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KoW - Chapter 36
🕑 Added 2025-01-23 17:39:14 +0000 UTCTheon Greyjoy
Smoldering ruins stretch across the land, with broken beams and scorched thatch scattered in every direction. The air carries the acrid scent of ash and despair, mingling with faint cries and an eerie, oppressive silence. Stripped of livestock, crops, and hope, the place feels like a ghostly remnant of life, abandoned to the ravages of time and cruelty.
A man dragged a comely woman through her hair.
“Found a pretty one!” He laughs. “I’d let ya have a pass after I’m done, milord!”
Theon simply stared blankly at the man’s eyes, taking no heed of his words.
The man awkwardly stills for a moment, before hesitantly skulking away.
Theon felt a slight sense of disgust at their actions, this was the fifth village they raided since their arrival in Fair Isle, and his experience with the Northern army had him used to… other standards of warfare.
Fair Isle is an island in the Sunset Sea, separated from the rest of the Westerlands by the Straits of Fair Isle. The island is controlled by House Farman, whose seat Faircastle sits on it.
It is also an island of great strategic value, if the Ironborn manage to hold the Isle and its castle -creatively dubbed as Faircastle- they’d have a reliable stronghold capable of holding their longships and men close to the mainland, its quality as an island makes it more advantageous than other targets like the Banefort or the Crag, as his father’s reavers are terribly unused to fighting battles at land.
An island is familiar territory, as it allows them to intercept any attacking army at sea.
The issue is that these weren’t new concepts, the rivalry between the Westerlands and the Iron Islands is the oldest example of cultural enmity in Westeros.
The two kingdoms spilled each other’s blood dating all the way back to the days of the Casterlys and the Grey King, this meant that the nature of their conflict has been deeply explored throughout the generations, most strategies, tactics, tricks and schemes have been used once before.
When the Ironborn held the element of surprise, they tended to win. Until the other kingdoms would interfere, or the Westerlands would simply strike back and chase them away.
Conversely, when the Ironborn’s attacks are predicted, they tend to usually lose pretty handily, provided the Westerlands were at full strength.
In terms of advantage, this particular iteration of the conflict is somewhat balanced, the Ironborn do not have the element of surprise, yet the Westerlands forces are depleted, more than two third had marched with Tywin to the Riverlands, whilst the rest got decimated by Robb’s ambush at Oxcross.
To that end, by order from his father, the Iron Fleet was separated into three, the majority of the ships would fall under his uncle Victarion’s hold, besieging Lannisport with goal of taking the city, the rest would be split in twain, one half under their respective captains, would scatter as they wish across the Western shore and raid as they wish, sowing chaos and fear to their utmost.
The last batch, falling under his sister’s command, were ordered to take Fair Isle.
Theon and his Sea Bitch would command eight longships of his sister’s twenty. His father would prove his disdain for him when he shackles him with a man he knows well, Dagmer Cleftjaw and his ship, Foamdrinker.
Dagmer was the man who taught him how to sail, swing a sword, and ride a horse. He’d saw him as a child more than he did his mother and father combined.
And as he saw his hideously scarred mouth smile toward him, Theon couldn’t help but reminisce about days when that same ugly mug would so the same, praising him for a job well done.
And as things tend to be lately, those feelings died as soon as the surfaced.
“Uncle.” Theon’s sleepy gaze greeted the older man. “How many villages left?”
While Asha blockaded the island’s port, stewing on her ship thinking of a way to capture the castle, Theon used his experience at Robb’s side to good use.
Robb had used Brynden Tully and his riders extensively during their ride toward Riverrun, the Blackfish was the preeminent authority on scouting and guerrilla warfare, as it is his usage of these strategies against the Golden Company during the war of the Ninepenny kings that brought his name such notoriety.
With his expertise, enemy scouts and spies were located days before they could glimpse their horses and either evaded, captured, or killed, allowing for them to reach Riverrun undetected and lay a trap for the Kingslayer.
The same tactic -as in keeping the enemy’s knowledge of one’s whereabouts secret- was Robb’s mainstay during what few battles they had, from the battle of the Whispering Woods to the Massacre at Oxcross, so Theon sought to do the same.
The issue was that he had no Brynden Tully at his side, no element of surprise, nor skilled outriders that could run circles around the enemy scouts. But the Farman’s also suffered from a lack of skilled subordinates, most of their veteran soldiers either with the Old Lion or Lannisport, leaving them with a barebones garrison.
Not only that, but the Lord of the Faircastle didn’t think to evacuate most villages, only those close to his fortress.
Using them as both an enticing target for his disobeying men and a reasonable motive for whoever holed up in the caste, so as not to spook them, he and his rebellious rabble went from village to another, raiding their way across the Isle, moving in such a way that targeted the settlements closest to Faircastle first, leaving it more and more isolated.
“Not many.” Dagmer’s voice was gentler than one would expect, carrying with it a jovial touch. “Some to the western shore, but they’re small and scattered. What do you think should be our next step?”
A frown made its way to Theon’s face, the way was spoken with a guiding tone, as if Dagmer was truly the one in charge and simply asking for Theon’s view.
“We’ll split in two.” He orders. “And move discreetly through the trees, we shall meet some miles off Faircastle, with their men holed up inside, it should be easy to stay out of sight. Do you have some way to discreetly contact Asha?”
“I can come up with something.”
Now that they have taken the element of surprise back, it’s time for the Ironborn to do what they do best.
Be annoying little shits.
--*
Theon's breath came in measured, deliberate intervals as he crouched behind the shadowed rocks near Faircastle’s western gate. The pale glow of the moon bathed the castle’s walls in an eerie, silver light, and the sound of the crashing waves below blended with the faint clink of ironborn steel. His bow felt firm in his hands, an extension of himself honed through years of practice. As always, he stayed at the rear, observing his men with detached calm.
“Hold,” Theon whispered, his voice low and steady, carrying enough weight to quiet the eager shuffle of boots behind him. Patience was a quality the old him found distasteful, too eager for glory and an infantile desire to prove himself.
Not that the new him was better, he just couldn’t push himself to care.
The attack had been planned quite well. Dagmer’s party scaled the walls from the eastern side, slipping over the battlements like shadows, while Asha led her larger force in a bold assault on the heavily fortified port.
It was a feint to draw the defenders to the docks, leaving the western gate vulnerable.
Theon’s role was to strike the balance—to exploit the moment of weakness and flank the distracted guards.
He just hoped Dagmer is able to inform Asha without being detect, and even a clever plan rarely survived the chaos of battle.
The soft whistle of a bird call—Dagmer’s signal—pierced the night. Theon raised his hand, signaling his men to advance. They moved silently, boots crunching on loose gravel as they approached the gate. But the defenders were alert. Arrows rained down from the battlements, and the clash of steel soon echoed across the courtyard.
Theon loosed an arrow, the string of his bow thrumming against his fingertips. His shot struck true, taking an archer on the wall square in the throat. He reached for another arrow, nocking and loosing it in one fluid motion. As he picked his targets.
One of his men foolishly got his throat impaled by an enemy arrow, distastefully dirtying Theon with his blood.
But Theon didn’t care for scum.
“Press on!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the din. The ironborn surged forward, battering the gate’s defenders with their axes and shields.
The fight was harder than expected, and Theon felt the familiar weight of doubt creeping into his thoughts.
But after a grueling push, the gate fell. The ironborn spilled into the castle’s narrow corridors, their shouts mingling with the cries of dying men. Theon moved cautiously, his eyes scanning every shadow for hidden threats.
By the time they reached the port, Asha’s forces were locked in brutal combat. The defenders had rallied there, forming a stubborn line that held firm against the ironborn advance.
He could see her at the front, it is strange to see his sister fight as a man should, but she seemed to do well enough. She took advantage of her lithe form quite well, taking advantage of enemy openings and only striking when sure of her success.
At least she kept herself from getting too close to those enemy pikes.
Theon and his men emerged from the castle’s inner passages, their sudden arrival throwing the defenders into disarray. With a fierce cry, the ironborn drove into the enemy’s exposed flank, their axes swinging mercilessly. Asha’s mocking laughter cut through the chaos. “About time, little brother!” she shouted, her voice sharp and sardonic.
By the time the battle had ended, Theon had run out of arrows and had to fight with his axe.
But Faircastle was theirs, the castle soon finding itself ravaged by the berserk reavers. Fires burned in the courtyard, the light flickering over the faces of men and women as they drank, plundered, and made their triumph known.
--*
Theon lingered on the edge of the celebration; his face unreadable. He watched as his people reveled in their cruelty, their laughter mingling with the cries of the vanquished.
His stomach churned. It wasn’t the violence itself that unsettled him—he had grown up among the ironborn, after all—but the sheer emptiness of it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong.
Winterfell rose unbidden in his mind’s eye. He saw Ned Stark, his stern face etched with quiet strength, and heard his measured words. The lessons of honor and restraint—things Theon had scoffed at in his youth—resurfaced now with uncomfortable clarity. Had he absorbed more of Ned’s teachings than he had realized? He felt a pang of guilt at the thought.
Unable to stomach the revelry, Theon slipped away, climbing the stone steps to the top of the castle walls. He sat with his legs dangling over the edge, his bow resting across his lap. The sea stretched endlessly before him, the dark waves shimmering under the faint light of the stars. The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson.
The sight took him back to the moment he had nearly drowned. He remembered the icy grip of the water, the panic giving way to a strange, serene surrender as he lost the fight against his uncle’s grip.
Looking at the sunrise now, he felt a similar peace. The sea and sky seemed to blur together, their vastness offering a fleeting comfort.
For the first time since the Drowning, Theon felt a faint smile tug at his lips. It was a small, bittersweet thing, barely there. The sunrise marked the end of the night and the beginning of something new.
What that something might be, he couldn’t say.
Comments
Dark B3rry
Thank you for the chapter!
