Footsteps played throughout the depths of the northern Barrowland Woods, resounding off the trunks of the evergreen trees as a rather hefty man stomped his way through the brush. Leaves and pine needles crunched underfoot, crushed into the frosty grass by steel-clad boots, scaring away the few mildly brave forest critters remaining in the area. No other noise made itself present over the cacophonous march, barring the occasional startled cry of a squirrel or bird, and the lack of outside distractions was taking its toll on the travel weary soldier. He scampered off to find a clearing so the signal beacon could be lit. It didn't take him long to find a small break in the trees, large enough to allow the smoke to easily pass through, and he quickly set up a small circle of rocks to contain the blaze. "N-now..., was it two flashes for fall back, or three?" He shifted his coif back out of his view, grunting as it gripped his flabby face before undoing its strap and tossing the chain piece to the ground. "Man I h-hate those things. They don't make this stuff big enough for guys like me."
He loosed a shaky chuckle and lit a small fire with a quick spark from his flint. "Okay, t-two flashes to retreat...." The hefty boy sprinkled a pinch of bright white dust on the flames, flinching back when it flared into a dazzling blue pyre and released a thick cloud of dark smoke. "Always surprises me.... Why do I have to do the signals? It's not like I'm good at it. Takes forever to do. And what if the Ironborn found me? I'd be dead! I can't fight!"
His grumbling quieted to nothing more than mumbles as the flames slowly began to peter out, no longer fueled by the dry grass or magical dust, and tossed a second handful of the powder into its origin. Another burst of energy surged into the mini inferno, momentarily illuminating the area with its dazzling display as the scout shivered in his shoes. "Stupid fire.... I can't see anything...."
"That's not such a bad thing, eh, little dumpling? You won't have to see allll the little things that want to take a bite out of that ample meal you call your gut." The scout screamed, his unusually high voice piercing the air like a siren, and loosed an arrow from his bow in the direction of the voice. A round of disembodied cackling sounded from around the clearing, any trace of their origin lost in the glare of the signal pyre. "Such a funny boy. It's really a shame that we have to kill you and your friends, but orders are orders.... And you're such a tasty looking morsel...."
The scout whimpered, cowering near the fire for protection as a group of twenty Ironborn stalked out from the broken line of trees, sinister grins plastered on their faces. "Please, don't.... I'm not even old enough to marry! I'm only here because I have to be; I never wanted to hurt anybody!"
"No need to worry your juicy little head. We aren't really going to kill you...." The leader, small by raider standards, walked up to the boy and drew a sharp dagger across his cheek, tracing a fine red scratch along the plump skin. "Give us what we need to know and we will gladly let you go."
"Anything! Please, I'll tell you anything I know, just let me go!"
Another round of laughter filled the little clearing as a pungent odour began to overpower the scent of dry pine, originating from the fat scout. "Aww, you really are scared, eh? Poor little chunk pissed in his armour. That's gonna be such a bitch to get the smell out of." He chuckled softly and sat in front of the scout, crossing his forearms across his chest. "Now, if you want to go free like I promised, you're gonna have to tell me what I want.... What does that signal mean?"
"I-I don't know! I just d-do what I'm t-told." He yelped as the tingling draw of the leader’s dagger turned into sharp pain as he pressed it into his cheek, drawing a small line of blood from the puncture point. "It's a retreat signal! It's a retreat signal! We're moving southwest to meet up with the rest of our army! Please stop, I'm sorry!"
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" He cooed softly, lightening the pressure on his cheek and quickly lapped up the small trickle of blood as it ran down his rough digits. "So, what are you doing after you join your friends? What is your next target?"
"I d-dunno. I wasn't told. I just use the smoke signal whenever I'm told something new." He squirmed in his soggy armour, fresh tears streaking down his face as the signal fire slowly died down, sputtering as it reached its final breath. "Please, that's all I know. I'm just a relay scout. I- I don't even know how to fight!"
"Aww, well isn't that too bad? You didn't tell me everything I wanted to know, did you? I'm afraid you didn't hold up your end of the bargain." The Ironborn soldier smirked as the scout's face twisted into a deeper mask of terror and his trembling worsened and slapped the boy's shoulder. "I'm just playing with you, kid. Get out of here, but don't tell your Lord that you met us."
The boy nodded furiously, never taking his eyes off the Ironborn even as he stumbled through the urine-soaked foliage as he backed away, much to his predators' delight when he tripped over a loose root and sprinted off the moment his eye contact was broken. "Give him a second then rip him to pieces. We can't let him tell Tallhart what we know."
The nearest soldiers grinned as they primed their weapons for fight, yearning to tear into the helpless scout and feast on his fatty corpse. Already their stomachs were grumbling, aching for a meal better than the paltry catches they'd had to forage for over the past few days. A twig snapping in the distance was all the signal they needed to take off into the near-black forest, their beserker rage amplified by the thrill of their hunt, but they hardly made it past the tree line before they fell to the dirt, their bodies peppered with the shafts of arrows. Their death cries, horrible screeching throaty yells more resembling grinding metal than animalistic noise, echoed through the immediate area, alerting the remaining Ironborn who immediately drew their curved blades and feather-carved bows.
"Damned pig!" He growled, his throat vibrating in his frustration as a massive unit of archers stepped into the break not too dissimilar to how he and his raiders had prowled out to surround their chubby target. Each of them was clad in a gray, green, or brown cloak and many had branches or leaves plastered on them. "Any chance on letting us go? We promise not to tell our warchief what we know." He held up his hands in the air as if to surrender and chuckled, letting his words draw out in a singsong fashion.
The leader, a youth of twenty with an arrow knocked in his great ash longbow smiled, inclining his head to his soldiers who raised their weapons at the unspoken command. "I'm sure something could be arranged, seeing how kind you were to let our Big Jon go, but we're going to need something from you, first."
Said scout reappeared from the forest, now hefting a great iron cudgel, a knowing smirk on his face as he took his place amongst the rangers. It was a wicked weapon, with a shaft and rounded curved head of iron.
"Hah. As if we, Ironborn, would give in to you Northerners demands." He chuckled and shook his head. "We do not sow! We won't submit now or-" The whistle of an arrow zipping past the raider’s head to be embedded in the eye of one of his comrades ended his rant before he could even raise his voice, instead drawing out a terror-filled croak in its place.
"Well, that's a shame right there. A perfectly good Ironborn, dead before he could even sire his first, most likely. Nice shot, Erik." An older man to the commander’s right smiled and gave a curt nod before stringing another arrow, this one aimed dead center on the leader’s face. “As you can see, I’m much less forgiving than you seem to be. I have no qualms against killing you all right here, especially considering all of the trouble your kind have caused for me and this land.”
A dark scowl spread across the Ironborn’s face, an act mirrored by the commander, until the man began to raise her hand and fear finally registered in the foreigner’s mind. “No! Wait! Okay, you damn Northmen. What do you want to know? Where our raidchief is?” One of the Ironborn behind the leader swore noisily, motioning angrily with his fist as he yelled at him, but he just waved him off with a scoff and angry swear of his own.
"What did he say?"
"The idiot was telling me not to say anything. What does it matter, though? I talk, we're more likely to live. If I don't then we're dead for sure, eh?" The man shrugged and kick some dirt at the Ironborn behind him, silencing his outrage as he tried to clear the debris from his face.
The commander frowned, his jaw setting as he tried to catch some common phrasing, but shrugged it off with a sigh. “Fine. Anyway, you’re a raid leader, so you should know more than some lowly scout. Where is the bulk of your ships? You were suppose to be off the coast of Cape Kraken.”
The raider would have laughed had it not been for the threat of death staring at him from the curve of a longbow, but could not help the small smile that crossed his features. “You haven’t figured it out yet, eh? We never had more than a few raiders in this forest, most of which are gone or dead.” A soft chuckle escaped his throat, but he quickly swallowed her mirth when Erik’s line was drawn taut. “The rest had gone upriver by about a day. They’re headed for Torrhen’s Square and the Tallharts.”
“Gods damned you all!” The commander swore. It was at this moment that one of the Ironborn tried to bolt, Big Jon was upon him in a flash, weight masking his speed, swinging his cudgel in moments. The weapon crushed the Raider’s leg, splintering bones and tearing meat. The Northmen and the Ironborn in the clearing all flinched as the Ironborn screamed, but none dared move. He was silent a moment later as the chubby scout caved his head in like an egg.
“Farsight!” The chain-clad recon troop jumped to attention, saluting more stiffly than before, and stood tall. “Go find our horses and bring them back here, then tell our flanks to converge on the northern bank.” A choked ‘Yes, sir’ was all the response the angered man received before the ranger took flight to fulfill his orders.
“S-so, can we go now? If we don’t report soon, w-we’re all dead anyway.”
“No! I have other questions that need answered before I let any of you sorry lot off. Patronizing and hunting an innocent man doesn’t sit too well with me, so let’s hope your answers are adequate.” The commander sighed and settled stuck his bow back into the ground, frustrated that he had let he emotions loose so easily. “Where are your other ships located? We spotted hundreds of ships off the coast.”
“You really haven’t received any word, eh? Most of our ships are in your North, uhm... Bear Island, I think. Probably killed everything in the area.” The raider watched the younger man, gauging her reaction before continuing on. “The rest of our soldiers that aren’t harassing your villages and docks are keeping your fool Lord busy."
The cloaked commander sighed, kicking the rock dust from his shoe, and turned his back to the cornered raiders. "One final question. Which ship does the one incharge of all of this is stay on and his entourage?"
"I- I don't really know. I heard he was going to attack with our van, but that news is old. I report to my own raidchief. Only he would have new information." Commander Tormin Stark nodded and began his walk back into the dense woods, nodding almost imperceptibly to Erik and his subordinates, a motion that did not go unnoticed by the nerve-wracked raider. "Wait! You said you'd let us go!”
Tormin stopped, glancing nonchalantly over his shoulder at the distraught raiders, and shrugged. “You’re free to go. Let’s just hope you can outfly our arrows.” He scratched his chin and shrugged again before waving the soldiers off. “I’ll even give you a headstart. Seems fair, given the recent circumstances, eh?” The raid leader blanched, her beak moving noiselessly as she stared at the high commander, and backed away slowly, unable to will his legs to run. “You have five seconds. Five....”
His comrades found their strength and took to forest, speeding off into the silver-bathed night. They would never make it in time. “It seems you’re not as brave as you let on. Four.... It’s a shame that you couldn’t keep up your facade. Three....” The commander turned on his heels, and drew the ornate greatsword from his silver scabbard, and hefted it, never once taking his eyes off the petrified raider. “I was looking forward to fighting something of my caliber, but all I’m left with is a boastful pirate with nothing more to his name than a slot between his legs. Two....” Tormin stood in front of the Ironborn, his weapon raised from the ground, and kicked back up onto his shoulder, using his grip and years of practice to keep it steady, and finally came eye to eye with the much older being. “Any final words before I silence you and yours forever?”
Behind his commander, Erik nodded and aimed his bow up towards the boughs of the trees, and shot the projectile into the sky. Overhead, dozens of arrow zipped over the clearing, momentarily blotting out the light of the moon and leaving only the glow of the fire’s embers to illuminate his gruesome smile as he lifted his blade above the terror-stricken man’s head.
“One…”
Evan frowned down at the assortment of letters on the sheet of parchment in front of him. He had come to know the individual sounds quite well, but putting them together to actually make words was proving much more difficult. It didn't help that he didn't really understand what the words themselves meant.
He couldn't exactly remember how he'd learned to speak the common tongue as a babe but he knew that already having a reasonably good grasp of speaking the language had made things more difficult.
Valyria. That had been one of the first words he'd learned in this language and it still seemed a strange one to him even after two months of living here. But pretty much all the words seemed strange except some of the people's names.
He looked down at the parchment again, trying to spot any familiar words like 'the' or 'was'. Luckily, it was his mother's turn to read aloud to him at that moment, which gave Evan a bit more time to sound out the words in his head.
"Evan, are you ready?" she asked. The young lord put his hand back down and glanced at the parchment.
"Um, yes." He cleared his throat and focused. "Lo jention mire noomasmi-"
"Nūmāzme," Lady Ellain corrected.
" Lo jention mirre nūmāzme ezi, no, ēza. "
"It’s a hard ēza."
"Lo jention mirre nūmāzme ēza, iderenna …" Evan frowned at the unfamiliar word. "Kw…Kwoo…Kwoopsa…”
"Qopsa."
"…qopsa verdagon issa." Evan breathed a sigh of relief, glad that he had got through the sentence with minimal mistakes.
"Good." His mother commented. "Did you understand what you read?" This was asked pretty much every time her son read aloud, although it wasn't often that he could reply in the affirmative.
“If he did, that makes him smarter than me,” his father accounted from the doorway. In his hands were too heavy wooden swords, and he kicked the door shut behind him. “Suddenly, an assassin! Defend yourself!”
Evan hurried over to his father who held out a practice sword for him. Before Rickard could react, Evan ignored the sword and immediately went for the Lord's shin, kicking it hard with his boot. Rickard yelped in surprise in pain and dropped both practice swords, holding his shin in pain. Evan grabbed a sword, kicked the other away, and swung hard at Rickard's side, whose quick reflexes kicked in and dodged the swing. He did not expect the follow up vial of splattered in his face, courtesy of Evan. Rickard rubbed at his face, trying to wipe the ink from his eyes while his attempted to flank him. It was pure luck that Rickard's flailing prevented Evan from getting a hit in. Rickard finally rubbed the ink from his face and turned to Evan.
"You dirty trickster," Rickard whispered. "Good! Now on guard!"
Evan dodged his father's downward strike and attempted to hit his leg again. Rickard moved his leg and swung his sword low. Evan jumped back as he dodged Rickard's swings and stabs, using his small size and speed to great effect. The study gave little room to maneuver or wield a sword; that was the point of these exercises. However his father drove him back and made him retreat to a corner of the study. He looked surprise when he felt a stone wall at his back and his father blocking his way with a sword raised high. Rickard grinned.
"Well now, what now my boy?" Rickard asked.
The young Stark smirked before collapsing on the ground with crocodile tears flowing down his face. He dropped his weapon and let out a shrieking cry.
"MOTHER!"
"RICKARD WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"
Rickard turned around to see his wife's dagger an inch from his face, an absolutely furious look on her face. Gale was at her side, hackles raised and teeth bared as she growled aggressively.
The Lord’s adams apple bobbled, eyeing the knife with non-too pleasant expression. The practice sword dropped from his hands with a clatter and he slowly put his hands up. “Son, would you mind calling back your mother?”
“Do I win?” Evan asked with a smile. Rickard could only grunt, before suddenly grabbing his wife’s wrist, wrenching the knife from her hand as he seized her lips in his. She struggled against him, beating his chest. With a chuckle, Rickard pushed his wife away and dodged her swat, reaching down to rub Gale behind the ears.
“Only because your mother wins your fights for you,” he jested.
“Your father thinks his games funny,” she fired back, as she picked up her book again. “Is there a reason you felt need to ‘assassinate’ him during his studies?”
“I would speak with my son about the tourney. Walk with me,” he offered, and Evan all to readily shot from his seat, despite his mother’s warnings that they would resume upon his return.
Evan kept close to his father as they ascended to the second level of the keep. There was a great history here in these walls, he sensed, far more ancient than what than what any other castle in the Seven Kingdoms could boast. He had seen no ghosts, but a certain feeling persisted that reminded him of their presence. He and his father crossed another gilded arcade, then traversed a rounded hall of gleaming chandeliers, before coming to a set of doors at the end of a bright passage, sunlight filtering through the dozens of windows to freckle the floor. The doors opened to a slender stone bridge that led to one of the mighty stone towers that overlook the innermost ring of Winterfell. Rickard motioned for his son to join him as they gazed out over Winterfell. Down below, from their lofty perch, the lords watched as the smallfolk brought in the last of the winter wheat.
Rickard was silent for a moment, watching his people, before he decided to broach it.
“I have found a wife for you to marry-“
“No.”
Rickard sighed, fully expecting this response. "You will and that is final."
"I don’t want to, and can’t make me." He did not shy away from Lord Rickard’s sharp gaze.
The old wolf's lips grew so thin they seemed to disappear. "Hn," he grunted. "So I can’t." He leaned forward and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, elbows resting on the crestellations of the bridge. "You intend to resist me on this?"
"I will." Evan nodded.
"A Lord has no need of a second son, especially with one as robust as your brother. I suppose the Wall would be as good a place for you," Rickard mused thoughtfully.
Evan's face hardened, and the tension returned with a fervor, teeth clenched so tight his jaws burned. "No, I will not." He would not be so easily dismissed. He swore.
And then he saw the terrible hint of a smile that was awful yet rare, a slight twitch in Rickard's jaw, almost like a nervous tic. "There it is," he said. "You've your mother's hot blood and my own cunning. What will you do to get what you desire? Slit my throat in my sleep? Strangle me?"
Evan kept his silence, teeth grinding. His father had rekindled his anger with by a few statements.
“What is her name?”
"She is the youngest daughter of Lord Tyget Crakehall, Leona."
"Leona Crakehall." Evan repeated the name slowly, committing it to memory. It tasted vile on his lips. "You would have me marry some Southron?"
The northern lord around rumbled his agreement, his hands gripping the stone. "You can refuse the match if you find her unsuitable. And I suppose you might find some third or fourth daughter of some minor bannerman and marry because your heart tells you to." said Rickard softly. "But if you can pull your head from your arse, you might see the same future I do."
“As Lord of Casterly Rock?”
“No,” the Lord of Winterferll admitted. “I would see you as King of the Seven Kingdoms.” At his son’s incredulous expression, he showed his hand. “Lord Crakehall intends to take the Iron Throne. I intend to help him do it. He will help us drive the Ironborn from our shores, and in exchange for bringing the Vale and the Riverlands into the fold he gives us his daughter as his ward. I would see you two married before Winter is upon us, and before others try their bid for the Seven Kingdoms.” he explained.
"You mean Five," Evan replied. "Lord Crakehall is in open rebellion against the Crown, and you control nearly half of Westeros."
His father’s tight smile remained. “His only son, Tywin, is heir to Casterly Rock. I have little doubt that between four kingdoms rising against them, the Tyrells can stand against him. Which makes him heir to the Iron Throne. You will be a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. And should Tywin suffer an accident…” his father trailed off, glancing over the bridge and at the several hundred foot drop below them.
“Mother would not find this honorable,” Evan whispered.
"Honorable?" Lord Rickard scoffed and reclaimed his stance, back to the edge. "There is nothing honorable about murder. I was there as the Boltons skinned Lannister alive on my orders. I held the knife myself. Each of his screams ensured that we would not become a footnote in the annals of history." The Stark lord regarded him with ageless eyes. “Honor is for men who can afford to be fools; for men who can afford to believe in illusions. A boy in your position cannot afford to be a fool. Not any longer. You think less of me because I would remove a threat? You think me dishonorable?"
"I do." There was no use lying.
"Of course you do. You've been raised on whimsical tales and chivalrous songs. I would expect no less from a boy your age. But you will come to learn the truth of the world, in time."
"And what is the truth, father?"
Rickard gave Evan a look so sharp and piercing he felt as if the man could kill with but a glance. "Honor doesn't exist," he said. "It is an idea born of shame – a farce conjured up by men to help them sleep at night. Family is all that matters. Family is all you have. Anything is admissible, in the defense of it, or the advancement of it." His father knelt infront of him, placing his hands on his shoulders. “I will not see you to dally away as a maester, or be resigned to some backwater keep because of a marriage by as something as fallible as youthful love. I will not see my son have less because of the order of his birth. You will have all that your brother will. He will rule the North, and you will rule the South.”
Rickard pulled a raven scroll from beneath his cloak.
“Those lessons should start now. Here, read this,” his father said, pushing the slip into his hands. Evan’s eyes widened in disbelief as he read the message, the damning words burning themselves in his brain.
‘The Iron Fleet have surrounded Bear Island.’
Evan’s worried expression met his father’s neutral one. “What are your orders, Lord Stark?” his father asked.
“Me?! But I don’t-“
“Yes you are. If I and your your brother was dead, you’d have to make this decision.”
“Have you received word from Tormin?” Evan asked, his throat dry.
“I told you, this decision is yours-“ his father tried to restate, only to be cut off with an angry outburst from his son.
“I need to know where my First Ranger is to position him!”
Rickard smiled to himself. “We received word from Torren Square; your brothers patrol checked in a few days ago. Apparently, they have been busying harrying ships along the river. An Ironborn fleet trying to sail inland.”
Evan closed his eyes, he could picture it now. It would take days, maybe weeks, for them to fight against the current and make their way upriver to the lake. And along the way, they would be fighting a guerilla war against the forest itself.
Constant sniping during day and night. Trees felled upstream to impede or damage ships as they floated down river. Arrows covered in pitch tar and lit, embedding themselves in limp sails and dry wooden docks. Day after day, unending. Nerves would be frayed. Morale low. Every inch they sailed, the Ironborn would pay dearly.
“We don’t tell mother,” Evan whispered softly, and Lord Stark nodded in agreement. It was unspoken, but they both knew the fate that would befall the Mormont’s. A small blessing that one of their sons squired for the Boltons, and a daughter served as a handmaiden to the Karstarks. Though Bear Island was gone, the Mormonts would stand again.
“They’ll never hold the island. Its too far north for them to survive the winter, which means they’ll pillage and leave…” Evan mused, gritting his teeth. His father had played him perfectly. By placing the fate of the Mormonts, his mother’s family, in his hands…
“Crakehall swears to drive the Ironborn into the sea?” the boy asked. His father’s look gave him all the answer he needed. Then they needed to begin planning. “Then we send ravens to Torren Square. Ready the fleet. And we welcome them to the North…”
Jakkon’s fleet had arrived two weeks later, all the worse for wear. Of their original number, only half had remained and they had been forced to abandon ten long boats along the length of the river.
What they found was a Northern Fleet, armed and waiting for them. With their own ships blocking the path down the river and their ability to turn, it became a bloodbath. Large galleys and cogs turned the smaller longboats the splinters, ramming them mercilessly and turning their decks to matchwood.
Tormin Stark stood on the prow of the Icewind, the lake glimmering in firelight beneath him as ships burned across the lake. Behind him stood a mix of his own rangers, some of Lord Tallhart’s men, and men of the One-Hearth. They shifted uneasily behind him, but the Stark had eyes for only one prize: the Windbreaker.
“Bring me her captain. Alive.” Tormin stressed, as the ship neared.
With a crunch that shook the heavens, the ram slammed into the Windbreaker’s starboard side, rending wood to splinters. Tormin gripped the ropes and kicked off, sending the Stark Lord swinging across the waters of the lake and across the deck of the Windbreaker. He gave a small tumble as bounced out of the flaps with a bellowing roar, leaping upon an unsuspecting Ironborn just below. He grinned down into his face, one hand around his neck with his nails digging into his neck and his other holding his greatsword in place between his ribs. His hips pushed against his weakly flailing legs as he slowly suffocated. “Scary isn’t? That’s what it feels like to drown,” he laughed, pushing his sword deeper into his barrel and through his lung before shoving his nails under his esophagus and ripping his throat out in a spray of blood.
That wasn’t enough.
Tormin raised his hands and buried the sword in his throat, feeling the blade catch against bone. His scream subsided. It was strange how easily the steel parted his flesh. It was like cutting into a slow roasted boar. Hot blood gushed over his hands, and the raider let out a whet, gurgling whine that sounded like the sort of sound a battered dog might make. Or a man whose throat was a gaping red ruin.
Tormin couldn't organize his thoughts. He felt too much. There was sadness and sorrow, enough to crush a man, and fury unlike he known far to well, beyond what he thought it possible to feel. The guilt was the worse, the sure knowledge that this – all of it – was his fault. All the men bobbing face down in the water’s of the lake, screaming as the ships burned and tossed in the bay. If he had been more attentive, more decisive, more knowledgeable, more-
The raider squirmed for several more seconds as the Stark withdrew his sword, revelling in the hot fluids coating his face, before setting his eyes on his next victim. He leapt from the raider, his boots ripping into his flesh for better traction as he left the man to drown in his own blood, and raced at full-speed, his earlier fatigue long forgotten, towards a small boy barely large enough to even hold a weapon. This time, his bloodlusting screech drew his target’s attention and the young raider turned just in time to swipe her cutlass across Tormin’s left cheek, but only served to further the crazed man’s fury.
Sword readied, he thrust his weapon up under the Ironborn’s leg, lifting him into the air and piercing him all the way through before pinning him to the ground with the greatsword. He chuckled madly as his prey cried in pain, drinking in his agony, and dragged his coarse tongue across the younger boy’s tear-stained cheek, licking up the salty tears. Not needing his hands to hold his now-embedded spear, Tormin dug his nails into the other’s stomach as he pressed their bodies together. “You came into my land. MY LAND.”
He dug his fingers deeper into his enemy’s flesh, ignoring the wailing boy’s cries for mercy. He bent closer to the lad and tore into his neck, tearing through flesh and skin with little effort. Eyes wide, the Ironborn boy’s life slowly faded as Tormin tore his fingers from his gut smeared it across his face.
Tormin grabbed the fallen raider’ cutlass and took off across the deck, recklessly tackling another raider mid-fight and sending them both plummeting to the deck. He landed on his back, snapping his spine with the impact and knocking the wind from himself, but staggered to his feet and began hacking into his shoulders, flinging flesh, blood, and bone all around him. Panting, Tormin stepped away from the mane’s corpse only to be hit in the shoulder himself by a friendly-fired arrow.
Pain lanced along his side as the broad-headed shaft ground against his bone, eliciting a howl of pain, and turned his sights on the archer that had struck him. He ripped the arrow from his arm, screaming as his own blood began to flow down his hand, and sprinted towards the offending soldier. Before the Glover acher could react, the Stark slammed the butt of his cutlass into the man’s face, knocking him to the ground. “Next time, you’re dead!”
He could feel himself building up to a crescendo, grunting and moaning breathily into the chill night air, only to be charged by a pair of Ironborn, their scimitars pulled back as they rushed above the uneven ground. Tormin screamed in frustration, falling backwards as they converged upon him, and reached for his broadsword still in the boy. The first Ironborn howled in pain as he tore his stomach open, ripping through skin and muscle, and floundered as he tried to pull his intestine back into his stomach.
The second male swung and missed, recovered with a flare of panache, and spun back to face his target only to find the young lord already charging him, his own greatsword slashed in a downswing. He dodged backwards, slipping on his comrade’s slick, steaming entrails, and fell to his back on the dying raider’s side. Tormin’s blade sliced through the air, taking off half of the raider’s forearm before embedding itself in his companion’s back with a sickening slice. Both men yowled in agony, but he was not done with them yet.
Tormin pounced onto the maimed man and slammed his fist into the barely conscious raider’s neck, the sharp barbs along his knuckles puncturing his esophagus and filling his throat with crimson blood, as he beat them to death.
His body was practically screaming for release as he looked for his next victim, but the melee had come to an end as the remaining Ironborn forces retreated into the distant woods, or attempted to sail down river in what few ships remained, leaving his own army to gather up the freshly wounded and lick their wounds and him with the raging inferno in his blood. His chest heaved from the exertion, but his body would not be denied its finale. He turned his eyes to the man his men dragged forth, the original target of his pent up battle lust, and licked up some of the sanguine fluid dripping from his fingers.
The man’s armor was rent in several places, and was slathered with the blood and gore of both his own and Tallhart’s men. This was no Jakkon Greyjoy of Pyke. His men urgently told him that this was the man manning the Windbreaker, that their target was nowhere to be found with him and several of his best.
That was alright.
His predatory grin widened, heedless of the fresh laceration across his cheek, until he stood imposingly over the man, his face inches away.
“You’re no Lord Jakkon, but you’ll do. It is an honor to meet you. My name is Tormin Stark,” he dropped his arms and the greatsword fell at his feet. He breathed deeply and steadily, and as if they had moved all on their own, he found his hands wrapped around the Ironborn's thick neck, squeezing the breath from him. The man’s body had taken on an eerie stillness, stiff as stone, as if his fear had paralyzed him, as darkness claimed his vision. No one tried to stop the young wolf this time. He watched, almost fascinated, as the life bled from the raider's beady eyes.
“Welcome to the North.”
Vec
kapuchu