While Lordsport fell in less than a day, it would take three full days for the whole King Robert Baratheon's army; man, beast, and material, to unload on the long beach beneath the ransacked huts of the ironborn sea village. But the Demon of the Trident did not sit idly by awaiting the full muster of his army, in the hours after the surrender of Lord Sawane Botley's burning keep, and with the sun more set than setting, the warrior king directed several hundred skirmishers down the five miles of the coast trail, more resembling a goat path than a road, in order to establish a picket just beyond bow range of the outer wall of Balon Greyjoy's sea cliff castle. Other bands of soldiers were chivied away from the freshly lit bonfires fighting the chill salt breeze, the warmth of wine, and the lines leading to the dubious pleasures of newly churned salt wives to scour the hard scrabble landscape of Pyke for any signs of ironmen lurking behind a dune or hidden in a ravine just waiting the opportunity to launch a surprise attack or ambush. And as the moon peaked in the night sky, the Stag further amused himself by ordering his goodbrother, the Kingslayer, to lead near a thousand men-at-arms through the dark to join up with the force of archers and scouts in keeping the rebellious Kraken caged.
The Badger, however, did not learn of many of these events during his first night ashore on the Iron Islands, as he drank deeply in memory of Edgur, yet another in a long list of fallen companions. When Lohgun succumbed to fatigue and wine, Catelyn entered his dreams: beautiful, majestic, and very, very pregnant. She rejected him. She enticed him. She demanded things of him. She ruled Winterfell beside him. And in the end, as the light of dawn spread out across the ruins of Lordsport, she died for him; a thing with claws birthed itself by ripping its way out of her belly. The wildling's eyes blinked open to a new day with Catelyn's last words still echoing through him, 'behold, your son.'
"Am I a gods damned mule?" Lohgun complained bitterly.
"Shut up," Torrhen griped.
"Not … again," Rodrik grunted from close by, shoving hard at a rickety cart.
The Greatjon simply laughed, enjoying his supervisory role. "Keep a moving, my lovelies."
"Waaah!" Jorah shouted in surprise, stumbling to his knees in the mud as the wagon he was helping to push suddenly jerked forward, unbalancing him.
"Its da fuking Drowned God be the problem," proclaimed Donnel. "When he make dis piss poor isle, he not use enou rocks."
"You got rocks in your clansman head, Harclay!" Rodrik shouted. "This island ain't nothing but rocks."
"Then whys we out here?" Donnel bantered back.
"Oh shut up," Torrhen griped yet again.
"Cause the Greyjoys used all the fucking big'uns to build their gods damned castle with, shit for brains." Rodrik swore
"Well be it shite or rocks dat I t'ink wid?" Donnel chortled.
A horse's neigh floated high over the squeals of poorly greased axels; the sound was a rarity on the dreary islands, fields were mostly small and hand tended, making draft animals a rarity. In unspoken unison, the entire line of a dozen slow moving, mismatched wagons and carts pushed only by the hand of man came to a halt in the muddy soup that the coastal trail had become over the last ten days. Four men on horses, wrapped in Lannister crimson, trotted up on the edge of the track and paused to evaluate how best to navigate around the road block. The lead rider dropped the scarlet cowl off his head, revealing shiny blond hair and impressively groomed facial hair to match; Gerion.
"Lord Umber. Lord Mormont. Such dreadfully dirty work. You are to be commended for sharing in your men's efforts," the dandified youngest brother of Tywin Lannister drawled.
The Greatjon narrowed his eyes dangerously, trying to decide whether insult had been offered or not.
The Bear stepped in to avoid any chance at a breach. "Yes Lord Gerion. T'was the North's day to collect rocks for the King's catapults. And siege lines are very dull, so we volunteered our services to Lord Stark."
"Quite," Gerion agreed. He turned his head to scan the stony bounty warping the beds of the humble collection of vehicles.
Lohgun now caught sight of the partially faded purple-black bruise on the annoying man's cheek. He smiled in remembrance of clouting the talkative fool quiet.
"The very same reason I offered the services of my horse to his Grace. Trotting between the camp and the beach, carrying messages, seeing acquaintances like yourselves; it makes the day …" Gerion finally caught sight of Lohgun. His affected smile got wider while losing any trace of sincerity. "… almost bearable. Why hello Badger, I didn't see you there."
Lohgun returned a cheerless grin and shrugged, saying nothing.
The two men stared at each other, hard and long. Everyone noticed.
"Ahem." Jorah cleared his throat. "May we aide you somehow, Lord Gerion?" With a muddy hand the Bear lifted the wineskin draped around his neck. "A drink perhaps?"
The Lannister crinkled his nose fastidiously at the suggestion, but answered in a polite enough tone. "Thank you, no, Lord Mormont." He patted a pouch at his side. "Important messages to deliver to his Grace. Must be off. If I see Lord Stark, I'll let him know you're coming." He touched his spurs to the roan's flank, eliciting a soft whinny, and off he and his henchmen slurped through the mud.
"Insufferable little shit," the Greatjon announced.
"Damned arse," Donnel cursed loudly.
Everyone agreed with their pronouncement, then turned wearily back to the task at hand. Legs pushed. Shoulders leaned into it. A slow but steady squeak of wheels accompanied by the occasional gurgle of sucking mud filled the air, drowning out the sound of near a hundred men breathing hard at work.
The last mile brought a downpour which slowed them more. But at least at dusk when they made the sprawling encampment built behind the siege line facing Pyke Castle, their northern brothers had saved them bowls of hot fish chowder and mulled wine. The banter that night inside the Unchained Giant Lord's tent was desultory and brief. The day's effort had taken its toll and Lohgun watched as his friend's heads speedily nodded off.
Hours later, as the wind swept rain rattled off the tent hide, the Badger gazed alone into the glow of the sole remaining candle light. He bitterly, desperately fought the urge to sleep. His nights were filled with nightmares. He now regularly, gleefully tortured Ned; using his claws with depraved ingenuity to make his friend scream and writhe, begging for the release of death. Wine, dream wine, milk of the poppy, Summer Island weed, Qarth lotus; nothing stopped the incessant, night after night after night flow of dark, terrible dreams. The wildling longed for the now seemingly benign three eyed raven to haunt him again.
Lohgun twitched. The tiny flame flickered, but he felt no breeze on his cheek. The entrance flap parted and Ned stepped into the tent, a smile wide on his face. "No," he whispered in disbelief. "I'm awake."
"Badger," his friend said.
The wildling scrambled to his feet. "Don't come any closer Ned, I'm warning you!"
Ned stepped forward. "What's wrong, Lohgun?"
The Badger sniffed the air. Soot. Earth. Wet hides. Wine. Ale. Fish. Stale Bread. Salt air. Greatjon. Bear. Torrhen. Rodrik. Donnel. Cregan. Jonnel. Edwyn. Piss. Shit. No Ned; not a whiff of Ned.
Closer. Closer. "What's the problem?"
"You are, bub," he snarled. Snickt!
"Ya look like shite, Badger." Donnel commented.
"And you smell like it," he griped back, loud enough to be heard over the loud rattle of men nervously shifting their armor and arms.
Five thousand men clad in plate or chain or scale or leather waited just beyond bow range of Pyke's curtain wall. The days of bombardment by the three catapults that Robert's engineers had constructed in front of the spit of land facing Balon Greyjoy's impressive but weather beaten looking castle had at last paid off. Two days ago serious cracks had formed nearly half way between the gate and the western cliff face. Immediately, all three bombards had settled on that section of fractured granite as their sole target. Yesterday, the top quarter of the wall had tumbled outward after a deafening crack. And now, despite all the ironmen's best efforts with thick, reinforcing timbers and piled rubble, the breach grew larger and larger. King Robert Baratheon's army, perhaps the Stag most of all, waited anxiously on its haunches, like an eager wolf at the end of a long chase, ready to leap in for the kill.
CREEEEAAAAAAKKKKKKKK! The tension built up in the straining cords suddenly released itself and a giant basket started to swing around. SNAP! The arm of the catapult reached the far end of its arc, raising the basket high, flinging out a boulder. The air hummed with the sound of the jagged rock rushing through the sky to crash into the rebel's defenses. SMASH! Splinters of granite sprayed about. A shriek belted out from some hidden ironborn who'd been too close. A man sized hunk of stone separated from the wall and tumbled down onto the growing mound of rubble at its foot. "HUZZAH!" roared the filial knights, men-at-arms, and warriors of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Demon of the Trident and the Direwolf enforced their noble given rights and set themselves at the point in the siege line closest to the slowly widening breach. The stakes and earth filled wicker baskets of the besiegers' fortifications against ironmen sorties had been taken down that morning in anticipation of the coming assault. Around Robert stood his three Kingsguard; Jaime Lannister, Mandon Moore, and Boros Blount, as well as other lords and favored companions, such as Gerion Lannister and Thoros of Myr. To the east of the King came his levies of Stormlanders, Crownlanders, and assorted other far southerners. Surrounding Ned were the cream of the North's martial prowess, including the ashen, jittery appearing wildling. To the west of the Warden of the North were arrayed his levies and then the contingents of the Vale and the Riverlands.
The Greatjon nudged him. "That tiny stick of yours gonna be enough ta give an ironborn a good shave?"
Lohgun glared up at his battle loving friend. "I could try it on you first? And if it ain't to your liking, I got five even sharper ones!" Snickt!
The giant ox only chuckled in response.
CREEEEAAAAAAKKKKKKKK! SNAP! SMASH! "HUZZAH!"
"Enough already," an accented, wine slurred voice cried out in frustration. A tall, fat man trailing a billowy, fire red cloak behind himself broke out from the ranks around the Stag and started running toward the gap in the wall.
A collective gasp burst from the long line of besiegers as the drunken red priest crossed into the killing zone. Seconds later, several bowmen atop the curtain wall started taking pot shots at the portly warrior priest.
"Crazy bastard," the Greatjon muttered appreciatively. "I knew I liked him for a reason."
"Stupid bastard," Rodrick countered.
Torrhen shook his head sadly. "I liked him too."
"Here we stand!" roared the Bear, and with that Jorah's thick form lumbered out of the line after the death seeking Thoros of Myr.
Lohgun dragged his eyes away from the sight of his dashing friend to watch Ned and Robert's reaction to the pointless display of bravery. Two sets of eyes bulged out of their heads in stunned amazement. Then a grin started to break out on the Stag's face. The Lord of Winterfell began to shake his head no, in disbelief at his king. The damned foolish grin spread into a cheery smile. The Demon of the Trident raised his heavy mallet high into the air. "CHARGE!" he bellowed.
"HUZZAH!" five thousand men cheered as they too started sprinting toward Pyke Castle and the twenty foot high pile of rubble fronting a ten foot wide hole partially blocked up with timber, wrought iron, and rocks.
The wall fell with startling ease and with only the cost of a hundred men. The far ends of the onrushing attackers had carried ladders with them to scale the lichen covered grey-black stone rising thirty to forty feet above the headlands fronting the row of four separate islet bound keeps. Hundreds of archers rushed in behind the charge to lay down a counter barrage against the storm of arrows raining down on the men of Westeros. A score of ballista flung spear sized projectiles at the wall too.
Amazingly, neither Thoros nor Jorah died storming the breach. As the battle swept through the stink of the courtyards, warehouses, servants' quarters, and stables on the headland, the red priest, his bald pate bleeding profusely from a vicious cut that took the helm off his head, led the charge to take the Gatehouse. The Bear, looking more like a porcupine from the score of arrows sticking out of his chain hauberk and leather doublet, advanced at the head of group trying to secure the covered stone bridge heading out to the castle's Great Keep. Lohgun and those of his companions who had wriggled through the choked mass of armored men pressing into the breach chased after their mad friend.
The ironborn had not been idle either during the siege and a chest high stone barricade now sat at the entrance to the bridge. Pikes, maces, flails, swords, and polearms swung by grim, determined reavers beat back Jorah's initial charge.
The Bear, bent over and breathing heavy, looked up at the gaggle of Umbers, Mormonts, Flints, Lockes, and other northerners rushing up to reinforce him. "Let's have another go at them," he gasped.
"Aye! Kill the fuckers!" roared the Greatjon, barely slowing down until Lohgun yanked hard on his sword arm. "What?!" he snarled angrily, dragging the wildling along beside him, while others rushed past into the swarm of iron swung steel.
"Throw me!" the Badger screamed.
"What?!" the Lord of Last Hearth shouted.
"THROOOOOOW MEEEEEE!"
The Greatjon stopped pulling along the short man and looked down in confusion at his friend's hairy, muttonchop split face. "Whhaaaaatttt?"
"There aren't enough of us yet to take the barricade. Throw me over it before they bring up bows or we get hit from behind!" To emphasize his point, the Badger let go of the giant northerner's arm and popped his claws. Snickt! Then thrust about vigorously with slashing motions. The muddled, stupid look on the Greatjon's face cleared to be replaced by the cheeriest smile Lohgun thought he'd ever seen on the big oaf's ugly mug.
"Come on little man!" the Unchained Giant shouted with glee, picking the Badger up by the scruff of his neck and striding toward the bridge. Fifteen feet from the barrier, the Greatjon paused. One hand clasped tight any give in the chainmail at the top of the wildling's back. The other hand grabbed hard at one of Lohgun's meaty thighs.
Once. Twice. Thrice the Greatjon spun around and then he unleashed his hold on the Badger. Up into the air the little man flew. Over the heads of the attacking northerners. Over the top of the stone fence. Over the slashing, stabbing weapons of the defending ironmen. SMACK! Lohgun plowed into a small group of rebels rushing from the Great Keep to join in the defense of the bridge. Men fell. The Badger lashed out with his curved sword and silvery claws. More men fell. Soon, many more men fell; the barricade was theirs, the path to the Great Keep lay open.
The King sat on a black carved kraken, the Seastone Chair, one stout leg, heavily bandaged about the thigh, sticking out casually into the air. He guzzled happily enough from a wineskin. Around him, on the dais supporting the throne of the Iron Islands, stood Ned and three men who's capes were now as much crimson as they were white.
Spread out across the floor of the Great Keep's drab, smokey hall lay the wounded. Maesters, the metal links of their chains jingling as they rushed about, tended the fallen. The balding Dornishman from the Citadel, kneeling with Lohgun and the Greatjon beside Donnel Harclay, shook his head no before rising to look after the next nearest man, an ironborn sporting a tourniquet right above missing half of his leg. The grey robed Maester left behind a vial filled with milk of the poppy.
"I … cannae feel … my dirk," Donnel spluttered weakly, red trickling lightly out of his mouth from the pool of blood collecting in his lungs.
The Unchained Giant and the Badger glanced down, the dying friend grasped his wee blade tightly.
"You hold it," the Greatjon declared. "Stryker will take your soul. Wait for me at Gynosha's gates."
"Aye … good." Donnel shuddered.
Lohgun picked up the vial and popped the cork. He dribbled the white viscous substance into the clansman's mouth.
The organized stomp of boots on stone reverberated through the hall, drawing the Badger's attention back towards the Seastone Chair. Fifty guards marched in a trio of prisoners; a mother and two children. Arriving before the King, they were thrown down on the ground beside the heavily shackled form of Balon Greyjoy.
"Will you take the rest of my children too, murderer!" shrieked the hysterical woman. "In front of mine own eyes will you slay them!? Will you?!"
"Oh be quiet, woman!" bellowed the King.
(vertigo)
"Killer!" she screeched, spraying spittle as her body bobbed back and forth on the ground.
Robert looked at Ned and rolled his eyes.
"Enough!" demanded the Lord of Winterfell. "The price of your lord husband's rebellion has been paid in blood. Blame him, not our justice."
Through crazed eyes Alannys Greyjoy nee Harlaw looked with malice upon the defeated, diminished figure of her children's father, the would be King of the Iron Islands, Balon.
(sinister)
She spat at him. A thick wad of mucus landed alongside his sharp nose.
The Stag and the Direwolf exchanged glances. Then Ned spoke in a loud, clear voice, "Balon of House Greyjoy, do you renounce your rebellious thoughts and deeds against your lawful King, Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, Protector of the Realm, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms?"
In a voice that sounded thick with dust, the ironborn lord spit out, "I do."
"Do you pledge to be King Robert's leal man, subject to his justice and obligated forever more to the descendants of his blood?"
"Yes," he rasped.
Ned snapped his fingers. Two guards quickly unshackled the redeemed lord. "Then come give your King the homage due him," Ned commanded.
Balon Greyjoy rose slowly and trod up the dais. Robert extended a hand, upon which rested the ring carrying his sigil. The former rebel bent over and kissed the symbol of the Stag's kingship.
Robert smiled widely, stood up a bit gingerly, and grasped the defeated ironman into a hug. "Brother," the King declared. Swallowed up in the mighty arms of the King, only the kraken shaped Seastone Chair could see what look passed over Balon Greyjoy's face. Releasing the man, the Stag continued, "To show the depth of my royal benevolence, let me now return two things, dear to you brother, that were lost."
At another gesture from Ned, guards marched in two powerful looking ironmen.
"Your brothers Victarion …"
(harpoon)
"and Aeron"
(scalphunter)
"I thank you … your Grace," Balon Greyjoy whispered.
Robert then continued, "And to improve the Iron Islands understanding of the rest of Westeros, I desire to have your offspring foster with two of my most … wisest lords."
The toppled king gritted his teeth. "Yes … your Grace."
The Stag pointed at the girl on the edge of womanhood kneeling on the flagstones. "Your lovely daughter Asha …"
(regan)
"… shall surely shine amongst all the gold of Casterly Rock."
Lady Alannys let loose with a desolate cry.
"Lord Gerion," Robert called. And out from the shadows, the smirking, aristocratic image of Gerion Lannister strode. "Do you accept Asha Greyjoy as your charge? To foster and guide in the ways becoming of a Great House."
The showy blond man bowed elegantly, "Gladly, your Grace."
Robert nodded and turned back to Balon Greyjoy. "And your son Theon …"
(gambit)
"… shall be tutored in the honor of Winterfell."
Lady Alannys sobbed uncontrollably.
"Lord Stark, do you accept Theon Greyjoy as your fosterling? To teach in the ways becoming of a knight of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Ned bowed. "Yes, your Grace."
When Lohgun at last looked back down, Donnel Harclay had already breathed his last.