Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

9th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

The Lord Regent, King's Landing

Last night had been a disaster, but Joffrey had lived.

Everyone who wasn't deaf could hear his angry shrieks throughout the Red Keep. "I want them dead, all of them, DEAD!" 

They had been so close to defeat, so close, and at the hands of some angry gutter rats instead of Renly's blades or Mace Tyrell's schemes. Should Joffrey have perished last night, their cause would have been crushed. Without Tommen or Joffrey, Myrcella would be next in line.

Kevan could admit Cersei's daughter could probably make for a fine ruling Queen, but such a thing could only happen in peacetime. She had the support, but in war, the throne required a king; knights and lords simply fought harder for a king who would join them in battle than they would for a queen who would hide behind the men. Perhaps if Myrcella were in King's Landing… it wouldn't be impossible, but she was far away, safely tucked behind Winterfell's sturdy walls.

Thankfully, Karstark's desperate rush that had left hundreds of corpses within minutes succeeded. The Northmen had arrived just in time to save the young king, but Joffrey did not get away scot-free. His body was covered with bruises and cuts, his sword hand was in a splint, his face was swollen purple, and his right eye… had been clawed out. Even now, a stinky poultice covered the ugly, gaping wound, and Pycelle still fretted over him.

"The rioters have been swept away, and the Tyroshi incursion in the docks has been crushed, Your Grace," Ser Balon Swann knelt, his armour battered and caked red with blood and gore still. They were in the throne room, but the court had been dismissed for today.

The riot had continued through the night, and the Essosi had tried to take the Rivergate and rush into the city. Jacelyn Bywater, the Rivergate commander, managed to hold until Karstark and Swann arrived with reinforcements. The Northern veterans and the red cloaks had swept away the foolish sellsails after the rioters had been slaughtered, yet they could not take, let alone damage, any of the Essosi ships. 

As the sun rose from over the murky waters of Blackwater Bay, the cobbled streets were rusty red and strewn with a carpet of corpses as the city watch slowly toiled to cart out each body. Tens of thousands had died last night.

"Where is my Master of Ships?" Joffrey hissed with pain and fury. "He lost me my bloody fleet! Where is that inept fool Lydden?"

"When he saw the attack, he rushed to sail out, trying to rally the royal mariners…" Varys trailed off weakly. "I'm afraid he's yet to return."

Aside from the few ships that had been taken over after their crews had been slaughtered, there was nought but cinders and corpses left from the royal fleet. The poor Lord of Deep Den would be either on the bottom of Blackwater Bay or just another corpse being nibbled by the fishes. It was a proud yet foolish thing to do–go down with the ship.

Kevan tiredly rubbed his head.

"The damned Tyroshi are doubtlessly raiding and pillaging the coast of the Crownlands now." It was a disaster. The defeat might just bring their cause to their knees. Yes, the Archonate's fleet couldn't breach the city, but with the crownlands coast devastated and the flow of food sailing in through the docks halted, the city might as well starve.

"How?" The furious Joffrey pushed away the hemming Pycelle and glared at the Spider. "Varys, why were we attacked by surprise by some Essosi filth?"

"I will find out, Your Grace," Varys bowed, bald head glistened with an unholy mix of sweat and powders.

The boy king balled his fists as his swollen face twisted with fury.

"This can only be that traitor, Renly," he seethed. "My uncle is trying to kill me with a borrowed knife. And those savage street rats broke my favourite gilded crossbow. Someone bring master Alastor to make me another!"

Karstark, Swann, and Kevan exchanged a few glances of confusion while Varys bowed only deeper.

"Why are you all silent? Speak, damn it!"

"I'm afraid Master Alastor has left," the eunuch muttered sorrowfully. 

"What do you mean left?!"

The Spider shrank as if he tried to disappear into the marble floor as his head touched the polished marble tiles below. "Your sister, Princess Myrcella, had summoned him to Winterfell, and he has been there with his apprentices for moons now."

Joffrey's swollen face reddened further, looking like a misshapen volcano ready to erupt. His sister was a sore topic for the young king but not one he dared to speak of even now with a crown atop his head.

"Out!" He shrieked angrily. "I want them all dead, strung up on my heart tree!" 

Karstark's face lit up with interest while Kevan groaned. He had no idea what Myrcella had done to her brother over the years, but he still dared not lash out against her, which meant someone else would bear the brunt of the royal ire. 

"All of them, Your Grace?" The Northman asked eagerly.

At that moment, the Lord Regent knew a struggle awaited him–he had to satisfy the young king's thirst for blood and vengeance while trying not to offend the remnants of the Faith that remained on their side while expelling some of the useless mouths to feed from the city. 

"We shall not let anyone who is guilty go free," Kevan promised pointedly before Joffrey could worsen things. They had more than enough religious woes as it was. "Each soul who raised a hand against your royal person shall be caught and punished, grandnephew. I promise you this."

"I want to see the walls of the Red Keep lined with the heads of those treacherous curs daring to raise their hands against their king," Joffrey clenched his jaw, but his green eye flashed erratically with anger. "Out with you now! Someone bring me another master arbalest. And Ser Arys, bring Arael to me at once!"

The white cloak bowed and rushed out as the rest of the councillors made themselves scarce.

"Your Grace, it's not appropriate to bring a paramour in here-"

"I don't want to hear of it, Lord Hand," Joffrey hissed. "I am the king here, not you. Out of my sight now!"

With a sigh, Kevan left the throne room. Mother have mercy; how could Cersei fail so terribly? Even Aerys, Robert, nor even the Unworthy had ever brought a whore to fuck atop the Iron Throne. Poor Myrielle would be shamed even worse than Cersei had been…

And there wasn't much Kevan could do. Yes, he was the Regent in name, but he could not contest Joffrey's authority, no matter how much he wished. Everything else in this cursed city, Kevan could command and order around, but not this. The bloody boy had all the swords in the city under his thumb; even the captains of the redcloaks listened to the young king instead of Kevan. 

For all his faults, Joffrey possessed one skill, and one skill only–being able to order people around. It was a skill the boy-king had mastered to perfection, and he knew which tone of voice to use, how to leverage his future position, reward obedience generously and had shown himself more than vengeful. So they all listened to him.

Karstark, however, was one of the men here who genuinely liked Joffrey. Whether about his worship of the Old Gods or something else entirely, Kevan could not tell. But the Master of Laws was eager, fought hard, trained even harder, kept order in the city, and even got his Lannisport lioness pregnant. And all that effort seemed to work because Joffrey was increasingly favouring the Northmen by the day. 

In the rare instance that the young king wanted to bother with something, it was done, and Kevan could do nought but deal with the aftermath or try to deflect or at least lessen any harm Joffrey would thoughtlessly do with his whimsical orders.

Yet, after a single night of blood, things had worsened drastically. 

Moore, who had beheaded that septon, had perished against the angry crowd, torn apart alive, and now they needed four knights to fill the ranks of the White Cloaks. 

Even the plump High Septon, who tried to calm down the commotion, had been killed by the angry rioters, and the Sept of Baelor was devastated as if a storm had passed through it. The riches, crystals, silvers, coins, and golden stars were all looted, and everything else was broken aside from the statues of the Seven.

More than half the septas had been despoiled, and the Septons and Most Devout killed, and it would have been worse if his son, Lancel, had not rushed inside just in time to save the rest with two dozen red and gold cloaks. It had earned his eldest son his spurs as Ser Balon Swann himself knighted Lancel at dawn and promoted him to a captain of the gold cloaks, perhaps the only good thing that had happened last night. 

Even some young, strong Waters boy with dark hair and blue eyes–probably one of Robert's bastards, had managed to earn himself a vice-captain after cutting a bloody swathe through the rioters on his lonesome. 

Kevan would have wept with anger and despair if it was any worse. But while savage, Karstark was capable, and Balon Swann had performed admirably. The city was secure, if a bit battered and bloodied. 

Even now, he could hear the weeping of daughters, widows, and mothers from the Red Keep, but Kevan's heart was set. He would harden himself and expel all those useless mouths to feed, especially now that Tyrosh could block shipments of grain and foodstuffs by the sea. Perhaps even the valuables stolen from the Great Sept could be recovered as the city was being swept. It would certainly mend the strained relations with the Faith.

He would steel himself and do everything he could for victory.

Defeat would mean death–Kevan knew of the likes of Mace Tyrell. He looked amiable, soft, and foolish, but there was no mercy in the hearts of Reachmen. They would smile in your face before stabbing you in the back and make you watch as they burn your children, all the while espousing the chivalry and honour of the Reach.

Hightower, Tyrell, Redwyne, Tarly–all hardened men in Renly's council, which spoke volumes of his desire to grasp victory no matter what. The sacking of Crakehall and the burnings near the Rushing Falls had shown that the whole Reach was rearing for blood. 

Surrender was no longer an option, no matter how dire things seemed. Peace… Kevan dreamed of peace, of those warm years when you could travel unimpeded from Casterly Rock to any corner of the Realm. He dreamt of peace, of summer, but Kevan was a cynic. 

The only way they would have peace was if one side was broken to a million pieces or vanquished, for in the Game of Thrones, you either won or you died. 

***

11th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

Davos Seaworth, Dragonstone

The newly arrived maester Pylos had said the red comet in the sky was an omen of death, but Davos had not thought much of it. Sure, he had been careful the next few days lest he got struck by some mishap out of bad luck, but matters were not half as simple. 

Whether out of luck or something else, everyone had forgotten about Shireen Baratheon.

"She's just a girl of eleven," Cressen had explained. Unsaid was that her regent was a lowly smuggler, for the old maester was not one to look on lowborn like him, but Davos heard and knew it all the same. 

Yet while they enjoyed peace and calm, from the Shield Islands to the Kingswood, the realm was aflame with war, and hundreds, if not thousands, were dying every day.

"Perhaps they respect the proper mourning period," Ser Hardy had said. The small mourning for the highborn was seven times seven days, but the ceremonial one was seven cycles of the moon and seven days. Yet the mourning period was ending soon–over six moons had passed since Stannis had perished. Six moons since Davos felt like a drowning man grasping at straws.

Stannis' bones were interred beneath Storm's End despite the turmoil and trouble that Cressen suspected. 

How soon would the flames of war engulf Dragonstone? Forgotten or not, Shireen Baratheon was supposed to be Joffrey's close cousin and Renly's niece. Could she sit out the war, especially after the end of the mourning period was fast approaching? 

The former smuggler began to fret.

How soon until the envoys arrived, demanding fealty? Stannis had increased the men-at-arms of Dragonstone over the past year, which prompted the rest of the Narrow Sea houses to do the same. Davos doubted any would ignore Shireen when she could command over four thousand swords and a few dozen ships. The Lady Baratheon had not ordered the recruitment efforts to stop, but the opposite; even more men-at-arms were being recruited from across the Narrow Sea, the Stormlands, and even the Vale.

Davos had seen Ser Roland Storm and Ser Richard Horpe busy helping the master-at-arms train the men.

Worse, Dragonstone was traditionally sworn to King's Landing, so Shireen had to do something sooner or later. 

Anything.

Davos spun around in bed for many sleepless nights, unsure if he should burden the young Lady of Dragonstone with the accusations Stannis held so close to his chest.

Had Cersei truly cuckolded Robert? Or had Stannis been deceived? Or was it some other, entirely different conspiracy altogether?

Did the truth even matter anymore?

The knowledge would be damning, but the truth was Stannis lacked proof. Even Cressen was unconvinced by Renly's claims. Not without reading the infamous Book of Lineages, which was rare–one copy with Stannis' younger brother and a second one tucked far away in the Citadel, even deeper into the Reach. 

Should Davos share his suspicion with Shireen? Yet her father had ordered to let the matter rest for her safety, and the Onion Knight would not disobey. Davos hated it; he hated the scheming, the intrigue, and most importantly–he hated the war.

Eventually, a side had to be chosen. They might have forgotten for now, or perhaps they respected the mourning period, but that did not change the cold, hard truth.

Yet Davos felt too unprepared to make a decision, regency or not. As a captain of his ship before, he was responsible for the crew's lives. Rewards and risks were shared–and everyone who followed him at sea had agreed to it.

But now, things were different. Nobody had asked the smallfolk ruled by Dragonstone which side they wanted to support. Nobody would ask them. Yet it would be their lives that were at stake. It would be the lives of their sons and husbands, the ones who would pick the sword, the axe, and the shield and die for the claim of one king or the other. 

The feeling of approaching danger loomed upon him like the shadow of an axe.

Yet the sliver of peace the Narrow Sea enjoyed had ended, if for an entirely different reason than anyone expected, as Shireen and her advisors urgently gathered in the Chamber of the Painted Table.

"This is a disaster," Davos wanted to tear his hair out. But his brown mop had already gone sparse and was streaked with grey since he had taken up Shireen's regency. Advising the young lady had been hard enough, but he had reading, writing, and history lessons that he couldn't shirk. It felt shameful for an old man like him when a young girl knew so much more, but he persevered. 

He might lack knowledge but could provide experience and wisdom where needed. Davos would have laughed if someone had told the former smuggler your head could hurt from too much thinking, but here he was, with a headache every other sennight. 

And it had been a terrible one the last few days. 

"How can a whole fleet pass through the Gullet unseen?" Ser Hardy groaned. They all clustered around the Painted table, gazes over the part of the Crownlands and the Blackwater Bay. 

Word had arrived from King's Landing about the destruction of the royal fleet, and now the Tyroshi were reaving and raiding for slaves and plunder along the coast with impunity. 

"From High Tide to Sharp Point is over fifty miles," Davos muttered weakly. "One can easily sneak through during the night if they're daring enough and the royal fleet is not patrolling the waters. A more daring captain could get a whole fleet through on a moonless night."

And the moon had waned three days prior. Worse, the royal fleet had been stationed outside King's Landing, leaving Blackwater Bay vulnerable.

"Why would Tyrosh attack?" Shireen frowned at the map. "If the raven from Grandmaester Pycelle were true, there would have been over three hundred ships. That many vessels would require the Archon to be involved."

"They smelled weakness," Monford's voice was dripping with disdain. "The grand fleet built with so much gold and effort by Stannis was given to Lewys Lydden, who is well-versed in sword fighting but knows as much about sailing as a pig would know about flying. Talk about tying a ribbon of gold on a swine."

The Lord of the Tides had decided to swear fealty and stay here to advise Shireen after she had graciously pardoned his offence. Davos had yet to trust the man, but the vows of fealty had been given, and everyone else was sure he would follow them, if not too enthusiastically. 

"Perhaps." Cressen coughed. Alas, the old Maester was growing weaker and thinner with every moon. Valar Morghulis, he had said–all men had to die, and his time was coming soon, no matter how reluctant Davos was to part with his advice and kindness. "Yet Tyrosh can hardly fight against the might of the Seven Kingdoms, element of surprise aside. For such a daring attack, they must have had assurances."

Davos frowned at the map.

"What do you mean, maester? Who would back Tyrosh?" He balled his fists. "Right now, they kill, plunder, and enslave, acting like no better than common pirates along the Crownlands coast!"

The truth was, many of the Free Cities were backing pirates, if not directly being sellsails themselves. The difference was that they had support, safe harbours, allies, and the might of a noble house, whether a merchant prince, a rich magister, or a whole city. 

"It must be Uncle Renly," Shireen clenched her jaw for a moment, making her scaled face look like a statue hewn from stone. "There is nobody else. It would weaken Cousin Joffrey, and with the royal fleet out of the way, they can blockade King's Landing from the sea. Uncle Renly is reaping all the benefits of this."

"But… I thought the Lords abhorred slavery and piracy!" Davos was aghast.

Lothor Hardy gave him a harsh, cold smile.

"Aye, they all claim they do when it's easy. But when war comes, and their vows and honour are put to the test by steel and blood, even the most righteous of men can turn to beasts if it suits their goals."

"We must do something," Shireen said, looking at him.

The hall grew as silent as a grave, and Davos squirmed as everyone turned to him for a solution. A decision, a course of action–anything. Because he was the regent, the one who had to make the decisions or approve of them. 

But what… what could they even do? He knew nothing of fighting; he knew nothing of lording or negotiating. 

The Onion Knight bowed his head, heart heavy with shame, "By your command, My Lady."

It was a cowardly move, but he trusted the man who led and pulled him out of the common muck. Davos was too small, too foolish, too baseborn to take responsibility for this. Now, all he could do was hope that Stannis had taught his daughter well enough. 

Shireen's pale face scrunched up as her bright blue eyes hardened with resolve. It was almost an odd side, for the left side of her face was stiff with the Greyscale, making it seem like she was always austere or particularly solemn.

"They are too greedy," she uttered as she climbed the chair to take a good look at the Crownlands from above the Painted Table. "They are pillaging everything from the Rush along the Kingswood's coast. From King's Landing to Rook's Rest, towns and countless smaller holdfasts and villages across the shore are being sacked. Taking their time and looting around the coast means their fleet will be spread out."

"A raven arrived just an hour prior from House Pyne from the Crackclaw Point requesting aid–their towns and villages are also being pillaged," Pylos muttered weakly. 

Seven above, may the Father forgive him for this. She was just a girl of eleven, and her shoulders were even smaller than his. Gods, why did Stannis make an old smuggler like him a regent? 

Velaryon frowned. "You mean to attack them first, my lady?" 

"Yes," she declared. "Look at them–they have spread out across the Blackwater Bay. They will come to us anyway, but we can try to pick them off group by group instead of waiting for their fleet to regroup and strike us first. Like Uncle Robert did in Summerhall: three armies, three battles. I doubt it would have been easy to defeat them combined."

"If we gather all the warships and cogs from Dragonstone, Driftmark, Sharp Point, Crab Isle, and Sweetport Sound, we will have about sixty ships, even if we lack the hands to man them fully." Cressen pointed out. 

Sixty ships against Tyroshi's fleet of over three hundred. 

Daunting odds, but nobody said a thing. Did they have a choice but to fight?

"Perhaps we can call for aid," Pylos proposed. "My lady has yet to declare for either king. Yet none would begrudge you requesting assistance against these Essosi reavers."

"Any assistance will come too late," Velaryon's words were frosty. "Renly might just block those from the south or the Sunset sea. Even Manderly has how many ships of his own? Forty? Fifty? It's not enough."

The attack route was easy to track; next would be Driftmark, and then Dragonstone. The Lord of the Tides looked particularly pale, his purple eyes glinting with anger and unwillingness. 

They all looked at the painted table, trying to look for a way out, grope for some light in this damned darkness that hung over them.

"We'll gather the fleet and strike first," Shireen decided. "Call my banners and ready the ships at once. Their vessels will be slow, burdened with plunder and slaves. Maester Cressen, send ravens to all houses on the eastern coast, asking for assistance against these vile pirates. Better late than never."

Davos rubbed his face tiredly. This was bad, but he saw no way out of it. Shireen's plan was better than anything he could think of already.

"Would that not mean we'd be fighting against Renly, especially if he's the one supporting them?"

Shireen's eyes hardened. 

"If truly so, I do not have an uncle. Especially not one who consorts with slavers and pirates. Haste is paramount, my father always said."

The meeting ended then, and Davos felt exhausted deep into his bones. It was a weariness he had never felt; even after that time, he rowed to smuggle Yi-Tish silk in the Fingers for sixteen hours without rest. 

Only the old smuggler and the young lady were left around the table as the servants hurriedly gathered the reports, pitchers, and goblets.

"I am coming too," Shireen muttered, voice filled with resolve.

Coming… where?

Davos' heart almost leapt up into his throat when the realisation struck him.

"Battles are dangerous, my lady. Let alone for young maidens like you-"

"I know, Ser Davos," she looked at her feet, but her words were laced with defiance. "But, how can I order all these men to fight and die for me when I sit behind the high, thick walls and watch from afar? It would be easy to pin the loss on Velaryon, should he lead the ships."

Her smile grew wistful as she continued relentlessly, "Or let him receive the accolades and honours of victory if we win. But Monford is not the ruler of Dragonstone. I am. Let it be known that Shireen Baratheon would not shirk her duty. Even if I die doing it, I won't be inked down in the history books like some useless cowering lady."

Seven above, he wanted to forbid her, to tell her no, that her place was with the Septa and the Maester–learning the feminine arts and studying. But those blue eyes stared at him, filled with resolve, shining with the same iron surety her father possessed.

In the end, no words left his mouth. 

Davos prayed silently then. He prayed for the Warrior's grace, the Crone's luck, and that Stannis had taught his daughter enough.

***

14th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

The Young Wolf, Near the Ruby Ford

"Me and my boys want to join, m'lord." It was a sellsword, Bronn, with five hundred of his ilk, a motley group clad in ringmail, padded coats, wearing swords, shields, pikes, and bows of different sizes, yet no horses. They were all attracted to the rumours of loot. Plundering the Frey lands had interesting and unpredictable results.

"You shall be paid like pikemen," Robb decided after a minute of contemplation. He had no desire to take sellswords under his command, but he had the gold to spare and needed the swords. Just for one battle, he could use them. "But be warned, desertion and disobedience shall not be tolerated."

They were far from the only ones to join. From the Neck to the Trident, from the Green Fork to the Mountains of the Moon, every knightly and lordly house had mustered every sword they could call upon and joined him, lest he plundered their lands. The most notable were Wayn, Blanetree, Grell, and Vypren. 

Four hundred hedge knights, six hundred regular knights, another thousand outriders, and two thousand pikes, and his forces had swelled to over seventeen thousand.

Dustin and Ryswell had been sweeping through the enemy scouts with ease; Robb had the support of the locals and the numbers advantage, which made it laughably easy. Grey Wind also found foes, pulling them out of the bushes and hiding spots like squirrels and rats. His men had learned to fear and respect the direwolf; in a week, he had taken down nearly a score of scouts and enemy outriders on his own. And Robb's dreams were getting more vivid with each night. He could feel something on the back of his mind, a niggling yet elusive feeling.

It didn't matter, though. What mattered was the secrets and news the enemy scouts had spewed out to avoid a lengthy torture session.

"This is madness," Medger Cerwyn murmured. "Burning people alive for matters of the gods."

He was far from the only one outraged at the Reachmen's actions, both here and in the Westerlands. Crakehall had fallen, and his Uncle Edmure's defeat had been far uglier than he suspected, yet not disastrous as that weasel at the Crossing implied.

Greatjon's angry rumble echoed in the command tent, "Where did those bloody flowers find the balls to do such a thing? I'll rip it out for them!"

"We must respond in full, or we shall be seen as weak," Roose Bolton coldly pointed out. An angry clamour echoed along; it was rare to see so many agreeing with the Leech Lord on anything, but it only brought out the direness of the situation.

Yet Robb was relieved, for his Uncle was alive and had managed to orderly retreat, albeit wounded. 

Which was good. Even better, word had arrived from Winterfell yesterday–he was a father to a healthy baby boy, Edwyn Stark, a boy with striking grey eyes and a mop of dark gold hair. Robb almost cried himself to sleep from happiness that night. He had a new brother, Artos, with his father's dark hair and his mother's blue eyes, and a sister, Lyarra, with the opposite; all were hale and healthy. Yet the happiness ended there. 

Being on the back foot in a war was not pleasant.

After the brutal string of defeats, Joffrey Baratheon needed a victory. And Robb intended to bring him that victory. And all the savagery that was inflicted upon his uncle's forces and lands would be repaid in full.

Robb had no feud with the Reach, but Mathis Rowan made this personal. Especially with the vile murder of Brynden Blackwood, the gloves of mercy and courtesy were off.

"Lord Ryswell, did we let that one scout leave as I ordered?"

"Yes, my lord," the Lord of the Rills bowed.

Looking at the map before him, Robb balled his fist. Rowan was content to block the Ruby Ford and loosely screen the southern shores of the Trident with a scout here and there. Yet the Ruby Ford was one of two such crossings. There was also that bridge leagues downstream and the barges he had taken along the Green Fork. With his mounted army, he could make it to the bridge in hours and the further crossing a day at most, while the Reachmen would take days, if not weeks.

They were all underestimating him, Robb realised. Because of that stunt at the Twins...

It stung to be known as a green boy, as a bandit, but the Lord of Winterfell would make full use of it. If they wanted to underestimate him, Robb would make them choke on it until they rolled over and died.

His men were all eager and ready for battle, their morale as high as possible after the generous amount of loot taken from the Frey lands. The lords were also baying for blood, and Robb intended to deliver.

He was a father now, and a new, additional weight settled upon his shoulders. 

What would happen to him if he lost it here? 

Would he be burned like Brynden Blackwood for following the Old Gods? 

Would Winterfell be sacked like Crakehall had been, raping the women and killing the children? 

If he lost, would his newborn son Edwyn have his throat cut like the swaddling Tygett Crakehall? 

Would Myrcella, his mother, Sansa, and Arya be despoiled and his young brothers killed?

Robb's gloved hand balled into a fist as he looked at the map. He would crush them.

"Here's what we shall do…"

***

17th Day of the 3rd Moon

Theon Greyjoy

He woke up snuggled next to a voluptuous, warm body.

"Kira?"

His drowsy mumble was rewarded with a stinging slap.

"My name is Lyna, you letch," a feminine voice scoffed, and the angry footsteps quickly dwindled in the distance.

It took Theon a few moments to gather his drowsy wits and remember where he was—an army camp near the Trident after a lengthy ride down the kingsroad. 

Being in a war was supposed to be exciting. Alas, reality turned disappointing.

Marching in the North and through the Neck was tedious, but once they had reached the Riverlands, it was all plunder and looting, even if Robb forbade killing. Theon slept with a different woman each night, sometimes two or more at once. While a handful had been unwilling, most were eager, more than willing, to sleep with a high lord's son. A sweet word here, an implied promise there, and they would eagerly spread their legs before he moved on to the next cunt. 

Miller's wives, carpenters' daughters, stableboy's sisters, baker's wives, and many more he didn't care to remember anymore–Theon Greyjoy got his fill of women.

Even after they had left the Frey lands, he was not lacking for bedwarmers–camp followers or local whores peddling their wares. He got his first taste of blood in the war, taking down a fleeing enemy scout from seventy yards with his bow—a perfect draw.

He showed himself capable, and Robb trusted him with a party of thirty outriders. It almost made him forget he was a hostage. Alas, it was one of the three rare times his friend had talked to him since they left Winterfell. 

Before, Robb had treated him as a companion and confidant, but things changed. His friend married, slowly drifted apart, and he became Lord of Winterfell. Some days, it felt like Robb, the Lord, was no longer his friend. That mantle of leadership had changed him. Alas, in Theon's opinion, the change had not been for the better.

It was like looking at a younger Eddard Stark–solemn, thoughtful, with a hint of coldness in his actions, as if Robb had forgotten how to have fun. It took Theon some time to figure it out. The young heir of Winterfell had been his friend, but Robb the Lord only saw a hostage. 

Remembering all that time they happily spent together left a bitter taste in his throat now. Would Arya also see him as untrustworthy once she grew up, even after he taught her so much about archery?

It had all started with that damned marriage with the golden-haired princess. Admittedly, she was beautiful enough to make a man forget everything else. But Theon remembered how things suddenly changed after that wedding, after Eddard Stark had gone South, and Robb became more withdrawn and practised harder. 

Some days, he missed Pyke. But from what little he remembered, his time with his now-dead brothers, father, or uncles wasn't warm or pleasant. On those days, Theon felt particularly lost. He struggled to remember their faces, and receiving no word from home hurt: ten years, not a raven, message, envoy, or even a visit. Surely, the Heir of Pyke, the next Lord Reaper, would not be forgotten?

Why had his father or sister not written? 

Did they even miss him? 

Was Pyke even still his home? 

What was an Ironborn without a ship? A squid stuck on the shore would wither and rot, and was he any different?

Some days, when the doubts became too much, Theon asked himself worse questions.

What if even his kin in Pyke no longer wanted him?

Where did Theon belong if neither the Iron Isles nor Winterfell was his true home?

Shaking his head, Theon banished such inane thoughts from his head. It was wartime, and with war came opportunity. It was his chance to prove himself, to earn some loot and glory. He would earn his place here and gain their respect.

Three hours later, Theon, garbed in ringmail and a hefty brigandine with the golden kraken of Greyjoy proudly emblazoned on his padded surcoat, watched from a hill as the battle unfolded with a part of the reserves.

Robb had forced Rowan to spread his forces over the length of the Trident and even to the other, smaller shallow crossing, five leagues downstream, thinking that's where the bulk of Robb's forces were. It was a diversion, of course. Even now, after hours of exchanging taunts, arrows, and skirmishing, the Reachlord was invested in the river once Robb ordered his infantry to slowly advance fifty yards into the ford.

The tangle in the Trident's shallow waters continued for half an hour as the Northern forces slowly retreated.

Then a warhorn sounded, and from the far side of the river, Ryswell, Dustin, and Manderly showed on the left with thousands of lancers as the Reachmen began to panic. A good chunk of their forces were knee-deep in the Ruby Ford. It looked like a river of steel and flesh drowned the colourful Reachmen. 

Truthfully, Theon did not remember much from the battle, nor had he been there for the planning, but he remembered Robb telling him Rowan would be either confused, stretched thin, or both.

Either way, they were winning. And it looked like they were winning handily, looking at how the Reachmen's cavalry had been scattered. Their lines were buckling under the cycled charges of the lancers as they wheeled around, performing a devastating attack one after the other on the enemy's rear. 

In half an hour, the Reach army crumbled. It was precisely what Theon was waiting for. 

The Heir of the Iron Islands was too valuable to risk in the slog of battle.

But chasing down routed foes? That was easy. Theon could kill to his heart's content, perhaps even capture someone important for a ransom.

"Let's go, boys!" With a warcry on his lips, Theon Greyjoy led his thirty outriders after the fleeing enemies. 

Crossing the Ruby Ford was easy; the muddy shallows were streaked with blood as the corpses washed downstream into the Bay of Crabs.

Running down a fleeing man required little skill, especially if you were mounted and they were on foot. Rowan's knights and outriders had been broken, and the remnants had already fled, leaving the rest of the forces at the mercy of the Northmen. Robb had an abundance of lancers, and now that the enemy lines were broken, the effect shown was dire. Hundreds of men were being ruthlessly slain by the minute, unable to resist. Those who tried to make a stand were surrounded and hounded by the side.

The day turned to night, and Theon lost count of the men he cut down, but he kept spurring his men further over hills and roads, through mills and farms as the waning moon above illuminated his path forward. His hand and shoulder cried with pain from swinging his sword so many times, and his arse was sore from riding. 

The fleeing men-at-arms thinned greatly, especially in the darkness. Yet seeing men fall by his blade, seeing the hot red blood spurting or their bodies tumbling down the ground, brought him a vicious satisfaction that he could not get enough of.

It was not what Eddard Stark had taught him, but the men needed to be slain, and Theon felt his anger and frustration bleed out with each foe cut down. 

"Perhaps we should turn around and regroup with the others, m'lord?" It was Derek's voice, a veteran outrider and Theon's second in command. "Or at least rest the horses. The enemy won't be going anywhere in a rout."

"Not yet," he shook his head and spurned his tired steed forward. "We do not stop unless I say I so."

"But–"

"Are you disobeying me? Your lord has placed you under my command, and I say we chase!"

Derek and the rest of the riders looked mutinous, but Theon did not care. He needed to capture a lord. Perhaps an heir or a landed knight. It would be enough to prove himself and grab a piece of glory, and the hefty ransom would not hurt.

A few more hours could be squeezed from the horses until they needed rest. A good horse could be pushed over a hundred miles in a single run, but it would require two days of rest and feeding. 

As he led his men into a small valley where he could see a score of fleeing Reachmen, his horse stumbled, and Theon would have had his leg smashed if he hadn't managed to release himself from the saddle just in time. 

Tumbling on the grass was rough and would definitely leave bruises. Theon cursed when the whistle of arrows filled the night as horses began to neigh in pain. Between the pain of the rock sinking in his side, the realisation that Theon had fallen into an ambush was even more bitter.

It took him a few moments of groping in the darkness to find the hilt of his dropped sword and force his weary limbs to move. 

He stood up to the clash of steel and the sound of men dying. Theon could barely make out the surroundings in the dim torchlight, but when he did, his blood froze. The valley was choked with weary riders, wearing too much steel to be northern lancers.

They outnumbered Theon's outriders by at least five to one. His men were quickly slaughtered, even as Derek and another rider managed to unhorse two knights and steal their steeds to run away. The cowards! The ambushers were led by a man wearing an ornate suit of heavy armour with a great golden tree emblazoned on his snowy white breastplate. House Rowan of Goldengrove, his mind supplied. 

Theon was no coward, but even he knew when he was so badly outmatched.

Swallowing his bitterness, he threw his blade on the ground and raised his empty hands above his head. "I am Theon Greyjoy!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "I surrender!"

After all, it wouldn't do to be cut down like some common man-at-arms in the darkness.