Theon III

It took them two months to journey from the Weeping Water to the coast of Andalos. Theon mainly spent the time with his commanders, planning for the battle ahead as well as learning what could of the Andals and their culture as he planned to rule them in the very near future. Theon truly found it boring but endeavored to get through it one of his many duties as king. Currently, Theon was within his royal tent in his bed as the sun had already set and the men were preparing for a long march on the morning of the next day.

He heard whining to his right, he turned and saw his ever faithful companion; Quicksilver. His wolf could make him smile whatever happened He remembered fondly when he received his wolf, it was a part of his birthright as a Stark. The wolf was light grey with dark streaks runs through his fur, with intelligent eyes of molten silver. His size and power made him and terror on that battlefield, those fangs which could slice through plate and mail armor with unsettling ease.

He paused in his diatribe to focus on his friend, scratching him in all the places he wanted to be scratched, accepting his licks to face with a made a note of giving his wolf more snacks when he had the time. Theon wondered how would the direwolves of his children be, would they as ferocious as his own? Would they seek war and conflict as his did? He thought of his children, whether they would take after their father who was regarded as a warmongering king who butchered everything in his way or their mother who could skin a man alive with the same ease she could dress herself.

Theon expected his duties and responsibilities to increase a hundredfold when he placed the crown upon his head but, by the gods! It was still a depressing number of new things for him to go. He examined himself in a mirror in his cabin and saw a grey hair. A grey bloody hair! He hadn't even broken twenty and five namedays yet!

The very sight of it depressed him even more. He wondered how his father and brother would react upon seeing wearing a king's crown? Would they swell with pride at the sight, would they roar in anger at mistakes he would no doubt make, or would they merely shake their head in sadness knowing that it would be the North that ruined him as it had been the North that ruined them.

All the same, Theon swore that when he would eventually fall, his descendants would look upon him with pride knowing that all he did, he did for the North. No matter how blood was spilt, no matter how many tears would fall, no matter how many hearts would break, let history know that it was all for the North.

He reflected on that as he carved a bloody path through Andalos, sacking towns, septs and villages on his way. His army was akin to a swarm of locusts as they devoured anything in their way; food, water, life. Nothing was allowed to go unravaged, no women or girls unmolested, no livestock not slaughtered.

The men were either enslaved or killed. Some of Bolton men took a perverse glee at skinning those who they captured and turning the skin into cloaks or sheaths for their knives, which they would use to skin more men. Theon could have done something about this. He could have commanded that the men leave the people alone, even to aid them in whatever they could. But whenever he looked at them, with their foreign tongue and seven gods, he was reminded of Argos of Sevenstars. The man who killed his brother. His enemy. His prey.

He thought of Argos and everything became easy as staring at the sunset itself, every razed town, every atrocity, every hanged family, every enslaved child, became easy to him. And by some miracle of hell, it did not, well then alcohol would make it easy.

Gods, he hoped that his children took after his wife rather than himself.

The next morning didn't so much bring a march so much as another day of pillaging and looting. Theon and the majority of the commanders weren't needed as they weren't a battle to be had, and so the king commanded that there be a temporary camp with a few hundred men to serve as guards while the rest of the army had their fun. Within the king's own tent, Theon looked down to the map on an oaken table in which there was a map of Eastern Essos from Andalos down to the Stepstones. He remembered the advice of his uncle in that to ensure that the Andals wouldn't attempt another invasion of the Winterlands again he was to conquer the Andalos in the name of House Stark.

While Theon agreed somewhat with his uncle's idea of conquering parts of Essos, he didn't think that Andalos should be the end of their aspirations. That's not to say that Theon believed that they could take the entirety of Essos, he had few men and too little time for that. But they could take the northernmost coastlines and at least a few miles inland as well. Theon himself had proved that he had landed in Andalos and originally they had pushed westward, killing everything and anything that was of Andal descent or ownership. No force came to meet them, no resistance. Then out of curiosity more than anything, he sent allowed two thousand men to march east and another two thousand north. He kept in touch with the various hosts through riders who would act as messengers.

The majority of reports that he had received from the commanders was that much like Andalos, these areas had organisation mostly being villages or fishing towns. The host in the north had made it to the coastline already and had spread out to cover the entire coastline. Theon considered how much land was realistically manageable. As of right now all he had done was ravage the land, he needed to put in place some kind of fortification. The question was what and where.

It definitely wasn't where he was currently, as he refused to even consider Andalos as a place he would make the capital of House Stark's territory of in Essos. He sent letters, one north to tell the northern host to march south, one went south to tell the southern host to set up a base camp. He left a few garrisons of men to ensure their hold on the land and marched south to meet up with the southern commander; Jarack Locke.

It took a week of marching before he met up with the Commander Locke. The land was flat grassland. Perfect for farming as it was fertile from what Theon could see. It could also make a good killing field, no shelter from incoming arrows. When he saw the camp that had been made, it was basic with thin, wooden walls and no towers of any like. He looked to the sea and saw that the land almost made a hook, but not fully reaching the land on the other side. Any ships would be forced to go through a chokepoint in where they could bombard from both sides. The land was perfect. He would build a fortress. The current camp that was in place currently would have to be improved upon. But Theon had done what he had set out to do, take revenge on the Andals and conquer the land in the name of Stark.

He left a willing five thousand men under the loyal Lord Jares Hornwood to maintain the territory they took as well build the city that he wanted. He made promises to send supplies, gold and money as soon as he could. Whenever he could.

He left the Winterlands with twenty thousand men, in search of conquest and revenge. He returned with bountiful riches, twelve thousand men and an unsatisfied hunger. Was that a fair trade, Theon mused. He didn't think long on the answer as there wasn't a way for him to mollify himself if it wasn't fair.

Theon thought on how the north would be doing, was there another war to fight, would his loving wife have borne him an heir, perhaps his uncle had done something worth a damn, maybe dying. It said something about his character and state of mind that of the three questions e had just asked; the first one was the only one that made him in anyway joyful. The other two merely brought a familiar sensation that he had known before and by now welcomed as if it were a group of old childhood friends; bitter frustration and harsh resentment.

He felt frustrated with his uncle as they were both the last of their House and needed to support each other both politically and to Theon's eternal shame; emotionally. He didn't know how to talk to the older Stark as before Theon took his crown he never had a conversation with Rickard outside military meetings or reports. He never had a reason or want to do so. If he wanted to talk to somebody it would be his brother or if it was mindless chatter; his whores. His pride wouldn't allow it either, to come to his uncle asking for some kind of aid or support of any kind. He was a king, never had he seen his brother or father rely upon anyone for anything, they were the masters of all they desired.

But Theon wasn't his father nor his brother, both of whom were raised from birth knowing that they would inherit the throne. He never received the same education in ruling as his brother, so as to ensure he would never lust for his brother's position. His uncle had the knowledge and experience in ruling that came from decades of acting as the right hand of two kings, such expertise that Theon never had and so would be invaluable for the young king.

He resented his wife, for being herself and being married to him. She had done him no great evil nor had she failed as a wife in any way. He resented her as it was her kin that slew his father, her father foolish idea that had burned down Winterfell and all those with it, maybe if she realised her defeat early and surrendered the Dreadfort as soon his men been had seen by the Bolton scouts then the Andals would have had fewer men and less time to secure their defences and perhaps Bran would have been able to survive and win the battle without him intervening, and seeing his brother's warm corpse. Maybes, perhaps, and ifs. That was not fair to her and he realised it. But really did he care, life wasn't fair to him, why should he be fair to anyone?

Theon sighed greatly, and gently massaged his temples; he wondered if his father and brother had felt the same as he did. Buried under the responsibilities and duties of a king. He wondered what advice they would have for him. His thoughts turned to his mother as they were wont to do when they began having such thoughts. He smiled wistfully as he reminisced about the love she held for him, the songs she sung to him, the laughter they shared.

In each of the stories, she told him as a child, of the heroes that always saved the princess and slew the villain. He remembered how he would cheer when she would name the heroes Theon, how he would squirm in fear of villains whenever they would hurt anybody. What happened to that child? What happened to the boy who wanted to be as heroic as Bran the Breaker? What happened to the boy who would give golden coins to old crippled soldiers and widows? Did he die within the burning of Winterfell? If he was not dead at that point, then how could he live through the death of his brother, or the raping of his own wife, or the innumerable atrocities committed by his word. How would his sweet mother fair should she have witnessed such a thing. Would she have wept in horror and forsaken him as any blood of hers? Would she have smiled at him and whisper words of forgiveness in his ear?

So many questions, none of them he was willing to answer.

He held no plan for what he would do with himself or the kingdom he was now king of. He wanted to lift it to greatness like any other monarch would want to. A bitter voice whispered to him, 'Like your brother, like your father'. He wasn't as surprised by the fact he was hearing voices as he would, if such a phenomenon as he would have a year ago. Instead, he merely took the voice's words as advice , perhaps not the most conventional counsel but only a fool would ignore any help offered to him in a position such as his.

He thought on the words for a while and tried to bring them into practice; his brother and his father had tried to lift bring the kingdom into greatness, just as he had hoped to do so, and they both had died as a result of it; his father burned alive and his brother cut down by the Andals. Was the voice trying to ward him from poisonous ambition? The same ambition that had killed his kin, surely it couldn't be telling him not to try. Not to attempt and improve his current life as it was? Surely, that was mere human nature, for one to strive to improve himself and all that he possessed. Theon mused on those words, this level of critical thinking was not his forte but he still endeavoured to consider what was the best route for him and his kingdom to take.

Perhaps the advice was not aimed to stop him from improving himself but instead to take his own routes, to take his own path of glory of trying to fulfil his father's goals. His father's way was one of peace and plenty, where words were used to wage war, not steel or men. Bran tried to do that, marrying the Houses of Stark and Bolton, as well as the other Stark marriages to half a hundred other houses that their father had first planned.

Raised up in an education mostly diplomacy and being a good ruler, Bran was taught that war was to be a final approach when all other methods of peace had been exhausted. And this reluctance towards war led to his death. As Bran was an untried commander and fighter, he learned the histories of war and it's tactics but never sought to implement it. There had never been an opportunity to do so, as their father had kept the land in a state of peace.

Their men were also equally untested most being farmers, as well as any who was able of heeding the call to arms. It was no surprise when they lost so many when they fought the Andals despite having more men. The Andals they had fought were battle-hardened men who had bled all across Westeros if Argos had been a better commander than he had been a warrior then they could have won that battle.

Perhaps the voice was telling him that diplomacy the path for him take, it made a sort of sense as his father had exhausted that route until it was no longer possible and his brother had tried to do the same and so died as a result of it. So warfare was his path? Iron and blood, would he be remembered as the Stark who coated his reign in the stuff to point that even his sons would grow sick and tired of it. Would his nights be nothing but nightmares of the horrors that he would be forced to face as a result of it? He remembered the relative peace of his childhood, his father and uncle doing their greatest to create truces and ceasefires and eventually a treaty between House Stark whatever was left of the Barrow kings. He remembered the long arguments and constant ravens that were sent back and forth between Winterfell and the Barrowhall. Surely, no matter how stressful such a peace would be it would be more beneficial than a war. Any uneasy peace would be better than even the shortest of wars.

He sighed greatly once more and instead of massaging his temple he reached for some sweet wine that they had taken in the conquest. He took his fill and a little bit more. Its taste was sweet as he told it was, but the burn it left in his throat as he swallowed was nothing compared to good Northern ale. All the same, it was by no means terrible and he could envision it being a faithful companion on lonely nights. He thought to his uncle and wondered if the man had finished his campaign.

Knowing his uncle, he more than likely had and was already ruling the Winterlands far more efficiently than he ever could. Gods, these thoughts just came rolling on in, didn't they? He wondered just how differently things would have been had his uncle been the one to be crowned. If it had been, they wouldn't fight be fighting wars in foreign lands, not the state that the kingdom was in, they would instead be trying to rebuild and recover.

AN

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