Cregan's POV
Fun fact about battle: It's really, really loud. Like, louder than Robert Baratheon at a feast when he's deep into his third roast boar and ranting about the good old days.
The second fun fact? Being ten years old doesn't stop people from trying to kill you.
The Ironborn didn't care that I was a kid. They saw a Stark with two Valyrian steel swords and thought, Hmm, maybe we should remove that problem before it removes us. To be fair, that was a reasonable concern.
I stood at the front, sandwiched between Uncle Ned, Uncle Benjen, Aunt Dacey, and Uncle Arthur Dayne—basically, the Westerosi version of an all-star band, except instead of instruments, they were playing an intense game of Let's See How Many Ironborn We Can Cut Down Before Lunch.
And then there was Thoros of Myr, the Red Priest, the drunk, the absolute maniac. His sword was on fire. Wildfire, to be exact. That's not a metaphor. It was literally burning green, and he was swinging it around like a kid with a sparkler, except instead of impressing his friends, he was setting people on fire.
The Ironborn stared at him in horror. "What in the name of the Drowned God—"
Thoros grinned and charged. "Come forth, heathens, and embrace your cleansing!"
Uncle Benjen groaned. "I really wish he wouldn't say things like that."
The Ironborn scrambled, suddenly very aware that their fight until death plan might need some revising.
Uncle Ned sighed. "The siege wasn't supposed to go like this."
I blinked at him. "We breached the walls, the enemy is terrified, and Thoros is being terrifying. What was your plan?"
"Less fire," he muttered.
Aunt Dacey barked a laugh, swinging her battle-axe with the casual ease of someone who definitely belonged in a war. "You should've invited Lord Stannis, then. He's got the personality of a wet log. No fire there."
I grinned. "I hear logs have more humor, though."
Uncle Benjen snorted, cutting down a charging Ironborn without even looking. "It's funny because it's true."
Speaking of Ironborn, one of them decided that a ten-year-old was his best target in this whole battle. He lunged at me with an axe, screaming something about the Drowned God.
I parried with Red Rain, sidestepped, and swung Nightfall in a clean arc. The next sound was a wet one, and his head took a brief vacation from his body.
"Blessed be the drowned," I murmured to the corpse.
Uncle Arthur—because of course he had time to supervise my technique in the middle of battle—gave an approving nod. "Good form. A little more weight on your back foot next time."
"Will do, Uncle Arthur."
Meanwhile, Thoros was absolutely unhinged. He had just set Maron Greyjoy on fire, and the guy was running in circles screaming like a human torch. Thoros, being the helpful guy he was, put him out of his misery with a brutal downward swing.
"You know," I called out over the chaos, "I'm fairly certain your god doesn't actually require this much fire."
Thoros just grinned. "It's a conversation starter."
"Yeah, but have you tried not setting people on fire?"
"Not as fun!"
Uncle Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. "We are never letting him being a part of a siege again."
At this point, the Ironborn were very much rethinking their life choices. The breach was flooded with soldiers from the North, the Reach, and the Westerlands. (I could practically feel Lord Tywin's disapproval at how messy this all was. He probably wanted a clean, professional slaughter, and instead, he got Thoros the Mad Pyromaniac.)
The moment Uncle Robert charged through the breach, it was all over.
"NOW!" Robert bellowed, warhammer raised. "SHOW THESE SALTWATER BASTARDS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY MESS WITH THE SEVEN KINGDOMS!"
The collective roar from the army was deafening. I think even the Drowned God flinched.
Ironborn morale? Gone.
At that point, we weren't fighting an army. We were chasing down panicked raiders who'd realized, oh no, we made a huge mistake.
I cut down another Ironborn who was trying to run. He barely even swung his sword, just held it up like it could magically block a Valyrian steel strike. Spoiler: it couldn't.
Uncle Benjen clapped me on the back. "You fight well for a ten-year-old."
"Thanks. I aim to traumatize."
Aunt Dacey laughed and decapitated another raider. "You take after me."
And that's how the Battle of Pyke turned into the Massacre of Pyke.
The walls had crumbled. The Ironborn were scattered. And me?
I was ten years old and had just helped break a rebellion.
Not bad for a day's work.
—
Here's the thing about being a ten-year-old leading a charge into a castle: people don't take you seriously. Sure, they call me the Demon Wolf, and yeah, I'm swinging not one but two Valyrian steel swords like I'm trying to dual-wield my way into legend, but somehow, the grown-ups still look at me like I should be off playing with wooden swords or, I don't know, collecting cool rocks.
Case in point: Dagmer Cleftjaw.
Now, I don't know who started the rumor that this guy was some kind of legendary warrior, but I'd like a word with them, because he looked less like a fearsome Ironborn and more like a pile of bad decisions that learned how to swing an axe. His face? A nightmare. A mangled mess of scars and bad hygiene, like someone tried to carve a map into his skull but got bored halfway through.
And he was laughing at me.
Behind him, Balon Greyjoy sat on his creepy Seastone Chair looking like someone had stolen his favorite longship. His son, little Theon, was gripping his dad's arm so hard his knuckles had gone white. Poor kid looked like he'd just realized bedtime stories about the Demon Wolf weren't just bedtime stories.
But Cleftjaw? Oh, no, he was feeling bold. He spat on the stone floor and smirked at me. Smirked. Like I wasn't standing there with two of the deadliest swords in Westeros, backed up by some of the most terrifying people alive.
"A green boy leading the charge?" Cleftjaw's voice was a deep growl, like a bear who'd gargled gravel for fun. "Have the Starks grown so desperate that they send babes to do a man's job?"
Okay. First of all, rude. Second, I wasn't about to let this guy turn me into a meme for the entire Iron Fleet.
I squared my shoulders, gripping Red Rain and Nightfall just tight enough to remind myself that, yes, I was a terrifying little nightmare with two Valyrian steel swords. "You'll find Starks are more than capable of handling themselves," I said, keeping my voice steady, cool. "But I understand if you need a moment to collect your courage. I'd hate to be the reason you embarrass yourself in front of your king."
Thoros of Myr, standing beside me with his blazing green wildfire sword, let out a booming laugh. "Hah! The pup's got sharper teeth than you, Cleftjaw!"
Behind me, Uncle Arthur stood tall, Dawn gleaming like it had been carved from a star. Aunt Dacey rested her battle axe against one shoulder, smiling in that terrifying I'm about to ruin your entire day way. Uncle Ned and Uncle Benjen had their swords drawn, their Stark grey eyes cold and unreadable. If the Ironborn weren't scared yet, they were about to be.
Cleftjaw sneered. "Think your nursemaid should be changing your nappies instead of leading men into battle?"
Wow. The originality. Really top-tier stuff. Clearly, the Ironborn's best insults were all lost at sea.
"Save your breath," I said, rolling my shoulders. "You'll need it for begging when I'm through with you."
Then I lunged.
—
Fighting Dagmer Cleftjaw was like trying to cut down a moving tree—except the tree had an axe and wanted to turn me into kindling. The first time our weapons clashed, the impact nearly rattled my arms out of their sockets.
"Not bad, pup," Cleftjaw grunted, swinging his axe down like he was trying to turn me into a Stark-shaped pancake.
I barely dodged. My heart was hammering, my breath sharp. But I grinned. "Funny, I was just thinking you'd need more than an ugly face to scare me."
Uncle Arthur chuckled. Thoros whooped. Aunt Dacey shouted, "Give him the bite of the Demon Wolf!"
Cleftjaw scowled. His grip on his axe tightened. Perfect. Angry opponents make mistakes, and mistakes win battles.
I feinted left, then right. Nightfall swept low, forcing him to step back. I twisted, brought Red Rain down in a vicious arc—only for Cleftjaw to catch the blade with his axe handle and shove me backward.
I stumbled.
Oh. That's… not great.
Cleftjaw's grin turned savage. "Not so sharp now, are you, pup?"
Okay. New plan: make him bleed.
—
Around us, the battle was chaos.
Uncle Arthur fought like he had his own theme music, Dawn flashing in wide, deadly arcs, cutting through Ironborn like they were extras in his legend.
Uncle Ned and Uncle Benjen were back-to-back, cutting down Greyjoy men like it was personal. (Which, okay, it kind of was.)
Aunt Dacey was laughing as she swung her battle axe, splitting one poor fool's helmet in half.
And Thoros? He was just on fire. Not literally. But his sword was, and he was having the time of his life, cutting through Ironborn like some unhinged, flaming saint.
Across the room, Balon Greyjoy looked more and more like a man who'd made several bad life choices. And Theon? The poor kid was hiding behind the chair. (Smart.)
Cleftjaw, meanwhile, came at me swinging. I ducked, rolled, slashed out with Nightfall. Metal bit into his side, a thin line of blood blooming across his armor.
"First blood," I said, flashing my best smug grin.
Cleftjaw roared.
Then he charged.
For a split second, my brain did the math and realized: oh no, this is going to hurt—
And then the world exploded into fire, steel, and fury.
—
General POV
Robert Baratheon burst into the great hall of Pyke like a drunk man who had just been told there was free ale—so, basically, like Robert Baratheon at any given moment. Behind him, a parade of Westerosi powerhouses followed: Ser Barristan Selmy, the living embodiment of chivalry; Tywin Lannister, looking like he was already calculating how this whole rebellion could make him richer; Jaime Lannister, smirking like he had just won a bet no one else knew about; Randyll Tarly, radiating judgment for all things less disciplined than his beloved military formations; and Jon Arryn, watching everything with the patience of a tired father chaperoning a field trip of warlords.
What they weren't expecting?
A ten-year-old, drenched in sweat and Ironborn blood, dual-wielding Valyrian steel swords, and currently fighting a man who looked like someone had tried (and failed) to sculpt a face out of driftwood.
Cregan Stark, the Demon Wolf of the North, was in the middle of trading blows with Dagmer Cleftjaw, a veteran Ironborn who had clearly assumed "child" meant "easy target." The clanging of steel against steel echoed through the hall, punctuated by Cregan's sharp footwork and Cleftjaw's increasingly frustrated grunts. The young Stark's swords—Red Rain and Nightfall—moved in a deadly rhythm, slicing through the air with precision that no ten-year-old had any business having.
Robert stopped dead in his tracks. "Seven hells. Is that the Stark boy?"
Ser Barristan, standing beside him, watched the fight with the quiet appreciation of a man who had seen many warriors—and was now seeing one in the making. "A true wolf of the North." That was Barristan-speak for damn, this kid's good.
Tywin Lannister, ever the strategist, tilted his head slightly, his sharp golden gaze dissecting every movement. "Impressive."
Jaime, arms crossed, leaned toward Randyll Tarly, who was frowning so hard it looked like it physically hurt. "The pup has fangs," the Kingslayer said, grinning. "How embarrassing would it be if the Ironborn fell to a ten-year-old?"
Randyll huffed. "If they do, they deserve it."
Meanwhile, in the middle of the carnage, Cregan ducked under a wide swing from Cleftjaw's axe and countered with a sharp slash to the ribs. The Ironborn's armor saved him from being split open, but the force of the blow sent him staggering.
"You picked the wrong fight, boy," Cleftjaw growled.
Cregan flicked blood from Red Rain, his cold grey eyes gleaming with something too old for a child's face. "That's funny," he said, stepping forward with all the confidence of a king in the making. "I was about to say the same thing to you."
Robert let out a booming laugh. "By the gods, the lad's got fire! Ned must be so proud." He turned to Tywin, clapping a meaty hand on his shoulder. "You see that? Stark blood, through and through!"
Tywin, as usual, remained unreadable, but his silence spoke volumes.
Jon Arryn, who had been watching with the quiet patience of an old general, finally sighed. "We should probably step in before the boy kills half the Ironborn himself."
"Why?" Robert countered, still grinning. "I want to see how this plays out."
Back in the fray, Cregan moved like a predator, circling Cleftjaw with sharp, calculated steps. The Ironborn, for all his experience, was getting tired. His swings were slower, his breathing heavier. Cregan, meanwhile, was doing what all the best wolves did—wearing down his prey.
Cleftjaw snarled and swung his axe in a desperate, brutal arc. Cregan ducked, slid between the Ironborn's legs, and slashed upwards with Nightfall, cutting deep into his calf.
Cleftjaw let out a roar of pain, staggering.
Cregan came up behind him, pressing the advantage. "You getting tired, old man?" he called, his tone almost mocking. "Or am I just too fast for you?"
Jaime snorted. "Oh, I like him."
Randyll Tarly, on the other hand, looked positively scandalized. "Discipline, skill, and respect win battles—not childish bravado."
Jaime smirked. "Tell that to Cleftjaw. Oh wait—you can't, because he's losing to a child."
Cleftjaw, now bleeding and furious, spun and swung at Cregan with all his might. The force of it sent Cregan skidding back, but instead of looking intimidated, he just grinned.
"Finally," Cregan taunted, twirling his swords. "I was worried this would be too easy."
The fight wasn't over yet—but if the look on Cregan's face was anything to go by, it was only a matter of time before Dagmer Cleftjaw realized that the Demon Wolf of the North wasn't just a name.
It was a promise.
—
Cregan's POV
First rule of fighting Ironborn: they don't believe in fighting fair. Second rule? They also don't believe in deodorant.
This was something I was painfully aware of as Dagmer Cleftjaw—who smelled like a drowned rat marinated in week-old fish guts—swung his axe at my head.
I ducked, Red Rain in one hand, Nightfall in the other, because what's the point of having two hands if you don't put blades in both of them? The axe whooshed past, missing my face by a hair. My hair, by the way, was currently slick with sweat and, quite possibly, other people's blood.
"Fast little wolf," Cleftjaw grunted, shaking his arms out. "But you'll tire soon enough."
I grinned. "Yeah? That makes one of us."
See, here's the thing—Cleftjaw was big, brutal, and experienced. But he was also old. Well, old to me, which meant at least thirty—ancient. I, on the other hand, was ten, which meant I had the energy of an overexcited direwolf pup and absolutely zero intention of standing still long enough for him to squash me.
He swung again, wide and heavy, putting all his weight behind it. I rolled under the blow, slicing my dirk across his exposed side on my way past.
It wasn't deep, but it was enough to make him stumble.
"Come on, Cleftjaw," I called, flipping Red Rain in my grip. "You're making this too easy."
There was a collective oof from the gathered warriors. Insulting a veteran warrior mid-duel? Bold move. But hey, my father always said if you're going to do something, do it properly. And if I was going to piss off an Ironborn, I was going to really piss off an Ironborn.
Cleftjaw bared his teeth. "Cocky little pup."
"Hey, someone's gotta balance out all the brooding Northerners," I shot back.
Laughter rippled through the hall, but I didn't let it distract me. Cleftjaw was angry now. And angry fighters made mistakes.
He charged, throwing all that bulk at me like a human battering ram. I sidestepped, bringing Red Rain down across his leg as he thundered past. Another shallow cut, but I wasn't aiming to kill him yet—I was aiming to exhaust him.
Ironborn liked fights that ended quick. They weren't built for drawn-out battles. Too much effort. Too much thinking.
Me? I had plenty of energy.
So I did what any reasonable ten-year-old would do: I kept dancing around him, slicing him up like a particularly aggressive kitchen knife.
Clang. Parry. Duck. Slice. Dodge. Sidestep. Repeat.
The crowd was starting to catch on. Even Robert Baratheon, who had barged into the hall like he was looking for a drinking contest, was now watching with undisguised interest.
"He's playing with him," Robert muttered, sounding both impressed and a little offended. "Aye, that's a bloody Stark, alright."
Beside him, Jon Arryn nodded thoughtfully. He had the look of a man carefully filing this information away, probably for some future political maneuvering. "A Stark with a wolf's cunning and a swordsman's speed."
Tywin Lannister, meanwhile, was studying me like I was a particularly promising investment opportunity. "He's testing his opponent's limits," he murmured. "Calculating."
I really, really didn't want to know what kind of schemes were forming in that skull of his.
Jaime Lannister, leaning casually against a pillar, grinned. "I like this kid."
"Oh, we know you like him," Randyll Tarly grumbled, arms crossed. "But if he were truly disciplined, he'd have ended this by now."
"If he were disciplined, he wouldn't be enjoying himself," Jaime countered, clearly having a great time watching me make a seasoned Ironborn warrior look like an idiot.
Meanwhile, Mace Tyrell was looking around, trying to find someone who'd agree with whatever opinion he was about to form. "Ah, yes, truly a display of great—er—skill, wouldn't you say, Lord Arryn?"
Jon Arryn didn't even bother to respond.
Back on the battlefield (read: middle of the great hall, now splattered with a truly artistic amount of blood), Cleftjaw was heaving. His swings were slower. Sloppier.
And me? I wasn't even breathing hard.
Cleftjaw spat on the floor. "You're a slippery little shit."
"I prefer 'tactically elusive,'" I said, before darting in and slicing another cut across his arm.
"Fight me proper, boy!" he roared, sweat dripping into his one good eye.
"Okay." I stepped back, rolling my shoulders. "Here's a proper fight."
Then I exploded.
Not literally, though that would've been an impressive exit. No, I moved. Faster than he could react, I lunged forward. Red Rain and Nightfall blurred in the torchlight.
Slash.
Cleftjaw jerked back, a deep red line opening across his thigh.
Spin. Slice.
Another cut, this time across his ribs.
Pivot. Slash.
A third, right across his sword arm.
He bellowed in rage, swinging wildly, but I ducked, twisting away. His axe hit the stone floor with a resounding crack.
I planted my boot on the handle and kicked it away.
It clattered across the hall. Cleftjaw stood there, panting, weaponless, blood dripping from half a dozen cuts.
I leveled Red Rain at his throat. "Yield."
For a moment, I thought he might say no. Might lunge at me, fists swinging, trying to drag me down with him.
Then he dropped to his knees.
The hall erupted.
Robert let out a thunderous laugh. "GODS, BOY! You fight like you've got the Old Gods themselves guiding your hand!" He clapped Tywin on the shoulder, who looked like he was deeply unamused by being manhandled.
Jaime, laughing, gave me an exaggerated bow. "A duel well fought, young Stark."
Randyll Tarly looked like he'd swallowed something sour. "Reckless," he muttered.
"Oh, absolutely," Jaime agreed cheerfully. "But you have to admit, it was entertaining."
Jon Arryn studied me for a long moment. "A boy who can fight like this at ten…" His voice trailed off, but I got the feeling he was already picturing me as Warden of the North.
Tywin's gaze was sharp. Calculating. I could practically hear him doing the math on what kind of alliance my sword hand was worth.
Mace Tyrell just nodded sagely, as if he'd predicted all of this, despite looking deeply surprised two seconds ago.
And me? I wiped my swords clean and sheathed them, turning to the king with as much composure as a ten-year-old who'd just humiliated an Ironborn in front of half the realm could muster.
"The hall is yours, Your Grace."
Robert grinned. "Aye, lad. But the story is yours."
And as the hall filled with laughter, cheers, and the smell of too much Ironborn sweat, I let myself smile.
Because, yeah. It really was.
—
Here's a fun fact about fighting: No one tells you about the aftermath.
Yeah, sure, you hear all the stories about heroic last stands and glorious victories, but what they don't mention is that after you win, you still have to deal with the awkward family reunion part. And let me tell you—standing there, covered in blood (some mine, mostly not), with my heart still trying to punch its way out of my chest, having everyone stare at me like I just rode in on a dragon was...a lot.
First up: Uncle Ned.
Now, my uncle is basically the living embodiment of "stoic Northern honor," which means his version of losing his mind with pride is a slow nod and maybe—maybe—the hint of a smile. Which, in Stark terms, is basically the same as throwing me a feast and composing a song about my greatness.
"Well done, Cregan," he said, his voice all noble and serious, like he was pronouncing judgment over my soul. "You've proven yourself worthy of the Stark name."
No pressure, right? Just centuries of honor, responsibility, and a legacy of ice and blood resting squarely on my very small, very tired shoulders. Cool. No big deal.
Then there's Uncle Benjen, who usually expresses emotion about as much as a block of frozen mammoth meat. But today? Today he was smiling. Smiling. I was so thrown off I almost checked over my shoulder to see if someone else was standing behind me.
"I always knew you were a fierce one, lad," he said, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my ribs. "But you've outdone yourself today."
Translation: I might actually be his favorite nephew now. Score.
And then came him.
Uncle Arthur. The Sword of the Morning. The guy whose name alone made knights rethink their life choices. Having him for an uncle is like playing dice with the gods—either you win the ultimate bragging rights, or you constantly feel like you should be training harder just by standing near him.
He looked at me, all serious and noble, and gave me the nod. You know the one. The kind that makes it feel like the gods themselves are evaluating your worth.
"You fought with the valor of a true knight," he said, his voice so solemn it might as well have been carved into a Valyrian steel sword. "The realm will sing of your bravery for generations to come."
Generations. Great. No pressure at all.
And then came Aunt Dacey.
Dacey Mormont is basically the human embodiment of "mess around and find out." She's fearless, brutally honest, and terrifyingly good with an axe. Also, she's my favorite because she doesn't treat me like some delicate child in need of coddling.
She stormed forward with that wild grin of hers, grabbed me in a crushing hug (pretty sure I heard something crack), and then pulled back, giving me the look. The one that said, I'm proud of you, but I will absolutely kick your ass if you get cocky.
"You absolute little monster," she said, ruffling my hair like I hadn't just fought for my life. "That was some of the best blade work I've seen in years. You've shown the world what it means to be a Stark."
Yeah, because nothing says Stark pride like a ten-year-old absolutely wrecking Ironborn raiders in their own hall.
I tried to look appropriately humble, which is difficult when you're covered in gore, exhaustion is creeping up your spine, and your stomach is loudly reminding you that you forgot to eat breakfast before this whole mess.
Everyone was still staring at me, their expressions ranging from quiet pride to full-on is he even human awe. And me? I just wanted a bath, a stiff drink (okay, fine, some apple cider—stupid age restrictions), and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But mostly? Mostly, I needed to figure out how to handle being the guy everyone expected to save the North.
No pressure.
Just another day in the life of Cregan Stark—Demon Wolf, accidental hero, master of the Savage Burn, and the ten-year-old who somehow keeps ending up in these ridiculous situations.
—
You ever have one of those days where you're standing in the middle of a blood-soaked room, covered in grime and gore, and you just know that everyone's looking at you like you've been crowned the next king of Westeros—or at least the next person to ruin someone's day in the most badass way possible?
Yeah, that was me.
So, picture this: the smoky, cavernous hall of Pyke, which smells like wet dog and sea salt (you'd think the Greyjoys could afford some air fresheners by now), and there's Robert Baratheon, that big thundercloud of a man, giving one of his signature "I'm a king, and I'll squash you like a bug" speeches to Balon Greyjoy. Now, I'll admit, the old man's got a certain presence about him, all booming voice and clenched fists, like a mountain with a bad attitude.
"You've caused enough suffering, Balon," Robert grumbles, his massive warhammer, Oathkeeper (I know, how epic is that name?) aimed at Balon like it's got a personal vendetta. "This rebellion ends today."
Balon, of course, doesn't exactly seem impressed. He's lounging on his Seastone Chair like he's the king of all the fish in the sea, his legs spread wide, his smug face just asking to be slapped. "You may take my life, Baratheon," he sneers, "but you'll never break the spirit of the Ironborn!"
And then, because he's so obviously feeling himself, Balon spits right at Robert's feet. Like, really? Couldn't be more predictable if he tried.
I lean over to Uncle Benjen, who, I should mention, is standing there with about as much expression as a frostbitten rock, and whisper, "Pretty sure that was rehearsed in front of a mirror. A very salty mirror."
Benjen looks at me for a second, his lips twitching, but he stays quiet. He knows better. Unlike me, he values not having his head chopped off, and I can respect that.
Now, you'd think Robert Baratheon—the guy who once tore through an entire army at the Battle of the Trident—would just crush Balon there and then, but no. He tightens his grip on Oathkeeper like he's deciding whether to turn Balon into mincemeat or just throw him into the ocean and let the fish deal with him. "Your spirit matters little to me," Robert growls. "What matters is peace, which you've thoroughly wrecked."
And that's when I lose it.
"Peace?" I yell, loud enough to make everyone stop and stare. "You mean the kind of peace the Ironborn gave us when they raided our shores and burned our villages down? That 'peace'?" I practically spit the word.
Jon Arryn, standing to Robert's side with his best "wise old sage" expression, raises a hand like he's going to defuse the situation with some kind of "Let's all calm down and think things through" speech. "Your Grace," he says, in that calm, drawling voice, "might I suggest a more measured approach?"
I snort loudly enough to rattle the windows. "Measured approach?" I mimic, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because the Ironborn were so measured when they were sacking our homes, killing our families, and drowning our people? You gonna 'measure' that too, Jon?"
Jon Arryn, the old man who's seen more battles than most people have had hot meals, turns to me, his expression a mixture of exasperation and begrudging admiration. "Lord Cregan, we must rise above vengeance."
"Rise above?" I scoff. "Rise above what? The scores of families who lost everything because of these scum? You think that's just gonna poof disappear because you say 'peace'?"
There's a long, awkward silence in the room, with only Jaime Lannister's muffled laughter breaking it. He's trying not to laugh, but it's like holding back a tidal wave with a toothpick. Tywin Lannister glares at him, and for a second, I think the old man's gonna try to freeze Jaime into a statue. But Jaime just shrugs like, "What can I say? It's funny."
"Justice, Lord Stark," Jon Arryn tries again, "does not mean vengeance."
"Justice?" I bark, my voice louder than I intended. "Then what does it mean? Because if it means letting this pompous squid waltz off after what he's done to us, I'm out."
I don't know what I was expecting, but then Tywin Lannister—yes, Tywin Lannister himself—actually agrees with me. "Lord Stark makes a compelling argument," he says, voice like a snake's hiss. "Perhaps the time for talks is over."
Even Mace Tyrell, who'd rather negotiate with a direwolf than have an argument, reluctantly nods in my direction. "We can't afford to appear weak."
One by one, the other lords start backing me up. It's like I've got my own personal fan club, which is terrifying because now I realize I'm the one leading this charge, and Robert's warhammer is probably about to turn Balon into a fine paste.
Robert raises his hand for silence. It's the kingly version of a mic drop. "Enough," he booms. "The Ironborn have spilled enough blood. Let justice be done."
I have to say, I've never seen someone look quite as disgusted as Robert did when he turned to Balon, whose face had gone pale. "You will be executed tomorrow morning, while your son is coming with us to King's Landing," Robert says, voice dripping with finality. "The rebellion is over. Your fates are mine to decide."
Balon opens his mouth to argue, but Robert shuts him down with a glare that could've turned a whole army to stone. "One more word, Greyjoy, and I'll let Lord Stark handle it. Trust me, he's got ideas."
And that's when I give Balon my best Demon Wolf grin. You know the one. The kind that says, "I'm about to make your life hell, and I'm kinda enjoying it." For the first time all day, Balon actually looks nervous.
As the guards drag Balon away, I catch Theon's eyes. He looks like a rabbit caught in a trap—scared out of his mind, probably wondering what happens now. Who knows? Maybe he's already planning his own rebellion or maybe he's just trying not to cry. Either way, he doesn't have it easy.
Robert slaps me on the back as we exit the hall. "You've got fire in you, Cregan," he says, laughing. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
I flash him a grin. "Don't worry, your Grace. I save my bad side for squids like Balon."
And just like that, the tension in the air starts to lift, but I can't shake the feeling that the Greyjoys are far from finished. This wasn't the end of the story. It was just the beginning.
And if you ask me, it's going to get a whole lot messier before it's all over.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!