Theon II
The execution was quick and somewhat unsatisfying in Theon's mind.
The remaining sons of the Red King were as naked as the day they were born. Their hands bound and behind them. Strung up by their feet, tied to different branches of great white tree strong enough to hold their weight.
Their mouths gagged to spare the spectators of the shrill cries of a quarter that they would squeal. Their eyes held terror and a begging for a mercy they knew would never come.
Bran stepped up and proclaimed "Here hang three sons, paying for their father's follies! They would ask you; good sons of the north for mercy! Would you grant it?!". A roar was heard and it's calling did not make the hanged children smile. But it made Theon's day.
Bran was handed a long knife, clean and polished. The polished bronze was so bright that it could be thought as gold.
'It's shine was a great deal brighter than its victims' indefinitely short future' Theon thought darkly.
Bran grabbed the head of the eldest and gently pushed his forehead back to expose his neck. Almost lazily he killed the boy, cutting his throat from ear to ear giving him a red smile worthy of Bolton.
He strolled his way to the others and killed them the same way. Their eyes never stopped staring, there was no hate, no fear just a sad acceptance. It made Theon rage and vow to never to accept death or defeat.
Little knowing how much that moment would change his life and those of his ancestors.
He glanced back to his wife, she looked indifferent her face held less warmth than the wall itself. He looked for tears, for grief, for emotional of any sort. He found none.
The men stood still watching the boys die, and after some time had gone by they left them there for the crows and gods.
Bran called a war council and assembled his lords and commanders; "So we know that there are Andals upon our shores thanks to Lady Bolton, but we do not know the full number of our enemies nor the number of reinforcements we summon from the Dreadfort".
The men were either sitting down or standing around a large map of the Winterlands, stretching from the Wall and its territories to the Neck and the Marsh Kings that rule it.
The last member of the ruling branch of House Bolton spoke softly "Good King, my lord father brought forth an army of only three thousand light cavalry to attack Winterfell as you all know-"
"Oh, we know..." Theon interrupted, his voice thick with a bitterness that was too foul for a soul so young to bear. His brother shot him a dark look commanding to keep his comments to himself, before turning to the Bolton and smiling kindly at her.
"If the roads are good and the weather is fair
"My lady, please continue" his brother apologized for him as he was wont to do. She merely nodded and continued "House Bolton can still rally an additional force of up to ten thousand men, from
After a moment of thought, Selene gave a quick response; "if the roads are food and the weather fair, it would take at most a month to fully rally the forces of House Bolton to the Dreadfort.
Brandon Tallhart came forth "How many men left do we have? Surely it's enough to throw back the Andals?"
King Bran turned his head to look at his brother, and Theon took it as a signal to give the report on their casualties and numbers.
"We marched on this campaign with six thousand men from the Barrowlands, meeting an additional five thousand at Torrhen's Square, then another six thousand as we passed through the Wolfswood. Giving us an army numbering seventeen thousand strong by the time we encounter the Bolton army."
The lords around the map nodded at the news and mumbled to each other, some boasting about exaggerated numbers that they contributed to the campaign.
Theon ignored the interruptions and continued "From the engagement with Bolton we lost three thousand men, mostly swords and some heavy cavalry. From the siege we lost two thousand men, all of them being swords."
At this news, the room took a much more somber atmosphere with there being an involuntary silence for those lost. Theon blinked and swallowed drily, but nevertheless continued
"We have a remainder of twelve thousand men. All of them fighting and able, from what I can tell morale is high due to the victories gained and another one is to be expected."
Rickard added his own queries on to the matter, "Do we know how strong the Andal host is or who commands them?"
Selene answered to this one "Aye, our information comes from the villages sworn to us by the mouth of the Weeping Water. From their estimations, they believe that the Andals number roughly more than half of our own strength, but this number has been growing quickly as they are being supported not only from Andalos but also from the Vale."
This gained a mixed response by many of the lords, as many were happy that they could easily crush the Andals as they were currently.
But the news of the Vale supporting them gave the idea that the should the current enemy fail, the Vale would quickly capitalize on a tired and weaken Winterland.
"Their commander is Argos Sevenstar, he has little experience as a general but is a skilled fighter with a fanatical devotion to his gods." Selene finished off on her report of the enemy.
Theon looked to his brother, to his King. Meanwhile, Bran stared intently at the markers symbolizing the enemy and their own forces.
Eventually after a short while that that felt like an age to the young princeling . "Lady Bolton, call upon your remaining forces. Have them meet us by Weeping Water, I shall leave mine own uncle to command this force in my name."
This was a curious thing Theon thought, as it was rare for Bran to ever let their uncle from his side.
His brother continued "I will take command of the host here, smash the Andals and send them to their Seven Hells. When the Bolton host led by my uncle meets up with us, we will take their ships and use them to launch attacks on the Vale."
This was a standard battle tactic of the Bloody Wolf; them as they rally their men while taking minimal losses and capitalize with devastating attacks on the enemy's territory.
While it was good to win wars, it wasn't Theon's style. He focused on a divide and conquer straight, making a spectacle of his enemy. Striking less at the men but more at the morale.
They had tested both of their preferred strategies against the Boltons and the Dustins. They had their benefits and drawbacks.
So by morn of the next day, the Stark brothers left the Dreadfort and began a march alongside the banks of the Weeping Water following the river to its mouth.
The march was long and arduous, but due to the river next to us, we lacked never for food or supplies. Camp followers at night and bawdy songs during the day kept morale high as the men in a rough column formation.
They made quick progress as the terrain was mostly flat grassland, as they marched they encountered some small fishing villages. Most of the men had left for the Dreadfort, but those that remained offered food and water which was much appreciated.
In truth in took them two weeks to arrive at the mouth of the river, their outriders spotting the enemy encampment not before being seen by the Andal sentries.
"From our scouts, we know that Andals now number nearly ten thousand strong. Their commander being in the center of their encampment." Theon gave the report from the outriders in the war council.
His brother stood crouched looking over the maps in the large tent made for the commanders, he turned and looked to his brother;"What is their position and do they have any defensive structure?".
When Theon spoke it was with a monotone voice that meshed in well with the grim words he was to speak.
"They have set themselves on the beach, with large wooden spikes planted firmly in the ground protecting them which acts well to deter any cavalry. Any engagement would be done be by infantry, the battle would no doubt have high losses for us as they have set up their camp in such a way that creates several choke-points in which is the only way to enter. At these, our choke points our greater numbers would mean nothing and their superior weapons and armor would cut us into ribbons."
To say that the atmosphere was a little lackluster in terms of morale after Theon spoke was putting it lightly.
To the surprise of everyone, Bran burst out in laughter, "Oh, cheer up. Overwhelming odds are nothing that we are in any way unused to."
As the man spoke he walked around the room looking his men in the eye as he did so.
"Our forefathers and grandfathers slew Others and nigh infinite armies of the dead, what failures would we be to their legacy if we couldn't throw back mere men? Brother, tell me what battle plan you've prepared for us?"
To Theon's surprised look, Bran merely smiled at him and spoke: "You have been my brother since we left the womb together, I know your mind as well as I know mine own."
Theon wasn't a soft man nor did he care much the emotions of the gentler sex, but even he basked in his brother's love for him.
When he spoke there was a certain lightness that wasn't there before the only recognizable by those who knew him truly, and of those there was only one.
"We have the element of surprise on our side, and it would be a true folly to simply lose it by charging right through their gates."
To this many of the commanders nodded, showing their agreement. Theon emboldened continued; "Using the full strength of our archers I would say that we bombard their camp with flaming arrows, such would not only strike their men dead but it would also set many tents afire, killing a good number of their forces as they sleep."
Lord Roderick Stout, one of commanding lords gruffly added his thoughts to the matter, "What of their ships? Should they be struck by the arrows we will have no method of reaching the Vale."
Theon though on those words for a while before replying to assuage the petty lord's fears. "We will focus the majority of our bombardment on the central and foremost tents. This would decrease any chance of the ships being hit to a minimum."
Bran opens his mouth to add his own thought, but before an even a letter could be heard from the King.
One of the pages bursts through the entrance of the tent, panting "Milords! The Andals are forming ranks, we've been spotted!".
This prompted an immediate reaction from the men in the room. The lords went to leave so as to rally their own and prepare to rally their own men. Their King leading the way, with his brother, quickly following behind him.
"Bran! Wait! What's the plan? If we just go there without a coherent strategy we will be slaughtered." Theon trying to counsel his brother, filling the uncomfortable role of their uncle.
The King faltered for a barely a second before turning his attention to his younger sibling, "We will use your plan, strike them down with waves arrows and then storm their camp."
With that, Bran went forward to inform the rest of the generals and commanders of the plan. Theon stood there, his face contorted in a manner showing his apprehension towards the matter.
He resolved to take the position of the rear guard with the cavalry just in case they were needed.
It took them a little under an hour to prepare their own men for the battle, but by the time they were fully prepared, so had the Andals.
They wisely kept to their fort, forcing the Stark host to attack them. Giving the Andals the advantage right from the beginning.
Bran gave the signal for the Starks fire waves of arrows upon the enemy encampment, in an attempt to set alight the wooden fortress weakening the walls and spikes somewhat but nowhere enough to make a cavalry charge a viable option.
While arrows rained down, the northern soldiers marched forward, shields raised up as they did so, to block any projectile weapons that the Andals would have fired. Bran and his honor guard at the forefront, raising morale with his sheer presence.
Theon saw all of this from his position, waiting in the rearguard to support his brother at the cost of even his own life.
By the time the Starks met the Andals in battle the barrage was over, so as to not hit of their own troops. The parts of the Andal encampment was a roaring inferno while others weren't as badly affected.
Theon sat astride a horse he watched his brother clash against the Andals, at first, the battle is evenly matched but as it goes continues the Andals begin to give way and are being pushed back into their camp.
The men around the cheer as they see their King push back the invaders, only to stop abruptly when they see two Andal battalions envelop the Northern army.
They realize that it was merely staggered fallback implemented by the Andals to lure the King into a trap, believing that with the King dead, the Stark host would break and would be easily routed.
Horns blow and the six thousand strong cavalry begin to gallop toward their king in an effort to turn the tide of battle, As they go, Theon divided them into three groups.
One to aid the King and the other two to aid other parts of the army should they be in need of any support.
As they came closer to the battle, they increased speed so turning a moderate gallop into a full charge, that turning ground beneath them upside down.
With Theon leading them, they jumped over one of the smoldering broken walls smash into the unprotected flanks of the Andal battalions.
Slicing into them with as much resistance as a hot knife through the underbelly of a squealing sow, causing just as much damage incidentally.
The wave of northern cavalry charged through them nearly unimpeded, most of the Andals in their way were churned into a fine paste as they fell beneath the bronze horseshoes of the heavy cavalry. Those that didn't were promptly cut down with extreme prejudice.
Theon cared for neither of these facts, as he held the reins of his warhorse with one hand and his longsword with the other hand that sung a truly terrible tune as it sliced men into halves and quarters.
It took them all but minutes to reach the King, surrounded on all sides by enemies, his body already wounded and bleeding. His honor guard strewn dead around him, and Argos Sevenstar in front of him.
The Andal commander was no demon, neither was he such a terrible scourge. He was a man, a very beautiful man. A sculpted face with sea-blue eyes and short golden hair.
He wore very little of the much-vaunted steel armor of the Andals instead choosing to put his trust in his gods rather than his steel.
Shown by the seven seven-pointed stars carved all over his body. One on his forehead, one on his each of biceps, one on his back, one on his chest and one on his palms.
But Theon didn't give him a second look as he galloped over to his brother, his honor guard engaging the Andals as went to meet his dying brother.
He all but leaped off his steed, catching his brother as he fell tiredly to the ground. Holding his dying brother in his arms, Theon for the first time in a long while began to weep for him.
Unable to hear the dying words of his brother over his grief, Theon closed his eyes and let loose a shuddering gasp. Mouthing a prayer that his mother taught him when she told him to always look over his brother and protect him.
When he opened his eyes, all and any grief was gone. Swallowed whole by the unending rage and overwhelming hate he felt for everything.
His mother and father for birthing him to feel this pain, his brother for dying, his men for not being better fighters, himself for not taking brother's place, his blood for placing this burden upon him, the sun and sky for existing.
The greatest amount of rage was for his enemies, not the Andals, not Argos. For the Andals were a people seeking a new home and Argos one of their many leaders.
Theon's enemies weren't people, they were things, that only existed to killed, to be tortured, to be slaughtered without any kind of mercy. To be raped, to be burnt alive until a mere mention of their existence was accompanied with thoughts of a violent death.
The greatest aspect of Theon's enemy was that they were never ending, Theon's enemies were whoever or whatever he wanted them to be. With such a thought process, the hunger of the wolf could never be sated.
To put it in the terms of the layman; Theon had lost his shit. Big time.
With such strong emotion, Theon was blinded and reached out for something, anything that he could use to kill, to maim, to cause pain with.
When both of his hands found such instruments, he howled. Letting his brother gently to the ground, he rose and sought to kill any in his path.
He swung his left hand as if to give a backhand strike. It impacted on something that gave a gurgled scream. He chose his left as it was heavier.
His gaunt face contorted in a sick and macabre grin as he hurt the thing before him. His right hand was grasping a hilt, and so believing to be sword he thrust it forwards, there was some resistance but it was barely worth mentioning.
There was a wet squelch as the object made is way further in. He tore his arm upwards, and as he did so there was a cry of agony, shuddering gasps then nothing.
Satisfied that its prey was dead, the Hungry Wolf searched for its next victim. Howling madly as if deranged, it charged forward.
Quickly and unstoppable, pouncing on something tearing it apart with its claws or ripping out its throat with its fangs or simply beating it to death with its strength.
At some point, Theon recovered his sanity and when he did he found himself covered with blood. His mouth full of the iron taste of blood not of his own. He looked at his hands, to the left there was dented lump of metal, it original purpose was forgotten.
After a moment of staring at the bloodied bronze, he remembered that at one point it as his brother's royal helm, recognizing it as such due to the band of bronze spikes.
Most of the spikes were coated in gory bloody chunks that at one point could have been parts of people. The bronze sheen had turned a dark crimson.
Theon looked at his right hand, this object was far easier to recognize for it had a long hilt with a cross guard.
To finish this off there would usually be a sword, but instead, there was a broken blade tinted a black tinted red. The break off was clean, as snapped off as if it was a twig.
Theon looked around himself and saw nothing but death, in the sky, on the earth, and upon the ground. Bodies further than the eye could even see.
Andal and northerner laid upon the ground side, at peace in death. If not in life.
Something came towards him, Theon still dazed as he was from his episode of madness and so could not accurately perceive what color the sky was.
It was a disfigured lump of worn meat and bloodied metal. As it came closer the definition of the creation became barely any better. It spoke once it deemed itself close enough it spoke tiredly, with a gruff accent.
"We've won the battle milord, but there's been no sign of the king and we've lost a good number of men. What do you say are actions should be?"
After a small while of waiting for a response, the creature realized that it was being ignored. After a cough to clear the throat, it spoke again. This time more tired but less gruffly,
"My prince?"
At this point, Theon was aware that he was having a conversation with someone. And so acted accordingly and spoke.
"My brother."
At this, the creature which was quickly becoming more like a northern soldier in likeness looked up sharply at every word the Stark made.
"My brother is dead."
At this news, the soldier's shoulders sagged and he let loose a sigh of grief.
"...my lord, I am so sorry for your loss, the king is dead-"
"My brother is dead, but your king stands before you."
At this news, the man was practically thunderstruck, unsure of what words to say. Luckily for him that Theon knew exactly what to say.
"Take me to command tent. Now."
The man nodded and walked across the battlefield, taking powerful purposeful steps. His face set in ways much like chiseled granite, unable to be changed.
His passenger, on the other hand, was far more troubled in his walk. Theon walked slowly as if unsure of his steps, swayed occasionally almost as if drunk. But almost miraculously he managed to keep up with the soldier.
As they walked, Theon examined himself. Apart from covered in blood from jaw to toe, he was mostly fine. Mostly. There was a broken arrowhead lodged in his left shoulder and other in his right thigh.
Theon looked at them bemused, wondering how they got there. The Andals were reported to have no archers. And all northern archers would have stopped firing by the time Theon's men had joined the fray.
As Theon contemplated on such a great conundrum. His guide had brought him to the commander's tent. Which he entered without a pause.
When he entered, the northern lords were on the brink of killing one another. Which was not really surprising, Theon reflected. The Winterlands were as large as all the other southern kingdoms combined, and was equally as diverse.
Taking his place at the head of the table, he roared; "Silence!"
At this mere word, the men stopped arguing between themselves and instead looked to the man before them, most were surprised by his arrival. The rest looked relieved to see their commander alive and well.
There was a moment of quiet awe before the noise started once more only this time its focus being on Theon.
Theon let them speak for a short while before he made his news; he threw his brother's bloodied helm in on the table as it bounced once then twice, then rolled on the table gaining everyone's immediate attention.
"The King is dead, slain by Argos of Sevenstars." There at the end of his news, the atmosphere of the room took a somber tone.
Nonetheless, Theon continued "My lords, tell me. How fares our men?"
"We've been cut down by at least half, your grace. We won't know the full number until sometime afterward, your grace.", Lord Jon Cerwyn answered his lord.
At the news, Theon closed his eyes and looked downwards for a few moments as he took in the news that he and had his brother had led thousands of northern men to their deaths.
Lord Cerwyn looked to his Kings noticing of how heavily affected his King was of the news and quickly continued hoping to deliver some good news,
"But of the Andals only five hundred of 'em remain, but erm... There was more of 'em, milord but some of our boys were somewhat depressed at how many we had lost and went on a bit of a rampage against those we had captured."
To this news, Theon merely nodded still affected greatly by the fact of their great losses. Another one of the nobles spoke up. Albert Glover heir to the Deepwood Moat, probably Lord now seeing how his father wasn't in the tent. Spoke his mind on one of the many issues at hand.
"King Brandon's wife, Queen Maryam Dustin. She is swollen with child last I heard. With the King dead, does she not take the role of Queen Regent and her babe our new king?" This set off a storm of mumbles among the lords.
That was a very good question, Theon thought. But it really wasn't what he had in mind of letting a woman that a year ago would have been his enemy rule over him.
Apparently, he wasn't the only man who thought the same. Lord Elrick Forrester spat violently at the floor, and bellowed angrily "I'll be damned if I let a boy borne of the Barrowlands rule me and mine." A cheer of support came from all sides of the room for this proclamation.
Emboldened, the man continued "We knelt to the Starks, and one of the King's own blood stands before us!" Forrester and the rest of the lords looked to Theon.
This was perfect. Theon had wanted a way to set himself as the greatest option for to be King, he had thought that it would take at least the better part of the day to do so as well as several bribes and threats.
But this was even better, as it left the only ones to convince were his uncle and House Dustin. His uncle could prove himself to be a difficult obstacle to bypass but Theon was certain that there were ways he could convince him. And if not well, kinslaying wasn't that bad of a sin when put into a larger perspective.
As for House Dustin, if the babe of Maryam's was a male he could promise a good marriage and a powerful castle for him. If female he would marry her to one of his own sons.
If they proved difficult, then it wouldn't be the first time House Stark would have annihilated a House that had questioned them. Just ask Houses Amber, Greenwood, Frost, and Towers. But that was the worst scenario option.
When Theon spoke it was the voice of a King. "My lords, I see that you would wish to raise me as your king." At this, all of the men in the tent looked expectantly at the man, hooked onto his each and every word.
He looked each and every one of them in the eye as he spoke, he may not have been a warrior rather than a politician but every good leader knew how to properly motivate their men.
"Your choices are an unborn babe, birthed by a woman of Dustin blood. An enemy that your houses have bled against for more than two hundred years. Bend the knee to House Dustin and forsake centuries of hard-fought sacrifices." The room rumbled as if a storm with all the rumbles of dissent against House Dustin
Theon recognized that he was making things more difficult for him in the long term by opening up old wounds with House Dustin but at this point, he frankly didn't care.
"Or a man who has led you to victory against the Boltons, a man who has the blood of Bran the Builder flowing through him, a man who would lead you to victory against the Andals!"
Theon was unsure of when they had started chanting 'King in the North' but he didn't care so long as it was him that bore the title.