The sacking of Lannisport sent shockwaves across Westeros, a brutal symphony of fire and screams echoing in the minds of lords and common folk alike. Loki Bloodaxe, now the undeniable master of the Iron Islands and the Westerlands' richest city, did not pause to revel in his victory. From the smoking ruins of Lannisport, where his men toiled like industrious ants, he set his sights on the fertile, vulnerable Riverlands. His plan was as audacious as it was cunning: to use the very arteries of Westeros, its rivers, as pathways for his conquest, bypassing the heavy land armies that would inevitably form to face him.
The Iron Islands now functioned as a grim, efficient war machine. The captured Ironborn, broken by the sheer brutality of Skardheimers, were driven to endless labor in the mines and shipyards, their mournful chants replaced by the harsh Nordic calls of their overseers. Pyke, now a fortress dedicated to Odin, hummed with activity, launching a steady stream of re-crewed Ironborn longships and newly built drakkars, all flying Loki's dragon banner. Lannisport, though sacked, was not abandoned. A strong garrison under Jarl Ragnar Stonehand remained to hold the city, fortifying it against any Lannister counter-attack, and processing the endless stream of plunder destined for Skardheim.
Loki himself led the main invasion force into the Riverlands. This was a different kind of war than the direct, overwhelming assaults on islands and fortified cities. This was a war of movement, of terror, and of psychological warfare. His fleet, a formidable armada of sleek drakkars and agile longships, glided silently up the wide mouth of the Trident, their dragon prows cutting through the placid waters like predators. The Riverlands, accustomed to occasional banditry and the odd border skirmish, were utterly unprepared for a naval invasion from within their own heartland.
The Riverlands Ablaze: Harrenhal's Demise
The first target was not a mighty castle or a bustling city, but the small, unsuspecting villages and hamlets scattered along the banks of the mighty Trident. Loki's drakkars would silently appear from the morning mist, disgorge their warriors, and descend upon the unsuspecting populace.
"Burn their harvests!" Loki commanded, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "Destroy their stores! Leave them nothing but the clothes on their backs and the fear in their hearts!"
His warriors, disciplined in their savagery, carried out his orders with cold efficiency. Farms were set ablaze, their golden fields turning to black ash. Barns and granaries were emptied, their contents either seized or spoiled. Those who resisted were cut down without mercy. Women and children were often spared death, but not the horrors of conquest, their screams adding to the rising chorus of despair. This was not about holding territory initially; it was about crushing the will of the people, about denying any opposing army the ability to live off the land.
The news spread like wildfire, not by raven, but by terrified refugees streaming eastward, their tales growing more horrific with each retelling. "Demons from the rivers!" "Ships with dragons' heads!" "They burn everything!" The Riverlands, usually a tranquil breadbasket, quickly descended into chaos.
Harrenhal: A Symbol's Fall
Loki's gaze soon settled on Harrenhal. The cursed castle, sprawling and ancient, stood as a morbid monument to dragonfire and ambition. It was a tempting target, not for its strategic value, its vastness made it impractical to garrison fully, but for its immense psychological impact. Its fall would send a message: no stronghold, however cursed or grand, was safe from Loki Bloodaxe.
Lord Baelish, as acting Lord of Harrenhal, had installed a small, inadequate garrison, mostly levied men and a few seasoned sellswords. They were tasked with merely holding the castle, not fighting a war. Ser Lyle "Strongboar" Crakehall, a formidable but dim-witted knight, commanded them, eager for glory. He fortified the ancient gates, bringing up every crossbow and pot of boiling oil they possessed.
Loki approached Harrenhal by river, his drakkars anchoring in the Blackwater Rush near the castle's ruined dockyards. He surveyed the monstrous, decaying walls, a faint smile playing on his lips. "They think stone will save them," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with ancient power. "They have not faced the will of Skardheim."
He did not order a direct assault. Instead, Loki used his magic. He sent small, ghostly whispers through the ancient, crumbling stones, tales of the castle's cursed past, of the Targaryen dragons that had melted its towers, of the madness that consumed its lords. He exacerbated the fear already inherent in the castle's legends. Then, he sent a small, elite force of berserkers, guided by Thora, to infiltrate the castle through long-forgotten sewage tunnels and breaches in the outer wall that only his arcane senses could detect.
Inside Harrenhal, the whispers grew. Guards reported strange sounds, spectral figures. Morale plummeted. Ser Lyle, a brave but superstitious man, began to see the shadows dance. When Thora's berserkers, moving like specters, burst from the ground within the castle walls, their roars echoing eerily in the vast, empty courtyards, it was not merely an attack; it was the embodiment of the castle's curse.
"The ghosts! The ghosts of Harrenhal!" a guard shrieked, dropping his sword and fleeing. Panic spread like wildfire.
Ser Lyle, though terrified, rallied his remaining men for a desperate stand in the great hall. He swung his two-handed sword with fury, cutting down several berserkers. But Thora, swift as a viper, bypassed his heavy strikes, her twin axes dancing around his guard. One axe hooked his leg, bringing him to one knee, the other delivered a crushing blow to his temple. Ser Lyle fell, his final roar cut short.
With their commander dead and their spirits broken, the remaining garrison surrendered quickly. Harrenhal, once a symbol of unconquerable might and later, tragic curse, fell to Loki's forces with chilling ease. Loki ordered his engineers to clear the river access, allowing more drakkars to pass. He then ordered his men to systematically loot the castle, taking everything of value, and then, crucially, to destroy its foundations, ensuring it could not easily be used as a stronghold by Westeros again. Harrenhal would remain a symbol, but now a symbol of Loki's destructive power.
The Forging of Stormbreaker: A New Blade for a New Age
Even amidst the chaos of the Riverlands campaign, Loki knew he needed more than just conventional power. He needed a symbol, a focal point for his own growing might, a weapon forged not just of steel, but of legend. He had carried Oakhide for years, a trusted companion, but its power was limited by its current form. His visions had shown him a greater blade, one infused with true Skardheim magic and the essence of conquered might.
Within the burning walls of Harrenhal, in a desecrated hall that once hosted Westerosi feasts, Loki established a temporary, ritualistic forge. He summoned his most skilled smiths, warriors whose hands were as adept with hammer and tongs as with axe and sword. Before them, he laid out two specific, notorious Valyrian steel blades: Nightfall, the sword of House Harlaw, taken from the corpse of Rodrik Harlaw himself; and Red Rain, the ancestral blade of House Drumm of Old Wyk, acquired through brutal persuasion.
"These blades," Loki declared, his voice resonating with an arcane hum, "are forged of Valyrian steel, a magic of this land. But they are weak, products of lesser gods. We will purify them, combine them, and infuse them with the strength of Odin, the fury of Thor, and the wisdom of Freya."
The Skardheim smiths, guided by Loki's precise magical instruction, began the arduous, ritualistic process. They constructed a special forge, fed by rare, magically potent timbers salvaged from ancient Westerosi forests, and heated by fires infused with Loki's own blood and ancient Nordic runes. The air crackled with raw energy, the metal glowing with an unnatural, pulsating light.
First, Nightfall was placed into the searing heart of the forge. Loki stood over it, chanting ancient Nordik incantations, his hand drawing complex runes in the air. The Valyrian steel, renowned for its magic, screamed and warped, resisting the foreign energy. Sparks, infused with raw magic, flew off, stinging the air. Loki poured his will into the blade, breaking its connection to its Westerosi heritage, severing its loyalty to the Drowned God and the Harlaws. The blade writhed, then slowly, agonizingly, began to melt, its distinctive ripple pattern flowing like mercury.
Next, Red Rain joined it. This blade, known for its deep crimson hue, also resisted, its own ancient magic flaring. Loki plunged Oakhide into the molten steel, drawing on its innate connection to the sea and the old gods of Skardheim. The combined metals swirled, merging into a brilliant, swirling vortex of silver and crimson, a dance of two conflicting magical energies being forced into a new, unified form.
For three days and three nights, the forging continued without pause. Loki did not sleep, his eyes burning with arcane fire, his body channeling immense magical power. He guided the smiths, his voice a constant, low chant, directing the shaping of the new metal. Hammers, wielded by warriors who had fought alongside him, struck with rhythmic precision, each blow imbued with intent. The sound was deafening, the heat oppressive, the air thick with the smell of magic and molten steel.
Finally, as the third night waned and the first rays of the rising sun pierced the ruined halls of Harrenhal, the forging reached its climax. The molten metal, now a single, unified mass, was drawn from the forge. Loki gripped the glowing, formless metal with his bare, magically shielded hands, shaping it with his will, twisting and compressing it with sheer magical force. He infused it with the power of the storms, the unyielding strength of Skardheim's mountains, and the endless fury of the northern seas.
When he finally plunged the newly formed blade into a bath of chilled, consecrated seawater (collected from the Drowned God's desecrated altars), a deafening hiss erupted. Steam billowed, obscuring the vision. When it cleared, Loki stood triumphant, holding his new weapon.
It was a magnificent double-bladed axe, immense in size, its head gleaming with a wicked, razor-sharp edge forged from the fused Valyrian steel. The metal itself was a swirling pattern of dark silver and deep crimson, pulsating with an inner light. Its long, thick haft was carved from the heartwood of an ancient weirwood tree, taken from a desecrated grove on the Iron Islands, its blood-red wood intertwined with carved runes of power and conquest. It was a weapon of unparalleled beauty and terrifying might, infused with the magic of two worlds, but now bound utterly to Loki's will.
Loki held it aloft. The air around him shimmered. He felt a surge of raw, untamed power flow through him, a connection to the very elements themselves. "I name thee Stormbreaker," Loki declared, his voice booming, echoing through the ruined castle. "The storm of Westeros. The breaker of kings. The weapon of Skardheim."
The Skardheimers present, Hakon, Thora, Kael, and the smiths, dropped to one knee, their heads bowed in awe. They had witnessed a forging of legend, a new epoch beginning. Oakhide, Loki's old axe, was laid reverently aside, its purpose fulfilled. Stormbreaker was the blade for the coming age, a tangible manifestation of Loki's unyielding ambition and his growing magical prowess.
Westeros Reacts: A Realm in Disarray
The news of Lannisport and now Harrenhal, coupled with the horrific tales from the Riverlands, pushed Westeros to the brink of chaos. King Robert's grand army, slowly assembling in the Riverlands, was now faced with an enemy that refused to fight on their terms.
King's Landing: Robert's Fury and the Serpent's Gains
In the Red Keep, Robert Baratheon was a king unraveling. His face was a mask of fury and frustration. "Harrenhal! Harrenhal has fallen? To barbarians coming up the rivers? What is this madness?" He slammed his fist onto the Small Council table, cracking the polished wood. "Tywin Lannister sits on his gold, protecting his own! And Stannis defies me! Where are my armies? Where are my ships?"
Varys, ever the soothing voice of reason, yet subtly twisting the knife, bowed low. "Your Grace, the enemy employs… unconventional tactics. They strike swiftly, burn, and disappear into the rivers. They are not like the Ironborn, who fight honorably on the sea. They are like ghosts, Your Grace, everywhere and nowhere." He glanced at Littlefinger, a silent acknowledgment of the chaos they both relished. "The Riverlords are in disarray, their lands burning. They demand aid, Your Grace. Immediate aid."
Littlefinger, playing his role of the loyal, though weary, servant, sighed. "Indeed, Your Grace. The cost of this war… it mounts daily. The granaries of the Riverlands, vital for King's Landing, are being put to the torch. Soon, even the capital will feel the pinch of hunger. Perhaps… perhaps a more direct approach is needed. To draw them out." He knew Robert hated sieges and preferred grand battles. He was already drafting letters in his mind, subtly urging Riverlords to engage the Skardheimers directly, to bleed themselves for the Crown, weakening them further for his own machinations.
Cersei Lannister, pale and agitated, spoke with rare urgency. "Robert, my father writes that the Golden Tooth is under threat! These barbarians mean to cut off the Westerlands! You must send your armies to relieve the Riverlands and secure the pass! Our gold, our very strength, is at risk!" She felt a profound fear, a fear that surpassed even her usual contempt for Robert. Her family's dominion was crumbling. She secretly dispatched her own riders, desperate to warn Jaime and to ascertain the true extent of the threat to her father's lands.
Robert, overwhelmed, finally lashed out. "Send word to Lord Commander Mormont of the Night's Watch! Demand he sends every man he can spare! Demand he send the Old Bear himself! These are wildlings! He knows how to fight wildlings!" His desperation was clear, his demands irrational, his mind grasping at any straw, no matter how distant or illogical. He even considered sending scouts to the Stormlands, demanding Lord Renly assemble his forces, further scattering the Crown's power.
Winterfell: Eddard's Precautions and Robb's Eagerness
In Winterfell, the news was received with solemn faces. Eddard Stark, despite the distant threat, felt a growing sense of dread. "They move fast," he murmured, studying maps of the Riverlands. "They use the rivers. They avoid direct confrontation. This Loki is a cunning foe, not a simple brute. He has bypassed their strength and struck at their weakness."
Maester Luwin confirmed the grim reports. "Thousands of refugees, Lord Stark. The Trident is choked with them. The Riverlords are calling for help, but their strength is shattered. We hear whispers of a new, terrible weapon, forged from Valyrian steel, wielder by Loki himself. They call it 'Stormbreaker'."
Robb Stark, young and fiercely loyal, spoke up. "Lord Father, the King demands we march south. My mother's home, Riverrun, is in danger. We must go. We must meet this threat!" His youthful eagerness was palpable, but Eddard saw the trap.
Eddard, however, paused. "Robert's 'grand army' will be a slow, lumbering beast. These Skardheimers will strike and fade, burning the land around them. We would be marching into a quagmire, chasing shadows." He knew the North's strength lay in its cohesion and knowledge of its own land. To march south into a fragmented war would be a gamble. "No, Robb. Not yet. Our duty is to the North. We will continue to fortify our coasts. Send scouts deeper into the Neck, watching the river approaches. If they attempt to sail north, we will meet them on our own terms." He sent a carefully worded raven to Robert, affirming the North's loyalty but emphasizing coastal defense as their immediate priority, a subtle defiance that he knew would irk the King. He also quietly began reinforcing Moat Cailin, the ancient stronghold guarding the Neck, fearing Loki might attempt to breach the North through its narrow bottleneck.
Casterly Rock: Tywin's Defensive Gambit and Lingering Vengeance
Tywin Lannister, though seething with controlled rage over Lannisport, reacted with cold, surgical precision. He had received Robert's demands, and contemptuously ignored them. His priority was Casterly Rock and the remaining Westerlands.
"The Golden Tooth," Tywin declared, his voice like chipped ice. "These barbarians will attempt to seize it, to cut us off. Send Lord Roland Crakehall, with every man he can muster, to reinforce the pass. Build palisades, dig ditches, make them bleed for every inch."
He then turned to the defense of Casterly Rock. "Fortify the harbor. Prepare fire ships. Every ship in the Westerlands is to be converted for war. We will not be caught unawares again." Tywin had learned his lesson, but at a terrible cost. He would make Loki pay for it. He dispatched agents to gather intelligence on Loki's forces, their numbers, their tactics, their weaknesses. He would fight this war on his terms, to protect his house, not to serve a foolish king. He began to plan his own offensive, a counter-stroke against the Skardheimers, not waiting for Robert's disorganized relief force. His vengeance would be meticulous and absolute.
Dragonstone: Stannis's Stern Resolve and Hidden Ambition
Stannis Baratheon, grim and unyielding, watched the chaos unfold with a grim satisfaction. He had foreseen this. Robert's weakness, his lack of foresight, was finally costing the realm dearly.
"They burn the Riverlands," Stannis muttered to Davos. "They avoid open battle. They strike where they are least expected. This 'Bloodaxe' is no fool. He understands the nature of war better than any man in King's Landing. And now, they speak of a new axe, 'Stormbreaker,' a weapon of immense power. This realm is truly tested."
"Will you not sail, my Lord, to aid the King?" Davos asked, though he knew the answer.
"And leave the Crownlands open to attack? And my fleet scattered chasing shadows?" Stannis scoffed. "No. Let Robert's forces bleed. My duty is to the realm, and to the true King. I will keep my fleet consolidated. I will train my men. I will stand ready. If these barbarians dare to sail into the Narrow Sea, they will face a wall of steel and fire they have never seen before. And when the realm finally realizes its folly, they will know where to find a hand capable of seizing the reins." He continued to send out his own, more precise warnings, to other lords, particularly those in the Stormlands and the Reach, urging them to prepare for an enemy that struck from the sea and the rivers. He also began quietly gathering intelligence on the various lords, assessing their loyalty, their strengths, and their weaknesses, in preparation for a time when the Crown might truly be vulnerable.
Loki's Masterstroke: The Golden Tooth and River Dominance
As the Riverlands burned and Westeros fragmented in its response, Loki Bloodaxe executed the next phase of his plan with ruthless precision. While his raiding parties continued to sow chaos along the Trident, denying the King's gathering army any local resources, he dispatched Jarl Hakon with a swift, powerful force to the Golden Tooth.
The Golden Tooth, the vital mountain pass connecting the Westerlands to the Riverlands, was lightly defended, as Tywin's initial forces were slow to mobilize. Lord Roland Crakehall, though brave, was no match for the Skardheimers. Hakon, leading his berserkers and a contingent of heavy axe-wielders, scaled the treacherous slopes, bypassing the main fortifications. They struck from unexpected angles, using their knowledge of mountain warfare gleaned from Skardheim's own rugged terrain.
The battle for the Golden Tooth was short and brutal. Roland Crakehall fought fiercely, but his men, caught between the brutal Skardheimers and the unforgiving mountain, broke and fled. Hakon secured the pass, planting the dragon banner high above the Golden Tooth. He then ordered his engineers to collapse strategic sections of the pass, effectively sealing it off, trapping Tywin Lannister's army in the Westerlands.
"The lion is caged!" Hakon roared, his voice echoing through the newly impassable pass. "Let them gnaw on their gold! They will not taste the Riverlands!"
With the Golden Tooth secured, Loki now had an open path into the Riverlands, largely unchallenged. His drakkars, unhindered by enemy fleets or strongpoints, navigated the intricate network of rivers, reaching as far as the Green Fork and the Blue Fork. He established temporary, mobile bases along the riverbanks, protected by palisades and watchful warriors. From these bases, raiding parties would strike outwards, hitting supply lines, burning small castles, and terrorizing the populace.
The strategy was brilliant in its simplicity and devastating in its effect. The King's army, a lumbering giant, was trying to gather in a land that was rapidly being stripped bare. They would march for days, only to find burned villages, empty granaries, and no enemy to fight in a pitched battle. Their supply lines would be stretched, their morale would plummet, and their strength would be bled away by endless, frustrating skirmishes against an enemy they could not pin down.
Loki, always seeking to deepen the psychological impact, ordered a new, more insidious form of terror. He dispatched his most cunning warriors, often disguised as common folk, to infiltrate the refugee camps and towns, spreading rumors, sowing discord, and undermining faith in the King and his lords. Whispers of a "River Demon" who could appear anywhere, of the Drowned God's curse, of the futility of resistance, permeated the already desperate Riverlands.
From his makeshift command center on a captured merchant barge, now heavily fortified and disguised as a river-going warship, Loki watched the chaos unfold. He felt the fear across the land, a growing wave of despair that fed his own power. He looked at the vast, fertile plains stretching out before him, ripe for conquest.
He held Stormbreaker in his hand, its weight a comforting thrum of power. He felt its connection to him, its thirst for conquest. He felt its connection to the very elements of Westeros, a power he had stolen and reshaped to his own will. His visions now pulsed with greater clarity. He saw the armies of Westeros, bogged down, starving, their commanders squabbling. He saw the exhaustion on Robert's face, the frustration on Eddard's. He saw the cold rage of Tywin Lannister, trapped behind the Golden Tooth. He saw Stannis, a stoic sentinel, waiting for the true reckoning.
But more than that, he saw the deep, underlying currents of power in Westeros. The old houses, the ancient traditions, the rigid social order. All were vulnerable. He would not just conquer the land; he would break its spirit, its very foundation. He would replace their Seven with his own gods, their kings with his own rule, their laws with his own brutal code.
The whispers of his name, Loki Bloodaxe, were no longer just whispers. They were screams, echoing across a realm that was beginning to realize it was facing an enemy unlike any in its history. An enemy who did not want gold or glory alone, but total, absolute dominion. An enemy who understood that to truly defeat a people, you must first break their will, and then, leave them with nothing but the choice to bend the knee or die. And Loki, the Serpent in the Rivers, was just getting started.