ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Before the actual text, I wanted to say a few words. First, I didn't like this chapter; personally, I think it's the worst one so far. Those who read the note I posted in the supplementary chapter will notice some repetition of information. You might say, "But wait, you handsome, great-smelling, charming author—didn't you say you couldn't fit that info into the main text? Now you're contradicting yourself." And my answer is: yes, I am contradicting myself; being a hypocrite is my divine right as a human being. The truth is, I don't want to force anyone to read a supplementary chapter just to understand parts of the story, so I'm going to find a way to work that info into the text itself. As for how the runes work, you'll have to wait for the Rhaenys POV chapter, where I plan to explain a bit about them. Anyway, enjoy the chapter. Oh, one more thing—it's kind of obvious, but always worth remembering: each chapter reflects someone's specific point of view. So, keep in mind that the narrator might be unreliable—whether due to a lack of complete information or simply because they're contradicting themselves. Alright, now—happy reading.
Chapter 15: The Absolute End of Pyke
POV:King Arawyn Stark (289 AC)
It is curious how a man's reputation can be distorted as it crosses the Narrow Sea. According to discrete reports from my spies in Essos, the Free Cities and warm-land mercenaries call me "The Bloodthirsty." They paint the picture of a Northern monarch who delights in the clash of swords, a runic barbarian bathing in the blood of his enemies. The truth, however, is far less poetic and considerably more pragmatic: I loathe war. Anyone with a shred of sanity and functional intelligence understands that armed conflict is a monumentally futile effort, a flagrant waste of energy, material resources, and valuable workforce. Unfortunately, in this brutal and underdeveloped world where I was forced to be reborn, violence is the only language fools truly comprehend.
My coming to Seagard was not out of any sense of loyalty to the southern king, but rather out of a purely personal inclination: I simply liked House Mallister. They were serious men, focused on defending their coasts, and they maintained a dignified respect for the traditions of the true North. What the Ironborn called "The Siege of Seagard" was, in reality, nothing more than a bad joke. There was no battle of swords, no heroic clash of shields, or infantry fatigue. When our runic ships—whose hulls were magically fortified against impacts and fire arrows by object runes, which became completely invisible after the enchantment—appeared on the coast, I ordered the runic cannon batteries to be turned from the sea toward the mainland. We aimed directly at the siege lines where the invaders crowded.
A single massive volley of exploding black stones and icy steel shrapnel was enough to completely obliterate the enemy army. The destructive power of these runic weapons proved to be even more terrifying on solid ground than on the open sea; the shockwave and bluish fire pulverized the makeshift defenses of the Ironborn, turning their armor into fragments that pierced their own wearers. Yet another squid had descended into the dark grave, though, unfortunately, I had no way of identifying the commander of that siege. After the Northern artillery finished its work, absolutely nothing was left but dust, charred flesh, and twisted iron. I ordered the preparation of our fleet to sail immediately to meet the Southern army.
When our flagship docked at the imposing piers beneath the colossal shadow of Casterly Rock, the official reception party already awaited us with all the pomp and circumstance that Western gold could buy. At the head of the reception committee stood Tywin Lannister, with his erect posture and slit-like eyes that calculated the worth of every man, and Jaime Lannister, who wore his usual arrogant smirk while resting his hand on the pommel of his golden sword. Alongside them, the leadership of House Baratheon made itself loudly present through Robert and his younger brother, Renly. And beside Robert stood his queen, Catelyn Baratheon.
However, what truly captured the attention and the uncomfortable silence of everyone present on the pier was the figure of my uncle, Eddard Stark. As he descended the ship's ramp, the Silent Wolf wore more than just his heavy Northern furs; upon his head gleamed a personal crown of dark bronze and iron, incrusted with discrete runes that pulsed with a gentle warmth.
That was an absolute declaration of power, and the reason he was wearing it was purely geopolitical. As a staunch supremacist of the Northern people and, most of all, of my own lineage, I considered Stark blood superior to any Andal or Southern dynasty. To me, the Starks were not just ordinary feudal lords; we were the legitimate royalty of Winter. For this reason, I established the right and custom for all blood members of our family to possess their own personal crowns. On Northern soil, they could choose simplicity and not wear them in their daily lives—except for Cersei, who constantly flaunted hers in Moat Cailin out of pure pride and vanity. But there, stepping into the domains of the Iron Throne and before the Lion of the West, Ned's use of the crown was mandatory. It was a visual warning that the North did not bow, did not mix, and demanded to be treated as a sovereign equal, if not superior.
Robert Baratheon, breaking every protocol, took two wide strides forward and pulled me into a tight, violent hug, laughing loudly as if we were old drinking buddies. The gesture was so absurd that I had to exert rigid control over my reflexes to avoid snapping the man's spine right then and there. The banquet offered that night was exactly what I expected from a reception with the Lannister seal of quality: plenty of unnecessary luxury and exotic dishes that seemed designed more to flaunt wealth than to sate the hunger of warriors.
The official pretext for such nightly extravagance was, obviously, to celebrate the healthy birth of Cersei and Ned's new son, news of whose successful delivery had arrived via raven just hours before the dinner began. The word spread through the halls: a strong child, with the prominent features of the North. The Rebellion had been a moment of extreme tension for the Northern people, who saw their sacred lineage almost face extinction, leaving only Benjen in Winterfell while Ned and I were away at war. When we all returned alive, the relief was immense, but the family was still small. Cersei, with her monumental pride, completely changed that scenario. She had brought seven healthy, strong, and magical children into the world. By guaranteeing the future and the robustness of the Stark lineage with such a numerous offspring, she had won the sincere affection and deep gratitude of the people of the North. Furthermore, since the protagonist's grandmother had already died and Winterfell lacked a true matriarch, Cersei filled that role masterfully, effectively governing the female court and acting as the leader of the women of House Stark, which inflated her ego even more.
The forced rest in the luxury of the Rock lasted only a few days. The Northern fleet moved for the final act of that farce. Currently, I stood on the prow of the Northern flotilla's flagship, a colossal vessel of dark wood that the sailors had named, to my absolute chagrin, *The Wild Wolf*. The name had been a direct choice of the White Harbor council to honor my late father, Brandon Stark. From my point of view, it was a terrible name entirely devoid of creativity, but perhaps that was just my resentful self speaking through my judgment; after all, I harbored a deep resentment for the foolish, impulsive way he had acted in the past, triggering tragedies that required immense energy from my part to fix.
Looking ahead through the salty mist of the ocean, the rocky silhouette of the island of Harlaw began to sketch itself on the horizon. My plans for amusement were completely ruined when I spotted, through my spyglass, a small, wretched fishing boat of rotting wood slowly coming our way, flying a white flag of unconditional surrender. I ordered the sailors to halt the runic flow moving the ship. The man who climbed the boarding rope was thin, dressed in dark linen clothes, and carried the spark of erudition in his eyes. It was Rodrik Harlaw, known pejoratively by his barbarian peers as "The Reader."
— You are going completely off-script, Lord Harlaw — I declared, my voice cutting through the deck's silence like a blade of ice as I stared down at him from my height of over two meters. — You were supposed to act like the typical brainless noble of the Iron Islands. You were supposed to defy me on the beach and give me a real reason to test my artillery on your towers. Now, because of you, I have absolutely nothing to attack.
The Lord of Harlaw let out a nervous chuckle, while his teeth chattered visibly from the overwhelming fear my presence provoked. This dread, however, was his greatest edge over his cultural peers; Rodrik Harlaw was smart enough to feel fear before runic fire rained from the heavens.
— King of the North — Rodrik said, bending his body in a deep bow. — The strength of your armies and the devastation of your weapons became legends before you even touched our shores. I have not the slightest intention of letting my men and the smallfolk of my island die in a stupid war engineered by Pyke's madness. I tried to put a shred of sense and sanity into Balon Greyjoy's head, but I failed miserably.
I crossed my arms, observing the man with disdain mixed with a slight edge of respect for his pragmatic survival instincts.
— Well, Balon Greyjoy is clearly not the smartest man on the continent — I commented. — But it is refreshing to realize that at least one man born on these wretched rocks is not a complete fool guided by blind pride. Now, with your peaceful surrender, I have no choice but to head straight for Pyke. There, at least, I have the absolute guarantee that Balon will not surrender.
Upon hearing the mention of House Greyjoy's primary castle, Rodrik Harlaw collapsed to his knees on the wooden deck, extending his hands in a gesture of desperate supplication.
— Your Grace, I beg of you... if you are to march against Pyke to deliver your justice, I ask only that you show mercy to my sister, Alannys, and the younger children residing in that castle of black stones. They had no voice in Balon's decisions!
I looked down at him, my eyes narrowing.
— House Greyjoy committed a direct affront against the sovereignty of my independent North — I replied coldly. — The directive of the Winter Throne is clear: the Greyjoy lineage will vanish from the face of the earth. There will be no survivors to carry that filthy sigil.
I could feel Rodrik Harlaw's mind working at feverish speed through my auric perception; he was desperately searching for a technical loophole, a semantic exit in the laws of diplomacy to save what remained of his blood family.
— My sister Alannys is not a Greyjoy by blood, Your Grace! — exclaimed the Reader, his voice trembling with urgency. — She was born a Harlaw, and the blood running through her veins belongs to my house, which today surrenders unconditionally to your power! And as for little Asha... she is but a girl of nine years. When she grows up and marries whichever lord Your Grace determines, she will lose the Greyjoy name forever, merging into her husband's lineage. Technically, the Greyjoy line would still be officially extinct!
I let out a loud, genuine laugh, a roar that echoed across the deck of *The Wild Wolf*, startling the sailors. The intellectual audacity of that man to try and save his sister and niece using linguistic technicalities was almost admirable.
— Very well, Lord Harlaw... I appreciate men who know how to use their heads to negotiate their own survival — I said, ceasing my laughter and adopting a calculating expression. — Let us do this, then.
I extended my hand to the side, catching a pre-drafted parchment that seemed to float out of thin air. Rodrik Harlaw gave a start of pure fright, jerking his body back as he realized that, beside my shoulder, a slender and pale figure had materialized out of absolute nothingness. It was Lord Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort.
The Bolton had been there the entire time, but no one on the deck—not even the perceptive Reader—had noticed his presence until he chose to move. That was the direct result of the Personal Runes of Stealth and Indifference he had carved directly into his own skin. Unlike runes engraved on objects or armor, personal runes required being scarred and tattooed directly into the user's flesh. Since the human body possessed a strict, biological limit to enduring these mystical markings without collapsing, the fact that Roose Bolton chose to spend his precious dermal capacity on social invisibility and stealth, rather than runes of physical strength or defensive protection, was something deeply bizarre and sinister. He forfeited bodily defenses to become an imperceptible ghost to others' eyes. That mystique of indifference blended perfectly with his temperament.
— Thank you, Lord Bolton — I said, taking the parchment and extending it toward the Lord of Harlaw. — Here is a contract of total submission, Lord Rodrik. If you sign this document now, binding your island and your resources to the economic authority of the North, I will allow my men to extract your sister and your niece from the castle of Pyke before the final judgment begins. They will live under your custody in Harlaw, stripped of titles or political rights.
Without thinking twice, and knowing that this was the only opportunity to save his family from complete annihilation, Rodrik Harlaw drew a dagger, made a quick cut across the palm of his hand, and stamped the parchment with his own blood, signing the document immediately afterward with the quill Roose extended to him.
The final voyage to the waters surrounding the island of Pyke was swift. I was summoned to the gigantic command tent erected in the heart of the allied siege camp for the definitive war council. I turned to Lord Bolton before entering the tent.
— You know exactly what your mission is, my lord — I told Roose, whose pale, lifeless eyes maintained their usual fixation. — Go to the castle of Pyke via the rear cliffs, infiltrate the royal quarters, and bring Balon's wife and the girl Asha to our ship. After all, we have a contractual promise to keep.
Roose Bolton merely gave a millimeter bow of his body and, in the blink of an eye, vanished completely from anyone's sight. The personal stealth inscriptions on his skin had been activated with full force. To me, who kept my magical vision active, I could still see Roose's physical silhouette walking calmly toward the shadows; he was visible in physical space, but the southern guards' brains simply refused to register his presence.
The war council meeting inside the royal tent was, to say the least, an absolute chaos completely devoid of real strategic sense. Every Southern lord who had brought more than ten men to the campaign seemed to judge himself by divine right to shout his own opinion, even if their plans were tactically imbecilic and based purely on feudal vanity. After nearly an hour of sterile discussions about who would have the honor of breaking the main gates, silence finally began to settle over the map table. The lords of the South seemed to have exhausted their selfish ideas and, one by one, their gazes began to turn toward the corner of the tent where the King of the North sat, watching that whole farce in absolute silence. Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, cleared his throat loudly to break the tension.
— King Arawyn — the old Arryn called out. — You have remained silent throughout the planning. Do you happen to have a specific plan laid out by Northern engineering?
I set the silver goblet on the table with a sharp thud, causing all the Southern lords to straighten in their chairs.
— In fact, yes, Lord Hand — I replied, my voice echoing low but with an intensity that filled the entire tent. — The Greyjoys committed the brilliant folly of directing part of their fleet to attack my North. And the Winter Throne has a zero-tolerance policy regarding boundary violations. Now, I have a debt of blood and ice to collect.
I leaned forward, allowing the magical energy circulating in my veins to leak minimally to the surface. In the same instant, the pupils of my eyes began to dilate and transform into a milky, completely white mist—the visual hallmark of my active mental connection to the animal spy network surrounding the island. Due to my mythological gift, my skin-changing was transcendental, allowing me to watch all of Westeros and keep fragments of my consciousness in multiple animals simultaneously.
The sight of that instantaneous mystical transformation caused several Southern lords, horrified by the demonstration of what they considered sorcery, to abruptly pull their chairs back, tracing the sign of the seven-pointed star on their chests to ward off what they deemed heresy. I merely ignored their ignorance.
— I am not going to waste the life of a single Northern soldier scaling those cursed stones — I continued, keeping my blank white eyes fixed in the general direction of Pyke's castle.
— I was merely waiting for the last of the Greyjoy warriors to return from their defeated raids and join the rest of their family inside the main fortress. And from what I have just seen through the eyes of my birds... the last squid has just entered the cage. The war council is adjourned, gentlemen. I recommend you order all your vessels to pull back their positions to a safe distance from Pyke's coast before dawn. I want no Southern ships in my way when sunrise comes.
The night preceding the final dawn was cold and silent. When I returned to the royal cabin of *The Wild Wolf*, I found Roose Bolton's mission accomplished with his usual efficiency. Sitting and firmly bound in a dark corner of my quarters were the two hostages whom Harlaw's contract had spared: Alannys Greyjoy, whose face displayed the paleness of shock, and little Asha Greyjoy, keeping a fierce and defiant glare locked onto me. I ignored their presence and walked to the stern window, watching the first rays of a pale sun begin to tear through the horizon line.
I would not lie to myself: I was genuinely excited. Since I had been reborn into this world and completed my runic development, this would be the first time I completely unshackled myself from the constraints of restraint. It would be the first time I tested the true limit of my large-scale elemental magical channeling capacity. I went down to the beach alone. I stood there, my boots sunk into the salty mud, and cast my eyes up toward the colossal fortress towering over the rocks separated by the ocean chasms. I brushed all trivial thoughts from my mind and closed my eyes, concentrating on the core of power residing at the center of my soul.
I took a deep breath and, in that same instant, the dozens of skin macro-runes I had tattooed directly into the flesh of my own body over the years began to ignite. They burst with a gélid, white luminosity of such intensity that it tore through the fabric of my garments, glowing through the leather of my armor like constellations of dying stars. Inspired by the Norse gods, these dermal runes were vital; my magic was always exceeding and brutal, and without this internal mystical armor acting as a conductor and dissipator of energy, the mythological power itself would burst the vessels and tear the tissues of my eighteen-year-old physical body.
I felt the temperature around me plummet hundreds of degrees in a fraction of a second; the seawater touching my boots froze instantly within a ten-meter radius, turning the mud to solid stone.
— Let us see... — I whispered, opening my eyes, which now emanated an incandescent white light devoid of humanity. — Let us see what my current limit is truly capable of.
With a slow, continuous, and majestic movement, I raised both hands toward the castle of Pyke. And I struck.
What happened next was no ordinary blizzard or snowstorm; it was the physical manifestation of absolute zero, a conceptual wave of extreme cold and instant freezing that surged forth from the beach with a speed that defied any law of physics or thermodynamics. Before any defender on the walls could even process what was happening or sound an alarm, the wave of invisible cold struck the base of the rocky cliffs. The sea crashing between the rock fissures froze instantly mid-motion, turning the churning waves into static columns of crystalline, sharp ice.
The wave climbed the black stone of Pyke like an invisible, relentless plague. Wherever the cold passed, reality was altered in a matter of milliseconds. The great oak gates exploded into frozen fragments due to the violent contraction of the fibers; the black granite walls were coated in a thick layer of runic frost that penetrated the structure's crevices, freezing the internal moisture and causing the stones to crack with snapping sounds that boomed like cannon fire.
And the men... the Ironborn did not even have the right to bleed or fight. The warriors standing on the walls, hoisting their axes mid-idiotic celebration, turned into perfect ice statues the exact instant the wave touched them. The cold froze the blood in their veins, the air in their lungs, and the very expression of shock on their faces before their brains could register the pain.
The wave swept into the interior of the halls and suspended towers. Balon Greyjoy, his surviving brothers, and every man carrying that surname inside the great hall were engulfed by Winter's embrace once and for all. In less than thirty seconds, what was once a fortress of glorified, rowdy pirates was transformed into a silent mausoleum, a monumental graveyard made entirely of cracked stone, runic ice, and statues of frozen flesh that would shatter into pieces at the slightest touch. House Greyjoy had been completely wiped from the face of Westeros.
The moment the magical channeling ceased, the glow of the runes on my body evaporated, and gravity and accumulated exhaustion claimed their toll violently. My body staggered heavily forward, and my knees buckled for a moment, threatening to send me collapsing onto the frozen beach. However, exerting an effort of pure willpower and royal pride, I planted my boots firmly on the ground and kept myself upright, refusing to fall before that display. I felt a warm dampness trickle down my face; I brought my fingers to my face and realized I was bleeding profusely from my eyes and nose—the inevitable result of the internal pressure that the massive flow of elemental magical energy had caused in my biological capillaries.
"I consider this a minimal price for the outcome," I thought, wiping away the blood with the back of my hand, feeling muscle weakness begin to set in. "Nothing a few days of absolute rest in my quarters at Moat Cailin and a healthy amount of runic mead won't fix perfectly."
I walked with slow but steady steps back to my skiff, pushing it off the ice shelf and rowing toward The Wild Wolf. I climbed the boarding rope with the erect posture of a conqueror and, as soon as I stepped onto the deck of my ship, turned to the ship's captain.
— Give the orders to set sail immediately — I commanded, my voice coming out a bit hoarser than usual due to the exertion, but maintaining its usual imperial authority. — We are heading back to the mainland. We have nothing left to do on these cursed rocks.
As the wooden ship turned its runic hull toward the lands of the North, I remained standing at the stern, watching the now-white, frozen silhouette of Pyke begin to shrink in the distance. I did not need to look back to know what was happening within the Southern fleets watching us from afar; through the eyes of my eagles and the magical perception still echoing in the air, I could feel the absolute dread, the visceral terror, and the mental paralysis that had gripped the eyes of every Southern lord—from Robert Baratheon to Tywin Lannister. They had spent weeks planning a bloody siege, counting men, swords, and horses, only to watch a youth walk alone down to a beach and erase one of the Great Houses of Westeros in less than a minute with the raising of his hands. The world now knew exactly what would happen should they choose to test the temper of the Winter Throne.