Westerlands
The sun rose blood-red.
The banners of House Lannister rippled crimson and gold above a sea of steel, while across the field, the green of House Baratheon shimmered like dew on grass. War had come to the Westerlands.
Renly had brought thirty-five thousand men—knights, footmen, columns of archers and pikemen. He had left the rest behind under Lord Rowan's command at Bitterbridge, to guard the roads, to hold the line near King's Landing.
Speed had mattered more than numbers. He had to catch Jaime before he entered Reach.
Jaime had thirty thousand men—his knights, footmen, pikemen, and sellswords sent by his father. He had left the Golden Tooth the day after his father's letter reached him, moving south fast, without rest. He hadn't intended this battle.
Now here he was. Steels were drawn. He was forced to fight a battle he hadn't asked for.
But that never meant he would let the Reachmen destroy the Westerlands with impunity.
The horns sounded.
First came the cavalry. Renly's left flank, led by Ser Loras Tyrell, charged in a sweeping arc to break the Lannister right. Knights roared their house cries. The thunder of hooves was deafening.
Jaime's pikemen met them like a wall of thorns.
The clash was complete chaos. Horses were screaming. Men thrown from their saddles, and crushed beneath the weight of their horses, or from horses from behind. The green grass had turned red and brown with blood, gore and mud.
Across the field, Lord Randyll Tarly commanded the center. His infantry moved like a blade—shields locked tight, behind them were archers who were loosing arrows on Lannister men. Every volley was killing some. Gaps in the Lannister lines were forming.
Jaime was filled with battlelust.
He rode a black destrier. Where his line faltered, he was there. Where his men buckled, he steadied them. He fought like a demon that day.
He cut down a knight with a vicious upswing. Parried a blow from a mace with half a turn of his wrist, then disemboweled his attacker with the follow through. Blood slicked his golden armor. His left pauldron was pierced with an arrow, but he ingnored it. He had killed dozens and dozens—some were lords, some were heirs, some were squires.
Jaime Lannister was bathing in Reachmen blood. The only moment he paused was to shout:
"Renly! Face me. Let the two of us settle this."
But Renly did not rise.
Instead, Jaime wheeled his cavalry around, a tight reserve of knights and sellswords, and cut straight through the center like a spearpoint. They smashed through green and gold. Jaime's longsword never stopped moving.
A mace cracked the backplate of his armor. He turned and rammed his sword through the man's throat. Another came at him from the side, and Jaime ducked under the blow, cleaving into his gut with a savage twist.
He was relentless.
"RENLY!" he shouted again.
Jaime's charge burst through the last line and trampled the edge of Renly's command tents. The green silk banners tore in the wind. Horses reared. Steel met steel.
Renly stood ready.
His sword was drawn. Three of his kingsguard were around him. Jaime's own men clashed with them as the chaos reached its peak.
And then Jaime stepped forward, covered in gore, golden hair matted with blood and sweat. His sword lowered for a moment.
"King," he said with a smirk, "shall we?"
Renly hesitated. He knew he was no match for Jamie. Renly knew he wasn't Robert. And he could see in Jaime's eyes that Jaime knew it too.
But he stepped forward anyway. He had no other choice.
Their swords met—once, twice, again. Renly was trained, but Jaime was on another level. Fast. Precise. Effortless. Jaime showed why he was called one of the best swordsman. He pressed Renly back blow after blow, until one strike split the clasp on the younger Baratheon's armor and drove him to one knee.
Jaime raised his sword for the killing blow.
And that was when it happened.
Clang.
Pain exploded through the back of Jaime's skull. His world tilted. He stumbled, blinked, staggered.
Another blow slammed into his ribs, forcing him to his knees.
He looked up, dazed.
Lord Randyll Tarly stood above him. "Not today, Kingslayer."
Jaime spat blood at his boots. "Coward."
Randyll didn't answer. He raised the hilt of his weapon and brought it down on Jaime's face.
The field was ruin.
Men cried out for mothers, for mercy, for the Stranger. The banners of House Lannister were falling one by one. Jamie's forces were broken and scattered.
And Jaime was chained.
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Jaime was brought before Renly by nightfall, bound, bruised, lip split wide.
"You've lost, Kingslayer" Renly said, voice low.
Jaime laughed, even with the blood in his mouth. "We'll see about that, boy. You have just won one battle. Westerlands has not fallen yet. My father still sits in Harrenhall. This war isn't over."
Renly's smile faded. "Then we'll see what the old lion will do when I will drag his son through the streets in chains."
He turned to Tarly. "Take him to Bitterbridge. Put him in a cell. Feed him enough to survive and nothing more. I want him alive when we march on Kingslanding."
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Riverlands
The fields west of Harrenhal were dry and brittle, the soil cracked from sun and ash. Smoke from pillaged towns still hung faintly in the air. Beneath Tywin Lannister's banner of gold and crimson, thirty-five thousand men stood in silence, the ranks held tight, the sellswords were positioned on the flanks. Across the field, the banners of House Tully and the Vale shimmered in the wind.
The Riverlords had come, battered—eighteen thousand survivors of countless skirmishes and burnt holdings. And with them, twenty two thousand men from the Vale, the remnants that had survived their humiliating defeats in the mountain passes. The clansmen had bled them.
Tywin had chosen this battlefield with care. High ground to his rear. Marsh to the enemy's right. Woods to their left—where his archers were already waiting.
He sat atop his black courser. Beside him, Kevan Lannister gave a final nod. Ser Addam Marbrand readied the cavalry, and the hooded men grumbled, itching for blood.
"The Blackfish is leading their left," Kevan said. "And Lord Yohn Royce is commanding the Vale center. If we break them fast enough—"
"I don't want it fast," Tywin cut in. "Our objective is to kill or capture Blackfish. Royce, too, if possible. Then we will let the rest crumble. It will give us time to deal with others. Later on we will deal the killing blow. Right now we don't have the numbers"
The horn blew.
The Lannister left surged forward first—sellswords under Ser Forley Prester meeting the Riverlords' right, where Lords Piper and Vance held command. Steel rang against steel. The lines buckled, but neither side broke.
The real hammer came on the right.
Ser Addam Marbrand led six thousand heavy cavalry in a sweeping arc. The Vale men barely had time to form a line. Whatever pikemen they had left with, tried, but the charge was too swift, and too hard. The first Vale banner went down. Then the couple more fell.
In the center, the Lannister spearmen held fast. They didn't press, only held back. It gave the illusion of balance. But Tywin was baiting the enemy.
And Brynden Tully took it.
The Blackfish rode hard down the Vale flank, trying to turn the tide, trying to stabilize the chaos left in Marbrand's wake. He was brilliant, and fast, but he had exposed himself. Tywin had been waiting.
"Send in the hooded men," he said.
From the woods they poured, like hounds loosed from chains. Screaming and swinging, they crashed into the Riverlords' flank. Arrows fell in sheets. Then chaos exploded.
Tywin gave the next order calmly. "Forward."
His center moved. Infantry advanced in tight formation, shields locked. The Vale line faltered. Arrows from hidden longbowmen ripped into their rear. Lord Belmore fell. Ser Donnel Waynwood tried to rally men, only to take a spear to the throat.
And then, it happened.
A horn sounded in the Blackfish's command. Retreat.
But it was too late.
Ser Addam Marbrand himself struck down Lord Redfort. Brynden Tully tried to hold the line, but a Lannister spear pierced his horse's chest, throwing him. He rose, wounded, and cut down two men before being surrounded. He fought like a demon. It took five to drag him down alive.
When Lord Yohn Royce saw the Blackfish fall, he ordered the Vale center to retreat. They pulled back, but not in order. Not fast enough. The Lannisters pressed. The ground turned red with blood.
Tywin called the horns. The Riverlords and the Vale lords were scattered, and field was littered with the dead and dying.
Kevan approached, with dust and blood on his armor. "We've taken the Blackfish alive."
Tywin gave a slow nod. "Good. Burn the dead. Then pull back to Harrenhal. We've done what we came to do. It will take time for Riverlords and Vale lords to recover, and in the mean time, we have to find a way to deal with Reach."
And so they retreated.
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Moat Cailin, The North
The map of Westeros lay stretched across the carved table, weighted at the corners by daggers.
The Iron Islands.
Behind him, the fire cracked in the hearth. The chamber was quiet save for the wind outside and the soft footfall of Eddard Cailstark as he stepped forward.
"You realize," Eddard said, voice steady, "you're about to write history."
Aryan didn't look away from the map. "What history, Uncle?"
Eddard leaned his knuckles on the table, eyes sweeping over the marked targets—Pyke, Harlaw, Great Wyk, Saltcliffe.
"This will be the greatest attack the Iron Islands have ever faced. Sixty thousand men. No one has ever thrown that kind of force at them."
Aryan finally turned, expression cold. "They've brought this upon themselves. This time, I am going to strike them hard and fast. This will not be a drawn out war. No back and forth. I'll attack every single island at once. I will remove them—root and stem."
Eddard's brows drew together, but he didn't speak.
Aryan stepped around the table, resting a hand on one of the daggers pinning the map. "And when it's done, we will begin the resettlement."
Eddard studied him for a long moment. "What of the Iron Throne? They will ignore the war for now, but they won't stay blind forever. You're not just retaliating, Aryan. You're expanding the North's territories again."
Aryan didn't flinch. "Let them squabble over the crown for now. By the time one of them sits it, the dust will have settled, and the Iron Islands will belong to the North. And when the Iron Throne will finally look towards west, they'll see nothing but our banners flying above renamed islands."
"Renamed?" Eddard asked.
Aryan smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Why should the names of slavers and reavers endure? Why should 'Pyke' or 'Great Wyk' be remembered? I'll rename them. A fresh start."
Eddard Cailstark gave a slow nod. "I'll stand with you, as always. I will make sure no one enters the North through neck, while you are away."
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Old Wyk, Iron Islands
The sky above Old Wyk was iron grey, wind was howling in from the Sunset Sea. Rain lashed the rocks and cliffs in broken sheets, but the storm that mattered was not in the sky.
It was on the shores.
Aryan Stark stood on the shores, just beyond the reach of the Ironborn archers whose pathetic defenses still clung to the ridges of Nagga's Hill. The sea stretched behind him, black and roiling.
He had not come here for loot.
He had come here to erase a civilization.
Old Wyk was not the richest island, nor the most fortified, but it held something far more valuable to the Ironborn than gold: memory. It was their heart, their soul—the holy isle where the bones of Nagga, the mighty sea dragon which was slain by the mythical Grey King, were still resting beneath the beams of his ancient hall. Every drowned priest, every reaver traces his identity back to this place.
And that was precisely why Aryan had come to burn it.
"The defenses are in range now, Lord Stark," said Smalljon Umber beside him, his face flushed with excitement. "Just waiting for your word."
Aryan's eyes remained fixed on the hills. The banner of House Drumm was still fluttered stubbornly above the ruined watchtower.
"Then fire," he said coldly.
"Yes, my lord." Smalljon turned and roared the command.
A moment later, the sky screamed.
The catapults behind them heaved, releasing the clay pots packed with wildfire. The pots containing the volatile vicious green liquid arced high, hissing through the air before crashing into the Ironborn ridgelines. Then the flaming arrows were shot, and the world turned green.
The flames exploded with unnatural fury, clinging to wood and stone and flesh alike. Screams rose from the hilltops—men were set ablaze, leaping into the sea to save themselves, only to die on the rocks below. Watchtowers collapsed, the very earth scorched beneath them.
Aryan watched it all with unflinching eyes.
When the defenses fell, the Northmen moved in. Aryan had given them free reign. Former Free Folks were even more brutal, because when they and their children started living a good life, Ironborns tried to take that life away from them. Some Ironborn tried to resist. But the end result was the same.
The few survivors from the initial barrages fled inland toward the ancient keeps built in days long forgotten. But northerners chased them down, dragging them from their hiding holes and slitting their throats and pulling out their tongues.
By nightfall, Old Wyk was theirs.
And still, Aryan pressed on.
He led the second wave himself, deeper into the island, toward the heart of the Ironborn's faith. They passed shattered shrines and drowned idols. The storm eased as they reached the high cliffs overlooking Nagga's Cradle, and there it stood: the so called Hall of the Grey King, a ruin of whale bone beams and broken stone, built by madmen who worshipped waves and sea dragons.
The bones of Nagga, were twisted and massive, curved like ribs, the remains of the sea beast that their legendary king had supposedly slain. Priests of the Drowned God had gathered there, praying to come to their aid.
They saw Aryan and his wolf come for them.
They raised driftwood cudgels and rusty swords. One priest—ancient and blind in one eye—shouted, "What is dead may never die—"
Remus tore his throat before he could finish.
Blood steamed in the cold.
"You know," Aryan said to the next priest, who trembled at the base of Nagga's bones, "its not really is a shame. All this rotten history, all this rotten tradition. It will be gone very soon."
The man spat in his face. "We are the Ironborns. We don't fear you."
Aryan raised his sword. "Tut. Tut. But you should have."
The Grey King's Hall were burned down. Aryan's men ripped the ancient beams from their sockets, threw down the sea dragon's ribs, shattered the relics with hammers. They poured the last of the wildfire at the base of Nagga's bones.
And before the fire took them, Aryan walked to the base of the ribcage, unbuckled his belt, and pissed on the bones of Nagga.
Let the sea remember that.
The cleansing of Old Wyk took two weeks.
The Stark Direwolf banners flew over the shattered towers and blackened longhalls. No Ironborn was spared—man, woman, or child. Only the salt wives and thralls were left alive. They wept when they saw Aryan, calling him their liberator, their savior, asking to be taken back to the North.
He told them, in time.
One by one, the keeps fell. Corpses were stacked and burned. The air stank of salt and smoke and death.
Across the sea, other fires rose on other shores. Benjen Seastark led the attack on Pyke itself, bringing it's tower crashing down, and wiping everyone. Greatjon Umber razed Great Wyk, laughing as he gutted men by the dozen. Jorah Mormont took Harlaw, he unleashed all the hatred people of Bear Island have for Ironborns. Saltcliffe burned under Gregor Forrester's command, and Rickard Karstark's host left no one breathing in Orkmont.
The Iron Islands bled. And not a single Ironborn was spared.
Aryan stood atop the cliffs of Old Wyk and watched the horizon.
When the last Ironborn on Old Wyk was dead, and the bones of Nagga were nothing but ash, he gave the final order.
"Begin preparations for resettlement. These lands will belong to the North from now on. Wipe out anything related to Ironborn."
"Will you change the names of the islands also, my lord?" asked Smalljon.
Aryan looked at the horizon, then down to the burned bones.
"Yes," he said. "I had decided to change the names before I even left Winterfell. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to think some proper names, so I had asked Lady Barbrey to do it."
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One Week Later
The wind off the sea had shifted. It no longer smelled of blood and gore, but of smoke and wet earth. Fires still smoldered in the ruined heart of Old Wyk, but the island was silent now—quiet in a way that had nothing to do with peace. It was the quiet that followed extinction.
Six black feathered messengers had landed at the camp, each bearing the seal of one of his Northern lords. Aryan read the messages in silence. Smalljon Umber approached, mud still caked to his boots, and saw his lord's expression.
"Good news, my lord?" he asked.
Aryan nodded once, then handed him the scrolls.
"Pyke is cleansed," he said. "Uncle Benjen reports that the Great Keep has fallen. All the Greyjoys are gone. He pulled down the tower stone by stone. And he will send the Seastone Chair to Winterfell. I intend to destroy it myself."
Smalljon whistled. "That must've been a sight."
"Harlaw is also wiped out," Aryan continued. "Jorah Mormont says he left no one alive. He found few Ironborns trying to hide tomes on salt kings and drowned gods. First he burned the books. Then those Ironborns."
"And Orkmont?"
"Rickard Karstark personally hung every drowned priest from the cliffs, and then killed the remaining Ironborns," Aryan said calmly. "He says the birds have eaten well."
Smalljon chuckled grimly. "Aye, I would wager they have."
"Saltcliffe, Blacktyde, Great Wyk—all of them. The Ironborns are finished," Aryan said. "Every lord reports the same: island had been cleansed, holdfasts were broken, captives were freed, and orders for resettlement had been given."
"So... that's it, then?" Smalljon asked, almost hesitant. "It's done?"
"No," he said. "It's just the beginning."
"My lord, if you don't mind… may I ask you something?" Smalljon said, his voice low, thoughtful.
Aryan glanced over. "You can ask, Smalljon."
The young Umber shifted uneasily. "When Stannis Baratheon sent those letters, you told me you would only call the banners if the North had been wronged… or if the North stood to gain from war."
Aryan nodded once. "I did."
"Well… the Lannisters did wrong the North. Tywin conspired with Roose Bolton. That's treason in all but name." Smalljon said.
"That's why I told you—it's only the beginning, Smalljon."
Aryan's voice was quiet, but his eyes were cold.
"The Lannisters will pay every debt they owe," he continued. "And they'll pay in blood. But it'll be on my terms. Not because someone else called their banners. We will move, when it suits us."
Smalljon gave a slow nod, letting that sink in.
"I'll wait," Aryan said, "until the moment is right, like I waited for Ironborns. And when I will strike… there'll be no one left to write the debts down again."
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Marauder
"You seem stressed, my lord," a familiar feminine voice said behind him.
Aryan didn't turn. "Yes, Val. I am."
She stepped closer, touched him without hesitation, her hands moving across his shoulders with practiced ease. Her fingers pressed into the tense muscles beneath his cloak.
"Then I must take care of it," she whispered in his ear. "Otherwise I won't be able to face Lady Arianne if I fail the one task she entrusted to me."
Though Aryan knew, what she was talking about he still gave a short laugh. "And what task is that?"
"To keep you free of stress," Val murmured. "So that, when you stand before her again, you're whole. With your mind clear… and your body ready."
Her hands drifted lower, undoing his belt with practiced ease.
He let her guide him back against the soft furs that lined the bed behind him, her movements deliberate as she climbed into his lap with a smirk.
Their clothes slipped away, piece by piece, until only skin remained between them. She kissed him hungrily.
She sank onto him with a moan.
The sounds of moans, grunts, gasps, and breathless shrieks filled the walls of the cabin.
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Prince Aryan Stark's deeds earned him three songs in his lifetime.
The first song spread like wildfire through the North first, then into the Riverlands, and beyond, even as far as in Essos. No one knew who had written the verses, only that bards began to sing of it by hearths and in halls, as if the melody had always existed.
It told of the storm that rose from the Winterfell and fell upon the archipelago that were once called the Iron Islands—of bones turned to ash, of fire on black shores, of vengeance wrapped in northern steel. It is called "The Salt King's Wake"
The singers spoke of Nagga's bones turned to dust, of a sea-witch's last scream swallowed by the tide, of a wolf cloaked in shadow who pissed on a dead god's altar. The tune was haunting.
In time, the bards who sang it were asked, where they had learned the tune. Most just smiled and said it came from the wind, or that they had picked it up in some tavern.
But the most defining moment of Prince Aryan Stark's life—the deed that earned him his last song, the one no bard could sing without reverence, the deed that made him immortal in the eyes of both men and gods—happened in the year *** AC.
—Excerpt from the 'The Era of the Bloody Wolf' written by Historian Arlan of Barrowton, Volume IV.