[53] Invasion of the Ironborn
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The Great Hall of Winterfell felt subdued. It had been only a few days since I drove the Ironborn out—or more accurately, burned them out—but many of their scars remained, affecting the people of north. Torches flared along the high stone walls, casting flickers of light that struggled against the lingering shadows.
Local farmers, tradesmen, and various other common folk filled the benches of the hall, waiting their turn to speak with the Stark children now holding court.
Bran sat at the head of the gathering, dressed in a heavy fur-lined cloak. Though young, he wore the mantle of leadership here. Rickon, smaller and more fidgety, often glanced around the room, unsure of his role. Sansa sat to Bran’s left, her gaze downcast, hands clasped in her lap. Now and then, she lifted her eyes, troubled blue light meeting the swirl of light from the torches overhead.
Across the hall, I leaned against a chilly stone column, watching everything with a lack of interest. I barely paid attention to the soft murmurs of the people or the occasional cough echoing through the hall. Instead, my focus drifted to one of the tall, narrow windows that ran along the outer wall.
The window showed my lovely dragon outside. She was hard to miss with that golden sheen of her scales. A pair of nervous stablehands were unloading the carcass of a fresh sheep, dropping it unceremoniously near Viserion.
My dragon stretched her neck, yawning. A burst of orange flames left her yawn, and it singed the sheep before starting to devour it. Several onlookers watched from a distance, murmuring in both awe and fear, while Viserion’s tail lazily flicked through the trodden snow.
A smile touched my lips at the sight. They’re still frightened of her. Good. It’d been a few days, but the fear of a dragon didn’t pass so easily. I turned my head just in time to catch a raised voice in the hall. “Please, m’lord!”
An older man—face lined with grief, eyes downcast—stood before Bran and Sansa. His voice cracked as he spoke of the Ironborn’s cruelties. “Please… my daughters, my poor girls, raped in our own home. My wife was the same, and she took her own life out of shame. And I… I could only watch. In all cases. I couldn’t stop anything!”
A deep silence overtook the crowd. Rickon’s lips parted, seeming unsure what to say. Maester Luwin patted him on the back, stopping him from saying anything. Sansa was horrified, while Bran’s expression hardened, knuckles whitening on the arm of his chair.
After a silent moment, Bran drew a breath. “That is incredibly disheartening to hear, but the Ironborn have received their punishment,” he stated quietly. “They died by dragon fire.”
The old man sniffled, shoulders trembling. “I know… I know that. It’s good that they burn… it’s their punishment. But my wife… she’s… gone. My daughters… they look dazed all the time, staring into the air.” His voice wavered. “Who’s going to fix them?”
The silence returned. It was a quiet so deep it weighed on everyone’s chest. Bran’s gaze dropped, and for a moment, he seemed very much the child he was, confronted by a grief too large for easy answers. He found no immediate response, only silence and empathy.
I pushed myself off the column, footsteps echoing as I approached the dais where Bran and Sansa sat. “If I may,” I said, and the crowd parted slightly, wary of the tall muscular figure with silver-white hair. Sansa shot me a glance, curiosity mingled with uncertainty, but I ignored her. Bran nodded, allowing me the permit to speak. I didn’t need his permission, of course, but it didn’t hurt to be polite.
I turned to the old man. “How many men were involved?”
The man swallowed. “F-four… m-mi lord…”
My tone hardened. “I see. I cannot bring your wife back to life, and I cannot undo your daughters’ suffering. But I can give them a kind of justice, my kind of justice,” my eyes swept the onlookers, then returned to the old man’s tear-stained face. “More Ironborn will come to reclaim Theon, or to raid these lands further. I have intel about that. When they come, I will take four of them captive for you. Bring your daughters to Winterfell. We’ll let them deal with those men in whatever manner they see fit. Will that give you some solace, goodman?”
A glimmer of hope lit the old man’s features. “It… it might, my lord. Yes. It might. I can’t say if daughter’s will be satisfied with it, but I’ll be happy! And I don’t think they’ll hate it either… Thank you. Th-thank you!”
A buzz rippled through the assembled commoners, a mixture of surprise and satisfaction at this harsh offer. Sansa breathed in sharply but said nothing. I folded my arms, speaking once more. “Don’t thank me yet. This can only be done if Lord Stark permits it.”
“Uh?”
“While I claim to be the King of the Realm, the North isn’t a part of my rule anymore. It is the land of the King in the North, Robb Stark. In his absence, I cannot rule my own judgment. It’s up to him,” I shifted my gaze to Bran, voice even. “What do you say, my lord?”
Bran’s face reflected a tangle of emotion. There was sympathy for the victim, horror at the brutality that already happened and the new one that I suggested, and a flicker of doubt. “But,” he started, “the four men you’ll capture will not be the same ones who committed this crime. Is it justice to punish another for one’s crime just because they’re from the same place?”
I offered a cold shrug. “All Ironborn are cut from the same cloth, especially the raiding sort. They’d have done the same or worse if it had been them. Do you disagree? From what we’ve seen… they’re men of cruelty, burning children alive, raping as they please.”
Many heads nodded—some vigorously, especially those who’d witnessed or suffered from the Ironborn’s short reign. Bran still hesitated, but then Sansa rose a little in her seat. “We can’t bring back his wife, but… maybe this is the only justice left,” she said. Her voice softened. “We’ll do it, just as His Grace Viserys suggested.”
She turned to look at me, a hint of admiration flickering in her eyes. I merely nodded, my expression distant, and turned aside. Sansa’s smile faltered, disappointed that I didn’t react warmly to her support. Everything was going fine.
“King Viserys!” The old man cheered, throwing his hand in the air. “King Viserys!”
“K-king Viserys!” Another followed, and people exchanged glances before they cheered for me. It felt good. It felt great, actually. To be cheered by the people of another while standing in the middle of their halls.
The cheers continued until a guard burst into the hall, panting.
“M-my lord,” he stammered, sparing a fearful glance at me. His chainmail rattled as he hurried to the dais. “A band of Ironborn… they’re near the western road! They’re armed, heading toward Winterfell.”
Bran sat up straighter, lips parting as if to give an order, but he didn’t speak fast enough. A faint, predatory smile curved my lips. I set off for the door, cloak swishing around my boots, my voice echoing through the hall. “Save your breath, Lord Stark. I’ll see to them personally.”
Sansa’s eyes followed me, concern etched across her features. The crowd pressed back as I passed, giving me a wide passage. Soon, gigantic wings took off into the air.
****
The wind carried the salt-laden tang of the sea, a familiar taste that clung to Yara “Asha” Greyjoy’s lips as she rode at the head of her small company. She guided her mount with practiced ease, her sharp eyes scanning the landscape of the North. This place was cold and unwelcoming, with grey skies that mirrored the chill in her mood.
She didn’t like being so deep into the mainland.
Just like how she didn’t like riding a horse. The ship was her ride.
Her fingers flexed on the reins. Theon, you bloody fool. She’d cursed out loud when she first heard the news—how her younger brother had seized Winterfell and later how he’d murdered children and burned their bodies to make his claim. It should have been cause for celebration. Ironborn should never apologize for taking what they wanted. But this?
This was idiocy.
Ironborn weren’t born to hold a place. That wasn’t the nature of a pirate. So when he called her for help to bring an army and hold Winterfell, she could only scoff. That was why her current company consisted of only three dozen grim-faced raiders who had followed her from the Iron Islands. Not to hold Winterfell but for something much simpler. Yara wasn’t here to bolster Theon’s fragile grasp on this land. She was here to bring him back.
She tugged at the reins, slowing her horse as they passed into a thicket of frostbitten trees. She frowned then. The faint crunch of frozen ground under hooves was the only sound aside from the occasional murmur among her men. A hawk cried above, and the air felt… wrong.
Yara’s frown deepened. Her instincts prickled. Something was off. She glanced back at her men, their hardened faces betraying a faint unease that mirrored her own. “What’s wrong?” One of the younger men asked, yet to sense the oddity.
“We should’ve seen the castle by now,” another one of them muttered. “Where’s the damn spires?”
“Quiet,” Yara snapped, her voice cutting through the growing tension. She straightened in her saddle, eyes narrowing as she scanned the horizon. The treetops swayed, but there was no wind. The world seemed to hold its breath. Something was definitely wrong here.
Then it came.
A sound—no, a roar—ripped through the air, so loud it felt like the sky itself was being torn apart. Like thunder was screaming in pain. The sheer force of it rattled the branches above, sending a cascade of frost to the ground. Yara flinched, her hands flying to her ears as several of her men cried out in alarm.
“What the fuck was that?!” someone shouted, panic edging his voice.
Yara’s heart thudded against her ribs as she yanked her gaze upward. A massive shadow swept over the treetops, battering the weak northern sun. Her blood ran cold as she saw it—a creature of legend, fire, and fury. A motherfucking dragon. “What the…”
The beast soared above them, its golden scales glinting like molten metal. Yara’s heart began to pace faster. Its wings spanned wide enough to cast their company in shadow, and its roar echoed again, shaking the earth. Yara’s heart was screaming by then.
“Hold!” Yara bellowed, her voice cutting through the panic. Her men froze, some gripping their weapons, others glancing at her for direction. “Don’t move a fucking muscle!”
The dragon circled once, its powerful wings sending gusts of wind that flattened the grass and stirred up dust. It growled low, enough to make the earth rumble. Yara’s stomach clenched as three of her men bolted, scrambling toward the cover of the trees.
“Run! Run away!”
“Idiots!” she hissed, but it was too late.
“Dracarys!” The dragon descended with terrifying speed, its jaws opening to release a torrent of flame. The three Ironborn screamed as fire engulfed them, their silhouettes writhing before collapsing into ash.
The remaining men stood paralyzed, weapons half-drawn, their courage evaporating in the face of the fiery display. A voice boomed from above, calm but carrying an edge of mockery. “Should’ve listened to your princess, Ironborn Pigs.”
Yara’s head snapped toward the sound. The dragon came to a hovering stop, its golden body a mere blur of motion as it flapped its wings. Atop its back stood a man, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his red armor gleaming in the sunlight.
“Rhaegar Targaryen…?” one of her older men whispered, his voice trembling, and Yara’s heart sank, though she quickly hid her reaction.
Not Rhaegar. Too young. Unless it’s a ghost. No, doesn’t matter. I don’t know what the fuck he is, but he’s a Targaryen that’s riding a dragon. She noted in her head that it was stupid to think about his identity right now when he was ready to burn her and her men to a crisp at any second.
The dragon landed with a thunderous thud, its claws digging into the frozen earth. Yara gritted her teeth, keeping her horse steady as the rider dismounted, moving with the fluid grace of someone who knew his power.
The man smirked as he approached, his pale violet eyes locking onto hers. “So, you must be Yara Greyjoy. Or is it Asha? I hear you go by both. Doesn’t matter.” He spread his arms in a mock bow. “Welcome to Winterfell, Iron Princess. Your timing is impeccable; it allowed my earlier speech to be a lot grander. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her jaw tightened. “Why?”
“Good question,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “You see, your brother was quite vocal during our… discussion. ‘Asha will save me!’ he kept shouting. It was very adorable and a lot more pathetic.” He tilted his head, eyes full of arrogance. “I don’t think he understands what a dragon can do, but it seems you're smart enough to grasp it. So let us get this clear. You’re not here to save Theon, not anymore. You’re here to surrender.”
One of her men growled, stepping forward with his axe raised. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Targaryen bastard?!”
The man didn’t even flinch. “The man standing between you and your funeral pyre, Viserys Targaryen, and that’s ‘Your Grace’ for you,” he said in an easy tone. “Try me, and I’ll let Viserion introduce herself. She loves a good meal, especially when it’s still wriggling.”
As if on cue, the dragon growled, a low, rumbling sound that made the ground vibrate. That’d have made a lesser woman pee herself, but Yara was a proud, strong woman.
She raised a hand, halting her men before they could do something stupid. “What do you want, Targaryen?”
“It is ‘Your Grace’ for you too, false princess,” Viserys said. “Don’t make me repeat it for a third time. Drop your weapons and follow me to Winterfell. I’ll take you and your men into custody. Resist, and I’ll burn every last one of you. Even if you manage to kill me somehow, if you’re considering it, my dragon will tear you apart.” He flashed a smile, all teeth. “So, what’ll it be?”
Yara hesitated, her mind racing. She didn’t doubt his words. The three charred corpses behind her were proof enough. And yet, the thought of surrendering to a Targaryen, of leading her men into chains…
“Captain,” one of her men muttered, his voice heavy with fear. She exchanged glances but saw no hope. Yara exhaled sharply, her resolve hardening. No point in dying here. Theon, you goddamn fool.
For the first time in a hundred years a dragon appeared, and her dumb fuck of a brother went and picked a fight with the rider. Yara dismounted, the snow crunching beneath her boots as she unslung her axe and dropped it to the ground. The metallic clang echoed like a death knell.
“Do as he says,” she barked to her men. “Dismount and drop your weapons. Now!”
There was grumbling and hesitant shuffling, but her men obeyed one by one, casting their axes, swords, and daggers into the dirt. Viserys smiled, pleased. “Good choice,” he said, his tone almost cheerful.
“....”
He gestured toward Winterfell, his dragon shifting behind him, smoke curling from its nostrils. “Let’s go. We have a warm welcome waiting for you.”
Yara’s fists clenched as she began to walk, her men falling into a dejected line behind her. The Targaryen punk’s smirk burned in her mind as he jumped on top of his dragon, and she swore silently to herself. This isn’t over.
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