Chapter Text
Theon stood like a coiled serpent in the heart of Casterly Rock’s courtyard, the crimson dawn casting long shadows across his sharp features. The castle, once alive with the revelry of Asha and Edmure’s wedding feast, now pulsed with a different energy—urgent, chaotic, and laced with fury. The escape of Jaime and Daven Lannister had sent ripples of panic through the occupying forces, and teetered on the edge of madness. Hounds bayed in the distance, their howls echoing off the cliffs as search parties fanned out across the Westerlands, scouring every cave, copse, and hidden passage carved into the Rock’s labyrinthine depths.
“Move faster, damn you!” Theon roared at his captains, fists clenched as if he could crush the betrayal in his grip. His dark cloak whipped in the wind, and his hands clenched into fists as he barked orders to his captains. “Nute, take the hounds along the coast—check every cove from here to Lannisport. Lorren, you and Harrag sweep the eastern hills with the Blackfish and his Rivermen. Stevron, take your brothers and get every man you can spare to the high roads—block any path to Casterly Town or the Reach. No one rests until those lions are dragged back in chains.”
Nute the Barber nodded, his grin feral as he whistled for the hounds—massive beasts with slavering jaws, their handlers struggling to keep them leashed. “They’ll not get far, my king. The dogs’ll sniff ‘em out and we’ll have the cunts back in chains before noon.”
Rodrik the Reader adjusted his spectacles, his scholarly demeanor at odds with the axe at his belt. “If they’ve gone to ground in the Rock’s tunnels, we’ll need more than hounds, your grace. I’ll gather some men and check the old mining shafts—those passages run deeper than most know.”
“Do it,” Theon snapped, his voice taut with barely restrained rage. “And round up all smallfolk in the castle—cooks, stableboys, washerwomen, the whole bloody lot of them. Someone saw something, and I’ll have their tongues if they don’t speak.”
Robb approached, his face grim, his auburn hair tousled from a sleepless night. “Theon, we’ve got men at every gate and lookout tower. If the Kingslayer and Ser Daven are still in the Westerlands, they won’t slip through. But we need to be smart about this—panic will only breed mistakes.”
Theon rounded on him, his eyes blazing. “Smart? They slipped through our fingers while we were drinking and dancing like fools! We have forgotten for that we’re in the midst of a fucking war! Someone in this gods-damned castle opened those cells, Robb. Someone betrayed us and I won’t rest until they are brought before me.”
Robb’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “Aye, and we’ll find them. But terrorizing the smallfolk won’t help matters, it’ll only breed discontent. You’ll need these people if you mean to rule Casterly Rock for any longer than a fortnight,” he said with a sigh. “We should focus on the passages—The Kingslayer knows this castle better than we ever will.”
Theon’s scowl deepened, but he nodded curtly. “Fine. Get your men to the lower levels with Dagmer’s crew. Check every bolt-hole and sewer grate. And Robb—” He paused, his voice dropping low. “Keep an eye on your mother’s people. Remember that some of your Frey’s have Lannister kin.”
Robb’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, turning to signal Jory Mormont and Smalljon Umber to organize their men. The courtyard buzzed with activity—Northmen hauling crates to block escape routes, Ironborn dragging terrified servants into lines for questioning, and Rivermen sharpening blades with grim purpose. The hounds’ barking grew louder as they caught a scent, their handlers shouting commands as they led them toward the cliffs.
---
In the lords’ chambers high above, Cerenna tried to steady herself amidst Theon’s fury. She did her best, but in truth she feared what his wrath would entail. What he told her before was true; Cerenna had only seen the Iron King at his tamest, but there was more to him than that; as too many of her countrymen know. The massive hearth in the room burned low, casting flickering shadows across Cerenna’s defiant face. Her wrists were bound with rough hemp, a precaution Theon had insisted on despite her protests. She stood tall, her crimson gown rumpled from the night’s chaos, her green eyes flashing like emeralds in the firelight.
Cerenna’s chin lifted, her gaze unyielding despite the chains. “I was by your side, Your Grace, for every moment of that wretched feast. You saw me. You *know* it. If you think me a traitor, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.” Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with anger, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the room like a blade. “Hang the smallfolk if you must, but you’ll find no answers in their blood. I had no part in this.”
“You were with me all night, you say?” Theon’s voice was a low growl, his body looming over her as he paced, his boots thudding against the stone floor. “Yet the Kingslayer and your brother slip through our fingers like eels. You are a strong-willed girl, Cerenna. I knew when I took this castle, and I warned you what would happen if you defied me. You truly expect me to believe this plot was hatched without your knowledge? ‘Lady of Casterly Rock?’
The jab at her title was meant to goad her, but Cerenna let it slide past her like a poorly aimed arrow. Her chin lifted higher, her gaze unwavering. She felt the weight of his scrutiny, the way his hand twitched toward his famed blade that sat at his belt, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the hilt. For a moment, she thought he might draw it, might let his anger spill over into violence. But he stayed his hand, his jaw clenching so tightly she could almost hear his teeth grind. “Someone freed them,” he snarled. “Someone in this cursed rock opened those cells. And I *will* find them. And when I do, the fucking cravens will beg me to kill them swiftly.”
A knock at the door broke the tension, and Cerenna’s heart thudded in her chest, though she kept her face a mask of defiance. Theon’s angry command bid the intruder enter, and Tris Botley stepped into the room. His voice was soft and measured, despite the news that he delivered. “Forgive the interruption, your grace. Some of the servants reported to have seen the Lady Myranda near the dungeons last night, carrying a tray of food. She left in a hurry, they say, and not alone.”
Cerenna’s breath caught, but she forced it to steady, her face betraying nothing. Her mother. The words landed like a stone in her gut, and for a fleeting moment, a flicker of recognition passed through her eyes—too quick for Theon to notice, or so she hoped. She felt the weight of his gaze snap back to her, searching, probing, but she held her ground. Theon’s voice was iron as he barked, “Bring her. Now.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and fraught. Cerenna’s mind raced, but her voice, when she spoke, was softer, though no less fierce. “You think I’d risk everything—my sister, my family—for such a reckless plot? I know what your men do to traitors, Theon. I’m not that foolish.” She paused, her eyes locking onto his, and added with raw earnestness, “And despite the circumstances surrounding your presence here, I have grown to care about you.” The admission cost her something, a sliver of pride, but it was true. Somewhere in the chaos of his conquest, she had seen glimpses of the man beneath the iron, and it complicated the hatred she ought to feel.
Theon stopped pacing, turning to face her, a humorless smile twisting his lips. “So you say. And what happens if your mother turns out to be the culprit? You know what her fate will be. What will you do then?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she held his gaze. “My mother is a proud woman,” she said, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “If she did this, she acted alone. I swear it on my house, and on whatever honor I have. I understand what you must do.” Her voice softened, heavy with sorrow. “I only ask that you make it quick.”
Before Theon could retort, the door burst open. Tris returned, dragging a pale and trembling Myranda Lefford, her hands bound, her once-fine gown torn at the hem. Two Ironborn guards flanked her, their faces grim. Theon moved around Cerenna and stepped toward Myranda, his sword now drawn, glinting brilliantly and menacingly in the firelight.
“Lady Myranda,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “The servants sing a pretty song about you and a tray of food. Care to tell me why you were skulking near the dungeons whilst the castle feasted?”
Cerenna watched with bated breath as her mother straightened, her silver hair catching the light, her eyes as defiant as her own. “I brought food for my son and nephew, as any mother would. You’ve kept them half-starved, Greyjoy. Is it a crime to ease their suffering?”
Theon’s lips curled into a sneer, his eyes narrowing. “A convenient tale. But my guards are dead, and your kin are gone. You expect me to believe you had no hand in it?”
Myranda’s gaze didn’t waver. “Believe what you will. I fed them. That’s all.”
Cerenna’s heart pounded, her eyes flicking between her mother and Theon. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but she held her tongue, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. The room felt smaller now, the air charged with suspicion and the weight of what was to come. Theon turned to Tris, his voice sharp. “What else did the servants say?”
“One said she with two knights of House Farman —those who came with Princess Asha. They vanished after the guards were found.”
Theon’s eyes flicked back to Myranda, then to Cerenna, whose face had gone pale as death. “Farmans,” he muttered, the word dripping with venom. “Traitors in our midst.” He turned back to Tris, his voice rising with barely restrained fury. “Bring the younger Lannister girl here now. I’ll get to the truth of this matter at once, or I’ll start taking eyeballs.”
He pointed the dagger at Myranda, his intent clear. “You’ll talk, my lady, or your daughters will pay the price for it.”
Cerenna’s eyes widened in horror, and she threw herself forward, collapsing at Theon’s knees, her hands grasping at the hem of his cloak. “Please, your grace, I beg you!” she cried, her voice raw with desperation. “Myrielle had no part in this! She’s just a girl—she knows nothing!”
Theon ignored her, standing silent as a crypt, his stormy eyes wild and unyielding. The hall held its breath as Tris returned, dragging Myrielle into the center of the room. Her golden curls clung to her tear-streaked face, her slight frame trembling in a gown of Lannister crimson, torn at the hem and stained with grime from the rough handling. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted to her mother and sister, pleading silently for rescue. “Mother!” she choked out, her voice breaking as fresh sobs wracked her body.
Theon stepped forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor, and seized Myrielle by the arm, yanking her toward him. She yelped, stumbling, and the hall seemed to shrink further as he pressed the edge of his dagger against her throat. The blade’s cold steel kissed her skin, drawing a thin bead of blood that trickled down her neck, stark against her pale flesh. Myrielle froze, her sobs catching in her throat, her eyes wide with animal fear.
“Speak,” Theon growled, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. “Or I carve the truth from her throat.”
Myranda’s composure cracked, a flicker of anguish passing over her face as she looked at her youngest daughter. The guards lining the walls shifted uneasily, their hands on their swords. Cerenna’s pleas echoed in the silence, but Theon’s gaze remained fixed on Myranda, his dagger steady, his intent clear.
Myranda’s lips parted, her eyes darting to Myrielle, then back to Theon. For a moment, it seemed she might hold her ground, her pride as unyielding as the cliffs of Pyke. But then Myrielle let out a choked sob, and something in Myranda broke. Her shoulders sagged, and her voice, when it came, was quiet but resolute.
“Enough,” she said, her eyes never leaving Theon’s. “It was me. With the help of Farman knights, I killed your guards and free my son and nephew. I brought food to the dungeons as a pretext to get close to them. They were to take them to a ship waiting beyond the harbor.” She paused, her voice steadying as she met his gaze head-on. “And I’d do it again, Greyjoy, for the lion.”
The hall fell deathly silent, the weight of her confession hanging like a storm cloud. Cerenna’s breath caught, her eyes wide with shock and betrayal. Myrielle’s sobs quieted, her body still trembling under the blade. Theon’s sneer twisted into a grim smile, though his eyes remained cold, unyielding.
“A mother’s love,” he said mockingly, lowering the dagger from Myrielle’s throat and calmly sheathing it. He gently shoved the girl toward Cerenna, who caught her sister in her arms, holding her tightly as Myrielle buried her face in her shoulder, weeping. “A pity it’s led you to treason.”
He turned to his guards, his voice sharp. “It seems that Lady Myranda is fond of the dungeons. The Drowned God will judge her on the morrow. For now, focus on finding her wretched son and one-handed lion.” As the guards moved to seize her, Myranda raised her chin, her eyes blazing with defiance even as iron manacles closed around her wrists.
Cerenna clung to Myrielle, her heart torn between relief and dread. The truth was out, but at what cost? The hall seemed to close in around them, the shadows deepening as Theon’s gaze lingered, promising more questions, more blood, before this was done.
---
Robb watched from atop the battlements as the search for the Kingslayer and Daven Lannister intensified. Hounds tore through the underbrush along the cliffs, their handlers shouting as they followed faint tracks leading toward the sea. Nikolaj Harlaw’s men descended into the Rock’s mining shafts, torches casting eerie shadows on walls veined with gold. Smalljon Umber and a squad of Northmen interrogated smallfolk in the castle’s lower halls, their voices booming as they demanded answers. “Who saw the lions leave? Speak, or you’ll hang!” a Karstark roared, shaking a trembling stableboy.
In Casterly Town, Dagmer Cleftjaw led a sweep of the docks, his Ironborn overturning barrels and smashing crates, searching for any sign of a boat that might have carried the Lannisters away. “They didn’t sprout wings,” Dagmer growled to his men. “Check every skiff, every dinghy. If they’re on the water, we’ll find ‘em.”
Robb and Brynden Tully coordinated from the battlements, their eyes scanning the horizon. “If they’ve gone to the Reach, Tyrell’s men will shelter them,” Brynden said, his voice grim. “Mace is no fool—he’ll use Jaime to rally the Westerlands.”
Robb nodded, his hand resting on his sword hilt. “We can’t let them reach Highgarden, nor Kings Landing. Theon’s right to be furious, but he’s losing focus. We need to find them before this mess fractures an already unstable alliance.”
Brynden grunted. “Aye and keep an eye on your mother. Greyjoy’s suspicions are spreading like wildfire.”
Robb sighed, his mind whirling, “If the Lannisters get the Kingslayer back, they have no reason to keep Sansa alive…”
Brynden placed his hand on Robb’s shoulder. “You mustn’t think like that, your grace. We got Arya back when all hope seemed lost. The same with happen with Sansa.”
Robb nodded, but his heart ached at the thought of Sansa. He needed to get her out the capital and he needed to do it soon.
---
The next dawn broke cold and gray, the sky heavy with clouds that mirrored the mood of Casterly Rock. The cliffs overlooking the Sunset Sea were lined with men—Ironborn in their salt-stained leathers, northmen in furs, Riverlords in their bright cloaks, and the smallfolk of Casterly Rock, their faces pale and drawn. Lady Myranda stood at the water’s edge, her hands bound and her gown whipping in the wind. Damphair loomed before her, his staff planted in the sand, his voice rising like the tide.
Theon lorded over the proceedings. “Lady Myranda of House Lannister. You stand accused of treason. In the eyes of Gods and men, what is the truth of it?” Theon’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Did you free the Kingslayer and Ser Daven?”
Myranda’s lips curved into a faint, defiant smile. “Aye. I did it. And I’d do it again. My duty is to House Lannister, not to you, Greyjoy. There are those within these walls who have forgotten that, but not I. I am no traitor to my own blood.”
Theon regarded her calmly, ignoring the cries of outrage from Ironborn and Northmen alike. “You swore me a vow, my lady. The Drowned God demands a price for treachery.”
Myranda laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Your savage god holds no sway here, boy. This is Casterly Rock, not your barren spit of rocks. Do what you will, but remember, the Lannisters always pay their debts.”
Theon turned to Aeron Damphair, who stood like a specter in his black robes, his eyes gleaming with zealous fire. “She is yours, uncle,” Theon said.
Aeron Damphair stepped forward. “The Drowned God sees all,” he intoned. “He knows the hearts of the faithful and that of the false. This woman has betrayed her king, her oaths, and the will of the sea. Let her be judged.”
Lady Myranda held herself with the pride of a lioness, even as the drowned men flanked her.
Myranda’s eyes swept the crowd, unyielding. “You think you’ve won?” she called, her voice carrying over the crash of waves. “The Lannisters will return. The Reach will join them. Casterly Rock will never bend to you invaders. Rise, my people! Cast them out!”
A murmur rippled through the smallfolk, but no one moved. Fear held them in place. Aeron seized her by the arm, dragging her into the surf. The water swallowed her cries as he forced her under, his chants rising in a rhythmic cadence. The crowd watched in silence as the sea claimed her, the bubbles fading, her struggles ceasing. When Aeron emerged, alone, his robes clung to him like a second skin, and his eyes burned with grim satisfaction.
“She is with Him now,” he said. “What is dead may never die.”
Theon turned away, his face a shadowed mask, unreadable beneath the weight of the moment. The cold wind off Sunset Sea whipped through the gathered crowd, carrying the sharp tang of salt and the distant cries of gulls, as if the sea itself mourned the scene unfolding on the shore. His boots crunched against the pebbled ground, the sound swallowed by the low, anguished sobs of the onlookers. He spared a glance at Cerenna, standing rigid at the edge of the assembly, her golden hair catching the pale sunlight like a flame that refused to flicker. Her face betrayed no emotion—no tears, no trembling lips, no flush of grief—though all her kin wept openly, their wails rising and falling like the tide. Her sister clutched at her arm, her eyes red and swollen, while lesser Lannisters huddled together, their fine silks sodden with tears and sea spray.
Cerenna stood apart, her chin lifted, her green eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon, as if she could will herself away from this place of sorrow and shame. Theon’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than he intended, searching for a crack in her composure, a hint of the girl beneath the iron-wrought facade. But there was nothing—only that unnerving stillness, a quiet defiance that made his chest tighten with something he couldn’t name. Was it respect? Pity? Or something darker, born of the knowledge that he, too, had once stood unflinching before a world that demanded his tears? Cerenna Lannister deserved better than the fate that the Gods had bestowed on her and Theon cursed himself for adding to her torment.
---
The war room of Casterly Rock was a cavern of stone and tension, its long table crowded with lords and ladies whose allegiances were as fragile as the alliance they’d forged. Theon stood at the head, his hands braced on the table, his eyes scanning the faces before him. Robb sat to his right, Grey Wind lying at his feet. Lady Catelyn sat beside her son; her face carved from ice. She was flaked the Lady Brienne, who had joined her sometime after her time in the Stormlands. The Ironborn—Victarion, Asha, Rodrik Harlaw, Dustan Drumm, and the rest—clustered together, their voices loud and brash. The Riverlords, led by Edmure Tully and the Blackfish, sat opposite the northmen—Greatjon Umber, Roose Bolton, Rickard Karstark, and the fierce women of Bear Island. The escape of Jaime Lannister and Ser Daven had everyone on edge.
“We cannot sit idle,” Victarion bellowed, slamming a fist on the table. “The Lion and the Rose have joined forces. Their armies will march, and soon. I say we take the Iron Fleet to Highgarden, burn their fields, and gut their soft lords in their beds before they even realise the Kraken is upon them.”
“Aye!” Dustan Drumm’s voice was a thunderclap. “The Reach is soft. We strike hard, take their wealth, their ships, and finally, their lives. Let them choke on their flowers.”
Robb leaned forward, his grey eyes sharp. “The Reach is vast, and the Tyrells are no fools. Highgarden is a fortress, not some meager fishing village. We’d need more than ships to take it.”
Edmure, his auburn hair disheveled, raised his hand. “Caution, my lords. We’ve taken Casterly Rock but holding it is another matter. The Lannisters will come for us, and the Tyrells with them. We should fortify, send scouts, learn their plans before we strike.”
‘WE’ did not take anything, Tully,” Damphair corrected. “It was the might of Iron King and the will of the Drowned God that brought the Casterly Rock to heel and if you lot are too craven for it, the men of Isles will break Highgarden just the same!” The ironmen in attendance roared their agreement.
Theon rolled his eyes, tired of his uncles constant rambling. “That’s enough of that, uncle. We secured the Rock through unconventional means. No doubt Kings Landing has already learned just how. We won’t have the same luxury with the Reach, we will need every single man, sword and axe within our respective kingdoms to win this war,” Theon said. “Now how do we proceed?”
Now it was Asha who spoke. “Wise words, brother. And I understand everyone’s thirst for blood, but I fear my husband has the right of it; we need to proceed with caution. Recklessness will only hasten our downfall.”
“Caution?” Greatjon Umber’s laugh was a bear’s roar. “The Young Wolf don’t win battles by sitting on his arse. We march, we fight, we *win*.”
“March where?” Black Walder Frey sneered, his dark eyes glinting. “The Westerlands are bled dry, and the Reach is too bloody far. We’d be strung out, easy prey for Tywin’s dogs.”
“The Vale,” Theon said, his voice cutting through the din. “The men of the Vale are our best hope now. If we can bring them to our side, we’ll have the numbers to crush the Lannisters and the Tyrells both.”
The Blackfish nodded. “Lord Royce has no love for the Lannisters. There are others, too—whispers of growing discontent from the Lords of the Vale at my nieces’ inaction. I’ll go to the Vale and speak to Lysa and try to force her to see sense.”
Robb shook his head, his voice firm. “No, ser. The time for ravens and soft words is done. I’ll go to the Vale myself, and I’ll bring ten thousand men with me. We’ll show them our strength, not beg for it.”
Theon grinned, a wolfish glint in his eye. “Aye. But Black Walder is correct on one thing. If you march with so many men, you leave yourselves vulnerable to Tywin and the Tyrells. I’ll have the some of my men take you to the Eyrie, swift and sure. While you rally the knights of the Vale, we’ll strike the Reach and show them the error of their ways. But Highgarden is too big a gamble,” Theon turned to the Goodbrothers. “Nik, tell me what you know of the Shields.”
Nik cleared his throat, his voice steady and precise, as if reciting from one of his beloved tomes. “The Shield Islands, my king, are four in number—Greenshield, Oakenshield, Southshield, and Greyshield—strung along the mouth of the Mander like sentinels guarding the Reach’s soft underbelly. They’re small aye, but they’re fierce, each one a fortress in its own right. They were built to repel raiders like us.” He flashed a wry smile, earning a low chuckle from the Ironborn. “Their soil is fertile, their fisheries rich, but their true strength lies in their defenses and the men who hold them. Men who are hardened from years of defending their homes from our ancestors.”
He gestured toward the sea, as if the islands lay just beyond the horizon. “Greenshield, the northernmost, is ruled by House Chester. Lord Moribald Chester commands a stout keep perched on cliffs overlooking the western approaches. The castle’s walls are thick granite, reinforced with iron, and its towers bristle with scorpions and trebuchets. The Chesters maintains a fleet of a dozen war galleys, swift and shallow-draught, perfect for chasing our longships through the reefs. Their harbor is narrow, flanked by watchtowers that signal with fire if trouble’s spotted. The island itself is lush, with rolling hills and vineyards, but its militia—some two hundred men-at-arms—are trained to fight on ship or shore, clad in mail and wielding longbows.”
Urri stepped up beside his brother, his grin boyish but his eyes sharp. “Oakenshield’s next, under House Hewett. Lord Humfrey Hewett’s a prickly sort, fat and fond of feasts, but don’t let that fool you. His seat, Lord Hewett’s Town, is a proper port—bigger than most on the Shields. The town’s walls are timber and stone, with a deep moat fed by tidal streams. They’ve got a garrison of three hundred, plus sellswords when the coin’s flowing. Oakenshield’s forests give them timber for their ships—twenty galleys, last I heard, with a few cogs for supply. The island’s got natural breakwaters, making it a bastard to assault from the sea unless you know the channels, which we do. Their archers are deadly, trained to loose from the cliffs, and they’ve got pitch vats ready to burn any ship that gets too close.”
Stevron, towering and deliberate, took over, his deep voice carrying the weight of experience. “Southshield, the longest of the isles, belongs to House Serry. Lord Osbert Serry’s a cunning one, lean and sharp as a blade. His keep sits on a promontory, with sheer drops to the sea on three sides. The walls are old but solid, with ballistae mounted to cover the approaches. Southshield’s got a sandy shore, good for landing if you can dodge the watchtowers’ signals. Their fleet’s smaller—eight galleys, maybe ten—but their men are fierce, trained to fight in formation with spear and shield. The island’s got open fields, so they’ve got cavalry, too—fifty horse, light and fast, to harry any landing force. Osbert’s got a knack for rallying his smallfolk; they’ll fight like devils to protect their homes.”
Damon, clad in polished armor that gleamed despite the dimming light, spoke next, his voice measured but confident. “Greyshield’s the last, held by House Grimm. Lord Guthor Grimm’s a grim bastard, pardon the pun, and his castle’s a squat, ugly thing built into the cliffs. It’s got thick walls, reinforced with iron braces, and a gatehouse that’s a death trap for any battering ram. The island’s rocky, with little farmland, but its harbor’s deep and well-defended by chains that can be raised to block entry. They’ve got fifteen galleys, crewed by men who know every current and shoal. The Grimms keep a standing force of two hundred fifty, mostly spearmen and crossbowmen, with catapults on the heights to rain stones on invaders. Greyshield’s folk are hardy, used to lean years, and they’ll bleed you for every inch.”
Criston, his grin sharp as a dirk, couldn’t resist adding his bit. “All four islands are a pain in the arse to raid, but they’ve got weaknesses. The Chesters are a proud lot—too proud. Bait their galleys out, and you can slip past their defenses. Hewett’s town is rich, but the smallfolk grumble about his taxes; a few well-placed whispers could spark trouble. Serry’s cavalry is a problem, but burn their fields, and they’ll starve come winter. And the Grimms? They’re stubborn, but their harbor chain’s old—cut it, and their whole defense crumbles. Hit hard, hit fast, and don’t let them turtle up.” He winked at Asha, who gave a low, approving chuckle.
Tris Botley, standing slightly apart, spoke up, his voice calm but laced with steel. “Cris speaks true, but don’t underestimate the Shields’ unity. The lords meet often, share scouts, and signal each other with beacons. If you strike one island, the others know within hours. Their fleets coordinate, too—hit Greenshield, and Hewett’s galleys will flank you from Oakenshield. If you’re planning what I think you are, my king, the key is misdirection: feint at one, land on another, and burn their signal towers before they can call for aid. The smallfolk are loyal, but they’re farmers and fishermen, not warriors. Break their spirit early, and they’ll scatter.”
Theon’s eyes gleamed with pride as her cousins and Tris laid bare the Shields’ strengths and vulnerabilities. He glanced over at Robb, who stood with his Northmen, his expression one of quiet admiration. He exchanged a look with the Blackfish, whose weathered face betrayed a flicker of respect for the Ironborn’s detailed knowledge. Robb’s lips curved slightly, and he gave a subtle nod to his uncle, as if acknowledging that the Ironborn were more than mere reavers.
“Impressive,” Robb said, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Your knowledge of the Shields could turn the tide of any campaign. The North could learn much from such precision.” The Blackfish grunted in agreement, his sharp eyes studying the Goodbrothers with newfound regard.
Theon, however, wasn’t done. His grin sharpened as he leaned forward, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “Well done, lads. And what of the Arbor? If we’re to strike the Reach, we can’t ignore the jewel of Redwyne. Sigrid, Rodrik, Dagmer—tell me what you know.”
Sigrid stepped forward, her silver-streaked braid glinting in the torchlight now flickering across the courtyard. Her weathered face was unreadable, but her voice carried the authority of years spent commanding ships and men. “The Arbor,” she began, “is the fat, wine-soaked island south of the Shields, larger than all four combined. It’s a paradise of vineyards, orchards, and gentle hills, but don’t let its beauty fool you—it’s a fortress disguised as a garden. Redwyne rules from Ryamsport, a sprawling port city with high stone walls and a harbor deep enough to shelter their massive fleet. Lord Paxter Redwyne commands near a hundred war galleys, plus cogs and carracks for trade. Their ships are the backbone of the Reach’s navy, crewed by sailors who’ve spent their lives on the Sunset Sea.”
She paused, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd. “Ryamsport’s defenses are formidable: double walls, reinforced with towers mounting scorpions and catapults. The harbor’s guarded by twin keeps, each with its own garrison, and they’ve got chains to seal the entrance against attack. The island’s interior is dotted with watchtowers, and the Redwynes keep a standing force of five hundred men-at-arms, plus knights and archers. Their wealth lets them hire sellswords when needed, and their smallfolk are fiercely loyal—wine and gold buy strong hearts. The Redwynes also maintain a network of spies; any move against the Arbor is like to be known before your ships leave port.”
Rodrik Harlaw stepped forward, his lean frame and sharp eyes lending him an air of quiet menace. “The Arbor’s terrain is its own defense,” he said, his voice measured but rich with detail. “The island’s hills are gentle but high enough to give archers clear shots at approaching ships. The vineyards and orchards provide cover for ambushes, and the roads are narrow, easily blocked by felled trees or barricades. The Redwynes have two lesser holdfasts—Starfish Harbor and Vinetown—each with its own walls and small garrisons, maybe fifty men apiece. These act as outposts, relaying signals to Ryamsport. The island’s coastline is treacherous, with hidden reefs and shoals that can rip a longship’s belly open if you don’t know the waters. The Redwynes have charts of every current, and their pilots are unmatched.”
He adjusted his cloak, his tone growing analytical. “Paxter’s sons, Horas and Hobber, are his lieutenants. Horas is cautious, a planner who drills the garrison relentlessly; Hobber’s reckless, eager for glory, and more likely to lead a counterattack. The Redwynes’ wealth means they can afford the best—steel from Qohor, crossbows from Myr, even wildfire if the rumors are true. Their weakness is their arrogance. They think the Arbor untouchable, so a bold strike could catch them off guard. But you’d need to neutralize their fleet first—without it, they’re vulnerable, but with it, they can choke any invasion in the cradle.”
Dagmer Cleftjaw, his ruined face twisting into a grimace that passed for a smile, spoke last, his voice rough as gravel. “The Arbor’s a tough nut to crack, but it’s been done. Their fleet’s the real threat—those galleys are fast, well-armed, and crewed by men who know the sea as well as we do. But they’re spread thin, patrolling the trade lanes to Oldtown and Lannisport. Hit their outlying ships first, draw them out, then burn their docks before they can rally. Ryamsport’s walls are strong, but the city’s sprawling—too many gates, too many alleys. Land a small force at night, torch their warehouses, and the smallfolk will panic. The Redwynes rely on their gold; cut their trade, and their allies in the Reach will hesitate. And if you can take Vinetown or Starfish Harbor first, you’ve got a foothold to bleed them dry.”
Theon listened, his smirk widening as Sigrid, Rodrik, and Dagmer painted a vivid picture of the Arbor’s strengths and vulnerabilities. He caught Asha’s eye, seeing the same pride he felt mirrored in her gaze. The Ironborn were no mere raiders—they knew their prey like wolves knew the forest. It was something that Theon always knew and finally they had a leader who wasn’t a complete fool.
“That’s a master’s knowledge of the Arbor,” Robb said, addressing Sigrid, Rodrik, and Dagmer. “You’ve mapped it as well as any maester could, with a reaver’s eye for weakness. The North will need such insight if we’re to strike the Reach.” He turned to Theon, his tone earnest. “Your people’s skill humbles us, Greyjoy. We’d do well to follow your lead on the seas.”
The Blackfish nodded, his voice gruff but respectful. “Aye. The Shields and the Arbor won’t fall to brute force alone. Your kin know how to cut deep and quick—precisely what we need.”
Asha’s chest swelled with pride, though she masked it with a cocky grin. “Careful, Stark,” she called, her voice teasing. “Keep praising us, and we might start thinking we’re civilized.” The Ironborn laughed, the tension in the courtyard easing slightly as the Northmen and Rivermen joined in, their respect for the reavers cemented.
Theon clapped his hands, his grin undimmed. “Right, then. We’ve got the Shields and the Arbor laid bare. Now, let’s talk strategy—how do we crack these nuts without breaking our own?” His eyes swept the crowd.
Maron Volmark leaned back in his chair, his beardless face creased with doubt. “The plan has merit, your grace, but it stretches us thin. The Iron Fleet is mighty, but the Reach is vast, and Oldtown’s walls are thick. If we overextend, we risk losing all we’ve gained.”
Asha nodded. “Maron’s right. The Shield Islands are a prize, but they’re a trap if we can’t hold them. If we attack the Arbor, The Redwynes will surely come will come for us, and if we’re scattered across the seas, we’ll be picked off one by one.”
Germund Botley, ever the opportunist, snorted. “I we strike! Old Paxter Redwyne is nothing to a true man of iron! The Arbor’s wine and gold will fill our coffers!”
Cris grinned. “I’m with Botley. The Arbor’s ripe for the taking and since they’ve sided with the Lions, they’ll have to dealt with eventually or they’ll become a nuisance. Best hit them quickly. We’ll drink their wine and take their ships.”
But Nik shook his head. “The Arbor’s a feint. The Tyrells will expect it. We should hit their coast, burn their villages, keep them guessing.”
Tris Botley, ever calm, spoke softly. “The Reach is a distraction. Our strength lies in unity. If Stark goes to the Vale, we should guard his back, not sail off to chase glory.”
Dagmer Cleftjaw’s scarred face twisted into a scowl. “Glory? It’s survival, lad. We hit the Reach; we keep the Tyrells on their heels. Let them defend their own lands instead of marching on us.”
Harras Harlaw nodded. “The Shields are key. Take them, and we control the Mander’s mouth. But Oldtown? That’s a fool’s errand.”
Rickard Karstark, his beard streaked with grey, growled. “I care not for your islands or your seas. My boys are dead, and I want Lannister blood. If the Vale will give us swords, then let’s have them. But don’t waste our men on southern games.”
Wendel Manderly, his jowls quivering, spoke up. “The North needs the Vale, aye, but we must hold what we have. Casterly Rock is a prize, but it’s a target now. We should strengthen Lannisport, keep the smallfolk in line.”
Maege Mormont’s gravelly voice cut through. “My girls and I say we fight. The Vale, the Reach, it matters not. We follow the Young Wolf, and we’ll carve our way through anyone who stands against us.”
Her daughter Dacey nodded, her hand on her sword. “The Vale’s knights are fierce, but they’ll need convincing. Show them strength, your grace, and they’ll follow.”
Catelyn Stark’s voice was quiet but firm. “Robb, if Lysa refuses, seek out the other lords. Yohn Royce, the Waynwood’s, the Redfort’s and mayhaps more; honorable houses who my father spoke of fondly from his time in the Vale. A marriage could bind them to us.”
Jason Mallister seized on the idea. “Aye, a marriage. The men of the Vale are proud, but they’re not fools. Offer them something they can’t refuse.”
“Aye,” Roose Bolton said. His soft and measured voice filling Theon with unease. “King Theon remains unwed, and I hear Lord Royce has a comely daughter who is of marrying age. A king for his daughter is a better match than he could dream of.”
Theon’s mind whirled. Thoughts of Sansa and Dacey both playing in his mind. “A fine suggestion, Lord Bolton, but I’ve much on my mind at present. Ruling kingdoms is tiring work. I’m sure you can understand,” Theon said with a smirk. Many of the men laughed, but Roose Bolton remained stoic, that icy stare of his fixed on Theon.
“I present another option. My cousin, Damon Goodbrother. He’s a comely knight, strong and courteous, from one of the oldest houses on the isles. I’ve named him Lord of Harrenhal. Yohn Royce’s daughter would be lucky to have him.”
Damon Goodbrother, standing among his brothers, blinked in shock. “Lord of Harrenhal? Me?” He recovered quickly, bowing. “You honor me, your grace. I’ll not fail you.”
Asha raised an eyebrow. “Harrenhal? A cursed ruin. Why would Royce wed his girl to an Ironborn, even one with a fancy new title?”
Theon smirked. “Because I’ll vouch for him. I met Lord Royce a couple of years back, he was taken with me. The man respects strength, and Damon’s got that in spades.”
Urri elbowed him, grinning. “First a knight and now a Greenlander lord now, eh? Don’t forget the isles whilst you play lord in the Riverlands, brother.”
Cris laughed. “He’ll be planting weirwoods next.”
The room chuckled, the tension easing for a moment. Robb nodded. “It’s settled. Ten thousand northmen will sail to the Vale with the Blackfish and Damon Goodbrother, who’ll bring a hundred of his men.”
Next Theon spoke. “I will lead the Iron Fleet and ten thousand men to the Reach. Goodbrother and I will take the Arbor. Victarion, you hit Oakenshield. Ser Harras, Greyshield. Dustan, your reavers will sail for Southshield. Maron Volmark, Greenshield. Five thousand men—northmen, Riverlords, and Ironborn—will hold Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Edmure, Asha you will guard the Riverlands. Make sure the Lannister’s don’t descend upon us from the south.”
Edmure nodded, though his face was grim. “We’ll hold the fords, but if the Lannisters come, it’ll be a hard fight.”
Blackwood and Bracken, for once in agreement, pledged their swords. Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister vowed to keep the Riverlands secure. Roose Bolton’s pale eyes flickered, but he said nothing, only nodded.
Theon raised a fist. “To the Vale. To the Reach. To victory.”
The room echoed with ayes, though some were more reluctant than others. As the lords dispersed, Robb lingered, his hand on Grey Wind’s head. “We’ve rolled the dice, Theon,” he said quietly. “Pray the gods favor us.”
Theon grinned, though his eyes were hard. “The Drowned God doesn’t care for prayers, Robb. But he loves a good fight.”