Jorah POV

Iron Islands, 289

CRASH!

"Huzzah!"

The sound of the huge rock whistling through the sky and pummeling into the curtain wall and the resulting cheers from the First Men in the sturdy redoubt opposite that abused section of Pyke's defenses reverberated almost simultaneously in Jorah's ears.

Another "Huzzah!" arose shortly.

Jorah added his voice to the cry as they all watched a ton or more of tortured granite break off as a result of the catapult's accurate strike and fall into the growing mound of rubble at the wall's base. He judged that with a little luck a large enough breach might be made by the afternoon that they could make an assault. Oaths and vows aside, he was anxious for the chance to end the Greyjoys; for after months a sea and then another on this barren wind swept manure pile, the Lord of Bear Island was anxious to return to the cool, wet forests of home.

A softer "Huzzah" now reached his ears. Automatically, Jorah peered again over the top of the redoubt's earth filled basket and timber scrap construction to look further south at what the two other catapults were doing to support the separate Westerlands and Reach forces in the siege line. Nothing of note so far as he could tell; those royal engineers weren't near as successful in breaking down Pyke's walls as the one's supporting the North.

Finally he realized the cries were coming from behind him and that the "Huzzahs" had evolved into a desultory mix of "Ours is the Fury!" and "The Stag!" shouts. That could only mean one thing. He turned all the way around and spied the pack of hardened warriors – Stark, Tallhart, Umber, Glover, and other houses' men-at-arms – part wide, as if an Other had appeared. Or perhaps rather the Night's King as the royal emanation was followed by seven white clad walkers.

The giant of a man striding beneath an antler adorned helm and bearing a long handled war hammer strapped over his back walked straight toward Jorah where he stood at the apex of the redoubt's V shape. "Ho, Mormont," the Warrior made flesh called out jovially in greeting; though his eyes were fixed above Jorah's head on the distant wall.

"Your Grace, the North is happy to have you join us," he replied, well pleased to receive direct royal recognition. He followed his own greeting with a quick dip of the head in acknowledgement of the two most senior in the seven trailing white cloaks: Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer.

"Obliged to be with you. Besides, I smell the battle brewing here. Those peashooters down yonder couldn't properly land a shit in a garderobe if they were squatting over the hole, could they?" he scoffed brashly. Jorah and all the men in hearing distance, and the King carried a loud voice, broke out in laughter.

"We are eager to get through and have at the traitors," he announced eagerly as his guffaws ended and the king came up even with him at the edge of the crude defenses.

For that, Jorah received a thunderous slap on the back, followed by an equally resounding, "Good man. Good men, you Northern lads. No need to tell me why the North was never conquered."

The Lord of Bear Island felt proud at the compliment even though it was addressed as much to each of the five hundred or more men packed into this portion of the siege line than it was to him. "The North is yours, your Grace."

"Hahaha, don't let Ned hear you say that or he'll be sharpening Ice on your neck and mine," the Mighty Stag chortled. "Course you've Longclaw to defend yourself with. I only have this wee twig," he said with a wry smirk as a hand went up to caress the heavy iron anvil head and spike of the hammer like a lover. "Now let's have a cheer for your Liege! Winterfell!" he bellowed.

"Winterfell!" the crowd joined in as the King repeated the cry

"Louder you knaves!" came the royal command.

"WINTERFELL!" they all screamed while grinning like mad men.

"Now that's respectful. But shouting so dries a man's throat out something fierce," the King declared with another smirk; one accompanied by a knowing wink. A wineskin instantly appeared in his huge, open hand and the Mighty Stag drained it off in one long, prodigious go. The back of the other huge, free hand wiped across red stained lips to remove evidence of the dregs. "And that's a properly respectful vintage," he proclaimed of the undoubtedly vile wine a man-at-arms could typically afford to buy on campaign. He tossed over his own wine skin in the direction of where that one had come. Then "Burpppppppp!"

Laughter.

The King joined in with the men, then next pointed randomly into the mass at a man-at-arms in boiled leather and sporting a trio of sentinel trees on his muddied surcoat. "You there, Tallhart. Seems there's enough vinegary piss to drink. Getting enough swill to eat too? The usual undercooked porridge without any hamhock and hard as stone bread?"

"Or weevil filled, yer Grace," the man laughed back at the King on the quality of the fare. "Better t'en da Krakens eat now, I t'ink."

Jorah doubted that as the siege had only been going on a month. One could hope that Balon was as mad about keeping Pyke stocked with food as he had been about rebelling.

The Mighty Stag then went about quizzing the men a while on their status, their opinions of their leaders, and their opinions of the enemy – which he hoped with an exaggerated wink were different than their leaders. Jorah found himself nodding appreciatively alongside the rest or laughing with them at the King's ironic japes on the shittiness of siege work.

Apparently satisfied with all that he'd heard about the men's care, the regal visage grew serious and turned back to observe the enemy fortification two hundred yards distant. "Still plunking you with much in the way of arrows, Mormont?"

"Nay, your Grace. Only the odd one to keep honest maidens of us. Most like saving them up for our assault on the breach," Jorah answered.

"Aye, the breach. Did you know, at dawn, Mathis Rowan had the brass balls to dare bet Ned five hundred dragons that his Reachers would be first through a breach," the giant rumbled with dark humor.

"Fuck'em" and worse were snarled by those crowding about to listen raptly to the King they helped put on the Iron Throne.

"How did Lord Stark respond?" Jorah inquired loudly.

"Ho, that Ned. He gave that wee infuriating smile of his, the one I well remember from when he'd gotten the best of me, and simply replied, 'Lord Mathis, you may keep your gold for the North has no need for it.'"

Direwolf howls filled the redoubt in appreciation at their lord's wit.

And when the noise died down, the King continued, "So of course I bet that pompous Knight of Summer a thousand dragons that you boys would go in first."

"HUZZAH!" "STAG! STAG! STAG!" "OURS IS THE FURY!"

CRASH!

The cheers immediately stopped as all eyes shot out to the wall to see what damage had been rendered by the salvo. Then …

"HUZZAH!"

"Oh, that's close that is," Jorah barely overheard the King whisper with a lust more typically reserved for a woman. "What think you, Barristan?"

"Three or four more direct hits should suffice, your Grace" the famous knight judged, matching Jorah's own assessment.

"But that many direct hits could take the rest of the day," the Kingslayer advised.

"Here comes Lord Stark," a voice in back called out excitedly.

Eyes looked East and surely the Direwolf banner was making its way across the rear of the siege lines in the direction of the redoubt. Surprisingly, Jorah caught a grimace flash across the King's face so quickly that the Northman wasn't sure if he'd actually seen it.

"Mormont," the Mighty Stag barked.

"Yes, your Grace?"

"You still eager to get at the traitors?!" he asked, pitching his voice to carry.

"Aye, your Grace!" he replied loudly.

"Are there ladders here?!"

"Yes!"

The King turned to directly address the men packed in around him. "Are you Demons of the North with me!?"

"Huzzah!"

"Ready to kill some skulking, back stabbing, cockless ironborn shites!"

"HUZZAH!" "STAG! STAG! STAG!" "OURS IS THE FURY!"

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan cautioned softly through the din, putting a restraining hand on one of the King's tree stump thick arm.

"KILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!" the King screamed and turned to jump effortlessly over the redoubt's makeshift wall, Ser Barristan's hand no impediment to his going at all.

The Lord of Bear Island and seven Kingsguard hopped after their liege with barely a thought.

And so did hundreds of other men after the King and glory.

Jorah leapt down from the breach into the sole bailey of Pyke in pursuit of his rampaging King, pleasantly surprised to still be alive. What had seemed, if there had been a moment to reflect, a mad dash had in fact been a brilliant surprise; with the breach not yet fully formed, the ironborn had not yet risked fully deploying their men for the anticipated attack for fear of the catapults and giant bolt throwers.

Without a shield to protect him, the Mighty Stag had climbed the first placed ladder and wielding his war hammer one armed with contemptuous ease had knocked aside the boulder dropped at his head from above. Then drove it into the first defenders gut, puncturing mail, and used the dead ironborn's size and weight to clear out the rest defending the gap in the castle's curtain wall.

Jorah had been sixth up the fifth ladder. At the top he scramble over the body of a white cloak and three others. A glance left had shown another white cloak and two Cerwyn's holding the south end of wall and a sharp look right revealed a Glover, a Manderly, and two Tallharts guarding against reinforcements rushing down from the north end of the wall. The King had charged ahead, running to the big stone bridge that connected the headland with the Kraken's Great Keep. Jorah knew where duty lay and came to his feet to chase after it.

"Fuck," he grunted as his eyes took more in. The Stag was undoubtedly mighty, but not as fleet a foot as a slender doe. A hundred and more ironborn were pouring across bridge and the King and his surviving white cloaks were not going to make the mouth to plug it shut before the treacherous bastards could finish crossing and start to spread out.

That didn't seem to matter to the King. The Warrior made flesh refused to stop and make a defensive circle. The four white cloaks and five other men-at-arms with him kept on, forming a wedge. Did they intend to drive through the entire lot of the enemy and take the Great Keep themselves? Jorah's legs and lungs burned as he sprinted as best he could to catch up. He didn't dare to look behind to see who else might be following for fear he'd trip.

"Our is the Fury!"

Clang!

Crack!

Twang!

Bodies flew.

Heads detached from torsos as the deadly war hammer swept back and forth as effortlessly as a scythe cuts down wheat.

The first Northman fell while Jorah was still twenty yards away.

The wedge had slowed as the bodies piled up in front of the Mighty Stag. He stumbled on a corpse; missing a strike and allowing some ironborn rapist to land a thrust against a pillar of a royal leg.

No, the bridge would not be made.

The second Northman fell.

"Form circle!" Jorah screamed.

Longclaw sheared off an arm and his backswing caused a bastard to skip backward.

"Form circle!" he screamed again as he nearly lost his footing spinning about to put his back towards the King. He pushed the whitecloak to his left, Ser Mandon?, to make room as some Cerwyn, three Starks, and his man-at-arms Lucas joined the circle … and then no one else as seemingly hundreds of ironborn curled around and swept past them to charge at the Northern shield wall slowly forming just inside the modest breach.

Jorah stabbed, blocked, swung.

A score more of loyal warriors were spread out and engaged in individual battles with the growing numbers of ironborn in the space between the two groups. And then there were none.

"Come on you whoresons!" he bellowed over the crashing rings of steel on steel and thuds of iron on oak. Not knowing whether he was cursing the ironborn or his sluggish brothers.

Ironborn fell.

A white cloak fell. Blunt? No time to check

More ironborn fell.

The King's joyous laughter at the slaughter drowned out the screams.

He gave silent, desperate thanks to the Old Gods that none seemed to carry crossbows and only a few had spears.

An Umber took a wound and stumbled into the middle of the circle; forcing it to shuffle to stay whole, but smaller. There were three or four ironborn for each of them.

"Yes! They are coming!" Jorah cried. The shield wall was pushing forward

"KIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!" Raged the Mighty Stag.

Longclaw bit and swept and dealt death. The Valyrian steel gouging chunks out of mere man-made metals.

Jorah grimaced as something sharp jabbed through the chain covering an armpit. He took off half of a snarling face in exchange.

Blow. Blow. Counter. Duck. Stab. Stomp down. Sway left. Overhand. He began to notice his speed slowing. Bodies built up a barrier that offered some protection but hindered his foot work. A heavy strike numbed his shield arm, making him wish for a shield; but there was no time to dare reach down to grab one from the fallen.

"Get up, Kingslayer!" the King roared.

"Hamstrung, your Grace," Ser Barristan panted.

"Nooooooo!" Jorah cried. The Northern shield wall had stopped surging forward. As it moved further away from the wall it had been forced to extend outward as well. Critical mass was now lacking. And arrows were raining down on them. All of them.

Thunk!

Jorah swooned in pain; body heaving in its desire to vomit. He caught an incoming blow; grabbing the foe's sword hand and pommel to give him a moment to glimpse down at the source of the agony. A crossbow bolt protruded through mail, out of his thigh. He head butted the bastard to send him reeling and then swung Longclaw.

He tumbled over to sprawl on his back.

"Don't just sit there," snarled an angry voice.

The bloodstained earth spun as he woobled his head to see who was talking to him. Ser Jaime was on one knee. Sword stabbing out through the gaps either side of the King any time an ironborn got inside the arc of the King's pendulum like swinging hammer.

Body shrieking in agony, Jorah pushed himself to his knees. Flesh ripping and spitting blood around the deep lodged bolt in his leg.

Longclaw became a spear as the circle tightened and tightened.

"WINTERFELL! WINTERFELL! WINTERFELL!" a chant began.

"What's happening?" Jorah cried in frustration, not able to see from his near prone position through the mass of dead, dying, and bleeding mail and leather covered flesh.

"Lord Stark's making an effort to break …"

Lucas stopped speaking and toppled over on top of his lord, throat slashed.

"For Seven's sake!" the Kingslayer cursed as he pivoted on a knee to plug the gap with a dazzling fast blade for all that his range of movement was limited.

Jorah pushed the body off and regained his balance as the circle tightened yet again.

"Barristan!"

And with the Bold pitching down to the ground, the circle cracked.

Something pierced Jorah's side and he rolled over on his back, letting go of Longclaw.

In a moment only the King was left standing. His helm knocked of his head. Blood matting the long hair that spun as he twirled himself about in a circle; the long reach of the war hammer keeping the hounds at bay. Round and round the Mighty Stag went, ebon and crimson colored hair circling, circling. To Jorah's graying vision, it appeared more and more like the damned Targaryen's thrice headed red dragon splayed on sable.

"ROBERT!"

"NED! I'LL SAY HELLO TO LYA FOR YOU!"

"ROBERT!"

"End it already then you drunken, mindless, cockless buffoon," he heard the Kingslayer snarl.

Jorah rolled his eyes towards the still kneeling knight.

"Fuck" the knight's sword was embedded in some ironborn's guts.

And then the warhammer took the dead man walking's head off, collapsing him and wrenching the sword out of the Kingslayer's grip.

"This'll have to do."

"No," Jorah choked out in horrible realization at the desecration about to happen.

The Whitecloak picked up Longclaw and became twice damned as he jammed Valyrian steel deep into his King's groin.

The war hammer flew off into the air and the Mighty Stag was brought down.