Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Sorry that the fights are a bit ugh. I'm not good at writing them, and I don't really know how to. I hope that you guys still like the chapter, and are happy enough with it. We're in the home stretch now, can you believe it?

Read, enjoy, and review please! I love you guys, and your lovely, encouraging comments!

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Fall of the Krakens

King's Landing: 6th December, 299 AC

Robb:

The day after they officially claimed control of the Red Keep, Robb climbed aboard the Sea Wolf to set sail for Pyke along with a hundred other bloodthirsty, vengeance-craving Northern sailors and Arya, who had been granted permission to come as well. Before he left, he went to say goodbye to his sister, who was nursing Garin when he arrived at the rooms she, her husband and their mutual paramour had all been installed in. Apparently, it was the same set of rooms where they had spent their stay earlier in the year, and as far as possible from the small chamber where Larra had spent her two years of captivity.

Daryn was lying in a cradle beside her seat. Shae and Serena had been attending her, but she had dismissed them on Robb's arrival. It was rare for her to be without one of her loves at the moment, given her still-fragile state, but neither of them were currently around her. As far as Robb knew, Oberyn was overseeing the securing of the various guards (most of them Cersei's men) who had ignored Tommen's surrender and tried to fight back. He wondered briefly where Ellaria was and what she was doing, but given Larra's lack of concern or distress at her paramour's absence, he assumed that she, at least, was aware, therefore he felt no need to worry.

"You're going now then?" Larra asked after her attendants had left, meeting his blue eyes with her own. They were a dark, steel-grey colour today, and he could see her tiredness in the slight slump in her posture and the dark shadows beneath her eyes. She ought to be resting in Sunspear still, recovering from such a difficult birth, not here helping secure Laena's position as Queen. Yet Larra was a Stark and a descendant of House Dayne. She would not be content to stay safe in Dorne whilst others gained justice for their murdered kin and ensured that the Winterlanders properly submitted to Laena. Robb was mildly surprised that she had agreed to stay behind in the (current) capital instead of joining he and Arya at Pyke. It spoke to her exhaustion, he supposed. But then, Larra, though she could fight, and fight well at that, was not the type of person to seek out battles and bloodshed. It was just not in her nature.

Not like it was in Robb's and Arya's. But then, that made sense didn't it? Larra had survived the aftermath of their father's attainment through words, through speaking the things that Joffrey and Cersei wanted to here, by folding up her spirit and tucking it away, pretending to be a broken wolf, a fallen star whose light had gone out. She had learned to play the Game, and learned her lessons well.

As for Robb and Arya, they had survived by fighting, by becoming wolves in human skin. Killing had become almost a comfort over time. The feel of Dawn in his grip was a reassurance, an anchor to his sanity.

He sometimes wondered if he was even worthy to call himself the newest 'Sword of Morning', yet Dawn would allow him to wield it, and not Arya, or Larra, or Edric or even Allyria.

What would Uncail Arthur have thought? He had never gotten the chance to properly decide which of them he would take as his official apprentice, and so Dawn had chosen for them. Robb didn't feel worthy of it, of being the successor to the greatest swordsman and one of the greatest men to ever live, yet here he was.

If giving up Dawn, if melting it down to be turned into jewellery and given to the Lannisters themselves, would restore his family, any of them, to life, then Robb would have done so in an instant.

"I am," he confirmed.

She lifted her chin and reached out for his hand, squeezing it softly. "Promise me that you will bring back his head," she murmured. "For Máthair, for Bran and Alayne. For everyone that he betrayed and murdered that day. Kill him."

"I'll come back with his head or I will not return at all," Robb vowed, his tone full of determination. She gave a pained smile and touched his cheek lightly.

"May the Gods go with you," she replied. "Come back safely, Robb. Please. I cannot lose you twice."

"You won't," he promised, before embracing her and heading off to say goodbye to his wife.

Laena was surrounded by lords and ladies in the Great Hall, most of them assuring her of their undying loyalty, and several actually being useful. Ellaria was near her, a silent support. On seeing him, she managed to get herself away from the gaggle and they slipped into the antechamber where he wrapped her petite form in his arms, resting his chin on top of her head for several bliss-filled, peaceful, moments.

"Be careful," she said finally after they separated, one hand resting protectively over the faint curve of her belly. She was so early into her pregnancy, most of her dresses concealed it.

"I will be," he promised her too. "Wait until my return to deal with Cersei and Tywin, alright?"

She gave a small smirk that didn't reach her worried eyes. "Of course," she agreed. "I would not keep you from seeing justice carried out for your father and uncle. I am going to be busy dealing Stannis, anyway."

He knelt for his queen's blessing, kissed her goodbye, and hurried to the docks, where the sailors of the Sea-Wolf were already busy getting ready to sail. Arya was already waiting on the deck, a travel-pack slung over her shoulder, Nymeria pacing the wooden deck, growling uncertainly at the rocking of the ground beneath her paws. Morning huffed his own displeasure at the moving floor, but Robb was able to soothe him with some stroking of his snout as he set his own pack down at his feet.

"Ready to go then?" Admiral Starstark asked him with a raised eyebrow. Her blue-green eyes glittered darkly with her own desire for revenge. For the Winterlands, if you had not lost kin in the Bloody Conclave, then you had lost friends. It had not been a matter of deciding who got to go to Pyke, but rather a matter of deciding who didn't get to go.

"Yes," Robb confirmed, baring his teeth like the direwolf at his side. "I am more than ready."

Finally, after almost two years without consequences, his treacherous ex-foster brother would die for his crimes. Robb had meant it when he promised Larra that either he would either come back with Theon's head in tow, or else he would not come back at all.

Dragonstone: 12th December, 299 AC

Brynden "The Blackfish" Tully:

Brynden sighed as he peeked into the family's private solar to look over his great-nieces and great-nephews.

First he spotted Sansa, who save for her dark hair and blue eyes was the image of Cat at that age. His eldest great-niece was the perfect lady, a girl any man would be proud to call his daughter. She was a naturally good girl too, eager to please. But he had never been blind to the fact that she was rather spoiled, a bit arrogant and more than slightly naïve (or rather, she had been naïve until the war had broken out. Stannis' ambition had shattered her beliefs in stories and songs, and she had turned hard and cold in response.). He blamed it on being her mother and septa's clear favourite. He loved Sansa, as he loved his nieces, but she could at times be cruel and self-centred. He feared she was going down the same path as her mother and aunt, paths that had turned both of them into cruel, selfish women. Thankfully, the war had had one benefit, in that Sansa had lost her rose-coloured view of the world and reached out to her siblings. Her old personality still flared up at times, but she was growing up, becoming more compassionate and less inclined to think herself superior to others. She was trying to sew something, but her gaunt hand was trembling from hunger and weakness, and he could see her frustration rising.

Beside Sansa, also attempting some needlework was Shireen. Cat's younger daughter was sweeter than honey, and the kindest of the two. She had no care for social boundaries, happy to play with the servants' children just as much as she played with the noble children Catelyn considered suitable companions for her children. Shireen was shy and uncertain, the vivacious personality of her youth battered down by Cat's loud despair over her scarred cheek. His niece loved all of her children dearly, and she had been horrified by the damage to Shireen's marriage prospects that the scars had caused. She had wanted to send the girl to a motherhouse, but Stannis had refused. But her actions had led to a divide between Shireen, and Catelyn, Sansa (who sided with her mother) and Septa Mordane. Shireen had instead turned to her brothers and books for comfort, hurt by what she perceived as her mother's rejection.

In another life, one where Cat's pregnancy with Robb Snow and the way she acted had not shown him the spiteful streak in his niece's soul, the distressing resemblance to the worst of her father's characteristics, Brynden would have tried to repair the damaged relationship between the pair. Instead, he had tried to be a source of comfort for his niece, and was her defender. He had been the one to persuade Stannis against sending Shireen to a motherhouse when she had come to him about her mother's plans, utterly distraught at the prospect.

It damaged his relationship with Cat more, but Brynden had resigned himself to that a long time ago. He didn't know if she had always been the way she was and his love for her had blinded him or if it was a result of losing her betrothed and being shamed by the birth of a bastard and then wed to a man who was suspicious of her due to that child whom had been taken from her, but Catelyn was different now. Or at least, different to how he recalled her. She was haughty and proud, disdainful of others and with a belief in her competence at skills she didn't have. She had disappointed him greatly. She played favourites with her children, too. Orys and Sansa were the ones she doted on most. Oh, she loved them all, Brynden had no doubt of that, but they were her favourites. Steffon and Shireen had been the ones to pay for that, Shireen becoming cripplingly shy and self-conscious, whilst Steffon grew more and more distant from his parents by the day. Brynden often felt that he was more of a parent to them both than either Stannis or Catelyn had ever been to the pair. He could only hope that he was doing a better job with Catelyn's children than he had done with her and her sister.

Bent over a book, but not having turned a page since Brynden had cracked open the door was young Steffon. The Blackfish felt himself wince as he recalled now only the other day his great-nephew had asked Brynden if the Seven were punishing them for something, and that was why they were suffering so much.

Brynden scanned the solar a second time. As he had expected, there was no sign of little Orys of his mother. No doubt they were in the nursery. Cat, who was frighteningly gaunt, hovered over her sick young son constantly, nursing him. He was such a young child, and wept constantly now, speaking of the pain in his stomach. Catelyn herself seemed almost a corporeal ghost, her every thought and action centred around the care of her youngest child. She had only retreated further into herself after the letter had come, declaring Rhaenys Targaryen as queen and mentioning her husband, Cat's lost bastard son whom she had scorned.

The maester could do no more for either of Orys nor Catelyn's states than he could the rest of the people in Dragonstone. The medical supplies were long gone, and Brynden knew that there was only a tiny fraction of food left in the pantry, barely enough for another meal split between the family, never mind everybody else in the castle. The Lannister fleet had disappeared, replaced by a Winterlander one flying the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

They would not hold out much longer, and Brynden feared for his family's lives if they persisted in their defiance of the Crown. Whilst it had been the Lannisters and Cersei's bastard on the Iron Throne, he had been willing, even after the epic disaster that was the Battle of Blackwater Bay. But now things were different, for Rhaenys Targaryen had successfully defeated the lions, and she had the Ever-Victorious Army on her side, bound to her cause by marriage. Once she had finished securing the Lannisters, she would no doubt turn her attention to Dragonstone, her House's ancestral home that was currently housing the man whom was claiming her title and his family.

Turning away from the quiet scene in the solar, the Blackfish sighed and gave into the inevitable. It had to be done. Family, Duty, Honour. His niece's husband had surely gone mad from the stress of the war and the siege, otherwise he would have realized that his insistence on holding out to the end was futile stupidity. And the servants and guards left were unlikely to accept it either. They were suffering even more than their overlords (whom they had never held much loyalty to in the first place) were, and losing their patience. Stannis might lose his head, and so too might Brynden, but if he acted quick enough, then he could still save his niece and her children. Perhaps he would be able to ensure that House Tully kept hold of the Riverlands also. After all, they had not fought against Rhaenys Targaryen, nor the Starks. Though if she held a grudge against his House for them siding against House Targaryen in the Rebellion...

Damn Hoster's ambition! Brynden had advised him to stay neutral in the matter, for they were sworn to the Targaryens yet Aerys really did need to be overthrown, but Hoster had always been greedy, always sought to increase House Tully's prospects. He had resented that their bannermen were such an unruly bunch, that their House would have been nothing if not for Edmyn Tully deciding to side with Aegon the Conqueror over Harren the Black. Their House owed everything it was to the dragons' generosity and Hoster had repaid their debt by choosing greed over loyalty, hoping to be able to be influential in Baratheon's court.

Not that it had served him well in the end, for even before Stannis had begun the War of the Four Kings, all throughout Robert's reign in fact, Hoster had been quietly sneered at for his actions during the Rebellion. People had disdained how he had wed one of his daughters to a man several decades older than Hoster himself, another to a second son because he (wrongfully) believed that by doing so Catelyn would become either Lady Paramount of the Stormlands or else the next Queen if Robert had no heirs. His vassals had barely helped during the war, and over half of them had outright refused his call, making him a laughingstock.

There was a reason that Hoster had not managed to betroth his heir to anybody, and it was not due to lack of trying. Even their loyal bannermen had hemmed and hawwed, avoiding Hoster's attempts to persuade them to give Edmure the hand of one of their daughters. Nobody wanted to be linked to the honourless man, who was out of King Robert's favour by default due to being Stannis' goodfather. Not to mention that, though they had done their best to keep things quiet, somehow rumours had started to abound about Catelyn and Lysa's pregnancies. Hoster had blamed Eddard Stark for it, but Brynden thought that is was more likely that there was a servant at Riverrun whom was actually a spy in another family's employ and that family had been the ones to have spread the news in order to blacken the Tully's reputation. No lord wanted to risk getting involved with a family whose words were "Family, Duty, Honour", yet seemingly none of the members lived up to it.

Brynden sighed and shook his head bitterly, damning his brother to the bottom of the seven hells. If only the man were not so stubborn! Yet the troubles that had befallen their family could not be laid entirely at his brother's feet. Brynden had failed to notice how self-entitled Catelyn had become until her pregnancy had been revealed and she had been so very hypocritical and cruel towards Lysa, had failed to notice Lysa's naivety had become so dangerous and that her crush on Petyr was strong enough that she'd be willing to ruin herself to try and be wed to him. Cat had been bedded by her betrothed only a few days prior to her wedding, and so it was not as serious, but Lysa had deliberately gotten herself with child because she longed to marry Petyr so desperately. He had even failed to see Petyr's designs on Cat, designs that were so very obvious in hindsight. He had not known about Petyr and Brandon Stark's duel until after Cat's pregnancy was revealed, having been away for moons before hurrying back to Riverrun as the war began. If Brynden had done something differently, had know more, than perhaps things would have turned out better for his House.

But he had not, and now he could only do one thing to preserve his family's lives, even if he failed to preserve their status.

He strode into the Chamber of the Painted Table, where his goodnephew was bent over the stone table, scowling at the section of the Crownlands.

"I take it that you have heard the news then, Blackfish?" Stannis grunted.

"Queen Rhaenys and her host took the capital, yes I know," Brynden nodded in response, jaw tight. "King Tommen and Queen Margaery yielded without a battle, and are now confined to their chambers under house arrest, as is Queen Cersei."

The word was that Cersei had to be kept under the effects of a sleeping potion. She seemed to have lost her mind completely, attacking allies and enemies alike and trying to scratch their eyes out, screaming that she was the rightful queen of Westeros. Not Queen Regent or Queen Consort, but Queen Regnant. She was utterly mad by the sounds of it.

Brynden had to admit that a part of him pitied the woman. Once, decades ago, he had visited Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister had been Hand of the King for King Aerys at the time, spending moons at a time in King's Landing keeping the realms intact whilst his lady wife ruled the West in his name. Lady Joanna had been a lovely woman, and her twins (a mere five namedays at the time) had been sweet and golden, if rather spoilt. It was sorrowful to see and hear of how the little girl who had proudly shown off her new porcelain doll and told him with utmost earnestness and excitement that the doll's hair was real, not made of thread, had fallen so far.

Brynden blamed the Old Lion for all of it. He hoped that the man would go down in history as the one who had nearly destroyed the Seven Kingdoms out of a mixture of ambition, greed and an unquenchable lust for power.

"It means that they now have the forces of the Lannisters and the Reach under their control, along with that of Dorne and the Winterlands," Stannis muttered, rubbing his chin. "We shall need a miracle to get my crown."

"Only the intervention of the Warrior himself would be able to fix this, Stannis," Brynden sighed. "Surely you realize that there is no hope for your cause? We must surrender, and hope that Queen Rhaenys will be merciful because of it."

Stannis' head snapped back and he glowered at him. "I will not!" he yelled, blue eyes wild. "I have had what was rightfully mine stolen from me once already, I will not give up the Crown as well!"

The Blackfish grimaced. "Then you give me no choice," he sighed. "Family, Duty, Honour." Stannis' eyes went wide as he saw Brynden unsheathe his sword and lunge at him, the would-be King scrambling to snatch up his own weapon and just barely grabbing the blade in time to block Brynden's attack.

They clashed against one another, the sounds of fighting bringing a dozen guards rushing into the room.

"Help me!" Stannis called to them. "Treason! Treason!"

But the guards had little loyalty to Stannis. The vast majority of the people who lived in the dreary castle were from families that had been based on Dragonstone for decades if not centuries, families that bitterly resented the Baratheons for overthrowing their former liege lords. They longed for the return of the Targaryens, and Stannis had never been charismatic, unlike his brothers. His sullen, grudge-holding nature worked against him, as did his wife's superiority and disdainful treatment of those she considered to be below her.

And so, filled with resentment towards Stannis and eager to receive the favour of Queen Rhaenys, instead of helping their self-declared king, they helped the Blackfish. Drawing their weapons, they lunged into the fray, and soon Stannis, who had never been a particularly martial man in the first place, was overwhelmed, disarmed and on his knees with a trail of blood flowing down the side of his head as his blue eyes blazed with rage.

"We oughta kill 'im, an' send 'is 'ead tuh the new queen," one of the guards, a dragonseed with the trademarked silver hair of the Valyrians, suggested, glaring at the King in the Narrow Sea.

"No," Brynden refused, shaking his head. "We will confine him to a cell, and send a letter to Her Grace informing her of what has transpired."

Please Gods, he prayed as the guards consented and began hauling the infuriated but not struggling Lord of Dragonstone away, another hurrying to raise a white flag on the battlements, as per Brynden's orders. let me have done the right thing. Let my family be safe.

Brynden could only hope that he acted in time to save them all. Once he was alone in the room again, he took out a sheaf of parchment and some ink, beginning to compose first a letter to Queen Rhaenys, assuring her of the loyalty of everyone in Dragonstone to her and her consort.

Brynden prayed that, if Prince Consort Robb knew the truth of his mother, he held no resentment towards her for giving him up, or that the queen and her husband would at least not allow it to affect their actions towards Catelyn's family. Otherwise he might have attacked his goodnephew, the king he had pledged his fealty to, for nothing.

Pyke: February 4th, 300 AC

Robb:

The Gods were on their side, and they reached the Iron Islands within two moons of sailing. During that two moons, the rest of the fleet had managed to take Great Wyk and were now laying siege to Pyke, already having taken control of the majority of the island, with only the castle of Pyke itself still holding out against them. In truth, they likely could have taken the keep too already, but they had been awaiting the arrival of the Sea-Wolf with Robb and Arya aboard.

"When we attack," Robb instructed the two admirals, who had put aside their famous feud for the sake of avenging their fallen kin and Pack, "Then it's a free for all for everyone. It does not need to be said that there is to be no harming thralls or saltwives or children, of course. But anyone else is fair game. However, Theon is mine. Mine or Arya's. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Your Highness," the pair chorused, eyes flashing eagerly.

Robb suppressed a grimace at the title. 'Your Highness'. It neither sounded nor felt right. Originally, people had simply assumed that he would be styled as the 'King Consort' and addressed as 'Your Grace'. It had been Robb who had pointed out that doing so might undermine Laena's authority, make people think that he was the real power behind the Iron Throne, given the expectations of the Midlands as to how women were meant to submit to their husbands and such nonsense. He didn't want that, neither the pressure of ruling nor the potential damage to his relationship with Laena. There had been many Queens of Winter who had ruled in their right during the eight millennia before Torrhen XXV had bent the knee to protect his people from the wrath of the dragon. Whenever a woman had ruled the North, her husband had been called the Prince Consort, and Robb had figured the title of his ancestors would do fine for him as well.

But it still felt unnatural. Like a southron story or song, only with the wrong genders, given that in those things, it was always princes falling for lowborn women. Southron, or midlander, he corrected himself, society was very irritating. Robb had no idea how he was going to survive it for the rest of his life. Hopefully, between him and Laena, they would be able to do something to make the people of the midlands see the sense of the way things were done in the Winterlands and in Dorne.

He shoved those thoughts away and focused as they began descending into the water to wade up the coast past the port town of Lordsport to the keep.

The Iron Islanders were waiting for them.

Robb's mind went blank during the battle. He didn't pay attention to his own actions, or what was going on around him. He simply fought alongside Arya, Needle held aloft and dripping blood, with their two direwolves at their sides, ripping one opponent after another apart. He lifted Dawn and brought it down again and again. As he fought, the image of his aunt who had been his mother in every possible way save for actually birthing him, his little brother Brandon, who would have been utterly defenceless with his damaged legs, and sweet little Alayne with her thumb in her mouth, playing out in front of his eyes. The last time he'd seen his family, as he turned back to look one last time before Winterfell was out of sight, Bran had waved from his chair, calling after them to write about everything, whilst Máthair had held Alayne on her hip, the little girl sucking on her thumb with her beloved doll clutched firmly against her side.

It seemed to take both hours and minutes to reach the centre of the castle. Robb truly didn't know how long it was, or even how he ended up in the Great Hall of the island keep.

He only knew that the Greyjoys had gathered in the Great Hall with the remainder of their guards, prepared to make their last stand.

"Theon is mine," he growled to the others with him, gaze fixed on the pale-faced traitor who was waiting with his sword.

It would not be a difficult fight. Theon was an archer, not a swordsman, whilst Robb was the new Sword of Morning. Robb had always beaten him in the yard, and this time was serious.

"Theon is ours," Arya corrected him. She was covered in blood, her hair knotted. Robb was in a similar state. Máthair would have had a fit at the state of them both.

But she would never be able to scold either of them for sloppy appearances again, never meet Robb's wife or the babe growing within Laena's belly, never meet Larra's husband and lover or hold her twin grandsons. She had missed both of their weddings, days when they had desperately needed the advice from her and Athair. Her, Bran and Alayne, ripped away decades too soon. All because of the unseen greed and ambition of Theon and Gerold, people they had all trusted and loved as Pack brothers.

Time had slowed down long enough for him to give that order, but then it sped back up again. Robb cut down several guards that tried to get between him, Arya, their wolves and their target, as did the others. Soon enough, Theon was encircled, and Robb snarled at him.

"Why?" he demanded bitterly, hearing the crack in his own voice. "Why Theon? Was it only greed? A desire to prove yourself worthy of being the heir to a House full of murderers, thieves, slaveholders and rapists?"

Theon lifted his chin defiantly. "I do not have to excuse myself to you," he insisted stubbornly.

Robb spat at him.

"We're not going to let your body be committed to the ocean, Greyjoy," Arya informed him gleefully. "We're going to burn your body, and bring your head back to give it to Larra, as proof that we avenged Máthair and our siblings."

Theon began to reply, but he never got the chance to say another word. Robb and Arya had learned to fight as one during their time on the run, and they had only needed to exchange a single look with each other to know how to act. They did not need any more answers than the ones they had received already. Gerold had turned on their family out of greed, Theon because he was desperate to prove himself worthy of his family's legacy of thieving slaveholders. Now, he would pay the price for it.

Robb lunged forward and Dawn cut through the flesh and sinew of Theon's neck, even as Arya's shoved Needle through his heart.

His head fell to the floor and rolled away as Arya yanked her blade back out of the traitor's body to allow it to sink to the floor and lie there with blood spilling out.

Around them, fighting was continuing, but the Northrons were quickly gaining the upper-hand and Robb was too busy staring down at Theon's corpse to do anything else to contribute, not when the world seemed to have frozen entirely around him. Even when a girl with a pink scar on her neck and dark hair lunged at them in rage, he did not move, did not even register the threat properly. Morning jumped at her instead, jaws closing around her throat. Robb barely noticed.

'Máthair, Bran, Alayne, they're both dead,' he thought as Asha Greyjoy's body collapsed beside that of her brother's. 'Gerold and Theon both. You are avenged. You can rest in peace now.'

It was very just, he thought absently as Admiral Starstark declared they had control of the keep, that he, Arya and Larra had all been able to take the life of one those who'd participated in the Bloody Conclave. The blood of a boy he had once considered a friend was on his hands, and Robb was pleased about it.

Theon was dead, and his family was avenged.