A/N: Hi all. My favorite chapters are the battle ones, and here we have a battle one!

Big shoutout to my friend WhiteDragonWolf. He's going through some health issues and is standing strong. This chapter is for you, bud. Keep on kicking ass!

Good news... in the near future I'm gonna be publishing a smutty one shot for the Empire of Ice and Fire universe. Hope y'all will check it out alongside my other GoT stories.

Also, I'll be publishing on Ao3 a short modern au of Jonerys... nothing dramatic, just some fluff. More details to come.

Enjoy.

Chapter 81: The Kraken Slayer

He still had fight left in him.

A veteran of many battles, Lord Tywin Lannister's bravery had been proven - his blade having tasted blood on more than one occasion. He had nothing to prove, not to himself and certainly not to the world. The world trembled and quaked at his reputation, the smoldering wreckage of Tarbeck Hall and the flooded caverns of Castamere giving testament to that very fact.

No, he did this because he could. Because his sense of honor as the Lord of the Westerlands and duty as Shield of Lannisport mandated him to lead the assault to reclaim his city. Aye, Tywin Lannister had honor… or at least the intelligence to know what honor demanded. As the new Hand of the King, he couldn't afford to risk any blemish to his reputation.

And thus found him in the fight, drawing his sword back from a gasping Ironborn - wheezing for breath as blood filled his lungs. Join your drowned god, you little shit. "Brother!" It was Gerion. His own Valyrian Steel blade was covered in blood, the lad as brave as his pedigree insisted. "We're being bogged down in the streets, there's too many enemy crossbowmen."

Tywin dragged him till the cover of a large stone house provided safety. All around them, Lords and Knights led the heavily-armored men-at-arms into the chaotic fighting. "Return fire with our own archers."

"We can't. They're too well entrenched." Gerion winced as he saw a bannerman fall to the ground, crossbow bolt sticking out his neck. "We need to send in the reserve."

"Fine, do it." Tywin was tired of delay. "Send them here."

Gerion blinked. "The Tully's are just as bogged down as we are…"

"Send them here!" Tywin roared. "They aren't assaulting the thickest defenses. Make haste, brother or we all die."

Clicking his heels, Gerion put aside his normal penchant for insubordination and cheeky comebacks to agree. "Yes, my Lord." A Prickly bunch, the children of Tytos Lannister, but in battle they all knew their roles.

Nothing was taken to chance. The forces of the Westerlands, eager to reclaim the great city of their homeland from their traditional enemies, had marched towards the walls of Lannisport with their weapons held proudly and banners flown high. Tywin personally had minstrels among the columns of men playing the Rains of Castamere as a psychological tactic. It reminded his men of their past glory, while doubly serving as a morale killer to the Ironborn. They faced not fools or tourney knights, but a man that had single-handedly destroyed houses that had been around for centuries.

Most of them were likely hopped up on hallucinogenics anyway, but any advantage would be taken.

The assault from the east was but the anvil in Rhaegar and Tywin's grand strategy, but against the vast majority of the remaining Ironborn they weren't going to make it a mere sideshow. Truly beginning with the roar of Rhaegar's dragon, Aegarax loosed a tongue of flame at the main gate leading out to the Goldroad. It disintegrated, leading to cheers from the men. More cheers followed as hidden caches of wildfire placed in the night were ignited by the dragon's second pass, blowing three massive gaps into the walls as Aegarax bathed the battlements in between with dragonfire.

They charged, assuming an easy victory after that… Tywin didn't, and his instincts proved right as Rhaegar departed for the main assault and the Westermen and Rivermen became bogged down in the brutal house-to-house fighting.

"Lord Gawen!" Dismounted, Tywin found a marching column of men-at-arms led by the Lord of the Crag. "Have you met the enemy yet?" A formality, since the men were clean and in good order.

"No, my Lord," Lord Westerling remarked.

Tywin drew his sword. "Then follow me, men of the Westerlands. Hear us roar!" The men, awed that they were personally being led by their infamous Lord Paramount, didn't need any more words. They collapsed their shields together in a tight formation, drew their swords and advanced proudly, charging towards the ragged lines of Ironborn intermixed with their own countrymen.

Things were being bogged down, but the blare of horns brought fortitude to the Westermen and fear to the Ironborn.

Crashing into the lines, the Stormlords joined the fight where it was the thickest.

Stormbreaker swinging around with the fury of the gales by which Durran Godsgrief so battled, Robert watched in satisfaction as the Ironborn's helm caved in. The face beneath was completely obliterated into a stew of blood, bone, and brain matter. "Kill every fuckin' one of 'em!" he bellowed to the men around him, laughing as he yanked back the warhammer and thrust it forward, impaling another reaver in the chest. Gods, he hadn't had this much fun in years!

Gritting his teeth, Tywin thrust the greatsword through the mail armor of the reaver. He took no pleasure in the man's screams, kicking the dying Ironborn to the ground and scrambling over the barricade - the most recent of the many his column had bled and crawled over in the furious streetfighting. Crossbow bolts and arrows flew through the air, whizzing on their deadly mission. Wet slaps rang out as they met their mark, screams following… some were only followed by a deathly silence, but the Lord of Casterly Rock couldn't be bothered.

Urging the men to follow him, marshal behind the newly forming shield wall that marched from this barricade to the next, Tywin caught a sight that made his blood boil. "Emmon, you cunt!" His goodbrother was slumped in a seated position against the barricade facing east - shielded from the arrows and bolts. Tywin marched to him. "Get your cowardly ass out of this and march forward…!"

Grabbing him by the shoulder, it was only then that Tywin noticed the crossbow bolt. It had buried itself through Emmon's eye. The helm he wore was untouched, so it hadn't exited… an almost perfect punching through the front but not the back. His slumping wasn't from cowardice, but from death.

Tywin had no reaction. Well Genna, looks like you're free of father's mistake.


The clouds of inky black and green smoke could be seen from all the way back in Casterly Rock. Feeling the blast wave blow against her, greater than the sea breeze. Her nails dug into the railing of her balcony, face pale and trembling from pure terror. Ned is there… Her beloved husband could be among those pyres reaching into the sky, burned beyond recognition.

Or decapitated…

Or riddled with arrows…

Or...

"You have to stop, niece." Cersei turned to see her Aunt Genna walk in, hands clasped over her dress. "You're going to drive yourself mad with worry."

"I can't help it." Biting her lip, Cersei looked back at the city. If she squinted, she could just make out the green blur of Aegarax, King Rhaegar's dragon. He flew across the city, releasing dragonfire on the malevolent invaders below him. It was… mollifying. "He's out there, aunt. He's fighting those scum and I'm not there to protect him."

Genna sighed. "You're not Queen Lyanna, dear niece. You know not the ways of warfare… once he returns to Winterfell, then you can provide the shield to him and make sure he cannot be manipulated or hoodwinked."

"That's if he returns." Suddenly, Genna smacked her head. "Ow! Aunt Genna."

"No, you stop that. No thinking of his death, it shan't happen."

She rubbed the back of her head. "You don't know that, aunt. Uncle Tygett is dead. Uncle Gerold was wounded. Ned could be the victim of some fucking reaver from some godsforsaken rock at the shit end of nowhere and I'll have lost him the moment I've gotten him back." Clasping her hands over her face, Cersei began to sob. We can't lose him again… I can't lose him again… The terror was like a vice over her heart and she hated it.

Cersei hated the thought of losing Ned even more.

Gently, Genna hugged her niece, silently letting a prayer leave her lips as the poor child cried in her shoulder. Don't take him, Stranger. For the first time in her life, Cersei was finally content with her lot. The sense of dread and bitterness that hung over her niece since Joanna died had finally dissipated thanks to the Lord of Winterfell. The direwolf had set her free, allowing Cersei the bliss of a happy life in the position she deserved to be in.

Gods, if she had married someone who shattered the illusion of her beauty and superiority - any other man would've battered her into bitterness… or been a doormat and allowed her ego to rise so high as to fall. Not Ned. Her goodnephew was the perfect man for Cersei, this Genna knew. Which is why she let Cersei cry it out.

When the sobs changed to mere trembling, Genna kissed her temple. "Would you like to see Robb in his chambers?" Her son always cheered her up. Silently, Cersei nodded, letting her aunt guide her. Jumping off the bed, the little lion cub - one both Cersei and Tyrion had named 'Lann' after the first Lannister - jumped off and scampered after his mother.

Robb was where Genna had said, seated upon the large rug in the middle of his chambers, playing with the wooden knights alongside young Podrick Payne. "See Pod!" the heir to Winterfell beamed. "This is Moat Cailin!"

"Where's that?" the other boy asked.

"In the North, silly," Robb giggled. "Brave Northern warriors stopped the Andals here. Theon Hungry Wolf."

Her son's innocence and adoration of his father managed to put a smile on Cersei's face in spite of her apprehension. Robb truly was the light of her life. "My son, come to momma." She opened her arms, but Lann scampered out, mewling at Robb.

The boy rose, smiling widely as he ran to the cub. "There you are!" He cuddled Lann in his arms - soon he'd be too large for even Cersei to cuddle, but for now the family indulged. "Momma!"

Cersei yanked them both up in her arms, burying her head in Robb's golden curls. "I love you, my sweet cub." She, him, and Ned, finally a family - the Ironborn could take this bliss away from her this day and it was driving her to tears.

Robb blinked, confused. "No cry, momma. What wrong?"

His sweet innocence only made Cersei tear up harder. Genna put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and it managed to steady her enough. "Your father, my son. He's fighting to free Lannisport from the Ironborn."

"He in battle? Like Kings of Winter?"

"Yes sweetling, just like them."

Robb reached up to cup her cheek. "No worries, momma. Poppa'll beat all the squiddy squids!" There was no reason to why he couldn't. Poppa is the best. No one can beat poppa!

"Don't forget your grandfather, dear nephew," Genna kissed Robb on the crown of his head. "Never pull the lion's tail if you don't have a plan to deal with the teeth." She darted forward, nibbling on his fingers.

Giggling, Robb squirmed, making Cersei smile again. "And n'cle Rhaegar. He burn the squids."

"Aye… that's true." She hugged him closer. "Thank you, my son. I love you."

"Love you too, momma."

Come back to us, Ned. I can't lose you again.


Throat parched and armor roasting in the sun, Ser Benjen Stark of the Kingsguard nevertheless urged his men forward. "To the hill, split into assigned positions!" Overall in command of half the northern host - assigned by both his goodbrother the King and his brother Ned, Benjen personally chose the Umber and Forrester men to lead into the next phase of the battle. It had been they he fought and bled aside to take the northern gate from the Ironborn and they would be the ones who would take the palace of House Lannister of Lannisport from them.

"You sure this'll work, Stark?" boomed Greatjon Umber. His own greatsword was caked in blood, but held high spirits.

"Aye, they'll never expect it." The hill upon which the palace was situated was fortified by hundreds of Ironborn. Archers and scorpions from the building could savage the mounted columns Ned and Elbert were leading towards the harbor itself, and thus needed to be taken.

This is for you, Lya. To avenge his family's near death. To avenge the near death of his brother in white, Lewyn Martell. Euron Greyjoy may not have been here, but any Greyjoy would do.

Climbing the hill, Benjen shouted for them to halt just before reaching the parade ground in front of the palace. Motioning for Greatjon and Gregor Forrester to follow him, Benjen shimmied to the lip of the summit and looked at the fighting breaking out.

"The fuckers are taking the bait!" boomed Greatjon, grinning like mad.

"Shut it," hissed Benjen. "Don't give it away!" He kept himself flat against the slope of the hill, watching with squinted eyes as the Ironborn charged at the Glover, Mormont, and Flint forces arraigned on the large parade ground ahead of the Lord's Palace. Outnumbered they were, and noted enemies of the Ironborn. The clash of the initial forces began, reavers smashing against the ragged shield wall that proved such a tempting target. Exactly what Benjen counted on. He rose, unsheathing his sword. "Forward! For the North!"

"For the North!" bellowed the Umber and Forrester men behind him, men-at-arms waving blades and flashing axes as they charged at the palace. On the other side, the hoots of the Bolton bannermen joined to complete the double envelopment.

Staggered as they were, the rear of the Ironborn managed to notice their enfilade and began to withdraw to the palace. Fuck! "Greatjon, close the trap. Gregor, with me!" The Northmen peeled off, half hurling themselves at the Ironborn mass itself while the rest raced for the palace. Roose Bolton visibly did the same, Benjen unable to deny his tactical sense.

If the Ironborn could bar the ironwood doors of the palace, then they could hold it for fucking forever.

Luckily, the Vale archers that were joined to the northmen were led by someone competent. The arrows arced above the crest of the hill to slam into the Ironborn, felling two dozen as the Umbers and Boltons completed the envelopment around nearly two-thirds of the withdrawing Ironborn. Benjen's legs pumped, white cloak caked in dust and his own plate chafing against his skin. Still he ran, lowering his body and running faster.

About half the remaining Ironborn had advanced through the gates of the palace before Benjen plowed into one of the reavers. The tackle knocked the man to the ground, sword quickly beheading him as Benjen swung around. Gregor Forrester thrust his blade into another, driving the corpse to the ground while the Forrester bannermen began to clash around the gate. "Don't let them enter!" the Lord of Ironrath bellowed just as three-dozen Boltons came at them from the rear. It would be a slaughter.

But Benjen was frantic - he saw a bigger threat. "Hold the gate!" he screamed. The Kingsguard threw himself into the doorway, ironwood crashing into him and wedging his body in between that and the stone. He gritted his teeth, blade deflecting a slash as five Ironborn tried to crush him, pushing hard on the door.

He nearly felt his shoulder dislocate against the pressure, but suddenly it slackened. Lord Gregor and his men were pushing from the back, a dozen men overcoming the Ironborn and throwing the door open. Benjen's entire body ached but he couldn't rest now. Howling a wolf-howl, he charged with his men through the large halls of the palace, marble floors where centuries of Lannister Lords had thrown sumptuous feasts now soaked with blood as the Northmen and Ironborn vented millennia of hatred against each other.

Parrying a blow, Benjen crashed his mailed fist into the jaw of his attacker. Teeth showered out of his mouth as the Ironborn collapsed - the Kingsguard twirled his blade and stabbed it downward, blood spurting on his cloak. He had just withdrawn the sword in another spray of blood when an axe crashed into his shoulder armor. Benjen screamed as the armor was split, leaping back.

"Stark!" A massive figure was holding the axe, a large golden kraken adorning his surcoat. Benjen immediately knew who this had to be. "Fitting I fight you."

The wound burned in pain, but the Kingsguard could already tell it was just a superficial gash - the armor had held in a manner of speaking. "Rodrik Greyjoy, you die today."

"What is dead may never die." Roaring, the heir to the Iron Islands swung his axe at Benjen's side, only just missing as the Kingsguard deflected the blade. Rocking back on his heels, Benjen righted his bastard sword and attempted to stab Rodrik in the belly. The Greyjoy batted it aside with the staff of his axe, swiping down. Adorned with a smaller edge, the back of the battleaxe sliced through the unprotected part of Benjen's shin. The direwolf grunted but reacted quickly, lashing out with a punch that caught the Greyjoy on his temple… just underneath the lip of the naval helm.

Pulling back as Rodrik staggered, Benjen could feel his own blood soaking his tunic and trousers, but with the fighting still intense around him and the Greyjoy heir out for blood he couldn't allow for any respite. Quickly and suddenly, Benjen lunged. He swung his blade upwards to deflect the axehead before reversing course, grabbing the hilt with both hands and hammering down on the Greyjoy's plate armor. It held, but forced the Ironborn to his knees from the sheer force and ferocity of the wolf knight.

Even hurling his axe up didn't faze Benjen's attacks, so Rodrik quickly unsheathed a knife from his belt and stabbed forward. Benjen cried in agony as it sliced through his side between his ribs, but the attacks didn't slacken. An instantaneous swing of the wrist missed the axe, reaching the unprotected join of the Ironborn's neck and shoulder.

Rodrik was the one screaming now, blood gushing over his armor as the Kingsguard's sword bit through more flesh and crushed bone beneath its steel. It was a fatal wound, no doubt about it, but Benjen wasn't about to take any chances. Yanking it back, he grabbed the Greyjoy's helm and ripped it off his face. "This is for my brother Lewyn," he hissed, stabbing… running Rodrik through from eye to the back of his head.

His wounds finally began to take their toll, Benjen collapsing to his knees and then to his back. "Ser Benjen!" Gregor Forrester was by his side. "Get a healer here!"

"Did… did we win?" Benjen gasped out, the pain starting to turn agonizing.

"Aye," Gregor responded. "They died or surrendered. The palace is ours. Already your brother and Lord Elbert are advancing to the docks."

Benjen nodded. "Good… very… good." His voice dropped to a murmur, unconsciousness overcoming him.


"Dracarys!"

Aegarax shuddered in midair, his neck rearing back even in the sharp dive. Wings extending about a third of the way to both bottom out and slow his attack, his maw glowed and a tongue of orange-red flame lanced out. Rhaegar could hear the screams of Ironborn below him being enveloped by his dragonfire.

"Boy, climb!" He yelled in High Valyrian. The harsh wind and cacophony of battle muffled his voice, but from Aegarax's roar and frantic wingbeats, he heard loud and clear. A few arrows arced towards them from the Ironborn archers below - trying to avenge their roasted comrades. The arrows missed their mark. The Sunrise Dragon was already too high.

Hair tied back into a northern-style bun, Rhaegar felt the wind in his face. He felt the glare of the sun and furious thumping of the heart. Gods, it was magnificent. War was hell, but this was the very epitome of wonder.

Rhaegar could see the vast expanse of the city below him, framed by the sparkling Sunset Sea and the massive spire of Casterly Rock in the distance. The clouds of smoke from Aegarax's wake reached into the sky like gnarled fingers and stung his nose, but otherwise it was a pristine day. As if the gods were blessing House Targaryen and condemning the Ironborn.

'Kepa, ships in the harbor.'

To all others, it sounded like Aegarax was roaring. Through their bond, Rhaegar understood him perfectly. "Let's teach them the true meaning of fire and blood. Dive!"

'My pleasure.' With another roar, he dove again.

Eyes tinging red from the speed, Rhaegar grinned viciously as the dragonfire set one ship after the other alight. This is for my children. The thought of his babes cowered under their bed, of his pregnant Queens fighting for their lives and those of his unborn children, it made the fire burn in his very blood. He wished no Ironborn to survive his wroth, for nothing left of the Iron Islands to even be graced with life.

There was the madness of his father, and then there was this. The heat inside of him that surged as Aegarax let out another get of flame. Was this what the great dragonlords of his family felt?

'I'm tired, kepa.' His thoughts were staunched as Aegarax whined, his wingbeats growing less powerful in ascent. 'The fire… I can't breath more.'

Initially concerned, the King remembered that Aegarax was still a small dragon. He hadn't reached adulthood, even the size small enough to constitute coming of age - let alone the size of Vhagar or Balerion the Black Dread. "Set me down, boy. I'll fight them on the ground."

'Be careful, I won't be able to face our family if you fall.'

"Don't worry about me." He stroked the dragon's neck as they made their descent, spotting the banners of the North marching past the Lannisport Palace, Targaryen three-headed dragon waving proudly from its tower. "I'll be just fine." Aegarax replied with a hoot.

A courtyard filled with troops made for a perfect landing place, Aegarax beating his wings and setting down. Rhaegar slid off, rubbing his dragon's neck before bidding him farewell. All around, men bowed their heads. "Your Grace."

Rhaegar recognized the bear sigil. "Jorah Mormont," he greeted their lord, who had removed his helm. "How goes the advance?"

"We're in the van, your Grace," Jorah answered, face covered in sweat and dust. "Lord Stark and Lord Arryn are mopping up the remaining defenses while we advance to the docks."

"Mnd if I join you boys?" Rhaegar asked the rest, drawing Blackfyre for the first time that battle. The men of Bear Island cheered their King, roaring as they charged back into the fray.

An older man was shouting orders at the docks, loading men onto the longships for quick flight - taking advantage of the departure of the King's dragon. But as the northmen arrived on scene, launching themselves at the desperate Ironborn. Half charged at the attackers with abandon, the rest stampeded for the boats. "Get into the attack you scum!" shouted the commander, drawing his blade. "Defend your fucking lives!"

Blackfyre swiped down, hacking off the swordarm of an Ironborn reaver. He screamed in agony with blood spurting out the stump. Rhaegar punched him in the face, grabbing his foe by the scruff of his collar and throwing him against another reaver, knocking him to the ground. The King was in the center of a mass of humanity, leading the Mormont men as they slammed into the packed Ironborn for control of the docks. He stabbed forward, skewering another berserker through the gut. He was clearly under the influence of the hallucinogenics, continuing to thrash at Rhaegar with a large knife. It streaked across his helm and left a large gouge in the metal, causing the King to kick him back. The Berserker roared and readied to charge but was halted as Rhaegar beheaded him.

"Do not let the boats leave!" Rhaegar bellowed, hacking off another arm. "Fire and Blood!"

"Fire and Blood!" screamed the northmen, more than willing to serve the husband of the She-Wolf, especially one that bled alongside them.

Suddenly, a flash of steel crossed Rhaegar's vision and he brought up Blackfyre to block. The bastard sword that clashed against it was shorter than expected, clearly a thrusting weapon. It's smoky blade and sharpness belied Valyrian steel. Only one Ironborn fought with Valyrian steel. "Lord Drumm." Rhaegar pushed forward, staggering the man. "Surrender now and I will spare your men!"

"Fuck you, Targaryen," was the reply from the bald Lord Dunstan Drumm. His bushy beard was drenched in blood, eager to add Rhaegar's to it. He thrusted forward, only for Rhaegar to dodge and swing Blackfyre - a move just barely parried.

Rhaegar readied another swing when his vision exploded in pain. "Argh!" An Ironborn had jammed a pike through the gaps in his shoulderplate, stabbing through skin and muscle. But before he could push it further another Valyrian steel blade sliced through the wooden staff.

Twirling Longclaw around, Jorah Mormont cut across the pikeman's chest, spilling blood. "Beside you, my King!" he told Rhaegar, advancing further.

Flank covered, the King pulled the pikehead from his shoulder. His arm could move so it wasn't broken, eyes narrowing with fury as he reengaged Lord Drumm. Hammering at his blade, the Valyrian steel held but the wielder was tiring. His many decades of life leaving his strength ebbing, even the greatest of warriors unable to withstand the equally skilled stamina of youth. Rocketing his knee up, Rhaegar collided it into the man's groin. Lord Drumm howled, bawling over from the blow and letting the King thrust up. Blackfyre ran him through, Drumm's Valyrian steel blade clattering to the wooden boards below.

At that moment, Northern reinforcements under the banner of Eddard Stark emerged onto the docks. Wolf howls piercing the din, they fell upon the Ironborn to relieve the exhausted Mormonts, turning a brawl into a slaughter.

Picking up the blade as Stark bannermen surrounded him - pushing back the Ironborn to leave him protected - Rhaegar sheathed Blackfyre and inspected the bastard sword of House Drumm. The infamous Red Rain, stolen long ago from a Lord of Castamere during a raid on the Westerlands. My son shall wield this. One of them, at least. Valyrian steel was wasted on Ironborn.

"My King, you must withdraw. The battle is won."

Looking at Jorah, Rhaegar nodded, allowing the Lord of Bear Island to escort him to the rear. "You fought well and saved my life, Lord Jorah."

"Simply my duty, your Grace."

"No, I reward those who have earned it. That shall be you today." It was he who kept Baelon, Rhaenys, Aegon, Alyssa, and the babes in his brides' wombs from being without a father. Gods, did he wish this war to end.

End it would soon - the trap had been set, all escape cut off for the Ironborn army within Lannisport. Now nothing stood between the forces of the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Islands themselves. Only the open sea. Something that the Sea Lion himself now ruled - wrested from the kraken.


While the remaining leaders of the Iron Islands continued their arguments with each other, from an alcove high in the rafters of the solar two small figures watched and listened to the whole thing. Built by a Greyjoy of old who wished to spy on his councilors, the recently christened prince and princess of the Ironborn trembled at every new nugget of information spoken by their father, brother, and uncles.

"Rodrik is dead," gulped a pale Maron Greyjoy. It looked like he was close to collapse - now he was the heir to his father and it terrified him.

Listening, both evesdroppers gasped silently. Rodrik, dead, surely not?

"Does it say how he died?" asked Prince Aeron. The seaweed in his hair had long since withered into a dried out husk, but he didn't bother changing it. Much too much was weighing him down.

"Slayed by Benjen Stark of the Kingsguard, uncle."

Scowling, King Balon tightened his fist. "I shall have his head on a spike for this. His innards will feed the crabs of my personal sea farm so I can eat his remains."

"Forgive me, brother, but how?" Aeron gestured to the maps. "We've lost all our positions on the mainland. We've lost our armies."

"We still have ships." Victarion insisted. "I can lead them far better than Euron ever could, the cowardly shit." While it was known only to them that one of Maron's longships pulled him out of the drink, Euron had disappeared since. No one knew where he went.

Maron was shaking violently. "We're all dead… all of us…"

Balon smacked him. "Shut it!" The scowling King pointed to the map. "Not even Aegon Targaryen could conquer our islands. We shall hold the greenlanders back."

Aeron was incredulous. "This has gone long enough, brothers. We must sue for peace! Take whatever terms they offer!"

"Are you fucking mad?! They'll butcher us alive like the Reynes and Tarbecks!" Victarion bellowed.

"They'll do what they do regardless!" Aeron shot back. "At least save our lands from burning!"

"We're all gonna die," wailed Maron, who was beginning to shake. "Get in the longships and flee! Someone will take us in!" He cried out when Balon punched him in the jaw.

"I said shut it, before I start cutting off fingers, you gutless worm!" the supposed King of the Iron Islands hissed, causing the two evesdroppers to tremble. "We stand and we fight like proper Ironborn! Never do we bend, never do we sow!" He banged his fists on the table. "What is dead may never die!" To anyone of rational mind listening to him, it was clear he was approaching Aerys Targaryen levels of insanity.

But he was still the King, and his word was law.

Above, the two withdrew from the alcove into the more secluded tunnel… which led back to their very bedchambers. "S...Sis," murmured Theon, hugging his sister as he shook with apprehension and fear. "What will happen to us?"

"We're all at the mercy of the dragons…" Asha said back. Her pudgy features were pale, tears welling in her bloodshot eyes. "They'll burn us like Black Harren."

With moons of great victories trumpeted in jubilation all throughout Pyke, the twin hammer blow of the Arbor and Lannisport shattered it. Especially for the youngest children of Balon Greyjoy, who had to contend with their hero elder brother's death. Apart from their uncle and their mother, Theon and Asha were the only ones who mourned for him. The rest were either too scared, too preoccupied, or too callous like their own father.

"I don't want to burn…" Theon cried in silence in his sister's embrace, soon joined by her as they wept together as silently as possible. They knew that if any of his other family saw them, the worst would follow. Their father would beat them, Uncle Victarion would beat them… even Maron would beat them - granted, he would probably beat them anyways to vent his humiliation.

Let alone what their uncle Euron would have done. Both were grateful he disappeared - his very nature made them afraid.

Soon, however, they were all cried out, merely shaking. "Why were father, Uncle Euron, and Rodrik so stupid sis?" Theon asked. He excluded their favorite uncle, Aeron - as eccentric as the man was, he was the only child of their grandfather to adhere to his wishes. Things were happier then.

"It's in our blood," Asha remarked quietly, always a bit braver than Theon - she never had to put on an arrogant face like he did, and was the only one he could trust with his fears as a result. "To fight the Iron Way"

"Bu...but Granpa Quellon tried to change it," Theon said in a sad whisper. "He knew the true Iron Way." Theon didn't truly understand his grandfather's mindset, the poor man having gone too ill to even see him since before Theon could remember - but anything was better than what was happening.

Asha wanted to ease her brother's torment, her own torment, but she didn't know how. She felt useless. "I don't know, Theon..." She closed her eyes. "I just don't know." They just hugged each other again, arms tight. Trying to ward off the images of dragonfire that danced in their minds.

A/N: Benjen the Kraken Slayer. Put that in the White Book!

Battle based on the Battle of Monterrey in the Mexican-American War.

New chapter comes in a week after 30 comments. Some cute Jon moments :D