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AN-1: Exactly 30 days this time—and a notice to those who also follow my other fics, updates are going to slightly, very slightly slow down since I am gonna start college on 14.
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A a slash from Nightfall and the reaver's hand fell to the ground along with the sword it held, the valyrian blade severing the limb like a hot knife through butter. Kicking the man unconscious as he fell to his knees, I took a look back at Visenya, who was tending to the cut on another Ironborn's chest, cauterizing the wound so that he would not bleed out.
Yet.
Walking forwards into the room, I was met by the wide-eyed gazes of sixteen girls and women, five of them in various states of undress…and the five perpetrators unconscious outside. The relief came on their faces a moment later, and some of them began to cry openly as I saw the bruised faces, the split lips, and the red marks on their necks.
Gods, it was tough controlling myself from going out and carving up the fuckers.
"Jon!" Abel, a fisherman's wife from the shores shouted, sagging back against the stone wall as she looked at me with her one good eye, "Fucking hells! Where is the Lady an-By the Old Gods! Lyanna! She was taken away from the rest of us by the Harlaw!"
"She is safe," I shook my head and moved forwards, kneeling by Maris, a little girl of nine who was stuffing herself as deep as possible into Abel's neck, her face turned just enough to see me out of the corner of her eye. "Can you move?"
"Aye, I can Snow," she nodded as the ropes binding her wrists fell to the ground, and I began to cut through the ones on her feet, "Where is the Lady? And Fryke, where is he?"
"Don't know bout your husband, but Maege was on Bear Island last I saw her," I shook my head, taking the dirk on my waist the releasing Maris from her bonds, "I came alone from Bear Island."
"The fuck are ye on about Snow?" Myrelle, a woman of twenty-and-nine asked, her brow furrowed as she looked from me to the legs of the Iroborn that were visible just past the door, "You? A lad of barely sixteen namedays came alone to this island? This ain't the time for japes Snow, where are Maege and the others?!"
"He is speaking the truth," Visenya said as she entered the room, walking over to the other end of the group and taking out the dagger she had picked up from one of the bodies, "He came here to rescue us by himself."
"Lyanna!" several women cried out in relief, and almost everyone started asking at once about she had freed herself from the Harlaw heir and his 'asshole, cunt pigs'.
"Now is not the time," she said, wiping the sweat off her brow as she cut through yet another rope, "We need to get to Rodrik Harlaw before he throws himself off his perch."
"Why do we need that fucker?" Abel asked, standing up and cradling Maris tightly, "We should run away before any more reavers come this way."
"No one is coming," I said as I thought of the carnage the Dragons and I had brought to Harlaw, "Those of you who can hold weapons, grab what you find and come with us. Also, drag those five Ironborn with you…we don't want to leave them here."
"Whu-What?!" someone gasped, all of them blinking at me as if I had grown two heads, "The fuck do you mean no one is coming? There were hundreds of these reavers when we were being brought upto the castle!"
"And now there are less than ten, so hurry up and follow us," I cut through the last pair of ropes, ruffling the little girl's hair as she sniffled and looked at the burns on her wrists, "We need to move fast…Ironborn boats out int eh sea must have seen the fires by now, and I don't know how long we have until thousands of them come here to check this Island."
"Jon," Visneya sighed and pushed me towards the door, "Go out and bind their arms and legs will you, your bluntness isn't helping matters here."
Groaning at the exasperation in her tone, I dropped my dirk in front of Abel and walked outside, taking the sight of five Ironborn lying on the floor in various states of dismemberment or injury. Two had their hands cut off, and one was without his leg from knee down, while two others had been felled by slashes to their chests.
Thankfully, heating the Valyrain steel cauterized the wounds somewhat as soon as the steel passed through the flesh, and Visenya had been there to handle anything more than what my dwindled magical reserves could handle. Tearing down the sparse tapestries and a single drape that I could find in the corridor, I tore the further into smaller strips, and bound the arms and legs of the men—covering their stumps at the same time…it wouldn't have done me any good if they bled out before we reached Winterfell.
By the time I was done with wrapping the black cloth around the right knee of the last Ironborn, Visenya led the remaining sixteen women out of the room, each of them looking at the unconscious bodies and the butchered limbs with shock.
"By Freyja's grace," Abel whispered, holding Maris close to her chest, "How is this possible?"
"You can find that out later," I said shortly, nodding at the bodies around us, "For now, those who are strong enough, pick up these bodies and move at the back of the group. Visenya and I will lead the way until we find Rodrik Harlaw. After that, we will take him hostage and get back to Bear Island."
"Why the fuck do we need that squid as a hostage?" someone grumbled, and murmurs of assent cam from the rest of them as fallen axes and cleavers were picked up b the women, "We are free, so let us leave this blasted place before the rest of their ilk comes."
"Because the North remembers," I shot back, pointing Nightfall in the direction of the mainland, "Theon Greyjoy was taken as a ward to ensure Balon's obedience by the Stag, and yet the Ironborn attacked our shores today. Daughters of the North were once again taken against their will by these fucking reavers…and so, I will do what a true son of the North ought to do in the first place."
"What?" Myrelle whispered, clutching the axe in her hand with a white-knuckled grip as the woman looked at me with wide eyes, her softly spoken word almost disappearing in the echoes of my own racing heartbeat.
"The Blood of the Winter Kings flows in my veins," I answered, feeling the weight of the words I was speaking, knowing that what I was going to do…it hadn't ever been done before in Westeros, "Soon, everyone will know what that means."
Rodrik Harlaw had never been a warrior, at least not one of any recognized talent or skill. That is why, when his son Thyros had shown a proclivity for longswords, he had been overjoyed. Finally, a worthy hand to wield Nightfall.
Two years later, his lovely wife had gifted him another strong son, Aegir Harlaw who had been more inclined to his father's books than the Keep's weapons. Both of them had grown to be strong young men, big and broad in a way that Rodrik had never been…and he couldn't have been prouder of them.
But then his brother-in-law, Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands Balon Greyjoy had decided to declare independence from the crown. He had all but begged on his knees for him to not do so, but pride had been an everpresent quality in the Greyjoys—and in Balon, it was more so, what with Victarion and Euron both spewing madness in those ears.
Regardless, on the eve of the Great Drowning, the Lords f the Iron Islands had been summoned to Old Wyk, and Balon had proclaimed himself the King of Iron Islands. Each and every Ironborn had attended the ceremony when the priests had proclaimed Balon the chosen of the Drowned God, and the return of the Old Ways had been announced.
Men had attacked the Westerlands first, burning Lannisport and the surrounding coastal areas, looting and raping through the region while hundreds of women and men were shipped back in chains and ropes. Salt wives and workers his brethren called them, the reward for paying their Iron price. And since that wasn't enough for the ever-ravenous hunger of the Ironborn, they had attacked the North and the Reach too.
As expected, the response from the Old Lion, the Usurper, and the Quite Wolf had been quick and vicious. They marched upon the Pyke head-on, thousands upon thousands of so-called Greenlanders slaughtering the Ironborn into nothing but minced meat and quartered bodies.
As commanded by their King, even his sons had gone to defend the Iron Islands front he return-invasion—against his wishes at that…and they had died there. Robert Baratheon's hammer had smashed in the chest of his youngest, while his heir had died at the hands of Gregor Clegane, his head ripped off his body in a show of strength and brutality that the Mountain was known for.
Harras Harlaw had been named his heir then, Nightfall passing into the Knight's hands…and Rodrik had never been sadder. His books had become his sole comfort then, his wife having left the world years ago at that point. However, despite wearing a myrish eye to read books…he wasn't blind to the state of Harlaw.
Once the richest and most prosperous of the Iron Islands due to his trade deals with Essos, the wealth of House Harlaw had decreased rapidly under the direction of Harras. Brash and quick to anger, and even quicker to fall to his lusts, Harras was the living embodiment of an Ironborn's worst traits.
However, he was old now, and Rodrik had no desire to take another wife after his beloved Leona had died…so he put up with the sorry excuse for an heir he now had. But then, two weeks days ago…Harras had crossed all limits of sanity when he had taken his personal ship, fifty men, and sailed forth for the Bear Island.
His target? The bastard daughter of Eddard Stark whose beauty had become the news of whispers and tales all across the land. Trading galleys from White Harbor and Deepwood Motte spoke of her silver-blond hair as well as the purple eyes, and soon, the words of her looks spread from Northern men to Southern travelers…until the words of her enchanting beauty reached the ears of his foolish, god-damned fucking cunt of an heir.
Harras had set forth before he had even come to know of his foolish desire, and no raven he had sent ot him had returned, making his answers to Rodrik's orders quite clear. He had contemplated sending a letter to Eddard Stark, but something had stilled his hand.
Now, as he looked out at the fires on his island and the smoke billowing out from the burning houses, Rodrik wished with all of his heart that he somehow found the courage to take a single step forwards. Not that it would have mattered much, he thought to himself, his eyes lowering down to find a pair of gleaming, fiery amber ones peering up at him.
Dragons. Fire-breathing, wings-flapping, earth-scorching and extinct for hundreds of years Dragons.
At first, he had not believed what his eyes had seen, a great torrent of blue flames spewing forth from seemingly out of nowhere upon dozens of his men. By the Drowned God, he had even slammed his head on the nearby wall, table, and all types of hard surfaces to somehow come out of the delusion…but to no avail. The Dragons were there. The screams of the dying men were there.
And the cold, burning realizations of what Harras had invited to their home were just as quickly there to suffocate him.
Lyanna Snow and Jon Snow had never been Stark's children…or rather, not the children of the Stark the realm believed them to be. He was quite possibly the last remaining male on the Island of Harlaw right now, considering his guards had gone out quite early during the attack to fight the intruders.
Now, in his chambers, it was only him and his two sisters. Gwynesse and Alannys both were sitting on the bed, looking at the destruction with dead eyes as they clutched each other. His thoughts were cut off by the sound of multiple footsteps coming towards his door, accompanied by the familiar sound of a blade scratching on the floor.
"In here," he called out, stepping down from the ledge and moving to the center of the room, finding no sense in delaying the inevitable, "Third door to the right."
The breaths of all three Harlaws stilled as the sound of the blade scratching along the ground grew closer and closer, sounding more ominous and foreboding with each passing moment. He was aware of the single bead of sweat trickling down his temple, adn despite the itch that was causing, Rodrik couldn't find it in himself to wipe it away.
Would he look at another Aerys when the door opened? Or would it be another Rhaegar, calm and collected unlike what his grandfather had been?
The steps stilled right at his door, an eyeblink later, it was pushed open with torturous slowness, the creak of the rusted joints sending shivers down his spine. And then, then he saw the face of Jon Snow, the hidden son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.
Raven hair hanging to his shoulders, the long face of North tempered by the regality and sharpness of Valyria, and a strong body made the boy look like the Dragonlord he was. His was positively soaked in blood, some of it his given by the cuts he could see on his skin, but most of it no doubt belonged to his bannermen.
His eyes were a blend of purple and steel, and his lips were set in a humorless smile as he walked in, Nightfall's tip scraping the floor and sending sparks in its wake. Behind him entered the Winter Rose of the North as she had now been titled for a few years, Lyanna Snow. she too was covered in blood, though much less than her brother, and Rodrik could see a bloody spot on her chest…the tear in the cloth looking exactly like an arrow wound. Behind them, several women entered the room, the bruises and split lips among some of them making him close his eyes at his cousin's actions.
Seventeen pairs of stony eyes stared at him, some of them furious, some of them disgusted, but all of them right in their judgment. A few of them glared at Gwynesse and Alannys too, as if their states were a fault of his sisters. However, before the silence continued on for any longer, Rodrik heard a near-silent sound of wings flapping…and the ensuing screams from the Northern women nearly deafened him.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!"
He didn't look at their wide eyes, dropped jaws, or the raised weapons as they stared gobsmacked at the dragon hovering right behind him. No, his eyes were on the Targaryens, and theirs on him. Something in their posture, in their eyes, seemed more to him.
No sixteen-year-old had the right to be so in control of their faces. His cousin had kidnapped the boy's sister for fucks sake! Where were the anger and the loathing he was expecting? Hells, at least the girl should have said something by now…but instead, all they were doing was stand there and look at him. Behind them, the clamor of the Northern women continued on as they screamed and pointed at the dragon still hovering outside his window…right until the dragon roared loudly, and every single voice quietened down instantly.
His hearing damn near snuffed out by the loud sound, Rodrik clenched his eyes shut and shook his head for a moment, adn when his eyes opened, the boy had crossed the distance between them until he was almost face to face with him.
"Well, my Lord," he said with a smile, tilting his head slightly—which with his blood-covered face and equally soaked through hair, gave an appearance Rodrik had associated only with the likes of Aerys and Euron, "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"Forgive me," Rodrik Harlaw whispered, his eyes lowering to the ground as he fell to his knees, and women behind me gasped at the action. Though, what came next certainly made them gasp, even more, the shock of the words enough to keep them silent on its own."...my Prince."
My Prince. A title that was mine by right. A title that had been my brother's…a title that might have belonged to any other sibling if I might have had them. Hearing it was different from knowing it, I realized as I looked down at the Harlaw Lord before me. For my whole life, despite knowing my real heritage, my real parentage, and my real place…I had been a bastard wherever I had gone.
But now? I had revealed myself to the Bear Island, and the Westerland's and Reach's women beneath us. I had ideas on how to play this. How to convince the people of Bear Island to not spill the truth, how to convince the women on the Island to not speak of the events tonight…but even the best-laid plans could fall down like a castle of sand. However, that all would come after I dealt with this Lord…who couldn't even control his own brother—which, a part of me recognized wasn't his fault, but Visenya had killed Harras, so I had to get my pound of the flesh from someone else.
"You know?" I asked, bringing up Nightfall and resting the flat of the blade on his left shoulder. The two ladies on the bed—too well dressed to be whores, his sisters most probably whimpered at that, but I gave them no heed. "Ah…Gaelithox and the others are kind of a giveaway aren't they?"
"Yes…Your grace."
Snorting at the words—and believe me, I was as uncomfortable at hearing them as he was at uttering them—I removed Nightfall from his shoulder and rested its tip on the ground. "Harras is dead my lord, and so is every other Ironborn on this Island other than you and your sisters," I began, satisfaction and glee shining through my voice as waved my hand at the window, delighting in the barely visible shiver that went through his body, "Your cousin, your heir decided to attack the North once more, that alone itself would be grounds for a full-blown Northern invasion to your shores. But if that wasn't enough…he decided to kidnap my sister?! He was lucky my sister killed him before I got my hands on him—but considering you can also be blamed for the mess, what do I do with you?"
"The fuck is goin' on Snow?!" Myrelle growled out, striding towards me as she grabbed my shoulder and turned me around," What the fuck is that dragon doing there? Why the fuck did ye not scream at it…and why the fuck did this fucking cunt of a squid call you 'Your grace'?!"
"Because he is the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen," Visenya said, walking towards to stand by my side. Myrelle's face rapidly paled at that declaration and the rest of the women were not far behind, all of them stumbling back as if physically struck—their wide eyes looking at Visenya and me as if they had never seen us before. "And we know about those Dragons…since we hatched them in Winterfell years ago."
"Now that part is over," I began, turning around to look at the still kneeling lord, "We have work to do my Lord. take us to your personal ship would you, and any other you have in your personal dock. We don't want to leave the women and those dozen Ironborn behind now, do we?"