Cregan's POV
Oh boy. You know that feeling when you're the smartest person in the room, but you're pretending not to be? Yeah, welcome to my life. The war chamber hummed with the kind of egos that could rival the size of Dragonstone itself. Everyone was practically bursting at the seams with self-importance while hashing out how my canal would change the realm.
I leaned back in my chair, trying my best to look casual, like I wasn't mentally cataloging every insult I wanted to throw at Jon Arryn later. (Spoiler alert: there were a lot.) The man was like a human bloodhound, sniffing around for lies with his little spectacles perched on his nose.
"Lord Cregan," he said, his voice high and mighty like he'd just found out the North invented fire, "how exactly was this canal funded? The crown's agreement was limited to the refurbishment of Moat Cailin. Surely a project of this scale required... substantial resources."
Oh, Jon. Sweet, summer Jon. Always asking the tough questions, like he didn't know everyone in the room was probably lying about something. But I had my poker face on, and my voice was as smooth as butter, even though I was practically vibrating inside. "Indeed, Lord Arryn," I said, feeling all calm and collected, even though my brain was screaming don't blow this, don't blow this. "House Stark funded the canal entirely. We saw it as a vital investment for the North's future."
Okay, so that was, like, half true. Sure, we used some Stark gold, but the real magic—pun absolutely intended—was in the paperwork. You see, Petyr Baelish might think he's the Master of Coin, but when you're playing the Game of Thrones, never underestimate a Stark with a plan... and a wand.
I'd "accidentally" inflated the costs for Moat Cailin's refurbishment. And by inflated, I mean I made it look like we were importing gold-plated bricks and unicorn hair mortar. The best part? Every single invoice I sent to the Master of Coin had been... charmed. I'm talking irresistible—like the kind of charm that makes a grown man go "Is it Christmas already?" Petyr probably signed those invoices with a grin, thinking he was going to swindle me. Joke's on you, Baelish.
The room's attention shifted back to Jon Arryn, but I could practically feel him still trying to untangle my words. His Maester-like brain was already spinning, trying to figure out if I was hiding something—which, of course, I was. But I just smiled and said, "The North takes care of its own, Lord Arryn. Always has, always will."
There was a pause. You could almost hear the wheels turning in Jon's head. He was going to corner me about this, but later. He was too much of a stickler for rules, and I could see him mentally drafting a dozen more questions for me. But for now? I was the wolf at the table, and I was doing just fine.
The room buzzed again with murmurs, and I could practically feel Tywin Lannister's icy glare piercing through my skull. He wasn't saying anything, but you could tell he was calculating. Everything. All the time. Meanwhile, Mace Tyrell—bless him—looked like I'd just told him bread was the meaning of life. Which, to be fair, maybe it was.
Robert Baratheon was grinning like I'd just handed him a horn of ale, his fingers wrapped around a goblet like it was a lifeline. The man's always two drinks away from a full-on speech about how "the realm's better off with a few more jests and a few less speeches."
I leaned back even farther, putting my feet up on the table like I owned the place. Hey, I was ten years old, but that doesn't mean I couldn't throw a little swagger in my step. Sure, I looked like a little kid, but everyone around that table had been around enough to know the old "looks can be deceiving" line. And if they hadn't? Well, they were about to find out.
"That's bold talk for a kid," Tywin's voice came, sharp as ever. But I could hear the edge of curiosity in it. He knew. Tywin always knew when someone was holding cards close to their chest.
I shot him a grin. "Just because I'm young doesn't mean I'm not smart enough to outplay the lot of you, old man."
He narrowed his eyes, clearly ready to dissect my words, but before he could, Benjen Stark, my uncle, chuckled and gave me a look that said, Don't push your luck too far, kid. I grinned back at him, like I was going to blow up the whole room in one shot and absolutely get away with it.
"Alright, alright," Robert interrupted, raising a hand. "Enough with the staring contest. If the kid says the North's got it covered, I'm inclined to believe him. Though," he added, taking another long drink, "I wouldn't mind a bit more proof next time. Maybe a horn of ale?"
I nearly choked on my own laughter. "I'll take that under advisement, Your Grace."
There was a pause before Uncle Arthur finally spoke up. He wasn't the kind to throw his weight around, but when he did, it was usually worth listening to. "It's clear that House Stark has big plans," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The canal will change the tides of the realm. I know my nephew has thought through the consequences, Lord Hand."
"Always," I said, with way more confidence than any ten-year-old probably should've had.
And, as the conversation flowed into a hundred other boring topics, I sat back, just a little smug, watching as Jon Arryn tried and failed to not look suspicious. There was no real way to pull off what I'd just done without a little finesse—and a lot of luck—but that's the thing about being a Stark. We don't need luck. We've got the Savage Burn.
—
Alright, imagine you're stuck in a tent with a bunch of people who are supposedly "in charge" of the Seven Kingdoms, and every single one of them thinks they're the only one with a good idea. That's exactly what this war council felt like. There I was, ten years old and somehow the one with the most common sense in the room. Go figure.
Robert Baratheon, who probably weighed more than half the damn room combined, was sitting at the head of the table, leaning back like he owned the place. And in a way, he did—he was King, after all. But right now? He looked less like the king of Westeros and more like a drunk uncle at a family reunion, sloshing ale around and shouting for everyone's attention.
"Alright, enough squawking! What's the first move?" Robert boomed, like he'd just declared war on every kingdom in the realm. He looked down at me, squinting through that scruffy beard of his. "You, boy. What do we do first? You're the one with the fancy plans, eh?"
I crossed my arms and gave him a smirk that I'm pretty sure made me look way older than I actually was. "First move? Easy. We secure the coastline. If we don't keep the Ironborn from sneaking behind us, this whole siege is gonna end up being one big splash. And not the good kind."
There was a murmur of approval around the table, though most of them looked like they were just trying to pretend they hadn't had that idea first. Ned Stark, my dear old dad, nodded and gave me that rare look of pride. The one that meant, "Well done, son," but in a way that made you feel like you'd just been handed a puppy and told to care for it.
"Divide our forces," Ned said, voice like gravel. "Smaller units along the coast. That way, they can't regroup."
Benjen Stark, ever the brooding figure, glanced around the room with those piercing eyes of his. "Ambushes will be inevitable," he added, crossing his arms. "You'll need to keep moving."
Uncle Arthur Dayne, still as tall and noble-looking as ever, chimed in with that serious tone of his. "The Ironborn don't fight fair. Expect raiding parties, surprise attacks—anything that could mess with your plans."
I shot him a grin. "Don't worry, Uncle. I've got that covered. If they want to fight dirty, I'll make sure they regret it."
Arthur just raised an eyebrow, not quite buying my swagger. To be fair, I did have a bit of a penchant for making my enemies wish they'd never been born—sometimes with fire, sometimes with a little bit of Savage Burn. Yeah, that's a thing I do now.
Anyway, Robert, who had clearly forgotten the original question by now, was still looking at me like I had a few more good ideas up my sleeve. "Alright, alright, but what about the walls, eh? We're gonna bash down those walls, right?"
Ugh. Walls. Great. I leaned forward, hands on the table, trying to look like I knew what I was talking about. "The walls of Pyke won't be easy to bring down. I mean, we're not dealing with a sandcastle here, Your Grace."
"That's why we brought the siege engines!" Robert roared, slamming a fist down on the table.
I ignored the fact that he nearly knocked over his own ale. "Yeah, but they're not invincible. So, we're gonna need something more… creative."
Cue the Maester, who I'm still not sure has a name. He's got that nerdy, frazzled look—bald, a little twitchy, and way too excited about scrolls. He started shuffling papers like he was trying to locate the last cookie in the jar. "Well, the eastern and southern walls are the weakest points," he said, his voice carrying an air of "I totally have this figured out." "The stone's old and crumbling."
"Ah! Crumbling walls!" Robert exclaimed like it was the greatest discovery since he found out wine could be poured into a cup. "Perfect! Siege engines! Smash it to pieces!"
Tywin Lannister—who was still sitting there, looking like he could crush us all with a single look—steepled his fingers and gave one of those looks that made you think he was about to deliver the worst news of your life. "Siege engines might take too long," he said smoothly, like he had just come up with a brand-new idea that would change the game. "We need something faster, something… explosive."
Oh, this is where it gets good.
Robert leaned in, eyes wide. "Explosive? I like the sound of that. What do you have in mind?"
Tywin just smiled that predatory smile. "Wildfire."
The room went silent for a moment. It's like we all just collectively remembered that wildfire is a little more unpredictable than your average Thursday morning.
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Wildfire's like playing with fire while blindfolded, my lord. One wrong move and we'll be the ones going up in flames."
Tywin, who probably thinks the sun rises just for him, shrugged. "That's why we'll use precision," he said like that was supposed to reassure us. Spoiler alert: it didn't.
Robert, though, was practically bouncing in his seat. "Wildfire! I like it! Let's make it go boom!" He slapped his hands together like he was about to go on a hunting trip with his mates. "Prepare the wildfire! Let's end this rebellion with a bang!"
I resisted the urge to bang my head against the table. The fate of the entire realm, ladies and gentlemen. In the hands of a man who thinks "strategy" is the same as "let's blow stuff up."
But, hey, at least I had Red Rain and Nightfall ready to go. That should make me look cool when everything inevitably goes to hell, right?
—
Alright, let's set the scene here. Picture this: the war chamber, all polished wood and ancient stone, practically vibrating with the ego of every lord in the realm who thought he was the smartest guy in the room. And trust me, when you're ten, like I am, being surrounded by all these grown men who think they're the big brains of Westeros? It's like being at a tavern with a bunch of drunk uncles arguing about who's got the best beard. Which, by the way, is obviously me.
Jon Arryn, the human embodiment of 'I'm-just-trying-to-make-this-situation-awkward', had just dropped the bombshell of a question that no one really wanted to deal with. "What happens after we capture Balon Greyjoy?" he asked, all furrowed brows and serious tone. Like the guy hadn't already seen enough bloodshed to know the answer. But nooo, Jon had to go for the diplomatic route. Typical.
Robert, of course, was ready to do what Robert Baratheon did best: hit things until they broke. "We kill him," he said, like it was the easiest decision in the world. Classic Robert—straightforward and a bit too enthusiastic about the whole violence thing.
Jon's brow furrowed deeper, if that was even possible. The guy looked like he was preparing to lecture a child about the dangers of candy, which... I mean, I get it. He's the Hand. But this wasn't a time for deep thoughts about the soul of the Ironborn, or whatever he was about to get into.
"We kill him?" Jon repeated, his voice a little too calm, like he'd just discovered a new flavor of porridge. "Killing him may only make things worse. It might breed resentment. Maybe there's a better way, something that ensures the peace of the realm."
I can feel the sarcasm rising in my throat. Really, Jon? I mean, I get that you've got a big book of nice-guy quotes, but we're in a room of seasoned killers, and no one here's interested in reading How to Win Friends and Influence Ironborn.
I leaned back in my chair, twirling the edge of my cloak. "Clemency?" I almost choked on the word. "You mean like the mercy we showed the last time we gave the Ironborn a pass? How'd that work out for us, huh?"
I didn't even need to say it out loud. The room went as silent as a crypt. Because, let's face it, the last time we "showed mercy," those dirty Ironborn had burned a couple of villages, took our ships, and stole half the coast. It was not pretty, and not the kind of thing you'd want to bring up at dinner with your in-laws.
Jon didn't blink. He was like one of those statues that pretends to care about the little people while being all wise and "let's-just-make-this-peaceful" about everything. "We offer him terms of surrender," he said, looking more serious than a broken axe. "Let the Iron Islands stay under our rule, but offer them a chance for peace. A show of clemency."
I could feel my face scrunching up, like I had just bitten into something sour. Clemency. That word was like saying "let's all have a picnic with the wolves."
"Right," I muttered, leaning forward. "And how exactly is that gonna work out? What's next, Lord Hand? You wanna give them hugs and some nice pastries too?" I could practically feel my past self—Harry—snickering somewhere. Clemency. Yeah, right. You can't hug a sword to peace.
Robert slapped the table. SLAM. Everyone jumped a little. "Enough!" he bellowed. "We'll deal with Greyjoy when we have him. But for now, our job is to end this rebellion. And securing peace—real peace—is going to take more than hugs and handshakes."
He looked at Jon like Jon was the annoying fly in his soup. "Got it?" Robert added, clearly done with this whole peace-and-mercy act.
Jon, always the stubborn mule, nodded, but I saw the glint of something behind his eyes—maybe it was hope. Maybe it was sheer frustration. Either way, it didn't matter. Because in the end, we all knew that peace wasn't going to come from a handshake or a clever speech.
That's the thing about this world. You can talk all you want about "peace" and "mercy," but the people you're dealing with? They've got axes and swords, and they don't care about your speeches. They care about power—and they'll take it from you any chance they get. And me? Well, I was already thinking about the next move, because I was the one who'd have to clean up after this mess.
Tywin Lannister shot me a glance across the table, those cold, calculating eyes of his like a dagger through a heart. He didn't say anything, because that would've given away the fact that he was already thinking about how to use this situation to his advantage. The thing about Tywin is, you don't need him to speak—he makes it clear with a look.
Mace Tyrell, of course, was looking at Robert like he'd just told him the secret to eternal life. Mace would've been impressed by someone just mentioning bread. But hey, who am I to judge?
I leaned back again, feeling that smug little wolf smile creep onto my face. Because while Jon and Robert were busy fighting over the "right way" to rule, I knew exactly how this game was going to end. It wasn't going to be clemency. It wasn't going to be peace. It was going to be fire. And, for once, I didn't mind burning a few things to get what I wanted.
And Jon? Well, he'd just have to learn that the hard way.
—
Okay, so here's the deal: I was sitting alone in my tent, trying to wrap my head around the latest mess that had just dropped into my lap, like a hot, steaming pile of dragon dung. I mean, seriously, who knew being a young Lord of the North would come with so much drama? I was pretty sure they didn't teach this stuff at the Winterfell school of sword fighting.
I stared at the flickering torches. They danced like bad actors in a play that no one wanted to watch. Shadows stretched out over the walls of the tent like they were trying to escape. Honestly, I might have been impressed if I weren't so deeply entrenched in trying not to completely lose my cool. Spoiler alert: I was failing.
My brain? Oh, it was a mess. Like someone had tossed a bunch of puzzle pieces in the air and told me to figure it out before sunrise. Except the puzzle pieces were broken glass. And fire. And maybe a couple of angry wolves. The reason? That little moment in the council where I'd decided to do something probably considered "unethical" in the world of politics. But hey, if you've got Legilimency on your side, why not take a peek into Jon Arryn's brain? I mean, who knows what gems of information might be lurking in there between his thoughts about taxes and crop rotations, right?
So I looked. And, oh boy, I found a doozy. Jon Arryn, the guy with the whole "voice of reason" routine, had been playing us all like puppets. He wasn't just dealing with the Greyjoy rebellion the way we'd been told. No, turns out Jon and Varys, Mr. "I'm Always Watching" himself, had been nudging Balon Greyjoy into rebellion. You know, just a little power move to make sure Robert Baratheon's rule looked solid. Nothing to worry about, right? Just some backroom scheming and a lot of "for the greater good" nonsense.
Yeah. Big surprise there. And of course, everyone thought the Ironborn were the bad guys. Classic. The whole rebellion was like a bad soap opera, and Jon Arryn was the villain wearing a big ol' cloak of "I'm Doing This for Everyone's Benefit!" I was furious. And when I say furious, I mean steam-coming-out-of-my-ears, hands-clenching-around-swords level of furious. Betrayal? Sure. Everyone does it. But betrayal wrapped in a "this is for your own good" bow? Nope. That's a whole new level of annoying.
I was fuming so hard I probably could have set the tent on fire with just my glare. So, naturally, my hands found their way to the hilts of my swords—Red Rain and Nightfall. Red Rain felt like an old friend. The cool steel in my grip was comforting, like it knew the exact amount of pressure I needed to calm my nerves. Nightfall? Well, Nightfall was more of a reminder that I could end people, and I didn't even need to try. Which, you know, was a nice thought. But I had bigger plans than just killing people. For now, anyway.
I took a deep breath. The North had never been about playing nice. It was about honor, duty, and a few punches thrown in when the time called for it. And Jon Arryn? Well, he was the kind of guy who probably thought playing nice meant stabbing people in the back while smiling politely. Not on my watch.
And then there was the whole thing with Varys, because, of course, there was. The Spider. The guy who knew everything. Or so he thought. Well, he didn't know one thing: me.
The Demon Wolf. I was not the guy you used as a pawn in your schemes. Not unless you were ready to see what happened when you poked a sleeping wolf. Spoiler alert: it's not pretty. And let's not forget the little fact that I had a few tricks up my sleeve—like the whole Savage Burn thing. Yeah, that was my personal favorite move. I could practically feel the heat bubbling up just thinking about it. Jon Arryn thought he had it all figured out? Cute.
But I wasn't about to make my move just yet. No, no, that wouldn't be fun. If there's one thing I've learned in all my... experience (I'm being modest here), it's that you wait. You wait and you let them think they've won. Then, when they least expect it, you set their world on fire.
Anyway, the next move was coming, and it was going to be big. Because if there's one thing the North didn't need, it was some pompous southerner thinking he could play us like chess pieces. No, Jon Arryn was about to learn the hard way that the Stark family doesn't play by the rules.
And me? I was ready to show him exactly why they called me the Demon Wolf.
—
The sun decided to show up, though I'm pretty sure it was just to mock us. Dawn on Pyke wasn't one of those "ah, nature" moments. No, this was the kind of dawn where the sky looks like it's about to rain doom, and the air feels thick enough to cut with a sword. The sea spray? It didn't hit your face like a gentle breeze—it slapped you like your older brother after you stole his last piece of bread. In other words, Pyke had no intention of making this easy.
I was standing at the front of our army, doing my best to look fierce. I mean, I'm 10 years old, but people act like I'm some kind of berserker already. I had Red Rain and Nightfall strapped to my back, both Valyrian steel and looking as sharp as a raven's beak, just waiting for someone to mess with me. No one was stupid enough to do that, though. I think the "Demon Wolf" nickname was enough of a deterrent.
Beside me stood my Uncle Ned, who was in full "serious Northern lord" mode, and Uncle Benjen, who was definitely not smiling. Not even a little. He had that look like he was planning to ruin someone's day, but in the most professional way possible. Like, "Oh, I'm not gonna kill you, I'm just going to make you wish you were never born."
Then there was Uncle Arthur. Yeah, the Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, with his shining armor and impossible-to-ignore presence. Dude made even the deadliest fighters look like amateurs, and he didn't have to say a word. He didn't need to. You just knew if you crossed him, you'd be kissing your own sword. He stood next to me, doing his usual "I am a master of swordplay and calm, cool confidence" thing. Even with all that swagger, I swear, I could almost hear him thinking, Please don't let me get stuck fighting the Ironborn. They're gross.
And let's not forget Robert Baratheon, who thought the whole "pre-battle speech" was his personal time to shine. "Today," he bellowed, swinging his hammer around like it was an extension of his arm, "we end Balon Greyjoy's treachery!" Honestly, it sounded like he was trying to rally the troops for some kind of giant beer-drinking contest, not an actual battle. But then again, Robert was more of a "smash things and hope for the best" kind of guy. And that hammer? Might've been more of a personality trait than a weapon.
Jon Arryn, always the "voice of reason" (which, if I'm being honest, was probably the most boring thing ever), chimed in, all calm and collected, like he was giving advice about crop rotations instead of, you know, war. "We must be strategic," he said, as if no one else had a plan. "Focus on the weak points that Ser Arthur Dayne has identified." Yeah, well, the only weak point I was concerned with was the enemy's weak points, and how many I could get through with Red Rain and Nightfall.
Then there was Tywin Lannister, standing in the back, with that look that made you feel like you owed him an apology for existing. Seriously, the man was born with a scowl permanently etched into his face. His presence alone was enough to make you wonder if you were about to be offered a poisoned cup of wine or an empty chair at his next family dinner. Spoiler: it was the wine.
And don't even get me started on Mace Tyrell, who was standing there looking like he might burst into song at any second. His armor was so shiny it practically blinded me. You know, Mace Tyrell—huge, jolly, and about as intimidating as a wet sponge in a fight. It wasn't that he wasn't capable of swinging a sword; it's just that every time I looked at him, I thought, Why does this guy look like he should be holding a bouquet of flowers instead of a lance?
I glanced around the battlefield, the Northern banners snapping in the wind, the direwolf emblem staring down the Ironborn like it was about to eat them for breakfast. My heart was pumping with that wild rush of excitement. Sure, I was only 10, but hey—sometimes life throws you into the deep end, and you either sink or swim. And me? I was pretty sure I was made of some kind of magic that made me always swim. Or at least sink with style.
Robert clapped me on the back, nearly knocking me over in the process. "Ready, Cregan?" he grinned, his eyes bright with that warrior madness.
"Born ready, Bobby B," I said with a grin that was equal parts deadly and mischievous. "Just try not to blow up everything in sight this time."
Robert chuckled. "No promises, kid."
"Prepare the wildfire!" he shouted, as if it was the best idea since sliced bread. I glanced over at Uncle Ned, who had the exact same look on his face as when he found out one of the servants had burned his dinner. It was that "I can't believe we're doing this" look. Uncle Benjen just sighed like he was considering running for the hills.
But it was too late to turn back now. The siege engines creaked as they were prepared, the sound cutting through the air like a bad omen. The Ironborn were probably inside, eating bad stew and trying to figure out how they'd get through the day without being burned alive.
"Get ready!" I called to my men, feeling the fire inside me rise. This is it. This is the moment.
Then, for a split second, I saw something in the distance—a lone Ironborn scout, probably hoping to get a head start on the running-away portion of the battle. He looked right at me, and I swear, I saw his eyes go wide.
Yeah, he'd figured it out. I was the Demon Wolf, after all. And I wasn't about to let him forget it.
With a wild grin, I unsheathed Red Rain, and Nightfall followed suit. Time to show Pyke exactly why they should've stayed in bed this morning.
—
Dawn had barely cracked open its eyelid when the chaos kicked off. Imagine a storm hitting a powder keg while a dragon barfed fire at it—that was the sound of the first stone hitting Pyke's walls. Boom! You could feel the rumble in your bones. It wasn't just an explosion; it was an announcement: The Seven Kingdoms have come to collect, and you're going to pay for your bad decisions.
And me? Oh, I was at the front of the line, grinning like a wolf who'd just found a fresh carcass. I was still ten years old, but between the two Valyrian steel swords on my back—Red Rain and Nightfall—and my... well, let's just say, questionable decision-making skills, I was ready to make history.
To my right, Uncle Ned was as grim as ever, his face a mask of stoic determination. He looked like he'd just finished wrestling a bear and was considering making it his next coat. "Stay close, Cregan," he muttered, his voice like gravel scraped against stone. "This will be no easy fight."
I nodded, but honestly, I was kind of hoping for an easy fight. But when your army consists of guys like Arthur Dayne, legendary Sword of the Morning, you sort of have to roll with whatever mess comes your way. And Arthur? He was over there polishing his sword like it was a newborn baby, looking as elegant as a knight who was about to ruin someone's day. He didn't even look like he was sweating, which made me wonder if he was actually a god disguised as a human, because he sure didn't look human.
And then there was Benjen. My good ol' Uncle Benjen, ever the serious one, looking like he just rolled out of some epic battle and was still too tired to care. But trust me, don't let that calm demeanor fool you. He could probably cut someone in half without even blinking. Benjen never blinked. He was like a knight who got bored of blinking long ago.
Behind us? Robert Baratheon. The Robert Baratheon. King of the Seven Kingdoms, hammer enthusiast, and proud owner of a stomach that had its own gravitational pull. "Time to show these Ironborn why they should've stayed in the ocean!" he yelled, lifting his warhammer like he was auditioning for Thor's body double. His voice could've cracked the sky, and as soon as he spoke, the Northern army surged forward. Everyone just followed the sound of that hammer.
A second later, the southern wall of Pyke went down with the force of a thousand angry gods. The Ironborn had no time to scream. They had no time to do anything before the entire world around them went sideways. One moment, they were standing strong, probably thinking they could take us on with their axes and fancy sea god chants, and the next—BOOM! It was like Pyke had decided to swallow them whole.
I was already charging, swords in hand, my heart hammering like Robert's warhammer, my blood pumping with a mix of excitement and okay, don't die today. But you know what? I didn't die. I got this. I always get this.
"Charge, you sons of winter!" I yelled, already elbowing my way to the front. The soldiers around me were a mix of grumpy Northerners and sweaty Southern knights who didn't have the sense to run when they should've. But hey, we were all in this together.
And then, bam! I was face-to-face with the first Ironborn idiot who thought he could kill a Stark. He came at me swinging an axe with all the grace of a drunken walrus, yelling, "For the Drowned God!" Yeah, that was cute.
I sidestepped and let Red Rain do the talking. The blade cut through his axe like it was made of butter, and then swish—his head was gone. Just like that. No biggie.
My twin sword, Nightfall, was already in motion, meeting another Ironborn's sword with a sickening clang, and before he could blink, Nightfall was sinking deep into his ribs. It was a brutal mess. Blood, guts, and more blood—but at least I was making an impact. Hey, I was only ten, but I didn't mind making history if it meant a few Ironborn would stop breathing today.
Ned and Benjen were cutting down enemies to my left, while Arthur Dayne... Arthur was doing that sword thing where he'd slice people with the grace of a dancer—except they were dying, so maybe it was more of a slaughter ballet? And over there, Robert Baratheon was cracking heads with that hammer of his like he was at the pub smashing barrels of ale. The man's idea of fun? Everything.
"Keep pushing!" yelled Tywin Lannister, always the voice of cold, calculated reason. He had this look on his face that said, "I will burn this place to the ground, then I will drink my wine in peace." Tywin was one of those people who always looked like he was two steps ahead. Two steps ahead of everyone, except for me, because I was already making things explode.
"You heard the man!" yelled Mace Tyrell, who was, as always, a bit too excited about... everything. He raised his sword and got immediately sidetracked by some Ironborn who decided they wanted to test his dancing skills. Mace wasn't a dancer, folks. He was a terrible dancer. But he was a good fighter, so they were going to regret it soon.
I took a moment to pause, mostly because I was a bit too excited, but also because I wasn't stupid enough to think I could keep killing like this forever. I looked over my shoulder and saw Jon Arryn standing there, looking very Jon Arryn-ish. He didn't yell like Robert or make dramatic speeches like Tywin, but you could feel his calm like an anchor in the chaos. "Focus!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the madness. "Focus on the enemy! Don't let them regroup!"
Right. Regrouping wasn't on my agenda. Neither was dying. So, I went back to what I was good at—killing. The rest of the battle was a blur of swordplay, death, and enough carnage to make even the most hardened warrior reconsider their life choices. But hey, at least the North was taking it's pound of flesh.
---
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