Lord Rodrick Greyjoy
The Westerlands were burning, from the coast to the mainland, the Westerlands were burning. It was a good feeling, knowing that their traditional rivals were being beaten, destroyed even. House Lannister was in disarray the succession dispute that had been roaring on in the Rock for the past three years continued to rage on, and it did not seem as if it would end at any point soon. That was for the best, without their bloody lions leading them, the lords of the Westerlands had become like a flock of headless geese, running around blind and uncertain of what to do.
Lord Lefford had taken charge of the men who had remained loyal to the Iron Throne, and they had numbered some 10,000 men, men from Pendric Hills, from Ashemark and from Golden Tooth itself. They had fought a battle against the rebel Westerlords being led by some green boy named Ser Devon Reyne. A stalemate had been reached at that battle and both sides had retreated to strategic points, only to engage in more fighting later on. Rodrick knew this, from the tavern wenches he had spent nights with during the raiding that he and his people had engaged on during the early stages of the war.
The raven had arrived from Winterfell with a royal command, and Rodrick had felt nothing but pure adrenaline at the thought of being out on the waves once more, and being able to take what was his by force and not having to cower to a single man. The Iron Fleet and the might of the Iron Islands he had called to Pyke, and from there they had descended on the Westerlands. They had sacked Fair Isle first, taking the plunder from the land and the castle and its people, paying the iron price and leaving a lasting impression, Fair Isle was a smoking ruin now. From there they had moved on to the Crag and the Banefort, destroying whatever resistance they found and taking plunder and thralls. Rodrick's uncle Maron had perished at the Banefort though, from wounds he had taken whilst storming the castle. His uncle died a proud man, dying the way he had lived a sword in hand.
Rodrick had given his body to the waves just as he knew his uncle would have wished, and he sincerely hoped that his uncle Maron was now drinking as much mead as he could get his hands on in the drowned god's watery halls. Command of the Iron Fleet had passed to Rodrick's younger brother Victarion, and whilst camped out on the coast of the Banefort, they devised a plan that would give them more gold and plunder than would be possible otherwise. The plan was simple, divide the fleet in half, taking whatever ships they could steal along the way, they would sail as one around Fair Isle and then from there they would split, Rodrick taking half the fleet for Lannisport to raid the place and take its riches, Victarion for Tarbeck Hall and Crakehall and the women that were said to be there.
They were joined by ships from the north, led by Steffon Cassel, and whilst for a moment Rodrick had thought his uncle would wish to fight on the mainland, he had decided to fight on the sea. Perhaps to make sure that Rodrick did not go overboard as he had the last time there had been a war. That was fair enough, he had not spoken to his uncle in sometime, and yet the time they spent sailing for their locations was not time they spent talking. When the split occurred they were docked at Kayce, having successfully taken more plunder from the castle and left it a smoking ruin as well. The Kennings had once been Ironborn but they had fallen into the Greenlander ways and as such had suffered for their folly. But it was from Lord Kenning's daughter that Rodrick learnt of the battle of the shapes, where the two hosts of Westerlords had met and how Lord Lefford had been slain, as well as Ser Devon Reyne and how both forces were riding with great haste towards Castamere.
That was where Rodrick said to goodbye to his uncle Steffon and the northmen he had brought with him, for they disembarked from their ships and rode out for Castamere, some 2000 strong, what difference they would make Rodrick knew not, but he knew better than to voice such doubts now. He had not heard from his uncle since, but he had heard from his brother. Tarbeck Hall had been sacked, but there had been no one there, only old men and green boys, none of the Tarbecks had been there they were surprisingly gone. His brother had promised to be more successful at Crakehall.
Rodrick himself had set sail from Kayce with other more troubling news on his mind. His wife had died of a fever the maester had written, he was a widow and he had nothing but emptiness in his heart. That was why he supposed he had taken the Kenning girl on as a thrall, something to fill the emptiness he felt. He drank as well, oh gods how he had drunk the wine from Kayce and from their supplies onboard their ships. Still nothing had felt more like suitable revenge than when, they had burnt the Lannister fleet at anchor and then proceeded to sack the city, so badly that Rodrick's men had told him that songs were already being written about the day, from those who had been deemed worthy enough to live.
After sacking Lannisport Rodrick had killed the Kenning girl, she no longer served any purpose to him and was simply beginning to get in his way. So he had slit her throat and offered her to the Drowned God. The Lannister had still not stirred from their oversized Rock, no one knew what would happen or what their response would be, but Rodrick was not fool enough to wait and see in a place that gave the Lannisters good ground. No instead he had set sail from Lannisport and had sailed not for Crakehall but for the Shield Islands, it was time the Reach felt his wrath as well. The Shield Islands had fallen relatively easily, undermanned as they were, and so that was where Rodrick Greyjoy was now, in the Shield Islands debating what his next move should be.
He had called a council of his lords and captains, as well as summoning his brother and the rest of the Iron Fleet to Southshield where he had made his base. It had taken Victarion and his men some three weeks to reach the place, but now that they were here it was time for some serious decisions to make. "My lords, we have done well on this campaign so far. The Westerlands lie a smoking ruin behind us, the Lannisters strength at sea will not be the same for another generation at least. The Shield Islands are ours as they were before the conquest. But now we must decide what next. Do we attack the Arbor and take more plunder or go for Oldtown?"
There was silence for a moment before old Mychel Volmark spoke; the man had been raiding since before Rodrick's own father had been born. "Oldtown is too risky my lord. The Hightowers have sent but a token of their force north with Tyrell. Besides they will be expecting us to do something like that. No I say we strike at the Arbor before the Redwyne Fleet has a chance to move from the Vale."
Rodrick's ears perk up at that. "Why is the Redwyne Fleet at the Vale and not at the Arbor?"
Victarion speaks then. "Begging your pardon my lord, I was going to mention it to you when we got the chance. But we received a raven whilst at Crakehall, from Prince Aegon Targaryen meant for the Rock, demanding that the Lannisters send their fleet with some men to reinforce the loyalist Vale Troops and the Redwyne men. He wrote that the royal fleet would be sailing to aid them."
Rodrick nods and then asks. "When do you think this letter was sent?"
Victarion hesitates for a moment and then says. "I believe it was sent some two moons ago my lord. Whilst we were still at Kayce. The Royal fleet will be near the Stormlands by now if the weather has been bad, if the weather has been good they will be sailing around the arm of Dorne."
There is some murmuring at that, and Lord Willem Orkmont speaks next his voice quavering. "Then perhaps we should take our plunder and leave for Pyke. The royal fleet has increased in strength since the last war, and we don't have as many ships as they do, even if we had not lost some to battle and some to the weather."
There is outcry at that with many shouts of craven and coward being levelled at Orkmont, they all die down though when old Volmark speaks once more. "We could flee back to Pyke my lord aye we could. But the royal fleet would not leave us alone, and if the Velaryons send their own fleet along as well, then we will be screwed for not even Pyke's walls or those of the other islands could save us. No I would rather die on the sea than like a coward behind some stone and mortar."
Rodrick hears his lords bellow their approval at that, and then raises a hand for quiet. "We shall not flee, nor shall we die more than we have to. We shall raid the Arbor and take what needs to be taken. And if the royal fleet comes calling, why we shall deal with them as well. I want scouts sent out from Southshield this very day, and I will want reports on the movement of ships in and out of the Reach until we know where the Royal Fleet is."
With that the meeting ends and business resumes, Rodrick spends a great deal of his time planning his next move, debating which is the best way to the take the Arbor, take it, raid it and then leave it. The island itself was not big, but it had a variety of defensive walls in place that formed a sort of ring around it making it difficult to storm, without suffering severe casualties. At best, if he stormed the walls Rodrick would lose some 4,000 men at worst he would lose half his fighting force. There had to be another way into the island without so much damage happening.
He summoned old Mychel Volmark that night to discuss the Arbor, the man had gone raiding there many a time before, had smuggled goods in and out of the place during peace time. If there was anyone who would be able to get them into the Arbor without too much damage it would be Volmark. "You can't enter through the southern gate, Redwyne is many things but an idiot he is not. He will have men watching for you there. The northern gate was always the hardest to surpass even if you wished to come in through the west. No it has to be the eastern gate."
"The eastern gate?" Rodrick asked perplexed. "But that would mean risking exposing our ships to the watch towers of Sunflower Hall and Three Towers as well as Oldtown! Surely there must be another way?"
Volmark shook his head. "Not that I know of my lord. Not if you wish to avoid losing more lives than that island is worth. That is the only way I know."
Rodrick sighed. "Ach, very well then. I suppose more scouts will need to be sent out. I will need to send someone to bring my brother back, we can't have more people alerted to what we plan on doing. Lord Mychel prepare your fastest ship."
"My lord?" Volmark sputters.
"Aye you shall be leading the scouts. I mean to make more practical use of your experience. You leave tomorrow at first light." Rodrick replied.
High Admiral Lord Beron Stark
Some days he felt like dying. Beron Stark Lord of the Wolf's Den and High Admiral of the narrow sea had been around for a very long time. He had seen many things in his time, he had seen his brother wed and love and die, he had seen his nephew (for that was what Daemon Blackfyre would always be) rise and fall, and now he was watching the horrors of war play out once more in Westeros. Another war was playing out in front of his very eyes, and he felt powerless to stop it from unfolding to its bloody conclusion. His nephew and King Daeron Stark had raised the north and the iron islands in full strength to fight to put Beron's great nephew Aegon Blackfyre on that damnable iron chair.
Daeron had marched south with some 20,000 men and had originally tasked Beron with holding White Harbour from any who might try invading the north from the town. And so Beron had made sure that all the city's defences were to a high standard and that there were no possible areas that could be breached with ease. Jonnel Manderly was of ill health as well, the fat man would soon die, and he ten years older than Beron as well, not that would be much of a loss if he was being quite honest. The man was a capable master of coin but as a lord he left much to be desired. His son Ser Rodwell Manderly who was south with Daeron would make a much more promising Lord of White Harbour and a less stubborn one as well.
As he looked out and saw the waves lapping against the shore, Beron found his thoughts returning as they so often did to his daughter Dacey. Dacey had always been a strong willed girl, more comfortable wearing breeches and wielding a sword than in dresses and with a sewing needle. Beron knew that his wife had despaired at ever making a true lady out of Dacey, and there had been times when Beron had despaired of his daughter's strong headedness. Especially when she and Daeron had fallen in love, that had been when Beron's fears had been heightened. His daughter was at a greater risk as Queen of the North and the Iron Islands than she had ever been as simply his daughter, now she was the focus of many plots and intrigues, not all of which Beron could stop from ever reaching Winterfell. He was old now, and he did not fully trust anyone with his children or grandchildren, life had taught him the boon of being suspicious, he simply hoped his daughter would learn that lesson before life taught it to her.
Thinking about his strong willed daughter made him think of his other children. As of late he had been doing that a lot, old age and a feeling that this would be the last war he fought in had done that to him. His son and heir Donnel was a brave man, a great soldier and would make a fine Lord once Beron's day came, his son was wed to a Manderly girl and already had three children with her, all of whom were coming to the age of maturity themselves wed and bed already. His daughter Lyanna was Rodwell's wife and was a strong willed lady, proud as well, fiercely so, she did more of the managing of White Harbour than her husband did. Willam had been in the Winter's Guard but had died a hero's death at the Bleeding Water. Jyana was lady of the neck and commanded significant respect there as well. Overall Beron was mightily proud of all of his children, even if he sometimes wishes that they were not so headstrong.
A gust of wind and his thoughts turned back to the battles that had been fought in the northern Vale so far. The letter had come in black words, attack the Vale and bleed them dry, his nephew had written and Beron had meant to do just that. With the swords of White Harbour and the surrounding area as well as from the Three Sisters, they had sailed south and landed at Coldwater, where they had taken the surprised lord by storm and easily taken his castle. From there they had marched and fought a battle now known as the snakes, against House Lynderly of Snakewood and their retainers. The battle had been fierce and had cost Beron some 2000 men but at the end of it all Lynderly was dead, his children either slain or captive, the castle surrendered and from there they moved on. The shooting down of ravens before they could truly leave had meant that the Eyrie was still unaware of their presence in its lands, and as such Beron had meant to keep it that way.
They had marched for Strongsong, the seat of House Belmore in force bringing with them more men from the north who had arrived, and had taken the castle bloodlessly, old Horton Belmore surrendering and giving them his men for no price whatsoever, a smart move it would seem. It was at Strongsong that they learnt of the stalemate in the Riverlands, of the Golden Company's complete control of the Stormlands, of the desolation of the Westerlands, all good tidings but the really interesting news came some two weeks ago when a raven came from the Eyrie demanding that Lord Belmore summon his levies and meet Lord Arryn at the Gates of the Moon. It seemed the Iron Throne was readying itself for one final battle, and when Belmore did not reply, Arryn wrote again and again demanding a response, until finally declaring that he would march from the Eyrie to see Belmore.
His forces were but a week away when Donnel returned to inform him that it was not Lord Arryn leading them but Lord Desmond Royce. The man was a proven battle commander, and was goodfather to young Walder Frey, a confrontation should it arise would most likely prove to be quite interesting, and perhaps fitting for one last final battle for Beron. At least that was what he thought before Ser Maron Manderly brought news back from another scouting mission.
They were in Lord Belmore's solar discussing various things when Manderly walked in, flushed of face and slightly out of breath, it was obvious that he had ridden at some pace to get to Strongsong. "My lords, I beg your pardons but there is urgent news that you must hear."
"What is it Ser Maron, more news with regards to Lord Royce's host?" Beron asked patiently.
Ser Maron took a deep swig of water before speaking. "Myself and my party of twenty men were riding between here and Alyssa's ridge when we saw the banners of Lord Royce's host, flapping about two miles away."
There was some murmuring at that, if Royce's men were only two miles from Alyssa's ridge they'd soon be upon Strongsong. "What else did you see Ser Maron? Did you espy how many men Royce has with him?" Beron asked.
Ser Maron nodded, taking another swig of water he said. "There were more men coming, we managed to capture one of their own scouts and we put him to question he admitted more men were coming."
"Coming?" Beron asked. "From where?" Last he had heard Lord Arryn had marched west to join King Maekar in fighting Daeron at Harrenhal.
"From the Reach my lord." Ser Maron replied. "The Redwyne fleet had been sent to assist in dealing with us. Lord Redwyne brings some 10,000 extra swords with him, to go along with the 5,000 Lord Royce has."
There much talk at that, and Beron could see old lord Horton Belmore quivering where he sat, the man was present here simply because he was the castle's lord no other reason would merit his presence and even then Beron resented it. "Enough my lords." Beron eventually said. "Whilst this is not the news we would have wished for, it is the news we have received and so we must deal with it as is. Donnel how many men do we have currently?"
Donnel speaks softly as he is wont to do. "We have 10,000 men with us father. No more, no less."
Beron sighs then and says. "Very well. We shall not fleet before any of you suggest it. We do not have the numbers to hold the north should we flee, we must give them open battle, Alyssa's ridge should suit. We fight them and we exhaust them, we bleed them dry and they will not be able to aid Maekar Targaryen."
Lord Mance Locke spoke then. "Surely you cannot be serious my lord. To do such a thing? That would be more harmful than beneficial for his grace's war effort."
Beron sighs and says. "I shall not fleet like some whipped cur, and give the reachmen an excuse to invade the north. We were tasked with invading the Vale and causing chaos, we have done so. But now the Vale and the Reach have joined to attack us, it is our duty as loyal subjects of the King of the North and Iron Islands to give everything we have until we cannot do so anymore."
Ser Maron Whitehill, knight of Templar Village spoke then his voice gruff. "I believe Lord Beron is right. We have come to far now to have to retreat liked some whipped cur. I for one shall not retreat. Let them come I say, we shall make them bleed for every inch."
Ser Donnel Wooldfield speaks next. "Aye, let them come. We shall show them the true strength of the north."
Beron's grandson Prince Jorah Stark speaks then. "I will not flee. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I will not let these people show us where to go or where to run to. Let them bleed before we kneel." There is much cheering at that, and as the plans are made and done with Beron pulls his grandson to the side and tells him he shall be fighting in the reserve with Ser Maron Manderly guarding him along with Rickard Karstark of the Winter's Guard, no questions asked.
Two weeks later, Beron finds himself mounted and armoured, in his dark blue armour that he has not worn in sometime. His wolf's head helm on his head, 10,000 men by his side. He is commanding the left as is his wont, his son Donnel commanding the right, Ser Maron Manderly leading the reserve, and the van being commanded by Lord Daemon Hornwood. Alyssa's ridge towers behind and beneath them, like some looming giant of the kind he had heard tell of beyond the wall. The wind blows a steady breeze across the ground, and then the horns sound and battle begins. Beron draws his sword from its sheath and leads his men into the charge.
He smashed into the shields of the Valemen and began cutting men down left, right and centre. He might be old, but the adrenaline was fuelling him, giving him strength where there was none before. Cutting men down, whetting his sword with their blood, it sent a cold thrill down him. On and on it went, hack, slash, parry, and duck. He cut men down and received a few dents and bruises himself. He and his men managed to break the right of the Vale host, smashing through it like a wave crashing through the sand. Men fell to their deaths, killed or stampeded on. His sword was running red, the ground was running red, hells the sky was painted red with blood.
Hack, cut, parry, slash. The words became a mantra in his head, as he lopped a man's head off, cut a man down, and rode another down. On and on it went, his sword cutting through men like they were no more than sacks of meat. On and on, the men were screaming for their mothers, for mercy, for their gods, for whores, it made no difference they were all dying at the end of it all. He saw the blade pierce through his armour before he felt it, and when he felt the sword and the wound, he felt sharp pain and then nothing. It was as if the adrenaline numbed the pain.
Beron Stark died on the first day of the first month of the 225th year after Aegon's Landing, from numerous wounds taken on the chest, he bled out on the ground, known as Alyssa's Ridge. When he closed his eyes, he was the last of Cregan Stark's children to die. He was 77.