"Please… please… ughhh!"
Harry wrenched the sword from the heart of an Ironborn and watched the man choke in his own blood. The battlefield was littered with the dead and dying Ironborn.
Most of them were reavers who took refuge in Great Wyk after the invasion drove them off from the islands of Orkmont, Pyke and Saltcliffe. The scent of blood and salt filled the land as the Northmen went from each fallen Ironborn laid out on the battlefield to confirm their death.
The Ironborn with more brains than their fellow idiots had escaped into the interior. The dumb ones tended to stay close to the sea, some in hopes of rebuilding their ships and others for religious reasons.
Harry was thankful for whichever choice the Ironborn he caught followed. It made his work all the easier.
He heard the screams and desperate begging of men as they were dragged to the blocks for decapitation or to be hanged. He didn't pay that any mind and strode ahead straight for the sour-faced thin man who knelt on the floor.
Aeron Greyjoy knelt before him, chained at the wrists and neck, his long beard clotted with seawater and dried blood. They called the man the Damphair — the chief priest of the Drowned God. He had been captured clutching a wooden club, ranting from atop a nearby cliff like a man possessed. The northern spearmen had dragged him through the battlefield, kicking and cursing.
"Bring that raving fool." Harry ordered.
"I am a servant of the Drowned god," Aeron rasped. "You murder me and you incur the wrath of the sea itself."
"You drowned your own people for failing to heed your madness. You drowned mainlanders alive and called it piety. No god will save you from justice today." Harry said, stepping forward with sword in hand.
"You think death brings fear in me." Aeron spat. "What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."
"The Drowned God is dead," Harry said coldly. "And so are your dreams of dominion and the depravity of the Ironborn."
"No longer will the Ironborn dare to attack the North. Your people will remember what happens when they earn the enmity of the North." Harry said before nodding at the men holding the Damphair.
The men dragged Aeron and pushed his head against a block of wood. Without much fanfare, Harry lopped off Aeron's head, and with it, he killed the youngest brother of Balon Greyjoy.
"Dump this body in some ditch and plant a weirwood sapling on his grave. I suspect the Old Gods might enjoy feasting on this one's flesh to grow their abode." Harry said after taking a deep breath.
"We've taken ten more drowned priests from a nearby village." Jon said once he joined Harry in his tent.
"Have them hanged and plant new weirwood trees in the village." Harry said while sipping some fine vintage to dull the burdens of war on his mind.
"I shall pass on the order to the men."
"No, sit. Have a drink with me." Harry patted the chair next to him, "Those damned priests can die on the morrow."
"Well, I won't object if you're offering." Jon shrugged his shoulders and sat down on a chair.
Harry poured a glass of wine for his brother and let Jon relax. Just as they were enjoying a moment of peace, they were interrupted by his chief spy walking into the tent.
"Daro."
"Forgive me for the intrusion, my prince. I have some information that might interest you."
Harry nodded at his spy, urging the man to continue.
"Our men have confirmed Asha Greyjoy has gathered thirteen ships to her cause and has sailed from Harlaw."
"I see." Harry exchanged a look with Jon before his eyes settled back on his spy. "What is her destination?"
"We have word Lady Asha intends to sail her ships to the Stepstones and then reach out to her uncle Euron Greyjoy."
"Is that so?" Harry smirked amusedly at the thought of Balon's daughter joining forces with Euron Greyjoy.
"What should we do with her, my prince? We could send ships to hunt her down."
"No." Harry decided after giving it some thought. "Let her do as she wishes."
It didn't matter to him what Asha Greyjoy did at this point. His focus was on consolidating his hold on the Iron Islands and expanding the North's sphere of influence in the Sunset Sea. Besides, he was not keen on explaining to Theon why he hunted down and killed his sister when he planned on using the guy to lead the Iron Islands in a new trajectory.
There was no future for Theon in the North. At some point, Theon had to make something of himself. That was why Harry planned on giving Great Wyk to Theon when the time came. It'd certainly pacify Lord Rodrik Harlaw.
At the same time, the Iron Islands would no longer have any autonomy. They'd be sworn to Winterfell as loyal bannermen. If Euron and Asha managed to survive whatever madness that was bound to transpire at Dragonstone, he was sure the North's fleet would be more than ready to destroy them.
"There is one other matter, my prince."
"Go on."
"Maester Marwyn reached out to the Nimbus. He requested an audience with you at the earliest. I believe it has something to do with the Riverlands, my prince." said Daro.
Harry looked at Jon with a raised eyebrow.
"The last I heard, Ser Brynden was gathering young knights to hunt bandits near the borders with the Westerlands." said Jon.
"I think it's time that I pay a visit to Avalon." Harry eventually decided.
"Go. I can clean up the remnants of the Ironborn." said Jon.
*******
If Harry only wanted to get the message from Maester Marwyn, he could've just contacted Avalon using the Nimbus's two-way mirror. The reason he did not was that there was a plan afoot that required a personal touch.
Ever since he decided to bring war to the shores of the Iron Islands, he knew he had to break the Westerlands and the Reach for Avalon's supremacy in the Sunset Sea. His plans to gobble up more territory from the Westerlands were kept out of sight from his father. Even his collaboration with his grandfather remained a secret for the time being.
When he stepped out of the Nimbus, Maester Marwyn was already waiting for him. The maester was the only one with full knowledge of what was going on behind the scenes.
"There has been some unforeseen development in the Westerlands."
"I gathered there was something amiss." Harry rolled his eyes. "So, what happened?"
"The Lannisters were aware of Ser Brynden's troop movements in advance. They've also alerted Ser Axel Florent of the intentions of House Lefford and Tully in the region."
"So, it'd be correct to say Stannis Baratheon and his Hand are also aware." Harry mused aloud.
"If they weren't aware, they're now." Maester Marwyn said.
"Well, that complicates the situation."
Harry was not prepared to get involved in the drama unfolding in the Westerlands. His plan relied heavily on gaining a strong foothold in the Iron Islands before making a move against the Westerlands. It just so happened that he failed to take into account that the Ironborn would prove to be a nuisance by dragging out the war. It was truly a miscalculation on his part.
His plan was to secure Lordsport and launch an attack from there. But Lordsport was not yet ready to host the bulk of the Northern fleet, as the port had to be rebuilt because of the damage it sustained during the invasion.
"I suppose we'll have to improvise and take some initiative." Harry said thoughtfully.
"How?" Maester Marwyn asked.
"I suppose I'll have to step in a bit earlier than expected."
"What about Princess Arianne? Should you make an aggressive move on the Westerlands, it might result in the suspension of the betrothal." Maester Marwyn cautioned.
Harry just grunted as he walked into the castle without answering the maester's concern.
That night, he stared into the starry night from the balcony of his private chamber, hoping to get some inspiration for what lay ahead. Getting into the southern conflict was always a double-edged sword. He knew that before agreeing to support his grandfather's campaign.
There were three options before him, each carrying its own risks.
One, he could use the airships under his command and wage war on the Westerlands. It'd place him directly in conflict with the Lannisters and House Florent. Ser Axel Florent now holds the title of lord of Lannisport with a sizeable portion of the Royal Flee under his command. It'd be a long campaign, and the chances of getting pulled into a much greater battle in the south would become a reality as House Florent would no doubt send aid in support of their kinsman.
Two, he could use the threat of war against the lords of the Westerlands and force them to bend the knee to Ser Brynden. He could also use gold and cut deals to buy their loyalty.
Three, he could pull the troops and ships holding the Iron Islands to attack Fair Isle and pose the threat of invasion to subjugate the Westerland lords and make them cooperate with Ser Brynden. Once that happens, he'd be forced to abandon the gains he made in the Iron Islands. It also meant his ships would end up facing the Royal Fleet concentrated at Lannisport.
To make matters worse, the movements of the wildling clans were also a threat he had to take into account. Therefore, maintaining a substantial number of ships and soldiers near the North was crucial at this stage. It was the threat of wildlings and the White Walkers that stayed his hand for the time being.
After considering all options, Harry came to a decision. He could not compromise the North's security or their interests in the Iron Islands. So, he would restrain his involvement, but that didn't mean he had to abandon his mother's family at a crucial juncture.
'I think it's time the Company of Rose make their return to Westeros. I suppose I also need to contact Prince Doran.' Harry mused with a smile as he enjoyed the twinkling stars in the night sky.
*******
The river Slayne ran thick with the stench of blood, its sluggish waters choked with bodies clad in mail and leather. The banners of House Swann, twin black and white swans, fluttered from the battlements above the ford. Below, amidst the churned mud, Prince Aegon Targaryen tightened his grip on his sword, the sun glinting off the pale steel as he surveyed the chaos erupting across the riverbank.
"Hold the centre!" he shouted, spurring his horse between the lines of Dornish spearmen.
His voice rose above the twangs of clashing steel, carried by the wind that whipped down the river valley.
"Stonehelm will not stand the day!" Aegon declared, followed by an excited yell from his men.
Oberyn Martell's lips curled into a grin, his dark eyes glinting with malice. His long spear spun in his hand with uncanny grace, already slick with blood. He wore no helm, only a crimson silk scarf tied around his neck with some chainmail, his black hair streaming behind him as he galloped forward on a black horse.
"The Stormlanders fight well for men with no cause left but pride," Oberyn observed, skewering a mailed knight who dared to close with him.
Aegon nodded, but his gaze lingered on the ramparts of Stonehelm. The fortress stood upon a rocky terrain that overlooked the river, its walls old and thick, carved from weathered stone dark as charcoal. The keep had been built to endure storms and sieges alike—and today, it would know both.
The ancient seat of House Swann had seen battles as far back as the coming of the Andals. It had survived many Dornish raids before Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms.
The siege had begun three days ago, after Aegon's host crossed the Dornish Marches and swept through the villages near Blackhaven. Lords from the Stormlands had rallied too late to resist his march. Ser Rolland Storm, bastard of Nightsong, had tried to hold a vital crossing that led to Stonehelm, but had been flanked and routed. However, the bastard of Nightsong managed to evade capture and rode off with a handful of survivors. Now, only the garrison at Stonehelm and the river itself stood between Aegon and total control of the coastal marches.
That morning, scouts had brought word of a relief force led by Ser Donnel Swann, Stonehelm's heir. Swann's column had marched hard from Stonehelm and was approaching the ford in force. Aegon had ordered the host to draw up by the riverbank and meet them head-on.
Now, the two armies clashed in the shallows and across the flat, muddy field that sprawled before the river. Arrows arced overhead, whistling past soldiers, sometimes claiming lives or injuring the men. The scream of wounded men and dying horses filled the air, accompanied by warhorns from both sides.
Oberyn wheeled his horse and galloped back to the rear lines.
"They are sending knights up the left flank," Oberyn said. "The reeds will bog them down, but our men will need support to destroy this attack."
"I want the riverbank to be ours before dusk." said Aegon.
"I shall lead a contingent of men and reinforce our flank. No one will be breaking through." Ser Ryon Allyrion said before he rode off to do what he promised.
Aegon turned his horse back toward the line, where the battle was fought the hottest, his black-and-red banner whipping overhead.
The River Slayne had swollen in the rain, and crossing it was treacherous. Still, House Swann's men pushed hard, their knights driving into the Dornish foot like battering rams. Spears shattered against shields, and men drowned in the mud, pulled down by weighty mail. The water foamed red, and the air trembled with the desperate cries of men dying.
"Your grace, stay by my side." Ser Jon Connington yelled as a new wave of Stormlanders crashed into their lines.
But Aegon was hardly content with hiding behind his men. His honour as a knight and a warrior wouldn't allow him to be a craven.
Aegon spurred forward and found himself in the thick of it. A Stormlander knight bore down on him, his mace rising for a killing blow. Aegon pulled his horse, forcing his mount to turn on a dime, and slashed upward with his sword. The mace missed his shoulder, but it grazed his armour at the edge. His steel, on the other hand, bit through flesh and bone with ease, severing the knight's arm at the elbow. The knight screamed and toppled backwards into the mud below.
He fought like a man possessed, raising the morale of his army. He fought side by side with the Dornishmen sworn to seat him on the Iron Throne. Years of training flowed into his limbs, and he never missed a swing. The Stormlanders, with the misfortune of crossing blades with him, ended up in the mud as he mercilessly cut through them.
For a moment, Aegon stood amid the chaos on his horse, breathing hard. Blood speckled his cheek, and his armour bore fresh dents and scrapes. But he was winning. The enemy's left flank had begun to buckle, and the Dornish were pressing forward with renewed fury.
Then the horns of House Swann sounded again—this time from the east.
Another column appeared, cresting a low rise near the woods. At their head flew the banner of House Caron. Ser Rolland Storm, the bastard of Nightsong was back, leading a second contingent, smaller but fresh and unbloodied.
"Let me deal with them," the Red Viper said, a savage gleam in his eye. "I shall end the line of Carons for good."
"Go." Aegon gave his blessing.
The Dornish prince rode off like a thunderbolt, shouting commands to his fellow Dornishmen. Two hundred light-footed spearmen mounted their swift desert-bred horses and followed their prince to battle the enemy to the east.
Aegon turned his attention back to the ford. The Slayne was choked with corpses now, its shallows murky and filled with a foul scent. But Ser Donnell Swann's knights still pressed forward, their banners snapping overhead. Aegon cut his way toward them, his men rallying around him.
He came face to face with Ser Donnell himself atop a tall white horse. The heir of Stonehelm wore a silver plate and a helm adorned with swan wings, and in his hand was a longsword with a silver handle studded with gems. They clashed without ceremony.
Ser Donnell's first blow sheared Aegon's shield in half, but he repaid him with a slash across the chest. The Stormlord bellowed and struck again, but Aegon ducked low and drove his blade straight at the neck of his adversary. Unfortunately, Ser Donnell was quick to shield himself.
When Aegon recovered and tried to resume the fight, he found his opponent making a swift retreat with another knight covering for the man.
"Coward!" Aegon yelled in anger as he engaged another knight.
The battle turned swiftly after that. Swann's men, seeing their lord fall, began to falter.
From the east came a sudden explosion of shouting and blasts of horns. Prince Oberyn had struck true and hard. Spears glinted. Screams echoed through the valley. The second Stormlander force never reached the field to support Ser Donnell Swann.
By dusk, the banks of the Slayne belonged to Aegon. The Stormlanders under House Swann had chosen to retreat behind their walls rather than fight him head-on. It was a sweet victory.
The wounded were dragged to the maesters, and the dead lay in heaps for the silent sisters. Fires burned to the west, casting the river in an orange glow. Stonehelm's gates remained shut, but now the keep was isolated and surrounded.
Oberyn rode back into camp at twilight, spattered in gore, his red scarf gone and his hair soaked with sweat and blood. He slid off his horse and grinned at Aegon.
"Those rascals broke as soon as we engaged."
"Did you get the bastard?" Jon Connington asked.
"No. That man is a slippery one. I'll get him the next time." Oberyn growled.
Aegon stepped to the edge of the riverbank and stared at the looming silhouette of the castle. Torches flickered on the battlements, where Stormlander sentries still kept watch.
"We'll need to take the castle soon before other Stormland houses gather their strength against us." said Aegon.
"There is no need to worry, your grace. The Stormalnd houses will soon find themselves facing a far bigger threat." said Jon Connington with a knowing smile.
AN:
To read ahead of the update schedule; pat(r) eon. C (O) M/Dragonspectre.
For artwork related to the fic:
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