章 9: The King and the Plan
POV: Torrhen Stark
'Should I let him live?' I thought to myself as I looked at the chain-bound Rodrik Greyjoy. He could be a useful deterrent against Euron Greyjoy should he escape, as he did in the books. After all, in the books, Euron becomes the apprentice of the three-eyed crow.
I continued to contemplate this decision. "Throw him in the cells!" I ordered the oarsman. I'd rather not leave things to chance, but this is not something that can be fully controlled. He will prove useful against Euron's claim to the Iron Isles.
"Set sail for Casterly Rock," I told the captain. Now, onto the meeting with the king.
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Timeskip 1 week.
POV: 3rd Person
As Torrhen Stark's fleet entered Lannisport, the port city buzzed with preparations for the coming assault on the Iron Islands. Ships of various banners crowded the harbor, their crews rushing to ready supplies and arms. At the prow of his flagship, Torrhen gazed across the docks, seeking familiar faces among the highborn gathering to greet them.
At nineteen, Torrhen was the youngest commander present, yet his recent victory over Rodrik Greyjoy's fleet had already earned him respect among older and more seasoned leaders. His pragmatic approach and precise tactics had become well known among his men. He had a reputation for quiet efficiency, letting his results speak louder than any boasts could.
As his ship docked, Torrhen's eyes landed on King Robert Baratheon, whose imposing frame stood out among the group of nobles on the pier. Beside him were Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, and Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock—both powerful men in their own right.
Torrhen disembarked, his stride steady and measured. He approached the group and bowed before the king. "Your Grace," he said, his voice calm, betraying none of the pressure of the moment.
"Up, boy!" Robert's booming voice broke through the air, his hearty laugh following soon after. "I hear you've given the Ironborn hell. Good that you showed those squids there place!"
"Thank you, Your Grace," Torrhen replied, rising to his feet.
Jon Arryn's nod was approving, his face serious. "Lord Torrhen, your swift actions have safeguarded the North and the Riverlands. The realm owes you much."
Tywin Lannister's cold, calculating gaze lingered on Torrhen. "Indeed. Your victory has bought us valuable time to gather our full strength."
Robert clapped Torrhen on the shoulder with such force that it almost sent him off balance. "Enough standing about. We have a war council waiting at Casterly Rock."
As the war council convened at Casterly Rock, tension hung in the air like the storm clouds gathering over the sea. Torrhen Stark stood quietly at the edge of the war table, his sharp eyes scanning the maps spread before him. The Iron Islands, scattered like jagged stones in the Sunset Sea, held the focus of every man present. This was no ordinary strategy session—here, the fate of the Greyjoy Rebellion would be decided.
King Robert Baratheon, larger-than-life and full of fire, slammed his hand down on the table, his voice booming through the chamber. "We've broken their fleet! The squids are scattered, and Balon's holed up in Pyke like a rat in his hole. It's time we finish this!"
Jon Arryn, ever the calm and reasoned Hand of the King, raised a hand to temper the king's enthusiasm. "Your Grace, the Ironborn may have lost their fleet, but they're far from defeated. Their island defenses are formidable, and a direct assault on Pyke could cost us dearly. We should proceed with caution."
Robert let out a low growl, waving away the suggestion with a grunt of impatience. "Caution? What's caution ever got us, Jon? We didn't win the throne by waiting around. I won't sit here while Balon rallies what's left of his men. We need to act, and we need to act now."
The room grew tense as Robert's desire for immediate action clashed with the more methodical approach of Jon Arryn. All eyes then shifted to Lord Tywin Lannister, who had been silent thus far, his calculating mind taking in the conversation like a chess match, weighing each piece on the board.
"Your Grace," Tywin finally said, his voice smooth and deliberate, "Lord Arryn is correct in one thing: Pyke's defenses will be costly to breach. The Ironborn have fortified those islands for centuries, and a direct siege may bleed us more than you realize."
Robert's patience was thinning. "I don't need a lesson in sieges, Tywin. What's your suggestion, then? Sit back and starve them out?"
Tywin's cold gaze never wavered. "No, Your Grace. We must strike decisively, but with precision. Before we turn our focus on Pyke, we must ensure no threats remain behind us. The towns on the smaller islands—Harlaw, Blacktyde, Orkmont—must be razed. Burn their ports, destroy their ships, and leave them no means to regroup. Only then can we focus all our might on Pyke."
Robert's brow furrowed as he considered Tywin's plan. "Torch their homes before we take the castle, is that it?"
Tywin gave a curt nod. "Exactly. By eliminating their support and destroying their capacity to wage war, Balon will be left with nothing. Isolate Pyke, and victory is assured."
Jon Arryn leaned forward, his finger tracing the smaller isles on the map. "A measured approach. It prevents any lingering raiders from harassing our supply lines or launching attacks on our rear. If we take away their longships, we take away their greatest advantage."
Robert grumbled, pacing the room like a caged lion. "And what about Pyke itself?" he demanded, his voice thick with impatience. "I don't want to spend the whole bloody summer torching villages. How do we crack that damn castle?"
Torrhen, sensing the moment to speak, stepped forward. His voice was calm but clear. "Your Grace, with the Iron Fleet broken, we hold the advantage at sea. I propose we establish a naval blockade around the Iron Islands. It will cut them off from any reinforcements or supplies. While Stannis's fleet secures the seas, we prepare for an amphibious landing on Pyke."
Robert's eyes lit up at the mention of an invasion. "An amphibious assault? A direct hit right into the heart of the bastards?"
Torrhen nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. Once we control the waters, we land our forces and secure the coastline. The Ironborn are formidable at sea, but on land, they'll be at a disadvantage. If we cut off their escape and pin them to their islands, we can defeat them on our terms."
Jon Arryn stroked his beard, his gaze thoughtful. "A blockade would require absolute naval dominance. Stannis's fleet is strong, but can it cover all the islands effectively?"
Torrhen's reply was swift. "Lord Stannis is more than capable. His victory at Fair Isle has proven that. His ships will hold the waters. We'll also send raiding parties to the other islands to destroy any remaining longships and ports. This will keep the Ironborn occupied while we prepare our main assault on Pyke."
Tywin, who had been listening closely, interjected once more. "The towns must be burned, and the villages razed. We cannot allow even a small force to regroup and strike from behind. Once their homes are gone, Balon will have nowhere to hide."
Robert's grin grew wide, his battle-hungry nature shining through. "Burn their homes, crush their ships, and storm their keep. Now that sounds like a plan!"
Jon Arryn, cautious but approving, gave a nod. "It's aggressive, but it minimizes our risks. If Stannis maintains control of the seas and we strike fast, we'll avoid a prolonged siege. Balon Greyjoy will have no choice but to surrender, or die within his walls."
Robert slammed his fist on the table with finality. "Then it's settled! We raze their towns, burn their ships, and land right on Pyke itself. No mercy for those Ironborn bastards."
The council continued late into the evening, refining the details of the invasion. Torrhen contributed when necessary but remained mindful of the balance between speaking his mind and respecting the higher lords around him.
By morning, word had spread that Stannis Baratheon's fleet had arrived, and Lannisport's harbor was filled with warships, their sails bearing the sigils of the Great Houses. Stannis himself was grim and focused as always, delivering a brief but precise account of his victory over the Iron Fleet.
With the final war council concluded, the combined fleet set sail at dawn. Torrhen stood at the prow of his ship once more, his face set, the cries of men and the roar of sails filling the air. The fleet surged forward, carried by favorable winds toward the Iron Islands, where the fate of Balon Greyjoy—and the rebellion—would be decided.
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