The Storm

The fleet was once again made ready, this time with more ships to carry the men that the Dustins, Ryswells, and other northern lords had brought with them. The docks were a flurry of activity as soldiers boarded the ships, supplies were loaded, and final preparations were made. The air was filled with the sound of clanking metal, shouted orders, and the creaking of wood as the ships prepared to set sail.

They had received further news that the Ironborn had attempted to take Moat Cailin but were repulsed by the combined forces of the Manderlys and the Reeds. Meanwhile, Uncle Brandon had pushed most of the wildlings out of the Wolfswood and was preparing for a final push.

They were going to sail to Seagard, which was under siege by the Ironborn. He boarded the Lady Lyanna once again. Robb was with him, as they were once again given command over the ship.

As the fleet sailed south, Robb approached him. "Want to spar?" he asked, a grin on his face.

"Yes, let's," he replied, eager for the distraction.

They took to the deck, drawing a small crowd of soldiers who watched with interest. The clashing of their weapons filled the air as they moved through the practiced motions of combat. His mind, however, was elsewhere. As he parried and struck, his thoughts drifted to Elia.

Elia had never been cruel to him in the Red Keep. She had ignored him, yes, but there was no malice in her eyes—only sadness. He wished for her to be safe, but a small, dark part of his mind whispered, "Wouldn't it be better if she were dead? Wouldn't it be better if Aegon died too, in this rebellion?"

He quickly shook off those thoughts, but they lingered at the edges of his mind. If he wished to be king, Aegon needed to be removed. He didn't consider himself completely heartless, but the thought weighed heavily on his conscience.

Distracted, he lowered his guard, and Robb's practice sword tapped against his shoulder. "You are distracted, Maekar," Robb said, concern in his voice.

"I need some time to myself," he said, lowering his sword.

Robb nodded, understanding.

He walked to the railing, looking out over the endless expanse of the sea. The waves crashed rhythmically against the ship's hull, and the wind carried the salty tang of the ocean. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to ponder the difficult questions he had been putting off.

What did he truly want? Was it the crown, the power, or something else entirely? The path to kingship was paved with blood and betrayal. Could he walk that path without losing himself?

He thought of Aegon. He held no love for his half-brother, but he was still family. Could he bring himself to remove Aegon, knowing what it would cost?

And yet, the ambition within him stirred, whispering that sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

He gripped the railing tightly, his knuckles white. The internal conflict raged within him, the pull between ambition and morality tearing at his soul. He knew that the decisions he made in the coming days would shape his destiny and the future of the realm.

.

.

.

As they neared Seagard, they spotted a fleet of fifteen Ironborn ships. Uncle Ned, who was leading the fleet, surged forward in full sail, signaling them to do the same.

The battle unfolded much like the one in Blazewater Bay. The northern fleet utilized the devastating power of Frostfire. As they unleashed the inferno upon the Ironborn ships, the vessels crumbled before their eyes. Flames danced along the water's surface, turning the sea into a blazing inferno.

Their ships closed in, and he prepared to board the Ironborn vessels. The Ironborn, many too injured to fight or already dead, offered little resistance. Those still able to fight were quickly subdued by them.

After an hour of fierce combat, the Ironborn fleet was destroyed. The Stark fleet continued to sail, and soon, Seagard came into view.

Seagard Castle was a formidable structure of stone and iron. Its high walls and sturdy towers were designed to withstand sieges, and its strategic position overlooking the waters made it a crucial stronghold. However, the town surrounding the castle was in shambles.

Maekar looked through his fareye. Fires raged unchecked, and thick plumes of smoke curled into the sky. The destruction was evident in the collapsed buildings and the bodies that lay scattered in the streets.

The castle itself was besieged, Ironborn swarming around its base. The defenders of Seagard were valiantly holding their ground, but it was clear they were outnumbered and exhausted.

"Prepare for battle!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the deck. "It's time to kill some squids!"

The crew responded with a fierce cheer, their weapons gleaming in the light of the setting sun.

The Ironborn pelted them with arrows as they rowed toward the shore, the projectiles thudding against the wooden hulls of their boats and the shields of the men. He ducked beneath his shield, glancing at Robb beside him.

"Want to make a bet?" he asked, with a grin on his face despite the chaos around them.

"Now?" Robb replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he answered, his grin widening.

"Sure," Robb said, adjusting his grip on his sword.

"1000 gold for the first one to kill the Greyjoy leading the attack here," he proposed.

"Deal," Robb agreed, his eyes gleaming with determination.

They reached the shore and leaped from the boats, charging the Ironborn with a ferocity that belied their youth. The battle cries of the northern men filled the air as they clashed with the Ironborn, the sound of steel against steel ringing out across the battlefield.

Maekar moved with practiced precision, his spear and shield working in perfect harmony. The first Ironborn lunged at him with a brutal swing of his axe, but he parried the blow with his shield and countered with a swift thrust of his spear, piercing the man's chest. The Ironborn fell to the ground, clutching the wound as his lifeblood spilled out.

Another Ironborn came at him, swinging a sword in a wide arc. He sidestepped the attack and brought his spear down in a vicious stab, impaling the attacker through the stomach. With a fierce yank, he pulled his spear free and spun to face the next threat.

The third Ironborn was more cautious, circling him with a wary eye. He lunged forward, but Maekar anticipated the move, blocking the strike with his shield and slamming the edge into the Ironborn's face. As the man staggered back, Maekar thrust his spear into his throat, ending the fight.

The fourth Ironborn tried to flank him, but Maekar was prepared. He swung his shield in a powerful arc, bashing the man's head and knocking him off balance. With a swift and precise motion, he drove his spear into the Ironborn's heart, the force of the blow driving the man to his knees before he collapsed, lifeless.

Breathing heavily, Maekar scanned the battlefield, his eyes searching for Robb. Amidst the chaos, he saw his cousin fighting with equal ferocity, cutting down Ironborn warriors with his sword. Their bet forgotten in the heat of battle, both were consumed by the singular purpose of driving the Ironborn back into the sea.

Maekar saw that his uncle, Lord Dustin, and Lord Roderick were fighting their way into the town, pushing back the Ironborn with every step. More Ironborn reinforcements streamed from the castle, but the northern forces held their ground, cutting through the invaders with relentless ferocity. He knew that Lord Mallister was waiting for the right moment to strike from the castle.

Whoever had planned this siege was an idiot for not establishing proper defenses.

Then he spotted him—the Greyjoy leading the assault. Standing with some fifty men, shouting orders, it was one of Theon's brothers. He racked his brain for the name. Rodrik. Yes, Rodrik Greyjoy. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was here, and taking him down would be a significant blow to the Ironborn forces.

Robb noticed him too. They shared a look of understanding. Maekar called out to the men near him, rallying them for the charge. "To me!" he shouted, pointing his spear towards Rodrik Greyjoy.

They surged forward.

As they neared, Maekar and Robb called out to Rodrik. "Face us, Greyjoy!" Maekar demanded.

Rodrik turned, a sneer spreading across his face. "I am Rodrik Greyjoy, crown prince of the Ironborn, and I will kill you both!" he boasted, drawing his sword.

Before Maekar could engage, two Ironborn warriors attacked him from the side, forcing him to fend them off. Robb stepped forward to face Rodrik, their swords clashing with a resounding crash. Maekar focused on his own battle, his spear moving with deadly precision. He parried a blow from one Ironborn, thrusting his spear into the man's chest. The second warrior came at him with a wild swing, but Maekar dodged and struck with the edge of his shield, knocking the man off balance before driving his spear through his heart.

With the two Ironborn dispatched, Maekar turned just in time to see Robb decapitating Rodrik Greyjoy, his sword slicing cleanly through Rodrik's neck. The head fell to the ground with a thud, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, the remaining Ironborn, seeing their leader fall, began to flee in panic, their morale shattered.

The northern men let out a victorious roar, their spirits lifted by the sight of their enemies in disarray. Maekar and Robb stood side by side, breathing heavily, their weapons stained with blood. The battle for Seagard was turning in their favor.

"Well done, Robb," he said, clapping his cousin on the shoulder.

Robb nodded. "And you, Maekar."

The retreating Ironborn were cut down by the northern forces as they fled, their disorganized ranks unable to withstand the relentless assault. The defenders of Seagard, seeing the tide turn, launched their own counterattack from the castle, striking at the Ironborn from behind.

As the last of the Ironborn were driven from the city, Lord Mallister raised his sword high and screamed out, "Victory!" His voice echoed across the battlefield, a triumphant cry that signaled the end of the siege. The defenders of Seagard, along with the northern forces, erupted into cheers, their voices mingling in a chorus of triumph and relief.