[Immediately following the capture of Pyke, 7th moon, 289AC]
Jaime Lannister wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his white gauntlet, the stench of salt, soot, and death thick in the throne room of Pyke. Smoke still drifted through shattered windows, blown in from the storm-tossed sea. Broken banners bearing the kraken sigil lay in tatters across the cold stone floor. A shattered helm rolled lazily down the steps beneath the blackened throne. The Ironborn were broken.
And now, the king came.
Robert Baratheon strode through the ironbound doors with the same force of will he'd brought into battle. His hammer swung from one massive fist, still stained with Ironborn blood. His beard bristled with sea spray and gore, and there was a grin plastered across his face that Jaime had seen only in the midst of slaughter.
"Ugly fucking place," Robert announced to no one and everyone, staring at the Seastone chair of Pyke, an ornate oily stone chair shaped into a krakenl. He lifted his hammer high. "But then again, what did we expect from squids?"
The laughter that followed was half-genuine, half-exhausted. Tywin Lannister did not smile. He stood nearby, arms crossed, flanked by his brothers. Lord Tarly and Redwyne murmured amongst themselves. Lord Hoster Tully leaned heavily on a pillar. Jon Arryn stood behind Robert with all the poise of a man already planning the next step.
"Credit where it's due," Robert bellowed, nodding to the figures that approached the dais. "It was Alaric Stark and my brother in all but blood, Ned, who cracked this place open. I'd have taken the gate myself if you bastards hadn't beaten me to it."
Ned Stark stood to the king's left, grey cloak torn, his face solemn and smeared with grime. Beside him stood Lord Alaric Stark, the young wolf pup of Winterfell. His sword was still unsheathed, but his armor was spattered in blood and ash, his eyes sharp and distant. Jaime watched him with the cautious interest of a man who'd seen enough to know a predator when he spotted one.
A nod from Jon Arryn, and the lords began to file out of the throne room. A council was to be held, one that would determine the fate of House Greyjoy.
[Later]
The chamber was deep within Pyke, away from the salt and wind, though the stink of the reeking halls still clung to the stone. Tapestries had been torn down or burned; chairs salvaged from the wreckage were arranged in a rough circle. Jaime lounged in his chair, having been given a rare moment of respite from his duty, boot resting on one knee, as the discussion began.
Robert, wine in hand, leaned forward with barely contained energy. "So. What do we do with the kraken now that we've ripped off its arms?"
Lord Randyll Tarly was first to speak, voice clipped and cold. "Extermination. We raze every keep. Salt the shores. Take their sons for the Wall and drown their daughters in the sea they worship."
"My lords," said Paxter Redwyne, brushing soot from his sleeve. "Surely we don't need such savagery. The Ironborn are beaten. If Balon is dead, the matter ends there."
"Balon lives," Tywin interjected. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the chamber like a knife. "He's a man beaten, almost dead from the wound inflicted by Lord Stark, although he might be in a precarious situation health-wise, he can still bend the knee willingly."
"Or we could drag him in chains," muttered Kevan beside him.
Hoster Tully leaned forward. "What of the reavers still hidden in the isles? We'll see raids for years if we do not press hard now."
"Aye," grunted Mace Tyrell, stroking his beard. "But press too hard and we'll stir rebellion anew. Mercy, I say. Mercy, and heavy tribute. We take their ships, their gold, their sons." The Fat Flower giving a rare anecdote that wasn't utter dog piss.
More voices joined in. Some clamored for executions, others for hostages, still others for a treaty and tolls on Ironborn trade. Jaime remained silent, fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword.
Through it all, the Northmen said nothing.
Ned Stark stood with his arms crossed, mouth a thin line. Alaric Stark leaned back in his seat, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. Ser Torrhen Stark, the boy's sworn shield and protector, sat nearby, whispering with one of the other Northern lords, the brooding Lord Artos of High Hill, if Jaime recalled correctly. Artos' brother Ser Harlad hovered close behind them, silent and observant, and yet, a smug smile plastered across his face.
'A man whom I could empathise with.' Jaime thought with a mental laugh
The Riverlanders bickered with the Reachmen, while the Lannisters scowled at them all.
And still, the North said nothing.
Until Jon Arryn stood.
"Enough," the Hand said. "We can bicker until the sea drinks us, or we can decide."
The chamber quieted.
"We will not execute Balon Greyjoy, not unless he refuses our terms. He will kneel before the king and name himself subject again, or he dies."
Robert made a sound of approval, but Arryn raised a hand.
"Furthermore, the boy, Theon Greyjoy, his third son, now his heir... he will be taken to Winterfell."
There was a pause.
"As a hostage," Arryn continued. "To be raised by Eddard Stark."
The silence cracked, not with words but with what was unsaid. Jaime turned his head toward the Northerners.
Ned Stark's face was still, though his brow furrowed ever so slightly. Alaric's expression remained cold, carved from winter stone.
Ser Torrhen leaned forward, speaking low. "You would have us keep the kraken's spawn in our den?"
"To raise him as one of your own," Jon said. "So that when the time comes, he remembers the North."
Jaime couldn't help himself. As the lords stood and began to disperse, he turned to the Starks and offered a smirk.
"Well, I hope you enjoy your new houseguest. Squid smells worse than dog, but I'm sure he'll make a fine pet."
He caught the flicker in Alaric's eyes before the Northern lord even opened his mouth.
"Keep speaking, Kingslayer," Alaric said, voice soft and sharp as a blade of ice. "You may learn the smell of your own fear."
That shut Jaime up.
A beat of silence.
Then Alaric turned and walked away, his cloak swirling behind him, followed by Ned and the others.
Jaime leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head, exhaling through his nose.
"Well," he muttered to no one in particular, "I liked the smell of the sea better."
Later, Jaime stood atop the ruined ramparts of Pyke, watching the waves crash against the cliffs. Smoke curled from below, where the Ironborn dead were being burned. The sea was red with memory.
He wasn't sure he liked this victory. Not because it wasn't glorious, it was. The kind of tale the singers would tell. But it felt like something else had been broken here, something old and quiet and unforgiving. Like a wolf baring its teeth in the dark.
And the North, the North had bared its teeth indeed.
He watched as Alaric Stark stood beside his uncle, their voices low, speaking not of glory but of burden. Jaime knew duty when he saw it. He'd worn that face too, once.
He grunted and turned away.
The sea still roared, but the krakens were silent.
[The Next day, mid-morning]
The sun had barely pierced the haze over Pyke when they gathered. Jaime stood beside his king as the defeated lords of the Iron Islands were dragged before them. The air still reeked of salt and smoke, the stones beneath their feet blackened by fire and blood. But the throne room of the Greyjoys still stood, ugly, brutal, reeking of iron and decay. Fitting.
At the center, on the raised dais of twisted iron and weirwood, stood Robert Baratheon. His warhammer rested across his shoulder, his chest bare beneath his cloak, his beard still damp with sea spray and sweat. He looked every inch the conqueror, golden-crowned by morning light and flanked by his loyal lions, wolves, and stags.
Balon Greyjoy knelt before him.
The silence was tense, the lords gathered in a semicircle around the scene: Lord Paxter Redwyne with his perfumed handkerchief pressed to his face, dour Randyll Tarly in bloody mail, old Hoster Tully with his shoulders slumped. Lord Mace Tyrell smiled as if he were watching a tourney, while Jon Arryn and Ned Stark stood stiffly, grim-faced. And beside Ned, his nephew, Alaric Stark, taller than any boy of his age, arms crossed, expression like cold stone.
Balon's head remained bowed.
"I thought squids had no spines," Robert said finally, his voice booming through the ruined hall. "Yet here you are, bent like a dog."
Balon did not rise. "You have won."
Robert stepped forward. "Aye. And you've lost. You had your rebellion. You burned towns, murdered smallfolk, killed good men. And now, you kneel."
"I am still Lord of the Iron Islands."
"For now." Robert's gaze swept the room. "Let all see it. Let every lord, knight, and squire remember what happens to those who rise against the crown. You'll keep your title, Balon Greyjoy, but only just. And your son... well."
His eyes flicked to Ned and Alaric. "We'll get to that."
Balon remained kneeling for a moment longer. Then, finally, he rose, face pale beneath his salt-and-iron beard. He turned without another word and walked from the throne room, under guard.
Later, Jaime leaned against a moss-streaked wall, arms folded as he watched a small procession form in the courtyard. Baratheon men-at-arms in black and gold stood in formation, surrounding a boy who could not have been more than nine.
Theon Greyjoy.
He had that Ironborn look, sharp features, pale eyes, the beginnings of arrogance already etched into his posture. But there was fear there too, barely masked, as he clutched a salt-stained satchel and tried to keep his chin high.
"Careful, boy," Jaime called, pushing off the wall and striding over, his white armor gleaming under the overcast sky. "You're about to be thrown to the wolves."
Theon blinked at him, uncertain whether to be insulted or afraid.
Jaime offered a smirk. "You bite them first, or they'll chew you to the bone. That's what they do in the North. Especially the cold one. Alaric. He eats boys like you for breakfast. With a bit of hardbread and blood sausage."
Theon swallowed.
"Good luck, squidling." Jaime patted his shoulder with just enough force to stagger him slightly. "Hope you swim better than your brothers."
The guards gave him a sharp glance, but Jaime waved them off and sauntered back toward the docks, where the final farewells were being made.
[The Next day, 1st day of the 8th moon, 289AC]
The sea wind snapped at the banners above Pyke's ruined docks. Ships bobbed in the choppy waters, northern warships with snarling direwolves carved on their prows, standing ready to return to frostbitten lands.
Robert stood at the edge of the quay, clasping Ned Stark by the arm.
"You're a hard man to convince, Ned."
"I've had enough of courtly life, Your Grace."
Jaime stood close enough to hear, behind Robert's shoulder. Nearby, Jon Arryn watched in silence, and Alaric Stark lingered a few paces off, speaking quietly with his bannermen.
"I wanted you at my side," Robert said. "You're my brother, damn it. You always were."
Ned smiled faintly. "And you are my king. But my place is in the North. Winterfell cannot rule itself. Nor can my nephew."
Robert glanced over at Alaric. "Aye, the boy's got steel in him. More than some grown men. Still..." He sighed. "Seven hells, I'm going to miss you."
"You'll have Jon," Ned said gently.
Robert grunted. "He's no fun at feasts. Doesn't drink, doesn't whore. Reads too much."
That got a laugh from Jaime, which drew a glare from Arryn. Jaime offered a mock bow. "Apologies, Lord Hand. Just appreciating the king's insight."
As Ned turned to leave, Robert pulled him into a rough embrace. "Send ravens," he said. "And if you ever change your mind—"
"You'll be the first to know."
Ned stepped away, nodding once to Jaime, then to Arryn. His men were already boarding.
Ser Benjicot Stark of White Harbor shouted orders, and Ser Torrhen Stark helped some squire onto the plank. Alaric approached last, pausing in front of Robert.
"You've earned your rest, Lord Stark," Robert said.
Alaric gave a slight nod. "And you've earned your crown again."
Their handshake was brief, but strong. Then Alaric turned to Jaime.
"I'll be sure to teach the boy manners."
Jaime raised a brow. "And what if he's a stubborn little squid?"
"Then I'll carve out the salt and leave only the wolf."
Jaime opened his mouth, thought better of it, and said nothing.
As the northern sails unfurled and the ships began to slip away from the harbor, Jaime stood beside the king, wind tugging at his golden hair.
"They're going to be trouble," he said quietly.
Robert grunted. "They're always trouble." He said with a wide smile
But Jaime wasn't looking at Ned. He watched Alaric, tall as a tower, standing at the prow of his ship like some old war god reborn. The wind caught his dark cloak, and the gray direwolf of Stark snapped in the air.
"If Father's plan was to tame him," Jaime said under his breath, "then I wonder if we've just let a wolf gain its teeth."
Turning toward Jaime Robert, bellowed, "Did you say something, Kingslayer?" the big oaf still sporting his blasted grin.
"Just talking to myself, Your Grace."
Robert grunted as if he found Jaime's response lacking, as he turned to walk toward the great hall of Pyke, still decent shape despite the bombardement, do doubt set on drinking and whoring the day away before they too depart.