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POV: Harl Knifelick
Location: Northern Coast, Near Cape Kraken
The sea was steel-grey and snarling, but Harl Knifelick grinned into the wind as if it sang a song only he could hear.
"Row slower," he hissed to the oarsmen. "You want the Old North to hear us coming?"
Six longships had landed under cover of nightfall three days past. Their prows bore no heraldry, their sails black as drowned skin. Orders had been clear—no signal fires, no looting yet. Only eyes. Only maps. Only silence.
Behind Harl, three other reavers trudged up the icy slope, axes strapped tight, furs wrapped close. Even for Ironborn, this land was cursed cold.
"The locals?" asked Garr Saltshoulder, spitting into the snow.
"Few and far. Fewer still that live long," Harl muttered. "Old farms. Scattered cabins. Perfect."
He knelt near a trail—fresh prints, maybe a hunter or a woodsman. They'd marked two abandoned villages already. Another dozen likely slept unaware beyond the treeline.
"Next two days, we send the word back," Harl said. "Dagon's to follow with a hundred reavers and more. He wants blood. He'll have it."
Garr laughed, low and eager. "Northmen like their bones cold. Let's crack them."
POV: Wyl Greyjoy
Location: Offshore, Blacktide Scout Ship
Wyl leaned over the edge of the prow, letting the mist coat his face. The water here felt wrong. Not dangerous—but watchful.
His captain, Dagon Greyjoy, had given the order: We do not strike the heart. We bleed the limbs first.
It was a clever plan. Hit the outer coastlines. Slaughter the villages. Make the North stretch its forces. By the time they guessed the scale of the raid, the real army would already be ashore.
Wyl scratched the edge of his beard. "What if the wolves bite back?"
His mate laughed. "Then we drown 'em."
Wyl didn't laugh. Something gnawed at him. Not fear—something else. As if something inland was… stirring. Watching.
He didn't like it.
POV: Farmer Gred
Location: Near Wolfswater Mouth
They came just before dawn.
No horns. No warning. Only fire and screaming.
Gred had woken to the smell of smoke and the sound of dogs howling. When he opened his door, a man with wet black armor cleaved it open.
By the time Gred staggered out of the barn, half the village was already burning. Women screamed. Children ran. Men fell.
The Ironborn didn't take prisoners. Only salt wives. Only plunder. And flame.
He fled toward the trees, barefoot and bleeding, leaving his home behind.
Winter had returned to the North.
But not the one the Starks ruled.