Chapter 9

This chapter is only for 18+. Mention of violence.

Sunset Sea

The breeze from the sea ruffled Aryan's hair as he stood at the bow of the Marauder, watching the horizon. A week had passed since they set sail. The winds had been favorable, allowing them to move quickly. Benjen Seastark had sent the Seastark fleet north under the command of Robett Glover while he accompanied Aryan in the Manderly fleet towards Blacktyde Island. The fleet of almost a hundred ships was divided into three groups to prevent any surprise attacks, but remained within reach of each other if needed. So far, they had not encountered any Ironborn ships.

At the suggestion of Roose Bolton, most of the men were kept below deck at all times to maintain the illusion of a smaller force. Currently, Aryan was breaking his fast on deck with Benjen, Roose, Wyllis, and Smalljon, who had been appointed his personal guard. Aryan had already instructed the captains to capture as many ships as possible without damaging or sinking them if they could help it.

Wyllis Manderly spoke first. "Due to people migrating from the South, the size of White Harbor has grown rapidly, my lord. Our population has more than doubled. Once, White Harbor was the smallest city. Now we are larger than Sunspear. Wintertown is nearly as large as Lannisport. But it is the settlement at Moat Cailin that is growing the fastest. With the canal operational, ship traffic has increased tenfold. My father holds you in high esteem, my lord. When he heard of your appointment of a Mayor to oversee Wintertown, he has now made me the Mayor of White Harbor."

Aryan arched an eyebrow. "I didn't know that. Between managing the affairs of the North and the coming war, I found it difficult to oversee Wintertown personally. That's why I appointed Loren as Mayor. Now that you are here, who is handling your former duties?"

"My younger brother Wendel, my lord. Father said it would be a good opportunity for him to learn administration," Wyllis replied.

Aryan nodded, then turned to Roose Bolton. "What about you, my lord? How fares the Dreadfort?"

Roose, in his quiet voice, responded, "Everything is well, my lord. We focused on leather and meat production. While we produce enough food grains and vegetables to sustain ourselves, it is the export of meat and leather that brings wealth. As per your suggestion, I have established three fishing villages, and they also procure enough fish."

Aryan interrupted, "I think it would be beneficial to implement a boat system in the Weeping River, like we did with the White Knife. It would allow faster transport of goods."

"It would, my lord, but currently, the Dreadfort does not have the funds to invest in such an undertaking," Roose said, his tone ever neutral.

Aryan considered this. While Winterfell had diamonds, steel, and vodka production fueling its wealth, the other Northern houses were not as fortunate. The Manderlys had their silver mines. While most houses were now self-sufficient in food and had saved some money, they still weren't as wealthy as the major southern lords. He needed to accelerate his other economic plans.

"How are Lady Bethany and Domeric? He is just two years younger than me, isn't he?" Aryan asked.

"Domeric is well, my lord. But my wife is often ill. It seems childbirth weakened her," Roose replied.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Aryan said, though he felt no real sympathy. 'Death would be a mercy compared to living with a cold man like Roose Bolton,' he thought.

Turning to Benjen, Aryan asked, "Uncle, how is the port coming along?"

"I've named it Wolfbay. Now that the canal is complete, more workers are available. I estimate Wolfbay will be finished within a year. Our merchants are already sailing to Asshai and Yi-Ti. Sometimes, I sell surplus food from the Riverlands to them. We are making considerable profit trading with them."

Aryan's interest piqued. "Asshai? Truly, Uncle?"

Benjen grinned. "Yes, nephew. Thanks to the canal, we no longer have to circumnavigate the entire world to reach them. Our ships can reach Asshai in two moons and Yi-Ti in five. Since nothing grows in Asshai, I make a fortune selling them food."

'This is useful,' Aryan thought. Before he could contemplate further, shouts from the ship's captain interrupted his musings.

"The Ironborn have arrived!"

Aryan turned and saw them—fifty longships closing in. The captain signaled the other two divisions of the Manderly fleet, and they readied for battle.

The Ironborn had no hope of boarding the Marauder easily—the ship's deck was too high. Northmen rained arrows and scorpion bolts upon them, tearing through their light armor. The sea turned red as bodies fell into the water. Eventually, though, some managed to board. Aryan unsheathed his longsword and joined the fray.

His enhanced reflexes made the battle almost laughable. He weaved through attacks, cutting down Ironborn with ease. He saw his uncle Benjen at the bow, locked in his own battles. Then a deep voice roared, and Aryan turned.

A towering man with long hair and the Kraken sigil on his chest grinned madly. "So you're the pup I've been hearing about. Why is a greenboy like you here instead of suckling at his mother's tits?"

Aryan narrowed his eyes. "Who the fuck are you?"

The man grinned wider. "Rodrik Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands. I may not have had much success attacking the North, but by the Drowned God's blessing, I'll start by killing you."

At that, Aryan suddenly started to laugh loudly, and Rodrick's smile faltered. Aryan said to him, "I was just thinking about how to catch you, but today the gods are with me. They brought you here. You know, you can't just go to others' houses uninvited, touch their valuable things without permission, and then escape without any consequences. Especially when they are my family."

Rodrick smiled. "Yes, the attack at Moat. A small mistake from one of my men. I had him killed. That red-head would make an excellent salt wife for me."

With narrowed eyes, Aryan said, "We will see about that. Now, are you going to talk me to death, or are you going to attack?"

On hearing that, Rodrick lunged at him with his longsword. Aryan easily dodged him, spun around, and slashed Rodrick's back. As Rodrick wore leather armor, Aryan's longsword easily tore through it into his flesh. Rodrick gasped in pain. Everything happened too quickly for him to comprehend. Gritting his teeth in pain, he turned around and started to swing his sword wildly, all of which Aryan easily parried or countered with a smirk on his face. Rodrick, growing tired from blood loss, suddenly lost his balance and fell down. He raised himself and looked up—only to receive a punch to his face and a kick to his stomach. As he clutched his stomach in pain, Aryan slammed the pommel of his sword into Rodrick's head, and he fell unconscious.

When Aryan looked around, he saw that all the ironborn on the deck of the Marauder were dead. The full Manderly fleet had surrounded the ironborn ships. Aryan called for Smalljon and instructed him to take Rodrick's unconscious form to the cells and treat his wounds.

Aryan then called to the other Northmen, "Show no mercy. Send all of them to their precious Drowned God."

They cheered, and with renewed vigor, they butchered the ironborn. Aryan sighed in relief. 'My first battle, and I have won.'

The next day, when Aryan woke up in his bed, he immediately felt a change in him. After doing his morning rituals, he stood naked, ready to get dressed, when he suddenly looked down and grinned. 'Finally, little Aryan has woken up,' he thought happily. Puberty had arrived, and now he could soon indulge in carnal pleasures. He had missed his favorite activity for so long.

Dressing up, he went above deck in a happy mood. The others were already assembled, and they started to eat their food. Benjen started to give the reports. "We have lost five ships, about a hundred men, with another hundred injured. We were able to kill almost a thousand squids. Overall, it was a great victory, nephew. Your plan worked flawlessly."

Aryan nodded. He did not feel any grief over the death of his men. After all, this was war. People die. He had long accepted that. "How many ships did we capture?" he asked.

Wyllis replied, "Forty ships, my lord. The remaining ten ships drowned during the attack."

"Good work. Send twenty of those ships to Wolfbay along with the injured soldiers. We will keep the rest for our next attack. How long until we reach Blacktyde Island?" Aryan asked.

Wyllis answered, "Within a week, my lord."

Aryan nodded at that, then, finishing his food, got up. Followed by Smalljon, he went into the cells. The guards opened the door. One of them handed him a mace. Rodrick Greyjoy lay unconscious and chained. Aryan kicked him in the stomach, and he suddenly woke up gasping. When he looked up and saw Aryan, he started to curse.

Aryan smiled at him. "We didn't finish our talk yesterday—about your punishment, you know. You made three mistakes. Do you know what they are?"

Rodrick just glared at him.

Aryan smirked down at him and started explaining, "One, you were born. Two, you attacked the North. And three, you attacked my family. Do you know what punishment I am going to give you?"

The Greyjoy heir, in an arrogant voice, said, "We do not sow. We reap."

"Too bad you didn't sow. So now you will weep." As he said that, Aryan's face changed, and immediately Rodrick lost his arrogance—his face showed fear.

The guards and Smalljon held him down as he started to struggle. Aryan lifted the mace and brought it down twice, breaking Rodrick's legs. The man screamed in pain and started to beg for death.

With a remorseless face, Aryan told him, "You will die, Greyjoy. But not today. Until that day, you will suffer here, regretting the day you were ever born. I will also give you the pleasure of watching the hell I am going to unleash on the Iron Islands."

He started to go out, then, after thinking for a moment, he ordered the guards to hold and spread Rodrick's legs. Then, in one quick move, he slammed the mace into his crotch. The Greyjoy heir squealed. "And that was for trying to kidnap my aunt," Aryan said with a smile.

They then came out of the cell, and the guards locked it again. Aryan told them, "Make sure that he remains alive until we reach the Pyke." They nodded.

Aryan returned to the deck and went near the bow to feel the sea breeze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roose Bolton looking at him in a strange way, perhaps evaluating him. Aryan mentally laughed at that. The Bolton line was hanging by a bare thread. The moment Roose Bolton decided to betray him would be the moment the fate of the Bolton line would be sealed.

Blacktyde, The Iron Islands

Night had fallen and the moon was yet to rise. A few guards were patrolling the shores of Blacktyde Island. Several longships stood docked, their hulls rocking gently with the waves. Among them was Nightflyer, the flagship of Lord Blacktyde. The guards on duty were mostly drunk, their movements sluggish, their senses dulled. It was no surprise when dark figures emerged from the sea, silent as shadows.

The first wave of attackers moved with lethal precision, cutting down the guards before they could raise an alarm. The corpses were dragged into the water, leaving no trace of the slaughter. Those disguised in stolen garments from the fallen guards made their way into the castle, slipping through the stone corridors like wraiths in the night.

The slaughter was methodical. Northmen moved through the halls, slitting throats, driving steel into sleeping men, and ensuring none were left to raise the alarm. By the time the first cries of warning rang out, it was too late. The battle, if it could be called that, was over before it began. With a final push, the great hall was breached, and the banner of a wolf running across a snowy field unfurled above the castle.

Aryan Stark sat in the solar of the conquered keep, a goblet of wine in his hand, surveying the bloodstained halls with satisfaction. The stench of death lingered, but he welcomed it. This was victory.

Roose Bolton entered, his pale eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight. "It is done, my lord. All men on Blacktyde have been slaughtered as ordered, the women on Blacktyde have been given to the soldiers, the children and thralls spared as per your orders. Lord Blacktyde is dead, though his sons remain at Pyke."

Aryan took a slow sip of wine, his expression unreadable. "The septons?"

"Dead, my lord," Roose replied. "Both had saltwives of their own."

Aryan replied "Hypocrites, the lot of them."

A cruel smile played at Aryan's lips. "Let the sons of Blacktyde return to nothing. Let them see what happens to those who dare defy the North."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Benjen Stark entered, looking weary but triumphant. He placed a sheathed sword on the table between them. "We found something of interest among the dead."

Aryan unsheathed the blade, its smoky steel glinting red in the candlelight. "Red Rain," he murmured, recognizing the famed Valyrian steel sword of House Drumm. He turned to his uncle, offering the weapon. "It belongs to House Seastark now."

Benjen smiled, nodding in gratitude. "A fine gift. What are your orders?"

Aryan leaned back in his chair. "You will take forty ships and sail to Lannisport. Bring the rest of our forces here. There may still be a few Lannister ships that survived the initial assault—secure them if possible. Also, take the thralls with you; let them find new lives far from these cursed shores. I will proceed to Orkmont, then Harlaw. The King will likely strike Pyke directly. I will meet him there."

Benjen inclined his head. "It will be done."

When his uncle departed, Aryan made his way through the cold halls of the keep, his boots echoing against the stone. He found Roose Bolton waiting for him near the stairwell, his expression unreadable.

"Lord Stark," Roose said softly, leading him toward the treasury. "The wealth of Blacktyde is yours to claim. I have counted eighty thousand dragons, along with jewelry and precious stones."

Aryan nodded. "Take it all for yourself, Lord Bolton. Consider it a reward for your efficiency. You can now begin construction of the river boat system at the Dreadfort."

Roose's lips curled into something resembling a smile. "Your generosity is noted, my lord."

Aryan gazed out toward the sea, the scent of salt and blood thick in the air. "Let the men rest for two days. Then, we move on Orkmont."

Roose inclined his head. "As you command."

As Aryan stood upon the battlements that night, looking over his latest conquest, he felt nothing. No remorse, no guilt—only the cold satisfaction of a victory well earned. The Ironborn had long preyed upon the weak, but now the wolves had come to hunt, and there would be no mercy.

Only blood.

Rodrick Greyjoy

Rodrick Greyjoy was dragged out from his cell, his broken legs barely able to support his weight as the guards forced him forward. The heavy chains around his wrists and ankles clinked with every painful step. He was shoved onto the cold, damp ground of the Blacktyde castle's courtyard, where his people lay in ruin.

The Northmen had made quick work of the Blacktyde men, cutting them down without any mercy. The noblemen of the island were slaughtered, their bodies left to rot. The women had worse fate than the men. They were left alive but now they are the shell of their former self. The northmen had made them their plaything, raping them without any mercy. When the sons of the late Lord Blacktyde would return, they would find only the broken remnants of their house, their women mere shadows of what they once were.

That accursed Aryan Stark stood before him, his face unreadable. "You see, Greyjoy, there are consequences for one's actions. You reap what you sow, and your kind has sown only misery. Your people are just getting a taste of their own medicine. Now you will witness what it means to be powerless. This is only the beginning. I will reduced the Iron borns to nothing. Soon you will beg for death."

Rodrick was forced to watch it all, unable to turn away, unable to stop the madness unfolding before him. He had believed the Northmen to be honorable, but this... this was something else entirely. There was no mercy here, no grand speeches of righteousness.