Surging waves relentlessly battered the jagged black reefs, splintering into white foam that disappeared into the turbulent sea. A jet-black raven, feathers slick with rain, struggled against the gusts of wind before finally landing on a gray-black castle perched atop a jagged cliff. Its spires, tall and menacing, were streaked with bird droppings, giving the ancient fortress a weathered, untamed appearance.
A pair of pale, bony hands emerged from a moss-covered window to retrieve the bird. Maester Windamere, careful and deliberate, caught it and offered a small piece of fresh meat from a bowl resting on the wooden table. After settling the raven, he removed the letter tied to its leg and tucked it into his robes, hurrying out of the room.
Pyke, the seat of House Greyjoy, was a castle carved from stone and sea, perpetually cold, damp, and dark. Maesters assigned to the fortress rarely lived long. Diseases such as rheumatism and gout claimed many, and survival until natural old age was considered a blessing. Those who remained often whispered in fear about the fate of a Maester executed years ago—Balon Greyjoy had killed a Maester for failing to prevent his brother Urgon's death during a raid. The punishment was cruel and personal: Balon had severed the Maester's hand and forced him to attempt his own cure using the same methods.
Since that day, Balon Greyjoy's reputation for cruelty had spread across the Citadel, instilling fear in every Maester who dared to serve him. Still, orders were obeyed, successors sent to Pyke regardless of the danger. Rules were rules, after all.
Windamere ascended the narrow, spiraling stairway of the tower, the damp walls chilling his bones. At the top, he announced his presence to the grim-faced guard and pushed open the heavy door. Inside, King Balon Greyjoy sat before a glowing brazier, shrouded in a sealskin robe that hid his gaunt frame. Gray-black hair streaked with white fell over his shoulders, framing a face sharp and severe, with black eyes that glimmered with predatory intent.
"More news from the Riverlands?" Balon's voice was low, rough, and commanding.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Windamere handed him the letter and stepped back, bowing slightly.
Balon tore open the parchment, scanning it quickly. Then he tossed it into the brazier, muttering to himself, "First, they say my son will come to Pyke to discuss important matters. Then someone reports he is missing. Now, they claim Theon is on a secret mission. What in the world is that little wolf doing?"
"Maester, write back immediately," Balon ordered. "Tell those fools to investigate thoroughly before reporting. If there's a chance, find my son and bring him here—quickly! Otherwise… forget it."
The Maester nodded, leaving the freezing chamber at once. He felt as though lingering another moment might turn him into a frozen corpse.
Meanwhile, Balon Greyjoy moved to the window. Outside, the sky churned with dark clouds, and the Iron Islands were caught in a violent storm—rain pelted the jagged cliffs, thunder rolled across the waves, and at least a hundred longships swayed on the rough sea. Since news of Robert Baratheon's and Eddard Stark's deaths reached him, Balon had begun preparations for invasion. The western lands across the Narrow Sea were of no concern; even if he captured Casterly Rock, holding it against Tywin Lannister would be impossible. But the North was weak now. Its strong direwolf had been beheaded, and the young Stark children could hardly pose a threat. Iron and blood, Balon thought grimly, would reclaim his crown from the North.
A raven took flight from his hands, disappearing into the storm, while Balon watched the waves toss his fleet, plotting the path to vengeance.
---
Meanwhile, under the clearer skies of the Westernlands, Golden Tooth lay nestled between two mountains. Its granite walls were formidable, lined with arrow slits and high towers, a serpentine wall winding through the valley to connect to the surrounding cliffs. At the main gate, a broad ditch and iron-studded wooden doors offered additional defense. Only five riders could pass abreast through the gate, and the towers bristled with scorpions capable of firing foot-long iron-tipped bolts. Torchlight flickered across the walls, illuminating the sun-and-blue banners of House Lyfford.
Eddard Stark, concealed within the forest, studied the castle. Rumors of gold mines and treasure aside, its position and defenses meant a direct assault would be bloody and slow. Normally, Ser Foeller would have commanded five thousand men here. Even now, with many absent, the terrain favored the defenders. Eight thousand Northern cavalry, though elite, could not hope to capture it quickly without suffering heavy losses.
Additionally, Edmure Tully had mustered extra troops, bolstering Robb Stark's army with two thousand infantry from the Riverlands. While they could not operate as cavalry, their presence ensured that if the castle called for reinforcements, they would arrive quickly. Robb's plans required careful thought—there was little room for error.
"Your Majesty," Eddard whispered as he crouched beside Robb, "we cannot assault this castle head-on. If we do, the losses will be severe. The walls are strong, and the defenders well-prepared. Even our cavalry cannot breach them quickly."
Robb's gaze lingered on the fortifications, his jaw tightening. His soldiers were lightly armed, unprepared for prolonged siege warfare, and Golden Tooth's geography offered natural advantage. Yet, the King's determination did not waver. He would find a way.
After night fell, Robb took Eddard, Ser Brynden, Grey Wind, and a handful of personal guards closer to the castle to scout. The night was quiet, save for the wind rustling through the trees. Robb's mind worked furiously, calculating every approach, every potential trap.
Grey Wind, the direwolf, moved silently through the shadows. Its yellow eyes glowed as it sniffed the air, catching the scent of something unusual. Eddard noticed and suggested, "Your Majesty, Grey Wind has found something. Perhaps enemy scouts are hiding nearby. We should investigate."
Robb nodded. "Let's go together."
Abel, Dita Kalander, and Konn followed Eddard, while Robb's personal guards—Little Jon, Daisy Mormont, and Owen Norrey—accompanied him. Ser Brynden trailed silently, observing and ready. The group moved through the forest under the mottled moonlight, every step measured, every sound sharp.
Suddenly, a branch snapped under Ser Brynden's boot. A shout rang out from the darkness: "Who's there?!" Torches flared, revealing a group of twenty to thirty men driving mules along the forest path. They wore old leather armor, weapons drawn, eyes wide with surprise.
"Kill them!" their leader roared, charging at the intruders. The two groups collided with a clash of steel.
Ser Brynden struck first, his longsword piercing an enemy chest. Robb held his blade ready, composed but alert. Eddard spun his battle-axe, severing a dark-clad figure in two, blood splattering his black armor. Abel, Konn, and Dita Kalander fought fiercely, arrows and blades cutting through the enemy ranks. Daisy Mormont, Little Jon, and Owen Norrey followed, their training and strength overwhelming the unprepared raiders.
The attackers, though numerous, could not match the disciplined, ferocious Northerners. Half of them fell, and the rest scattered into the forest, shouts echoing as they fled.
Grey Wind's howl followed them, and human screams soon returned from the trees. Within ten minutes, the surviving bandits stumbled back, shouting, "We surrender! We surrender! Please, spare us from the wolf!"
Robb commanded, "Tie them up. Find out what they're doing."
Eddard moved toward a mule, lifting the canvas covering its cargo. Wooden barrels of wine gleamed in the moonlight, the golden liquid fragrant and familiar. He tasted a small sip—Golden Arbor wine. His eyes narrowed slightly. Smugglers, he thought. And now, perhaps, a new opportunity had opened before them.
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