Author's Note: First chapter! I hope you enjoy it.

Some review answers:

Zack: thank you very much! I hope that you find this chapter equally appeasing. And yes, lore powerful (as in incredibly so).

Alastair: I hope you find it as good as the prologue! Had a hard time writing this, I suck at female characters.

Zapper: Zanks

For Sovngarde!

The Dark Chronist

Disclaimer: I do not own The Elder Scrolls franchise nor A Song of Ice and Fire, each belonging to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin respectively. All characters, places and events other than those of my own invention are their intellectual property. All other intellectual property as songs or poetry or quotes belong to their respective owners.

Shyra I

'Hell is other people.'

-Sartre-

Shyra's eyes were lost on the horizon, at the storm that raged deep within the Sunset Sea. The previous day had been a remarkably temperate one, with a grayish sky but with no traces of clouds and a slight breeze coming from the north. This storm had come out of nowhere, with a sudden change of the wind blowing hard from the west, quickly pushing into the coast; it would reach the village early in the afternoon.

The girl shuddered with a new wind blow that sent chills down her spine, making her embrace the basket she carried tightly. Maybe it was time to return already; she was near the furthest cliffs of Sea Dragon Point, and she would need to walk for two hours before getting back. She looked down to the roaring sea below her, tempted to end her misery then and there, but shook her head to get rid of those thoughts. Her mother had sent her shortly after dawn to pick some mussels at the northern coast while she sewed; she would be waiting for her, and she couldn't abandon her mother. Not now. This late into the autumn the last of the scarce crops from their small orchard behind their hut had already been harvested, and there was nothing to do in the village anyway. Nothing other than being abused or raped by the ironborn, that is.

They had come to their village with fire and iron and rage, one chilly and misty morning nearly a year ago. They came on their dreadful longships, just when the few men that hadn't gone south with young King Robb were about to get into the sea in their small fishing boats. The reavers' ships smashed into the beach, turning the small boats ashore into ruined masses of splinters, with their crews of madmen jumping into the land howling like rabid animals. She was with her mother and poor Jojen at their home when they arrived, and by the time they realized what was happening three ironborn warriors were breaching into their house, axes at the ready and monstrous grins on their faces. They cut down her little brother without a moment's thought and dragged her and her wailing mother to the outside, pulling at their hair, into the center of the village. Most women of the village were there already, with bruises and blood upon their skin and torn clothes, some weeping, some outright crying, some too shocked to even react. Her mother kept howling, calling Jojen's name. To no avail.

Her eyes darted around the village, still trying to understand what was going on. Everywhere she saw men clad in iron and boiled leather hacking down doors and dragging women to the center of the settlement. She saw Old Oswald, the village's elder, chopped from shoulder to hip with the greatest expression of surprise she had ever seen upon his dead face. A bit behind him, her wife Goodwife Sheire laid with a slit throat. All around her dead men littered the village. She noticed with growing horror that they had killed all the men of the village and the older women too. From the ones they were gathering, the oldest had to be Aunty Myra, and she wasn't even on her fifties, with the younger ones being herself, Gina and Alys. She was starting to understand where this was going.

One of the warriors clad in chainmail stood before the crowd of terrified women and removed his helmet. Her helmet, actually. She was lean and long, like a pine, with black hair cut close to the face. Her nose was somewhat large, but not enough to make the overall girl less attractive, with her deep dark eyes and her smug, perfect smile. A hatchet hanged at her waist, and a shield rested at her shoulders. The young woman scanned lazily the women in front of her every now and then while the rest of the reavers came to and fro their pauper homes, taking out any food or valuables they could find and piling them near the grounded ships. At first there were only half a dozen ships, but now Shyra could make out at least two dozens more lining the beach heading north, with more men coming swarming from them and toward the village. She had never seen so many people gathered together in her entire life, not even when Lord Glover and his retainers had came to the village to conscript her elder brother, father and her Rogan.

Ah, her Rogan. She wished with all her heart that he were here, surely quite a dashing warrior by now, to fight with her father and brother and the men of the young, brave King Robb against the ironborn scum. Surely the King would get word of this attack and would soon come North to kill those devils, after they were done slaying the lions on their dens. But the poor Jojen… now their parents only had Joseth and herself. Oh, how devastated would Joseth be; he loved their little brother more than anyone. Suddenly she felt very sad, and embraced her still wailing mother in a tight hug.

Soon all the ironborn from the newly arrived ships had gathered at the village, with the woman in chainmail climbing gracefully to the top of the pile of crates and supplies that they had unloaded from the ships and looted from the houses. To Shyra's utter disbelief, the thin girl seemed to be in command of the raiders, who watched her with expectation as she looked down into them, hands on the weapons at her hips and helmet back at her head. In a harsh, commanding voice she told the assembled host to march with her to take Deepwood Motte, to which the warriors answered with a roaring cheer, breaking to a trot down the road that led into the Wolfswood. The woman then jumped down from the pile and called a warrior by his name, apparently Harl. She commanded him to keep his men at the beach and ward the ships, and to send a supply train regularly to keep their forces feed and ready; that arose protests from the man, who complained that he too wanted a chance to loot the northern castle. The girl smirked and told the man that while they ripped the goods from the castle he could start picking salt wives from the women of this village. That, along with the lecherous grin that the burly man directed at the general direction on the women of the village, froze the blood in her veins.

That night the ironborn took all the women to the longhouse of Oswald and started enjoying their spoils of war. They drank, they sang, they ate and they raped. She had been raped more than any other woman on the village. From the thirteen women that remained alive, she was definitely the most beautiful of them all, said the reavers. Everyone used to say it, that she was the prettiest lass in all Sea Dragon Point and her Rogan the most handsome young man. She disagreed. Sure, she had a pretty enough face, with his mother's soft features and fair skin, but she saw her breasts too big and shaggy, her hair too wild and untamed and her eyes too wide to be true (Gina, old Oswald's granddaughter, used to call her cow-owl, much to her annoyance. That skinny bitch…), but her Rogan was indeed and undoubtedly the fairest man the Gods had ever created. His strong arms, big hands and square jaw, so manly and tough, with that brilliant crooked smile of his… she had already gave her maidenhead to him after the last harvest's fair, just before the war, but it didn't eased the pain that befell her that evening and most of the night. Almost none of the thirty men that were left behind by the ironborn spared her that night, the few that did coming to her over the next days. The nightmare had lasted until deep in the hour of ghosts, when the fifteen ironborn outside of the longhouse came to shift their watch with the fifteen inside. The newcomers had had already their way with the villagers before their shift, and now just ate their dinners and went quickly to sleep, snoring loudly. No woman managed to get any sleep that night, some spending it in utter silence, others quietly crying, all cowering together on a corner of the house.

Shyra was too tired and hurt to move at all, with a throbbing pain coming from her abused groin and bruised breasts, tights and neck. She was resting her head on her mother's lap on a fetal stance, who stroked her hair sobbing without tears. Three men had raped her mother that night; nothing compared to the two dozens that had had her, but the woman was already broken from the sight of her little, poor baby being hacked down by those animals. Shyra hadn't wept at any moment, at least not out of sorrow for their current predicament, just for the brutal pain she had endured with every man that night. A part of her still hadn't fully registered what had befallen them, the reality being too horrid to accept. But when the next morning the ironborn called Harl (apparently the leader) had came into the house groaning and stretching their muscles, kicking the men awake and ordering them to start the day's watch while he and the rest catched some sleep, he had commanded the women to wake up too and clean the mess from the village, to return to their homes ('And the Drowned God helps you if you even think of escaping!') and to dispose from the dead. Her mother helped her to her feet, kissing her brow as they both stood and started walking out of the house in procession with the rest of the women, stumbling all along. Shyra could feel something dripping from between her legs. She didn't need to check it to know that it was the wretched seed of the rapists, with probably her own blood. Then, they arrived at the ruined door of their disheveled home. She had forgotten that her brother was still there. Then, at the sight of his torn body, the tears that she had been unable to shed all during her previous ordeal came back to her like a flood.

She was already walking down the beach, having left the cliffs behind her. The longships that had arrived that dreadful day had left a few months later, only a handful men remaining to guard the Motte. The men from the garrison came periodically to scourge the villages of the lands of the Glovers looking for food and entertainment. They learned from eavesdropping around them that the ironborn king, the old Greyjoy, was dead; that the ironborn had called all their captains to some kind of assembly to choose a new one, and that the woman that had led the attack meant to become queen and make peace with the North. That had given hope to the villagers, but it hadn't put an end to the violations. At least they had lessened from daily rapes by several men to a couple ones every two weeks. Still a living hell, but not as unbearable. Her mother was like a ghost, thin, pale and blank faced, going to her daily errands in a mechanical way, like moved by a will other than her own. She still talked to her daughter informing her of the things that needed to be done, but that was pretty much it. She mumbled prayers to the gods every now and then, asking for his husband and son to return soon to the village to drive the wretched demons back to the sea. Shyra knew better than that.

Two moons after the longships had sailed back into the sea passed, and there they came again. That afternoon a party from Deepwood had arrived and, as usual, the leaders took her and Gina to the longhouse to have their way with them while their men packed the food they could take from the women of the village. While the other ironborn lordling took Gina on her late's grandfather bed the one that picked her pinned her directly over the table. It was, as usual, painful and harsh. When the ironborn was done (an ugly bastard that the men called Dagon the Drunkard), his foul breath washing over her face bringing even more tears to her eyes than the throbbing pain from between her legs did, someone ran into the building.

"Dagon, Asha's-"

The ironborn lad was cut off by the lean woman that had taken Deepwood pushing him away and striding into the longhouse. Asha Greyjoy was the name, as the villagers had come to learn.

"Shush, Stutts. He can see it himself.

Dagon, still inside her and clutching her breasts, stood a little straighter and gave the Kraken's Daughter a crooked, drunk smile.

"Heeeeyyy, cousin! Back so soon? I was-"

"Cut it cousin, I can see myself too what you are doing. Pack up everything slightly edible and let's head back to Deepwood."

The Drunkard pulled out of her and rubbed his face with both hands in confusion.

"Wha… What happened in the Kingsmoot?

The woman glared in his direction, making the drunk take a staggering step back.

"We have a new king. The Crow's Eye."

"Oh…" murmured Dagon, a dark look taking over his visage. While he stuffed his cock back into his breeches Asha sighed and spoke up again.

"Also, the North has a new overlord. The Young Wolf has been murdered at the Twins, his host slaughtered by a traitorous lord, some Roose Bolton. He has been named Warden of the North by the child king of the Iron Throne, and now his and Frey forces lay siege to Moat Cailin."

This seemed to steer awake the drunk, who stared slightly open mouthed to the woman.

"What?! Well, we have to do something! When is Victarion coming?"

The girl grit her teeth and looked away.

"He is not coming, cousin. Our new king-" she spat the last word, "- has commanded him to attack the Shield Isles, down at the mouth of the Mander. He is abandoning the North."

Dagon's gaze fell to the floor, and mumbled something while walking after Asha outside, followed soon by the other ironborn lordling. Gina curled into a ball on the bed, sobbing, but Shyra was too flabbergasted by what she had heard to even react to their departure. Still sprawled over the table, the foul seed leaking on the floor made the only sound inside the house other than Gina's sobs. The Young Wolf has been murdered at the Twins, his host slaughtered by a traitorous lord… 'That means… father? Joseth… and Ro- oh, gods, Rogan!

For the second time since the ironborn's attack, she cried.

She felt her eyes watering again at the thought. She hadn't said a word about it to her mother, nor to anyone else on the village; Gina had neither, but she suspected that her friend hadn't even registered what the ironborn had said. Better to let them keep up their hopes until the new Warden sent help. But months had passed since the return of the Kraken's daughter, and still there was no sight of northern troops… and her own hopes were starting to dim.

Even worse, with winter approaching they could pull even less food from the sea or the fields, and now the ironborn came in a weekly basis. The women were starting to feel the clutch of hunger, and the reavers were more aggressive, demanding and nervous than during the first months. If things kept this way, soon everything would explode, and it was sure to do so in the direction of the villagers.

The girl shuddered again, and pulled her woolen cloak to cover herself a bit more. When had it turned this foggy? It was noon already and the fog, rather than dissipating, was growing thicker by the moment.

She had finally reached the village, and as she rounded the corner of the first hut saw with a pit forming on her stomach that there was a party of a dozen ironborn in the center of the village, overseeing the women piling food on their carts. She saw Gina standing with her gaze cast on the sandy ground with wet eyes, with fucking Dagon Drunkard Greyjoy groping her rear with his left hand, a smug smile on his bearded face. He was holding a bottle on his right hand, talking to… oh, mother.

"Shooo…-" he seemed drunk. That was good; he was not too violent while drunk. When he was left with no booze, though… "-where's your contribushion, hag? Shurely, just those turnips are not all you're giving, eh? And where'sh that lovely daughter of yarsh?"

Her mother's eyes were cloudy, casted on the direction of the man without seeming to fully register him.

"My daughter is picking mussels on the cliffs, m'lord," muttered her mother.

"Ohhh, ish she? Shurely you haven't got the gal to have her run away from here like that other bitch, did you?"

Shyra shuddered at the memory. Alys' mother, aunty Eve, had convinced her daughter to run away from the village after the second visit from the foragers after their attack. Alys being the youngest girl on the village, months younger than herself and a year than Gina, was one of the preferred targets of the rapes carried on by the barbarians. Eve had tried to distract the men guarding the ships with some schnapps bottles distilled by her late husband that had survived the first sacking while Alys sneaked out of the village. It wasn't until when at the following day the men couldn't find her to begin the daily rapes on Alys, Gina and herself that they realized she was gone. Five men went immediately to find her, and that they did, two days later. When they returned with her, bloodied, bruised and with a broken ankle, the ironborn leader (Harl at that time) ordered the thirty men on the village to strip her and take her, every one of them, one after another and with every other woman on the village present, forcing her mother to watch all the while. After a while, the men started taking her two at a time, to the growing horror of the villagers. When the last reaver had done her Harl walked up to her and slit her throat, triggering auntie Eve into wailing desperately. When they let go of Eve she crawled to her daughter's limp form, embracing her and rocking back and forth while sobbing her name.

"May this serve as an example to clear any funny ideas you might have upon your fuckin' heads, you bloody whores!" roared Harl to the horrified crowd of women.

Turning around, he took his axe from his belt and sank it into Eve's skull, silencing her wails forever.

That had kept Shyra and every woman from trying to run away, but at times the girl wondered if it wouldn't be better to just endure a single last day of torment to have her pain and that of her mother finally over with, to be finally reunited with her father, brothers and her Rogan. But at the end, she just clenched her teeth and endured the constant torments and fear. For her sake, and that of her mother. After all, maybe Father, Joseth and Rogan were still alive and trying to find their way back home. The South was very far away, more than she had ever been from the village tenfold. Maybe a hundred times.

"No, m'lord," her mother's voice sounded again, soft and empty.

"Well, she ishn't back yet. And if she doesn't bring your contribution to the taxhes, maybe you should pay ush…" his gaze roamed the still beautiful figure of her mother and added in a lecherous voice "In the way she usually doesh…"

That stirred Shyra into moving. She wouldn't let them touch her mother never again. Never.

"Mother, I'm back" she said, walking past the corner where she had been hiding and embracing tightly the basket against her chest.

Dagon turned his drunken eyes in her direction, brightening up at her sight.

"Ohhh, there you are" purred the Drunkard. He slapped Gina's rear and nodded in Shyra's direction. "Go fetch the mushels, harlot. The latecomer ish going to make up for her tardiness" his gaze focused on Shyra again, grinning like a pig. "Aren't you, sweetie?"

Shyra didn't utter a single word as Gina walked in her direction, with an almost apologetic look on her relieved face. She gave her the basket and started walking up the long slope that led to the distant longhouse as usual, teeth clenched and hands balled into fists. Her mother's previously empty gaze followed her, now replaced by one full of sorrow. Shyra tried to cast a slight reassuring smile on her direction, but when that only increased the pain on her mother's visage he looked down to the floor and continued her ascent, followed by a contently humming Dagon. As they neared the entrance, a cold rain began to pour.

She entered the house, got her now wet cloak off and hanged it near the door. Then she walked to the center of the room and stood inside of the silent and cold building, a slight shiver sending goosebumps all over her skin. Goosebumps that only increased when the ironborn got past the door, obscuring the light that came through. He closed and barred the door behind him and went to sit at the table.

"Don't fuckin' stand there, wench!" shouted the ironborn, falling heavily into the bench alongside the long oaken table. "Go lit the hearth, and fetch me something to eat. I'm starving."

The girl did as instructed, quickly lighting up a fire with a bunch of pinecones. She then went to the small kitchen-pantry of the house, filled a mug with some of the watery ale from the last barrel that hadn't been emptied yet and put it on a plate along with a wedge of old, dry grayish cheese, a couple of sausages and a jar of herrings in vinegar, with a loaf of dry, hard bread. There was little else to scrap from the reserves of old Oswald. She wondered again what would happen once they ran out of food for their cruel overlords.

She set the plate before the ironborn and walked to put some logs into the small fire, followed by the sounds of the man munching the sausages and downing some gulps of ale. She remained crouched by the fire, not wanting to leave the warmth for bloody Dagon's company. As an answer to her thoughts, the man burped loudly, chuckled to himself and resumed his meal. Minutes passed agonically slowly for her, the only sounds around being the man noisily eating, the fire crackling and the rain hitting the slate roof; she knew that the moment the Drunkard finished his meal he would proceed to rape her still aching feminity. How much she hated him. She hated every single ironborn with all the hatred she was able to muster, but the Greyjoy's roughness and fetid stench, along with the cruelty with which he took her had put him on top of her list.

The flagon hitting the table, along with another loud and long burp from the ironborn signaled the end of the meal, confirmed by the man's voice immediately after.

"Tsk. So much for a meal. That cheese was fucking disgusting, and the ale was more water than anything. I hope that your creamy tits are enough to rid my mouth of the taste, huh?"

He finished his comment with a low and long chuckle, laughing at his own brutality. He sounded more sober than before, or at least less drunk. That was bad. He was worse when sober.

"Oi, are you going to stare at the fire till you freeze it? Come here already."

Shyra forced herself to stand and turn around. The bloody arse was already unclasping his belt with a shit eating grin splitting his beard. She started walking over to him, fists balled at her sides and gaze not leaving the dirt of the floor of the house. He grabbed her from under her arms and sat her violently on the table.

He grabbed the collar of her woolen tunic with both hands and yanked, ripping it apart and exposing her chest and shoulders. The man tsked audibly and knocked with the knuckle of his index into her ribs, causing her to wince in pain.

"You are wasting away, huh? You used to be meatier… and yet your titties are just as full as ever." added the pig licking his lips, groping her mounds with his coarse, ungentle hands.

He approached his lips to her face and she immediately regretted her choice of meal when the stench of vinegar hit her nostrils. She closed her eyes tightly and-

Suddenly, she heard something through the sound of the rain outside, like a muffled scream. Her eyes snapped open and her body stiffened even more, gaze turning to the door. Dagon noticed it and frowned.

"What's up, woman?"

"I've heard something…" murmured Shyra.

The man tsked again and pinched her nipple, causing her to release a pained yelp.

"Focus, whore. I don't have all the bloody day" he grunted. He then reached between his legs and grabbed his prick. "C'mon, open up."

The girl sighed, her nipple still aching, and opened her legs. As the man lifted her skirt and was about to shove himself in her, she heard more screams, closer. This time accompanied by what sounded like the clash of steel on steel.

This time Dagon seemed to notice it too, as he stilled himself and tilted his head to the side, trying to hear. Silence greeted them. They didn't hear any more screams or anything other than the rain pouring outside, not even their now stilled breaths, yet a growing sensation of dread was taking over the both of them. Then, heavy footsteps approached the house, quieting just outside the door. Shyra was unmoving as a statue, with her legs open and dreading the approach of the man on her as much as that of whoever was outside. The Greyjoy was as unmoving as her, left hand on her knee and right hand on his manhood. She couldn't help but think that the whole situation would look absolutely ridiculous seen from the out-

"FUS!"

The single word boomed deafening on her ears, like the bellow of thunder. Just as the devastating roar reached her, the door exploded into a rain of smithereens and splinters, which made the both of them cry on surprise. She had closed her eyes tight at the very feeling of the exploding thunder, yet the girl forced herself to open them.

At the doorstep, under the rain, stood a huge form. Lowering itself to get past the frame, the largest man that the terrified girl had ever seen stepped into the house, proceeding then to stand to its monstrous height, at least seven feet and a half. The longhouse was the tallest house in the entire village, and yet the horns atop the helmet of the intruder seemed about to scratch the ceiling. Said horns, shiny and wet from the rain outside, seemed carved into dark, smoky iron, the same material that made the faceplate of the helmet, which revealed the eyes and mouth of the wearer, now obscured in the dimly lit room. His armor was of a yellowish white that almost seemed- no, it actually was made of bone! Immense bones of the like she had never seen. It was splattered on blood, and so was the huge sword (probably larger than herself) that the man carried on his right hand. The blade seemed made of the same bone with sharpened edges, nailed with some black, shiny metal at the fuller, the same that made up the pommel, grip and cross guard of the hilt. From his belt hung several daggers and pouches and at his hips, a longsword and an axe. The helmet turned to face them, and two impossibly bright grey eyes shone within.

In two long strides the man was on them, and his left massive hand closed itself around the petrified Dagon's throat, jerked him away from Shyra and threw him against the wall near the door with bone-shattering force, as effortlessly as if the ironborn clad in chainmail was a ragdoll. Dagon wimped in pain, slumping to the floor in a dishelved heap of limbs. The stranger grunted some words in a hoarse and venom filled voice and turned to face Shyra. The flabbergasted girl barely registered that the man had spoken to her.

"…Excuse me?" she asked quietly.

He repeated his words in a much softer and gentler voice than when he spoke to the reaver, but she couldn't understand a single word from it.

"Sorry, m'lord, I don't understand." she murmured, afraid to incur in the man's wrath.

The behemoth narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue, with his bearded mouth turned into a grimace, looking slightly frustrated. His bright grey eyes softened again and tried to talk to her again in his calm and tranquil tone while reaching at her with the hand that had just sent the Drunkard crashing into a wall. She flinched away from his hand, terrified, and his hand retreated as if hit by lightning. He dropped his sword and raised both hands in a placating gesture, uttering more words (trying to calm her, she guessed). She didn't want to anger the towering stranger, but his massive size and her experiences of the last year did nothing to ease the absolute fear that the man irradiated into her. When he took a tentative step to the table, she could not help crawling through its surface in the opposite direction to put distance between the giant and herself, trembling.

The armored man sighed in defeat and frustration, his shoulders slumping with the motion. He crouched and picked up his sword, sheathing it on the scabbard at his back to then turn around to face the coughing and whining form of Dagon, on all fours. The behemoth picked him up by the neck and walked through the doorframe, lowering himself as he did.

To say that Shyra was shocked would be an understatement. She was still lying on the table on her half torn clothes, slightly propped up on her elbows, looking at the door frame. Her mind raced trying to put together just what in the Seven Hells had happened. Where did that man come from? Was he alone? Maybe he was a pirate of some distant land, or even a wildling on a ra-

"Mother!" she yelped. She realized that if there were more like this strange man they had to be on the village, with the other ironborn and the women. And her mother was there.

She pulled the torn tunic as good as she could to cover her naked chest and retrieved her cloak from the dangler near the door, covering herself quickly and running to the outside. The sight that greeted her left her as shocked as the sudden entrance of the behemoth, who was walking down the slope still clutching Dagon by his throat. Three great ships, at least twice the size of the ironborn longships, were grounded ashore at the side of the four vessels of the islanders. From them were pouring, even now, dozens of forms that she couldn't identify from the distance. As she approached the center of the town she could make out the unmoving forms of the ironborn sprawled around from the beach to the very front of Oswald's house; some hacked to pieces, their limbs scattered in pools of blood and rainwater, some with crushed skulls and chests, some run through with swords and spears and others, for some reason, savagely burnt by some strange fire or coated in frost. Only three men remained alive, on their knees, weeping openly, praying to their drowned god and pleading for their lives to the army of strangers that kept them in place with queer looking weaponry; strangers that could be counted by the hundreds, as she noticed with growing dread. Then she spotted with relief that her mother and the rest of the women were safe and sound, cowering against the side of one of the houses while a bunch of the foreign warriors talked to them in their clacking, strange tongue with raised hands with the palms outward, in what seemed a try to calm them down.

She approached at a jog the villagers and embraced her mother with relief.

"Oh mother, thank the Gods you're alright!" she whispered into her mother's ear. She looked between her mother and the other women. "Are you alright? Have they hurted you?"

"Nay sweetie," answered her aunt Myra "not so far. But it's too soon to tell, I'm afraid."

Her mother's eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding before them. Shyra's gaze followed the direction and saw the behemoth of a man still holding Dagon by the throat (whom by now was almost purple), hissing his strange words in a rasping voice with his face mere inches away from the gaping ironborn. Then he throwed the Drunkard into his surviving men and shouted four words in his tongue. At the booming order, the foreign warriors killed the survivors in swift motions, sparing only Dagon; the ironborn leader was gasping for air, trying to get a lungful but only getting a pinch. Two men walked up from the lines of the warriors and seized the reaver by his arms. Then the giant turned to the villagers and walked straight to them, forming a pit on Shyra's stomach. He stopped just before her, looking down into her blue eyes from the towering height of his own. He then pulled a dagger from his belt, freezing the blood in her veins as she tightened her embrace on her mother…

…Only to see the man twirl the blade on his hand and offer it to her, hilt first. She looked in confusion into the man's face, then to the dagger, and up into his face again. The man sighed, lowering slightly his hand; he raised it again, offering the dagger with vehemence, and nodded in direction to Dagon, to the dagger, then to Dagon again. She didn't need another hint.

She took the dagger with a trembling hand. It was a lot heavier than she had thought. The handle was, just as the other weapons on the man, made of a thick and pitch black metal of the like she had never seen before. The blade was made of bone as well, with the same metallic fuller, broad and short. Shyra looked up, into the man's grey eyes. For the last year, every time she had looked into a man's eyes she saw the same: prepotency, lust, disdain, cruelty. In this man's eyes there was none of that; only sorrow, sympathy and an absolute rage. Well, it was a start.

She nodded, more to herself than to the armored man, and strode off towards Dagon. Dagon Greyjoy. Dagon the Drunkard. Dagon the Rapist. The Rapist. The Tormentor. With each stride, her pent up fury started to boil. Almost a year of constant abuse, fear, beatings and rapes took over her, sparking a flame of righteous anger that drove her forward, to the man that symbolized that hell. She had been deprived of her vengeance over the others, but she still had Dagon, and he would do… for now.

Now she was before him, taking deep, angry breaths, clutching the dagger so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, so close that she could smell his hideous breath. The man had a look of utter terror on his face, the same that she had seen on each and every one of the women of the village since the arrival of these monsters. Then, the ironborn started to stutter, muttering under his breath.

"P-p-p-please, please, dear lass, don't do it. I've been good to you, haven't I? I didn't beat you up like Harl or Dagmer or Hraj did. I was nice! Show mercy, pretty la-"

"…What's my name?" hissed Shyra between gritted teeth.

"…your name?" murmured the reaver, a look of surprise and confusion on his face.

"If you say my name, I will show mercy. Otherwise, I'll gut you like a pig. What's my name?"

The look of absolute terror that befell over his visage gave her the greatest (and almost only) satisfaction she had on the whole year. Of course. She smiled under the rain.

"Of course. You don't know, do you? For you, I, WE, are only 'whore', 'slut', 'bitch', 'harlot', 'tart', 'hooker'… We aren't people for you, just holes to fuck and to serve you. You never, EVER had any mercy on us, never caring or hesitating before hurting us, before beating us, before RAPING US! And you have the gall, the NERVE to ask for mercy?!''

Shouting at the top of her lungs, the girl drove the dagger into the groin of the man, who paled and started yelling. She pulled back; the blood came flooding out of the wound, splashing her hand and sleeve. She ignored it and thrusted again, feeling with satisfaction how the broad blade cut the member of the ironborn away from his body. She stabbed again, and again, and again, relieving on the howls of the rapist, drinking them and feeling all the anger, the helplessness and the fear wash away with the blood of her torturer under the rain. She then moved upwards, stabbing at his mailed belly. To her surprise, the bony blade sliced through the chainmail with incredible ease; she grinned, pulled back and stabbed again. And again. And again. And again. She kept stabbing, yelling, crying, letting the pain of a year of torment flood out of her.

By the time she was done, long after Dagon's wails had died out, the man was an unrecognizable mass of stab wounds, blood and hanging pieces of meat, with his entrails trying to come out through the slashes on his chainmail. But still, the bastard lived. She could still hear gurgled breaths coming from the ruined mouth of her rapist; yet, she was done with him.

"My name... is Shyra, Dagon Greyjoy."

The trembling heap of meat and blood was hissing with his half-cut tongue.

"Shhhh-Shhh-Shhhhyyrrr-Shhhyyyraaaa…"

"Wasn't that difficult, was it?" she whispered. "Now, have my mercy."

The blade caressed the throat of Dagon, leaving a trail of open flesh, cut pipes and blood oozing to join the rest of the red coat covering his body. The man only trembled a bit more before finally going limp in the hands of the warriors holding him. They let it fall to the floor and casted a glance to the girl, full of understanding and compassion.

Shyra was panting heavily, suddenly too tired to keep standing up. The dagger slipped from her hands into the bloody mud under her and she fell to her knees, letting the rain wash away all her emotions and the blood in which she was soaked from head to toe. She closed her eyes, faced the weeping sky and enjoyed the rain, the liberty, the righteous vengeance, the feeling of not being afraid for the first time since her loved ones went to fight in the South. For the first time in her young life, she was free.

A hand touched her gently on the shoulder, and she opened lazily her eyes to see the armored behemoth looking down at her. He pronounced some of his odd words, but the questioning and worried tone and the care on his eyes made her guess that it was something along the lines of 'Are you alright?'. She nodded slightly, picked up the dagger and forced herself to stand. She wiped the blade on her sleeve and handed it to the owner.

The man shook his head and closed her hand around the weapon with both of his massive ones, pushing slightly towards her a couple of times. She pointed to the weapon and then to herself.

"You want me to keep it?"

The huge man nodded, a slight smile turning the corners of his lips upward. He then unbuckled the scabbard of the dagger from his belt and handed it to her. She accepted the new item and looked up at his face, a slight smile of her own taking over her features.

"Thank you, m'lord."

The man nodded again and turned to the assembled host of queer warriors, taking a few steps towards them. Shyra took it as her cue to leave and walked to join her mother, sheathing the blade as she walked. Her mother was smiling at her, a look of relief over her features; over hers and on the faces of every one of the other nine women. When she reached her, words stuck in her throat, her mother did something that she hadn't done since the death of Jojen. She hugged her.

And for Shyra, that was all that was needed.

The booming voice of her benefactor exploded behind her, roaring words in that tongue of his directed at his men- and women, as she noticed when she watched more closely- who nodded in agreement and support, with 'yeah!'s coming from the ranks from time to time. While he shouted he pointed to the dead bodies littering the village and to the Wolfswood behind him, and gave one final and booming word to what she supposed was some kind of speech, answered by a roar of approval that came from the warriors. The man then turned again to the villagers and started walking on their direction. Some women cowered and backed against the house at his approach, her own mother stiffening between her arms; but not Shyra. She knew that, whoever this man was, wherever he and his people had came from, they were friends.

The man reached up as he neared the group and took off his helmet, placing it below his left arm. Shyra was awestruck at how handsome he was, with his black and fiery mane of hair, with an odd, thick braid hanging at the left side of his face, his short trimmered beard, his straight nose and soft cheeckbones. Yet, what captivated her the most were his deep, bright, gentle grey eyes, which had burned with anger at the dead Dagon and watered with sorrow when looking at her on the longhouse. Now, those eyes were full of pride and understanding. She felt that his man could be trusted, no matter what.

He spoke again, in a tone of voice that suggested that he already knew that no one was going to understand him. True enough, all the villagers gave him confused or blank looks. The giant sighed through his nose and looked directly at Shyra. He then pointed to the dead ironborn with his index, to then point to the forest behind them and mimicked two legs running with his fingers. She cocked her head in confusion, so he repeated the motion. He sighed, seeing her lack of understanding; so he dropped his helmet and walked over to the corpses, took one of them like one would take a handkerchief and walked with it to the path that lead into the forest, using it as a ragdoll to represent an ironborn walking that path; that elicited a wave of chuckles or outright laughter among his troops, that he quieted with a glare on their direction. As ridiculous as the whole act was, it made a thought come to her head. She walked over to where the bodies had been piled by the foreigners and started counting. Thirty nine. Thirty men guarded the ships, and twelve had come from Deepwood Motte to loot their food.

Three ironborn had escaped the onslaught.

She looked at the huge warrior behind her, brow knitted and arms crossed, and the girl pointed at the dead reavers, raised three fingers and then pointed to the road. She then casted a questioning look to the man, who smiled brightly and nodded vigorously. She smiled too, realizing that this people, whoever they were, were decided to kill every last of the ironborns that they could.

That was something they had in common.

Shyra walked over to her mother and took her hands between hers.

"Mother, I have to go."

"Wait, what? Shyra, this people just freed us! Why would you leave now? Where would you go! Your father might return any moment-

"I know, mother," she said, with no small amount of pain at knowing that his father was more than probably dead, along with Joseth and Rogan, "but some ironborn escaped, and they surely went to warn their brethren of the deeds of this brave people. These fellows want to finish off those monsters, and I'm sure that they'll be able to do just that. I have to show them where to go, mother. I want to. I want to make sure that the last one of those devils is slain."

Her mother stared at her with watery eyes, the blank face that had haunted her visage for the last year menacing to creep back into her features. Then, she closed her eyes, shook her head and smiled.

"Very well, child. I won't ask you to stay here if you so desire to see this finished. We will stay here and restore our home to normalcy by the time of your return."

Shyra, eyes teary with happiness from seeing that her mother was starting to be a bit more like her old self, kissed her on the brow. She waved with a bright smile to her neighbors, relatives and friends and strode to the path with a confidence and a willpower that she hadn't had in a long time. She stopped by the beginning of the road and looked back at the friendly giant, gesturing him to follow. The man nodded and turned to his forces, shouting a few more commands. A hundred of them remained on the village, unloading crates and barrels from their ships and producing food and other supplies from them; food that they immediately began to distribute between the grateful villagers. The other two hundred formed two lines behind the behemoth, which obviously was their leader, and began to march behind him into the forest. She took her cue and started guiding the man deep down the road and towards Deepwood Motte, and by extension, justice.

AN: this is the song I pictured our friendly nord singing, which I find incredibly amazing.

watch?v=a-HyYklN55U

After two minutes of silent walk beside her, the huge man started humming a tune. Soon after, he began singing in a marvelous, sweet, deep voice, pouring foreign verses that were soon picked up by his warriors, who began to sing at the top of their lungs on their foreign tongue. Shyra didn't catch a word of it, but it was the most beautiful song she had heard in a goddamn long time, filling her with a feeling of tranquility and the sensation that everything would be alright now; that her pain was finally over, and that now she could start walking the long path to healing and overcoming her nightmare. Now-

"Hasser."

She looked up questioningly at the man, who was looking at her with a slight smile.

"Excuse me?"

The man pointed a thumb to himself and repeated the word.

"Hasser."

He then pointed at her with an open palm, the question obvious. She smiled.

"Shyra. Nice to meet you, Hasser."