Year 42 Before Conquest — The Riverlands
Three years and six moons had passed since Turin first came to the camp with Elle in his arms. He was no longer a skinny, wide-eyed boy. At thirteen name days, he stood at five feet and seven inches tall, his shoulders broader, his eyes sharper, and his hands calloused from the bowstring. The child had turned into a warrior moulded by dirt, steel, and loss. Elle, now three name days old, had grown into a bright, chatty little girl, quick on her feet and quicker with questions. Her laughter often echoed across the camp like a song from a better world.
They had traveled much in those years, moving from grove to ruin, ruin to hollow, evading the ironborn as they struck back in guerrilla raids. The band had grown from a few ragged survivors to over fifty hardened men and women, each one with a grudge, each one baptized in the blood of reavers. The people of the Riverlands had given them a name — The Band of Vengeance. It stuck.
That afternoon, Turin sat in his tent, legs crossed on a fur mat, carving a small wooden dog for Elle while she danced around in circles humming an off-key song. She stopped and peered at the carving with bright eyes.
"Will he have a name, Turin?"
"You pick," Turin said, smiling.
"Hmm... 'Stompy!'" she shouted, delighted. "Because he stomps the bad men!"
Turin laughed, a rare sound from a boy who had grown too fast.
A voice called from outside. "Turin! To the main tent!"
He sighed, handed the unfinished dog to Elle, and ruffled her golden hair. "Be back soon, little lady. Watch the tent, alright?"
She saluted dramatically, as she'd seen warriors do.
Turin stepped outside. The camp was bigger now — not vast, but tight-knit and functional. Tents were arranged in a loose circle, with cookfires in the center and sentries at the edges. The men were sharpening swords, boiling leather, mending mail. All seasoned, scarred, and deadly.
Betty had died a year ago. Fever. Quietly, in her sleep. Turin mourned her, but he had no time to weep. Elle needed him, and so he stayed upright, a rock for her to stand on.
He entered the main tent and was surprised to see every warrior gathered. Ser Roderick. Ser William Honeywood. Ser Liam. Others whose faces had become his family, if not their names.
Turin made his way beside Ser Roderick. The old knight greeted him with a nod.
After a minute, Lord Harwyn entered. He was no longer the fresh-faced youth Turin had first met. He looked worn, grim, but his presence was undeniable. He stepped up onto the table and stood above them.
"My spies have returned," he said. "They found something. Something big. Prince Theon Hoare — heir to the kingdom — is encamped at Oldstones with a host. Not too large. He's in our lands, ripe for the taking."
A murmur ran through the tent, rising into cheers.
But Ser Roderick raised his hand. "We should not. This could be a trap. The crown prince doesn't travel unguarded."
"He's right," Ser William added. "There's risk. More than usual."
Harwyn's eyes narrowed. "Then let the band decide. All who say yes, raise your hand."
Hands went up — half of them.
"All opposed?"
Another half.
"Then we let Turin decide."
Turin blinked. "Me?"
Harwyn stepped down and faced him directly. "Let me tell you something, boy. That prince — Theon Hoare — he came to Honeytree once. Demanded my sister for a saltwife. It was his lust, his greed, that brought the ironborn down on our heads. That prince destroyed everything you knew."
Turin's blood ran cold.
He remembered the fire. The screams. Elle's wails as he took her from her dying mother.
He raised his hand. "We ride."
Ser Roderick and Ser William shook their heads but said nothing. The vote was cast.
As they filed out, Lord Harwyn clapped him on the shoulder. "You did right."
Turin didn't answer. He just walked, slowly, back to his tent.
Elle was waiting, playing with her wooden dog.
"Stompy protected me while you were gone."
Turin knelt and pulled her into a hug. "I'm going on a trip, little star. Might be a while. Might... not come back."
Her face scrunched. "No. You're not allowed to go."
"I have to," he whispered. "For your mom. For Betty. For everyone."
She hugged him tight, tiny arms trembling. "I'll take care of your chest, okay? You always say it's the most important thing."
"That's right. Good girl."
He kissed her forehead and tucked her into bed.
Turin strapped his quiver to his back, slid his dagger into his belt, and stepped into the cold night. The camp buzzed with movement. He walked to the picket line and found his horse — a tall red destrier he'd taken after a particularly bloody raid.
"Red," he said. "You ready to kill a prince?"
The horse snorted.
Turin climbed on.
Fifty riders gathered behind Lord Harwyn. All grim. All silent.
They set off into the dark, riding hard toward Oldstones and fate.
The ride to Oldstones was quiet, tense. The spring wind carried no birdsong. Even the horses sensed it — their hooves struck the earth without a whinny, as if they knew silence might mean survival.
Turin rode near the middle of the column, Red's gait slow and steady beneath him. His new bow lay across his back, the quiver beside it full of bodkin and barbed arrows alike. He kept stealing glances to the horizon, where the broken towers of Oldstones rose like the bones of some great dead thing. A castle haunted not by ghosts, but the weight of long-forgotten kings — and now, maybe something worse.
They dismounted half a mile out, tethering their horses in a grove of stunted trees. Lord Harwyn took the lead, flanked by the boldest of the men — thirty-five all, blades out, shields ready. Turin stayed behind with Ser Roderick, Ser William, and the twelve others who had voted not to attack. Now, seeing the ruins up close, Turin wasn't so sure they were wrong.
The air smelled of smoke. Not the wild scent of burning brush — no, this was meat smoke. Cookfire smoke.
"There's a fire ahead," Ser William whispered. "Too exposed for warriors. They want us to see it."
Still, Lord Harwyn pressed forward, eyes like steel, the last echo of the old House Honeytree burning in his blood.
"Wait here," Ser Roderick told Turin, hand on the hilt of his sword. "And keep your eyes sharp."
They watched from behind a broken wall as Harwyn entered the heart of the ruins. The cookfire was in the center of the collapsed great hall, still glowing in the dusk. There were no tents. No guards. Just a scroll, tied and resting on a log beside the fire.
Harwyn bent to read it. And then he screamed.
"TRAP!"
The cry hadn't even echoed before it was cut short — thwack — an arrow slammed through his neck. Harwyn fell choking, blood spilling down his surcoat like spilled wine.
Then — hell broke open.
Arrows rained from all directions. The thirty-five men with Harwyn screamed and fell, some with throats pierced, others pinned to stone. Men died crawling, dragging their guts like rats dying in the dirt. Ser William, still by Turin's side, shouted:
"RUN! Tower! Tower!"
They fled. Ser Roderick, Ser William, Turin, and the other survivors scrambled up the spiral stairs of a crumbling tower, their boots slipping on moss and ancient stone. Below, Ironborn war cries rose like thunder. Turin heard men screaming as they were hunted and butchered.
By the time they reached the top of the tower, there were only fifteen of them left. Bloody, breathing hard, backs against broken walls. Only three had bows. Turin among them.
He didn't wait for orders.
Thwack. The first Ironborn to crest the steps took an arrow through the eye and tumbled back, screaming.
Another. Thwack. Arrow through the collarbone. He fell, howling.
The other archers weren't fast enough. Two Ironborn stormed the top. One went for Ser William and was cleaved from shoulder to chest. The other almost gutted a younger warrior before Ser Roderick skewered him through the belly, twisting the blade.
"Block the steps with their corpses!" Ser Roderick barked. The others obeyed.
They waited, breaths heavy in the silence after slaughter. Then — a voice from below. Arrogant. Young.
"Scum!" came the call. "I am Prince Theon Hoare! Son of King Harren! You are surrounded. You will die here. Whether by sword or starvation — your heads will decorate my father's walls!"
Ser Roderick spat from the window. "Go suck your own cock, you reeking piss-born coward!"
There was laughter from the Ironborn ranks below. Then Theon called out:
"I have a gift for you."
They heard something dragged forward. Then came the sound of a pike driven into earth.
Turin stepped forward and looked. The torchlight caught a pale face — bloodied, lips parted. Harwyn.
His severed head was mounted on the pike.
"There he is," Theon mocked. "Your brave lord. You'll be next."
Rage filled Turin's veins. His hands moved without thought. He drew an arrow, nocked it, and loosed.
Thwack.
It didn't hit Theon's neck — not quite — but it sank deep into his shoulder. The prince stumbled back with a grunt, his grin wiped from his face.
His guards closed around him. They vanished into the dark.
Ser Roderick clapped Turin's shoulder. "Nice shot, lad."
"I'll kill him next time," Turin muttered.
The rest of the men settled down in grim silence. They'd barricaded the stairs with the bodies of Ironborn, but more would come.
Ser Roderick told Turin to take first watch.
He didn't argue. He went to the shattered window and sat with his bow, eyes on the pike below. On Harwyn's face.
What have I done…?
It had been his vote. His decision.
The men were dead. Harwyn was dead. And now, they were trapped.
He looked at Harwyn's head again. Then away. Then back.
A single tear slipped down Turin's cheek.
He wiped it away and reached for another arrow.
He would not die tonight.
Not until Theon Hoare did first.