Summon the banners, Kevan!" Tywin roared, his voice now a whip-crack. "Every man in the Westerlands! To Casterly Rock! Send word to King's Landing. Inform the King that the Westerlands will defend themselves. If he wants these barbarians gone, he will send his own forces. My army will not march across the realm to fight a battle I can fight here." This was a defiance of Robert's earlier command, a clear indication of Tywin's priorities. He would not cede control of his forces to a feckless king.
In King's Landing: Panic and Blame
The news of Lannisport's fall plunged King's Landing into outright panic. The attack on the Iron Islands had been distant; Lannisport was real, a direct blow to one of the realm's most powerful Houses.
Robert Baratheon, sobered by the sheer enormity of the disaster, raged. "Tywin Lannister! That prideful bastard! He will answer for this! Why did he not defend his city?"
Varys, ever the manipulator, seized the moment. "Your Grace, Lord Tywin's forces were, as you know, concentrated to defend the Westerlands. Perhaps he was waiting for your Royal decree, or the formation of your great army in the Riverlands." He subtly shifted blame, playing on Robert's existing resentment towards Tywin. "These 'Skardheimers' move with unnatural speed, Your Grace. And their methods… they leave nothing but ruin." He implied that only a disciplined, decisive hand could deal with such a threat, not a disorganised mass.
Littlefinger, seeing the realm spiraling into chaos, grinned inwardly. "A serious threat, Your Grace. Perhaps one that requires... unique solutions." He glanced at Cersei, whose face was a mask of fear and fury. "Lord Tywin will surely seek vengeance. But will he join the King's unified command, or fight his own war?" He knew the answer. Tywin would fight his own war, creating further division. This was perfect. The realm was tearing itself apart, just as he had always hoped.
Cersei, terrified for her family's seat, pressed Robert. "You must send our forces, Robert! The Royal Fleet! The storm is at our gates!"
Robert, his anger overriding his common sense, finally made a decisive, albeit rash, command. "The Royal Fleet! Send every ship that can sail! To the Westerlands! And Lord Stannis! He is to join the Royal Fleet immediately! This barbarian must be stopped!" He sent ravens flying, desperate, haphazard orders to every lord to raise their banners and march. The realm was now in a state of emergency, but its response was fragmented, driven by fear and individual self-interest rather than a unified strategy.
In Winterfell: A Grim Resolve
Eddard Stark received the news of Lannisport's fall with a heavy heart. He knew the implications. This was not a reaving. This was a war of conquest, on a scale not seen since Aegon's Landing.
"Lannisport… gone," Eddard murmured, his voice grim. "The Lannisters will be enraged. And they will come north, Robb, for aid."
Robb's face was set. "We are ready, Lord Father. Our men are drilled. The coast is watched."
Maester Luwin read another raven. "The King commands Lord Stannis to sail to the Westerlands, and for all lords to assemble their armies. It will be a grand host, my Lord."
"A grand host that will take months to assemble," Eddard countered. "And if these Skardheimers move quickly? If they strike the Riverlands? Or even sail north? We must be vigilant, Robb. The North will stand alone if it must." He began to draft letters to his own bannermen, emphasizing coastal defense and self-reliance, rather than solely relying on the King's distant promises.
In Dragonstone: Stannis's Calculated Fury
Stannis Baratheon, grimly satisfied by the unfolding chaos, received Robert's erratic commands with a cold disdain. "The fool. He sends his fleet after the barbarians, leaving the east exposed. And he expects me to clean up his mess."
Davos Seaworth watched his Lord's face. "Will you go, my Lord? To Lannisport?"
"No," Stannis stated, his eyes fixed on the sea. "My duty is to the realm, not to Robert's folly. If these Skardheimers are truly as powerful as they appear, they will not be stopped by a scattered fleet or a disorganized army. I will keep my fleet at Dragonstone, defending the Crownlands and the Narrow Sea. Let Robert's forces bleed themselves in the west. When the true threat comes, they will need a disciplined hand to lead them." He dispatched his own ravens, sharper and more concise than Robert's, warning coastal lords to fortify their own defenses and not expect immediate aid from the Crown.
Loki's Command: Consolidating Power and Eyeing the Next Prize
Back in Lannisport, Loki Bloodaxe oversaw the systematic dismantling of the city's defenses and the plunder of its vast wealth. The city was not to be rebuilt for the Westerosi; it was to be repurposed. The gold from the Lannister coffers was transferred to his drakkars, destined for Skardheim. The people of Lannisport, thousands of them, were herded into temporary pens, their fate to be decided. Strong men would join the thrall armies, women and children would be sent to Skardheim as chattel or forced labor. The city was a brutal lesson in conquest.
Loki held a war council amidst the burning remnants of the city, the smoke stinging his eyes. Hakon, Kael, Astrid, and Thora stood before him, their faces grim but resolute.
"Lannisport is ours," Loki declared, his voice firm. "The Lannister fleet is broken. Their greatest city burns. Tywin Lannister now knows the taste of fear."
"His army will march, Jarl," Kael stated, wiping blood from his axe with a rough cloth. "They are assembling at Casterly Rock. Thousands upon thousands."
Loki nodded. "Let them. The walls of Casterly Rock are strong, but they cannot hide from us forever. However, we will not attack Casterly Rock directly. Not yet."
He unfurled a map, not of the Westerlands, but of the entire Westerosi continent. His finger traced a path. "The Riverlands. The fertile heart of their kingdom. Easily accessible by river for our drakkars. And less prepared for a naval invasion than the coast." He pointed to specific locations: the Twins, Harrenhal, the various castles along the Trident. "We will use their own rivers against them. We will cut off their lines of communication, seize their food supplies, and paralyze their central authority."
Loki then turned, his eyes fixed on the distant outline of the Golden Tooth, the mountain pass leading into the Westerlands. "And while they assemble their army at Casterly Rock, we will send a smaller, swift force to seize the Golden Tooth. Block the pass. Trap Tywin Lannister's army in the west. Cut them off from the rest of the realm."
His strategic genius was terrifying. He wasn't just conquering; he was dismantling Westeros piece by piece, exploiting their geography and their political disunity.
"The King's army will gather in the Riverlands, as expected," Loki continued, his lips curving into a predatory smile. "They will send their greatest lords, their finest knights. A great, disorganized mass. And they will expect us to meet them on open ground, in a grand battle." He scoffed. "Fools. We will not give them the battle they expect. We will raid, we will burn, we will vanish, then reappear where they least expect. We will bleed them dry, exhaust them, break their will, until they have no choice but to bend the knee."
He looked at his Jarls, their faces reflecting his own grim determination. "This is not just about conquest. This is about reshaping the world. Their gods are weak. Their kings are weaker. We will show them true power. We will make them pray to Odin."
He turned back to the window, the smoke of Lannisport staining the horizon. His bone charm, always in his hand, seemed to thrum with amplified power. He focused his magic, sending his consciousness out, a ripple across the land. He felt the fear in the Westerlands, the growing dread in King's Landing, the stoic resolve in Winterfell, the cold calculation in Dragonstone. All were reacting, all were disturbed. And that was exactly what he wanted.
His visions grew clearer now, more vivid. He saw the Red Keep, its walls crumbling. He saw the Iron Throne, empty. He saw dragons, ancient and terrible, awakening from slumber. He saw a great wall of ice, crumbling under a chilling, unseen force. And he saw himself, standing amidst the chaos, not just a conqueror, but a pivotal figure, a bridge between two worlds, destined to forge a new order from the ashes of the old. The true war, he knew, was not just for the Iron Throne. It was for the very soul of Westeros, and perhaps, the future of the world. Loki Bloodaxe was ready to claim it all.