Chapter 25 – The 27th day of July, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest

The night was quiet, but it seemed the flying men never slept.

Theon Greyjoy had been awed by a flying machine the first time he saw one, the day the Australians had landed outside Winterfell's gates with Lord Eddard's daughters in tow. How long ago had that been? Eight, nine months?

Much and more had changed in that time. He had marched south with Robb, fought at Whispering Wood, Riverrun and the Gold Road. He had been overjoyed (if a touch jealous) when the flying men had offered a machine to Robb, and immensely pleased when he got the opportunity to fly to King's Landing and back for the new king's coronation. In between, the young lords had ridden north to the Maidenring itself and been permitted to venture through and visit Melbourne. Even then, with all its marvels, they had spent scarce three days in the city, for Robb was loathe to leave his army and his wolf at Riverrun for long.

He had been able to return a month later however, with Asha. Along with their guides he had shown her the sights of the city. Federation Square, Southern Cross station, the Eureka Tower, the Shrine of Remembrance and the Melbourne Cricket Ground…This visit had been longer, over a week. They had spent the last two days in Canberra, even meeting with the new Prime Minister. Dutton had bid them farewell, and hoped that Asha would bring the good tidings of Australia back to the ironborn.

Theon had wished dearly to accompany her. It had been ten years since last he had seen home, but the king, in his great wisdom, refused to allow it. He still wants me as a hostage Theon knew. He was under no illusions there. Still, he could barely contain his frustration. Ten years he had been a ward of Eddard Stark, taken as a boy to ensure his father's good behaviour. Now he was a man grown, one who had fought battles in the king's name, who had killed for this king. Yet still he was treated like a hostage boy.

But he had bid his tongue, and settled into his new circumstance as best he could. He had been assigned to a comfortable enough tent, a stone's throw from the king's own, though it was grown crowded. He bunked now with the onion knight and six others. Merrett Frey's snoring often kept him awake until the early hours of the morning, when the man was not praying to the new god he kept. The Others take your crucified god he had said to the man once at supper, and since then they had not exchanged a word. He had not been the only one to complain of the great oaf's preaching though.

Often, he would find some campfire or other to eat and drink and jape with some of the king's knights before finally retiring. Lately, he had grown bored of this. The siege had grown long, and he was growing tiresome of hearing the same stories again and again. Feeding so many men had proved troublesome, and the king had permitted a few lords and their levies to depart to forage in the nearby hills. This did not mean the besiegers had grown lax however. The stonethrowers continued to pound the castle's gates, and not a week passed without a sortie from the Lyddens. On the last occasion six men had been murdered in their tent before any alarm had been raised, and the attackers managed to disappear into the ground like moles every time.

Lacking much in the way of official duties, Theon had soon been drawn back to the flying men and their devices. The Fury was twice the size of the Eddard Stark. Its hold was like that of a galley, with enough room inside to seat forty people or more. Theon loved seeing the great machine take off and land, the roar of its engines echoing off the hills like a dragon of old. It was the 'Americans' who made camp here. A few dozen of them, mostly armed guards, had set up their separate tents by the field. They were not hard to spot. Their big green tents rivalled the royal pavilion in size, and at night one often saw the glimmer of bottled lightning shining through the flaps. But the men were not truly what interested him here. Even more astonishing was that there were flying women.

Her name was Maria.

She had told him she was two and thirty, was had astonished him further, for she looked no older than Asha. Her features were different, almost queer, though Theon decided he quite liked the look of her. Her skin was a touch darker than could be found in Westeros, as if she was from New Ghis or the Dothraki sea or some such. Instead, she also claimed to come from an island, a place called 'Por-to Ree-co'.

She was shorter than Theon, with dark hair she kept neatly tied in a bun, and which barely reached her shoulder once unfurled. Always he saw her in the green and brown uniforms her people seemed to wear for travel and battle, absent any sort of ornamentation. That its purpose was for 'camouflage' had only baffled the Westerosi. What exactly did they think they were hiding from?

At first he had merely smiled at her as he loitered around the tents, and at first she had not smiled back. He finally plucked up the courage to ask her name, and her role. She was one of the pilots who flew the king's plane. He asked if there were many flying women. She had that yes, there were many. Not as many as the men, but they were catching up fast. She had paused, looking him up and down. She asked him if that surprised him. Theon wondered how to reply. He thought of Asha, captaining her own boat. Privately he thought the idea absurd, but he sensed that was not the right response. He had smiled instead. Actually my lady, In the Iron Islands, a woman can captain her ship just like a man, if she is fierce enough. She had laughed at that. My lady? She laughed again.

Afterwards he had returned more and more often. She met him by the tents and they would walk around the camp, though usually in sight of the Fury's berth and her fellows. She asked who he was, and he did not hesitate to tell her. Why, he was the heir of house Greyjoy. His father was ruler of the Iron Islands and had once called himself a king. Your father rules an island? He laughed. No my lady, he rules four and forty, and those just the ones large enough to matter. She asked if he was a lord, and he cracked a broad smile. Once, my lady, I was a prince, and maybe I shall be again…

He gave her what little gifts he could. A gold coin from the old Kingdom of the Reach he had traded with a Florent knight. Some fur lined gloves he had brought from Winterfell. Some blue flowers he had plucked one day. Eventually she'd started returning the favour. She gave him some small green 'bills' which were apparently some form of currency, and featured long dead 'presidents'. Then some bars of chocolate, for which knights in the camp would offer a fistful of silvers each. Even a pair of sunglasses, which she said made him look especially 'cool'. Theon had kept them on his person ever since.

They walked further, heading into some of the nearby hills, leaving the world and the war quite far behind for a short while. He showed her his proficiency with a bow one morning, piercing a rabbit between the eyes from thirty yards away. She'd cocked her head, looked around for observers, then pulled out her pistol and carefully lined it up on another rabbit twice as far away. Bang.

The rabbit was left a bloody mess. Its fellows ran off at the noise, but on Theon there was if anything the opposite effect. Oh yes he thought. This one's a keeper. More and more he found himself musing on what sort of wife she might make, if he could arrange it so. Would his father approve? Would the ironborn accept a person from a culture so distant and strange? Certainly she could not be a rock wife, to father trueborn sons and daughters, but a salt wife was another matter…

He had not lain with her, not yet, and stolen no more than the occasional kiss. He'd soon asked if she was married of course, and she had said no. She'd had a 'boyfriend' (this term confused Theon) but he had apparently dishonoured her with another woman and they had broken up. A week later the Ring had appeared. When the air force asked for volunteers, she had been one of the first to put her hand up.

Now they sat in the cockpit of the Fury. A small ring of bright 'searchlights' illuminated an acre or so of field around them. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, ensuring no one could approach the plane unseen. Beyond however, the night was pitch black. A cloudy night, the hour of ghosts. There were no stars above, and even the hundreds of campfires spread over the surrounding hills gave off a feeble glow. The plane's radio crackled into life on occasion, and from some device there was quiet music playing.

Despacito
This is how we do it down in Puerto Rico
I just wanna hear you screaming 'Ay, Bendito!'

Theon did not understand most of the words, but the tune was cheerful. They were alone in the plane, but the flying men's camp a hundred yards away was lit up also. Theon had caught glimpses inside of more men and women, watching 'screens' with great intent.

After three months without result, the king's frustration was growing with every passing day. It was well known in the camp that he had been holding secret meetings with the flying men, though few except the kingsguard knew exactly what was being discussed. After the last sortie the king had ordered certain constructions to be made around the camp. Foraging parties had been chopping down trees and stripping branches, and now every fifty yards a wooden post had been hammered into the ground. Each was topped with a small plaque provided by the flying men, with a unique number engraved upon it. The posts had been erected in neat rows, stretching a mile or more from one end of their siege lines to the other. Men were instructed to return to their tents and fires by nightfall, and not stray until dawn if it could at all be helped.

Theon had asked Maria of the purpose of these commands, and at first she had demurred an answer. One evening, when they were huddled in the warm cockpit, sharing a mug of 'hot chocolate', she had admitted the secret. The posts were markers, forming a 'grid' over the camp. The next time the Lyddens sortied out, from a hidden entrance somewhere, they would be spotted immediately, for the flying men could see in the dark.

This was another amazing thing to Theon. A powerful magic, to be sure. She had explained a little about 'infrared cameras' and 'solar power' but he was soon as lost as in any lesson taught by old Maester Luwin. He was eager to see the result however. The sooner the castle fell, the sooner they would be on to Casterly Rock. The sooner the war would end, and finally he would be allowed to go home.

Some time had passed when the radio crackled into life again, and Maria's head perked up. She switched off the music.

"What is it?" Theon asked.

"That was it. The codeword."

"The what?"

"For when the Lyddens come out. They've spotted them."

Theon had been blinking back sleep, but he jerked back immediately. "Where?" he asked.

The radio answered him. "13-07 and 13-08. I say again, right between 13-07 and 13-08."

"I know where that is…" he found himself saying, picturing the layout of the markers in his mind's eye. Quickly he reached for his sword and bow, leaning against the wall right behind them.

Maria's looked at him in some alarm. She put a hand on his shoulder. "It is for the Kingsguard, Theon. My people will be telling them now."

"The king's tent is further. We are closer" Theon pointed out.

"You would go by yourself?" she asked. Her face read disapproval, but something in her voice told Theon it was not entirely genuine "I can't go with you. We're ordered to stay put at night."

His weapons readied, Theon took her hand in his own, giving it a small kiss. "Then forgive me, my lady. I must beg your leave." He grinned at her. "I'm Ironborn, and there's a fight to be had!" He strummed the bow and fingered the hilt of his longsword. He prided himself on always keeping his weapons sharp and ready. With a final look at her, he departed the cockpit and rushed down the steps. Over at the nearby camp he saw some movement. A pair of green men watched him as he hurried past, but the heir to the Iron Islands was a familiar enough face no one seemed alarmed.

Out of the glare of the spotlights the gloom returned. It was only another hundred yards on that he came to the edge of the forest of posts. In the darkness he almost missed them. He tried to remember what numbers were closest to the Fury and its field. He thought he might be around the '20' mark. He paused, listening for movement, but there seemed to be no one nearby. The flying men may have been able to see in the dark, but he needs rely on a cruder form of magic. He reached for the torch on his belt. He held a gloved hand over one end, dimming the light. He flicked it on for just a moment, reading '22-01'.

He switched the torch off and headed left. Fortunately, the ground was not too rough. The fields here were in fallow this close to winter, and the king's armies had burned or stolen what little hadn't been harvested. A few branches whipped at his face where he encountered trees, but he kept an arm up for protection. He passed half a score of markers. From the rest of the camp he heard nothing. The king's tent was the better part of a mile away.

Another marker. He thought it to be the right one. Another quick flash with the torch confirmed it to be '13-01'. He turned and ran on, keeping his footfalls light. He was skirting around tents now. In the distance he saw figures huddled around campfires. At one point he almost tripped on a bicycle. He silently cursed the wicked contraptions. It was one invention of the flying men he had not embraced, much preferring a horse, but he supposed for a common man-at-arms on foot it was an improvement. At the noise a sentry challenged him.

"Theon Greyjoy" he called back, as loudly as he dared. "Wake your men up. The Westermen are afoot."

"The what?" the boy asked, but Theon had already ran past him. He spied another marker in the glow of the campfire, reading '13-03'. He was panting now. Running with the weight of armour and weapons, but he urged himself on. I will kill these men. Not for the Warrior or the God of Fire, not even for the flying men and their queer gods, but for the Drowned God of old.

Only a few markers on he heard the blast of a horn. A second blast was cut short. Now it was unmistakable. From up ahead he heard shouts of alarm. He raced between more tents and leapt over another row of bicycles. He could see the melee now, as he passed '13-05'. He saw figures with torches. As he watched, several were thrown onto a nearby tent, the flames leaping quickly over the dry canvas. He was within a hundred yards now, then fifty. He saw more figures racing in the dark. He knelt, bringing forth his bow as he did so. He aimed at one figure running with a torch. For a moment, he stayed his hand. What if they were friend and not foe? Before he saw the torch fly onto another tent.

Theon loosed. He heard a yell. He was sure the arrow had flown true, but the figure disappeared behind another tent before he could see the result. He got back to his feet, ducking around another encampment. Men were emerging in confusion, some half-dressed. He heard cries of 'Myrcella! Myrcella!' While others were starting to shout 'Stannis!' in response.

He took up the call. "Stannis!" he cried. "Stannis! Stannis! For the king!"

He ran forward. Other figures were spilling out behind him. Up ahead he saw at least three tents on fire. Figures were rushing about. He thought they might have been retreating already. He matched them, heading to his left, skirting around yet more tents and a huge pile of firewood. If he could find the tunnel. They had not been able to find any of the entrances yet, they were so cunningly concealed, but now he knew roughly where it should be.

He kneeled again, bow ready. He saw another line of figures, a few of them still clutching torches. The leading silhouette approached a small cluster of boulders, fifty yards from the nearest tent. A slight pause, and then he vanished. The others were following. Theon did not hesitate now. He loosed again. This time he saw the arrow impact, striking a man full on in the chest. There were cries of alarm, but Theon had already drawn another. He loosed again, and again. The men were forty yards away, but somehow he seemed incapable of missing. He was a small figure crouching in the dark, impossible to see. Several men had disappeared among the rocks, but others were clustered beside them, clutching at wounds or trying to help their comrades.

Only then did he hear the blasts of more horns. Except no, now they were trumpets. He saw more men with torches rushing between the tents from the north, the direction of the king's pavilion. A large party, thirty or forty of them. In the torchlight he saw the glint of armour, and at least three cloaks he was sure would have been white in the day. There was a rising chorus of 'Stannis! Stannis! Stannis!'

Quickly they fell upon the survivors of the raiding party, those unable or too foolish to retreat back down the hole they had come. Theon inched forward, bow ready. He saw men fighting, heard the clang of sword on sword, but in another minute it was all over. When he was twenty yards away he must have stepped into the torchlight. A figure shouted a challenge at him.

"Theon Greyjoy" he replied, raising a hand in greeting. Men turned to face him. He recognised the knight who had spoken. Ser Richard Horpe's cloak was still white, but noticeably bloody.

"From where did you come?" asked the kingsguard, incredulous.

"There's a fight to be had ser. I'm not far" Theon replied, smiling.

Nearby, Donnel Locke had his blade against a Westerman's throat, demanding the same question. The man did not deign to answer, though with the amount of blood he was coughing up with each laboured breath, this may not have been by choice. Theon saw six or seven other bodies, the dead and dying. Most had at least one arrow in them. He went over and started plucking them out to return them to his quiver.

"This is your doing?" asked another knight, with yellow flowers on his surcoat.

"I never miss, ser" Theon replied. He turned back to the kingsguard. "Its no good asking them, good sers, but if you want to find the tunnel, it is this way" he said, pointing.

Ser Richard did not reply, but he followed where Theon had indicated. A dozen paces and he was among the rocks. Others gathered around him. This time the entrance was not hard to find. They heard the moans of another live Westerman, his legs sticking out between two large boulders. With some effort they pulled him out. His head and shoulders had made it inside, but the entrance was so narrow the arrow in his side looked to have prevented his entry. Theon retrieved this too.

Ser Richard threw a torch into the hole. The interior was dirt, but there was some sort of lever, attached to what was evidently a trapdoor. The knight inspected it with the flat of his sword. The door was stone and decently thick. On its bottom it was smooth, but the top was rough and unhewn. When shut, it would blend into its surroundings perfectly, just another boulder among many.

"Cunning" he heard the knight admit. He looked around. "But the king is more cunning still. We go inside."

A few seemed to hesitate. "Should we wait for dawn, sir?" asked a knight bearing the sigil of house Wylde.

"Cowards can wait until dawn. We go in now" Ser Richard replied, lighting another torch. Theon made to follow him, but the kingsguard stopped him with the flat of his blade.

"Go to your tent, Greyjoy."

"I am no coward" he said.

"You are the king's ward. Return to your tent. You are not permitted to be here."

"I am going into Deep Den, ser" he insisted.

The sword smacked into his chest, though it hurt little through his armour. "You are the king's ward. Your place is not here. Ser Corliss, Ser Patrek, remove him."

Strong hands closed on his shoulders. Theon was almost too outraged to struggle. "You owe me your victory ser!" he called after the kingsguard, crouched low over the tunnel. "Without me! Without me we would be another three months at Deep Den!"

He might have fought more, but the battle fever was wearing off now, and suddenly his armour felt ten times as heavy. He last caught sight of Ser Richard Horpe diving into the tunnel entrance, sword in one hand and a lit torch in the other.

The two knights escorted him back through the camp. They passed men roused by the melee, watching the king's knights and the heir of Pyke curiously. After enough protest from Theon, they finally released him, but marched him back all the same. It must have been the hour of the wolf before they returned. Theon hoped for a glimpse of the King, but they marched him past the royal pavilion and to his own tent. Ser Davos and Merrett Frey were sitting by the fire.

"What news?" the onion knight asked, blinking at the sight of them.

"Ser Richard commanded us to see the squid boy to bed" Ser Patrek replied cheerfully.

Theon flushed with anger. "Eight men are dead or dying because of this squid, ser. Would you care to join them?"

"Eight men?" Ser Davos. "The Lyddens?"

"Arrows in the dark" Ser Corliss replied, dismissive. "That was ill done boy. When one kills a man, he should do it face to face."

Davos was looking between the three of them. "Did we find a way inside?"

"Ser Richard found it" Ser Patrek replied proudly. "He is inside already. The castle will fall by dawn."

"I found it, you utter fool" Theon said, whirling around, hand once again on the hilt of his sword.

Ser Patrek matched him. He stood half a head taller than Theon. "And who will believe the squid boy?" the big knight replied. "You got lost in the dark, and we found you. That is all that happened" he made a wicked sort of grin.

For a moment Theon was tempted to try him then and there. I am the king's ward, he would not dare touch me, truly.

It took Ser Davos to deter him. "Go to bed Theon. I am sure you fought bravely, and with great cunning, but this is not your fight…The king needs you alive and safe. Go to bed."

Theon spat at him. "The heir of Pyke does not take counsel from onion knights."

But he went, all the same.

As it was, Ser Patrek's estimate was optimistic. It was close to midday before the gates opened and the castle surrendered. Theon watched as the castellan was dragged out, still protesting. The king offered him the same choice he offered to all, to bend the knee or face punishment. The castellan spat at his feet, calling him usurper, monster, the Stranger's servant, lord of darkness.

Ser Richard took his head off in one swift stroke.

After that, few refused the opportunity to bend the knee.