Chapter 10: Ironholt pt.1
"We have captured one hundred and seventeen," said the commander of his largest raiding party, his voice almost hesitant as he stood at attention.
Vikon Greyjoy turned sharply towards the man, his eyes narrowing. "One hundred and seventeen?" he repeated.
"My lord, you asked us to raid fishing hamlets. There were barely any people. Most of them... we had to move inland to gather more."
Vikon frowned, the corners of his mouth tightening. "I expected two hundred."
"My lord," the captain interjected carefully, "one more company has yet to return. They should bring another thirty with them."
Vikon frowned deeper, his expression dark. "That barely makes it one hundred and forty. Still far from what I asked for." He shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"But, my lord," the commander stammered, "you told us to—"
"Yes, yes, I know," Vikon interrupted, waving his hand dismissively, his annoyance evident. He paused, his gaze turning distant as he thought aloud. "Perhaps we can get more from Frey lands when we continue the search for my idiot brother."
"Make sure the thralls are healthy," Vikon continued, his tone sharp. "We don't want a repeat of last year, when our beloved king accused us of sending weak and sickly thralls to build his damned castle." He paused, letting out a frustrated sigh as if changing his mind. "I'll inspect them myself soon."
The captain nodded quickly, bowing his head before he turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Once alone, Vikon walked towards the open window in the chamber, his gaze drifting over the sprawling fort below. Ironholt was the largest of the Ironborn outposts on the mainland, built by King Harwyn Hoare to secure his power over the kingdom's many rivers. The fort's stone walls loomed high, with thick towers watching over the Blue Fork, and it was surrounded by palisades to deter any potential attackers.
Not many outposts had grown like Ironholt. It was a symbol of Ironborn power, and its strategic position made it key to controlling the Blue Fork. Vikon had always wondered why his father hadn't moved his court here instead of staying in that tiny tower in Fairmarket. He even had the families of their soldiers live in that Rivermen town, mixed among the local smallfolk—'a weakness,' Vikon thought bitterly, one his father seemed content to embrace.
He turned his attention to the fields in the distance. The thralls worked tirelessly, tending the land to keep the fort fed. There were barely enough people left to tend the fields properly—years of continuous wars, rebellions, and sickness had eaten away at the Riverlands, and now Harren's hunger for thralls and other resources only increased the problem.
The kingdom was crumbling under Harren's vanity, rotting from within as the king continued his grand delusions. Many of his fellow Ironborn were tired of Harren's rule—tired of the relentless demands, the endless raids, and the empty promises. Whispers of rebellion floated through the ranks, quiet conversations between those who dared to dream of overthrowing Harren. Some even wanted the crown prince to lead them, or if not him, any of Harren's other sons.
Vikon had approached his father more than once, urging him to act. But each time, his father refused—weak-willed, submissive, unwilling to even consider a challenge to Harren's authority. What more could he expect from a man who still wanted his pathetic brother Rodrick as his heir?
Vikon's teeth ground together, his eyes narrowing. Any true Ironborn lord would have cast out that weakling. Rodrick was soft—a disgrace to the Greyjoy name. Anger coursed through Vikon as he thought about it, his mind clouding with resentment. Frustration mounted within him, fueled by his hatred of Harren, his father's cowardice, and his brother's feebleness.
In truth, he hoped Rodrick had left. He hoped his brother had set sail to Essos, never to return. If not, he hoped he was dead. And if, by chance, he found Rodrick alive, a small part of him wanted to kill his brother himself—to feel the life drain from the weak fool's body.
No. Vikon shook his head, pushing the thought away. He was no kinslayer.
He turned on his heel, striding purposefully towards the door. Vikon moved through the fort, his boots echoing heavily on the stone floors. Ironholt was a labyrinthine place—built for defense, with narrow corridors and thick stone walls designed to withstand any siege.
He passed through the bustling courtyard, where thralls moved in hurried lines, carrying barrels and crates. Soldiers trained nearby, but he barely paid them any mind, his expression one of irritation as he made his way toward the heavy gates leading outside.
As he approached, the guards moved aside, giving him a respectful bow before lifting the gates open as he left the fort behind.
The docks lay ahead, where the river met the land in a curve that served as a natural harbor. The area was bustling with activity. Longships swayed gently with the river's current, tied to thick wooden posts that jutted out from the docks. Sailors shouted to one another, offloading crates and securing the ships for the day.
Vikon's eyes scanned the scene, watching the workers move like ants as they went about their tasks. The sailors and thralls kept their heads low, their eyes darting away from his as he passed.
One of the captains spotted Vikon and made his way over. The captain, a man with a scar running down his cheek, bowed his head respectfully. "My lord," he greeted.
Vikon gave a curt nod, his expression grim. "Take me to see the newly captured thralls."
The captain nodded without hesitation. "Follow me, my lord," he said, leading the way toward a makeshift holding area where the thralls had been gathered.
The captured Riverlanders were gathered together, many of them bound with coarse ropes, their faces a mix of fear and exhaustion. Vikon's eyes swept over them, taking in their ragged clothes and hollow expressions.
Vikon inspected them with cold, unfeeling eyes. The Greenlanders had their uses, but Harren's obsession with working them to death was far from beneficial to their continued rule over the Riverlands.
Even now, the other kingdoms—the Starks, the Arryns, the Lannisters, the Gardeners, even the Storm Kings, who had never forgotten their defeat—were waiting for any sign of weakness. Harren's madness, his relentless hunger to build his castle, only served to weaken them further.
Vikon's eyes narrowed as he walked between the lines of thralls. He stopped by a middle-aged man, looking him up and down.
'Weak, worn, unlikely to survive the journey to Harrenhal,' he thought.
"Are all of them three-and-ten or older?" Vikon asked the captain, his voice cold.
The captain nodded, confirming without hesitation. "Yes, my lord. Each of them is of age."
Vikon gave a small, curt nod. "Good. Transport them to Fairmarket. No delays."
The captain bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, my lord. I will see it done."
Vikon turned to leave, intending to make his way back to the fort. He had to leave soon to find his brother, after all.
As he stepped away from the holding area, a loud, thunderous noise ripped through the air—an earth-shaking sound that seemed as though the Storm God himself had descended upon the world.
Vikon froze, turning his head sharply towards the fort. The thunderous boom echoed across the river, and then he heard it—the unmistakable sound of men screaming.
On the docks, the sailors and guards all looked towards the fort, their eyes wide with confusion and fear. The screams grew louder, carried across the wind—a mix of terror, pain, and chaos.
Vikon's eyes narrowed, his pulse quickening as he tried to make sense of things. 'Are we under attack?' he thought, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.
'Who would dare attack us?'
He turned to his men, his voice sharp and commanding. "To the fort! We are under attack!"
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Harald stood on a small rise, staring out at Ironholt from a distance. He was using a spell, a spell that enhanced his vision, allowing him to see the fort up close as though he were standing right in front of it. His eyes glowed an unnatural blue because of it.
Beside him, Jonnel Blackwood stood, his eyes darting between Harald and the distant fort, barely visible. There was a wariness in his stance, an unease that Harald understood. It wasn't every day that a man's understanding of the world was so utterly shattered. It would take some time for him and any other Riverlander noble he would meet in the future to come to terms with his existence.
"You can see it from this far?" Jonnel asked, his voice curious.
Harald nodded, his focus still on the fortress. "Yes. The fort is built directly on the banks of the river, positioned on a slight elevation. Not quite a hill, but enough to give them a good vantage point," he explained. "The area around it is mostly flat. There are dense forests and fields to the west, which give it some cover but also limit visibility. To the east, the land slopes gently down to meet the river."
Jonnel listened closely as Harald continued. "It's a large structure, military through and through. I'd say it can house about... three, maybe four hundred men. The main entrance is heavily fortified—high walls with sentries in towers overlooking everything. The walls are reinforced and lined with iron spikes, and there's a narrow drawbridge over a trench filled with water. Just one gate in or out."
Jonnel's eyes widened slightly. "That is Ironholt. This spell of yours... it works."
"Of course it does," Harald replied, a small grin tugging at his lips. He scanned the area further, his brow furrowed. "Now, where are the docks...?"
Jonnel stepped closer. "Oh, I shall guide you," he said, pointing towards where the docks would be. Harald gestured for him to come closer, motioning with his hand.
Jonnel tentatively stepped within Harald's reach, and Harald touched his finger to Jonnel's forehead. Instantly, Jonnel's vision shifted. He gasped as his sight magnified, allowing him to see Ironholt just as Harald saw it, as if he were standing right there.
"By the gods..." Jonnel whispered in awe. His voice was tinged with disbelief.
For a moment, Jonnel was lost in the marvel of the spell. He could see the guards moving along the ramparts, the bustling activity inside even from this far away. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before.
Quickly, he composed himself and pointed. "There, downriver, away from the fort. The docks. That's where they'd keep the recently captured if they haven't yet been sent to Fairmarket."
Harald gave a soft hum of acknowledgment, then ended the spell, his eyes returning to their natural color.
"Right," Harald said, turning to face Jonnel, a confident smile on his face. "We can take that fort."
Jonnel blinked, his face a mask of disbelief. "Leobald told me of your strength and your abilities, but are you sure?"
Harald nodded, his confidence unwavering. He turned back to the fort again. 'Would be easier if I could conjure up an atronach, but I won't risk bringing daedra here,' Harald thought.
Then a thought struck him, and he reached into his Aetherial satchel, rummaging for something.
"Harald, what you speak of is madness," Jonnel said.
"You and the others go to the docks, free any captives while I keep the Ironborn distracted and kill Vikon," he said casually as he continued his search.
Jonnel's eyes widened. "Harald, there are over three hundred Ironborn in that fort. Maybe more. Ironholt is well-built, one of the best they've built."
Harald's eyes lit up as he finally found what he was looking for. He pulled out a stone glowing with a swirling, crimson light at its center. He held it up triumphantly.
"Aha, there it is. I knew I had a few of these left. It would be a bit overkill, but I haven't had a chance to use these yet." he said to himself.
He turned his attention back to Jonnel. "What were you saying?" Harald asked.
"You can't assault a fort by yourself," Jonnel said, his voice a mix of disbelief and genuine worry.
Harald smiled, stepping closer and placing a hand on Jonnel's shoulder. His eyes bore into the young lord's with a steady, unwavering confidence. "Jonnel, do what I told you. When it begins, head to the docks and save your father's people. Don't worry about me."
There was something in Harald's tone—a strength that seemed almost impossible to deny. Jonnel hesitated for a moment, then slowly nodded.
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Had to split this chapter in two will post the next one tomorrow.
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