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Chapter 34: Interlude: WestChapter Text

"After their attack on Lannisport, the Iron Fleet struck Seaguard, though Mallister forces, backed by the labourers and Ironborn deserters, repelled the attack. Harried by the deserters, the Greyjoys limped back to the Iron Islands, mustering the majority of their bannermen for a hammerblow."

-Excerpt from 'The War of Four Directions', by Maester Daenys Fyre

107 AC, Pyke

Walton Greyjoy was a gaunt man with a head full of straggly grey hair. He was lean as a whip, clad in fine robes of black and gold. The self-styled King of the Iron Islands was seated on a throne made of a strange oily black stone that seemed to drink in the light around him.

He was surrounded by his allies, many Greyjoy cousins, as well as many other houses whose heraldry Criston couldn't recognise. Admittedly he hadn't bothered to familiarise himself with the Ironborn. A mistake of some scale, it would seem. He would rectify that once he got back to the Red Keep. Beside him, his young squire Shaeterys straightened his back and tried not to look intimidated by the large number of pirates in the room.

"Well, Kingsguard? State your business in my hall." Walton Greyjoy demanded. "Has King Viserys decided to accept my terms?"

"I know not." Criston Cole replied. "I am merely a humble messenger."

"Then deliver your message and begone, worm." Greyjoy ordered. Criston nodded, nudging Shaeterys forward. His squire wasn't just responsible for flying him to Pyke on his dragon Artys, but also being charged with whatever message the royal family deigned to deliver to the Greyjoys.

"As you wish." The boy said, reaching into his messenger's bag, but instead of pulling out a scroll like they all expected, he held a single dragonglass candle in hand. There was a moment of confusion, before gasps filled the room when the candle lit up.

Criston watched in enraptured awe, as the light shining from it twisted and warped, until it formed the illusion of Rhaenyra Targaryen. One so lifelike she appeared to be present in person. The knight could see the details of the chair she sat on and the small scratches and dents on her steel armour. He could see her beautiful cheekbones and that enchanting smile. Her clever eyes and uniquely handsome hairstyle. She looked half a goddess, made from light and colour.

"What sorcery is this?" Walton Greyjoy demanded.

"Sorcery that allows a man halfway across the world to talk to another." Prince Rhaenyra spoke, her voice friendly. "Good evening, Lord Greyjoy."

The Ironborn began murmuring among themselves at the sight.

"And why aren't you here? Am I too unimportant or are you too cowardly?" Greyjoy sneered.

"I'm sorry I can't be there in person, but you know how it us. The Dornish and Triarchy take up much of my time." Rhae shrugged. "Your declaration of war is very inconvenient, I will have you know."

"Bah. Speak your piece. Has your father accepted my terms?"

"He has." Rhaenyra admitted, to the visible surprise of the Ironborn. "We cannot afford a war on two fronts, so King Viserys has decided to sue for peace."

Criston resisted the urge to scowl at the thought. That was one way of phrasing it. While they were losing the war in the Stormlands, and losing badly, the fact was that from the day the war started, the king had been aghast at the very thought of war, and wanted to sue for peace with Dorne, the Triarchy and the Iron Islands, willing to compromise and accept any and all of their demands. His order for the Small Council to sue for peace had been met with great mockery and disgust. Lord Corlys had outright called him craven and foolish before leaving for Driftmark and ordering the muster of every ship in the Royal Fleet.

Prince Rhaenyra had then fled the castle, vanishing with the two female Kingsguard knights, her ladies-in-waiting and eight dragons. Although they had reappeared last month, at Frozen Ford, Rhaenyra's force had again vanished off the face of Westeros. Apart from Lord Corlys giving them a ship full of wildfire when they visited Driftmark a week ago, there had been no contact with the Prince. Nobody knew where they currently were. But clearly Shaeterys was still in contact with her.

"So, he recognises the independence of the Iron Islands, our right to use the canals without toll, two hundred thousand gold dragons and a one-hundred-year non-aggression agreement?" Walton eagerly asked.

"Indeed. King Viserys wishes no strife between us, and will accept your terms." Prince Rhaenyra replied.

There was a loud amount of cheering from the Ironborn. 'We do not sow!' Some shouted. 'The Iron Way is the only way!' The rest chanted, stamping feet and banging weapons on shields.

"See boys, I told you I could do it!" Walton laughed. "No more kneeling to fucking greenlanders!"

"Long live House Greyjoy!" The men thundered, raising weapons to the sky.

Criston clenched his gauntleted fists as they cheered. While he understood why King Viserys was so willing to concede to these pirates, he didn't have to like it. The most painful part was that, unlike the front in the Stormlands, they were actually winning the western front.

The Ironborn had seven hundred longships at their disposal, one hundred longships of the Iron Fleet backed by six hundred lesser longships. Approximately one hundred and fifty ships had deserted the Iron Islands after their peacemonger liege lords were killed, and were currently tentatively under Jonas Blacktyde's command. They had fought off the Iron Fleet at Seaguard, before hounding their retreat back to the Iron Islands.

Lord Horbert Redwyne had also arrived, bringing with him the full muster of his fleet. Two hundred warships, with as many auxiliaries. With the Redwyne fleet and the deserter fleet, they had enough to bring the forces of the Westerlands and Reach to invade the Iron Islands and put it to the sword.

Unfortunately, strategic concerns meant that even though they were winning on the tactical layer, even if they crushed the Iron Islands, they'd still lose the war. The Dorne-Triarchy alliance had crushed Bronzegate and pushed their forces back to the border of the Crownlands. Even with the Riverlands and Crownlands armies united, and bolstered by Stormlands survivors, they numbered only at forty thousand. The Dorne-Triarchy alliance had more than twice their men, and enough siege engines that the dragons were reluctant to commit.

By the time victory was achieved in the Iron Islands and the men of the west marched back east, King's Landing could have fallen by then. So Cole was forced to swallow his battered pride and let the Greyjoys dictate terms to the greatest House in Westeros.

Once the noise and celebration ended, Walton Greyjoy nodded happily.

"So when are we getting our gold?" He asked.

"Never. Because while King Viserys is willing to agree to your terms, I'm not." Prince Rhaenyra revealed, voice gone cold, the entire celebratory mood in the room vanishing.

Ser Criston's hand fell to the hilt of his sword at that. Those pirates were looking very murderous at the moment. Though even as he did so, a smile couldn't help but tug at his lips. Their heir and prince hadn't abandoned them. She still had a card up her sleeve.

"What was that?" Walton Greyjoy demanded, baring his teeth as he leaned forwards.

"I'm offering new terms instead." Prince Rhaenyra drawled. "Bend the knee. You and all of your rebellious bannermen will be sent to the Wall, but your heirs will live. If not, I will scour the Iron Islands clean of your disease, and turn Pyke into the next Harrenhal."

"Fuck you!" Lord Walton yelled, jumping to his feet and baring his sword at her. "I will not let some cockless princess dictate terms to me!

"Take her envoy to the dungeons!" He ordered, men surging forwards towards him and Shaeterys. Just then, a ring of flames burst into existence around them, the Ironborn retreating in sudden fear. Ser Criston Cole's sword left the scabbard with a rasp, fearfully looking around. Where did the fire come from?

Prince Rhaenyra idly flicked her wrist, the flames extinguishing in an instant. Was that her? What sorceries had she learnt? He gulped at the thought. Magic was a weapon he was not trained to fight against, and the knowledge that his liege's heir was a sorcerer unsettled him. 

Unknowing or unheeding of his thoughts, the Prince let out an elegant sigh, the noise cutting through the room like the blade of Valyrian steel on her back.

"Very well then. War it is." The heir to the Iron Throne proclaimed.

Her image vanished, the light from the glass candle fading until it was little more than a piece of obsidian. The Ironborn cautiously approached, sighing in relief when the ring of flames did not reappear. Ser Criston raised his blade, ready to defend his squire to the bitter end.

Then the screaming began.

———

107 AC, Skies above Pyke,

Vhagar let out a great torrent of flames, illuminating the moonlit night with its emerald glow, unleashing her dragonfire onto the sea stack under the Bloody Keep of Pyke. The stone grew red from the flames, melting like candle wax, entire chunks of rock being blown off by the sheer force of the fire.

Daena guided Caraxes into a descent, Daenys on Dreamfyre matching it. They stretched a great steel chain between their two dragons, so long and heavy that Silverwing was required to hold the middle of it to help them stay aloft. As soon as they were approaching the Bloody Keep, Silverwing released the chain, both younger dragons transitioning into a dive.

The chain looped around the upper third of the sea stack, slamming into it with such force that the entire castle shuddered. And then, Dreamfyre and Caraxes began to pull, trying to descend downwards, tugging on the chain. The bottom of the stack was being eroded by Vhagar's flames. The top was hooked by the younger duo's chain. There really was only one thing that could happen.

With a great crack of shattering stone, the sea stack snapped. And the second largest section of Pyke tumbled down, crashing into another tower atop a sea stack, like that game of dominoes Rhae taught them, causing both to crumble into the sea with a great crash, water thrown so high into the sky that Daena was wet atop her father's dragon. Silverwing swooped down and grabbed ahold of the chain, the three dragons lifting off and heading for the next sea stack.

Daena was told that while they could just burn Pyke using dragonfire, such an endeavour would take a great amount of time. Aegon took an entire night to burn the five towers of Harrenhal. Using the chain, they could sink even the second largest building on Pyke in half a minute.

And time was of the essence. They had struck by surprise, hoping to overwhelm the Greyjoys before they could send men to man the many Myrish siege engines crowning the towers and battlements of Pyke. There were enough of them that if they coordinated and began filling the sky with ballista bolts, it would be nasty, even for dragons.

One by one, they repeated their endeavour. Methodically reducing the Greyjoy seat into debris and rubble. The smaller towers and outbuildings atop sea stacks didn't even require much effort. Most the time, the stack would just snap under the chain, or be outright sheared straight through by Silverwing's flames alone.

Meanwhile, Vhagar attacked the side of Pyke that was on the headland. Queen Visenya's mount crashed into the stone bridge connecting the Great Keep to the rest of the castle on the island, shattering it underfoot. Men screamed as they fell, crashing into the sea so hard they turned into bloody paste or were crushed by the giant pieces of rubble.

Even as Vhagar crushed the bridge, Bell led the four younger dragons in carrying the skycart down from the clouds. Flying slowly high in the sky, out of range of any siege weapon, the skycart doors opened. From inside, Ser Jessamyn and Ser Jonquil threw barrel after barrel out of the skycart. Down they fell, barrel after barrel, descending onto the clifftop buildings of Pyke. As soon as they barrels smashed against the battlements and fortifications, they exploded into green flame, the many clay jars of wildfire within shattering on impact, and allowing the substance to come into contact with the torches, braziers and lamps on the battlements.

Explosions ensured, destroying every siege engine on the clifftop castle in a storm of green fire.

With the path to retreat cut off, Laena turned the last veteran of Aegon's Conquest onto the clifftop buildings of Pyke. Her emerald flames stuck the underside of the cliff they were built on, eroding away at it. Great sheets of stone and earth crumbling down into the sea. Molten stone flowed down like wax under her onslaught. Vhagar was larger than Balerion the Black Dread had been when it was unleashed on Harrenhal. It's flames greater in force and heat.

And what was Pyke, compared to the greatest castle the Ironborn had ever built?

There was a sudden crack, as though the land couldn't take it anymore, and down went the cliff and everything atop it. Shattered into many pieces or rock and stone. Down into the sea they fell, throwing up a titanic pillar of spray and foam taller than even Pyke. Well, what was left of Pyke.

Once the water finished drizzling down, all that was left of Pyke was the Great Keep, one solitary building atop a sea stack, surrounded by the shattered and burning remnants of the rest of the castle.

———

107 AC, Pyke

Artys flew into the sky, yellow wings flapping as it took it's riders up. When the Bloody Keep was destroyed, all of the Ironborn were frozen in horror and terror, allowing the two messengers to quietly slip out of the Great Keep and onto the battlements, where the small white dragon the size of a large bull was waiting for them. It had only recently grown big enough to carry two but the dragon that Shaeterys Fyre, once Strat Stone, had named after the founder of the Arryn dynasty was surprisingly fast and enduring.

Knight and squire had quickly saddled up before taking to the sky, retreating from the seat of House Greyjoy.

Ser Criston Cole stared, half in awe, half in fear at what the heir to the Iron Throne had wrought. Within five minutes, she had reduced the castle to ruin through a cunning use of mechanics, wildfire and dragonfire. Even Harrenhal had taken an entire night to burn.

The three large dragons dropped the great chain they were carrying onto the island, before taking positions around the last piece of Pyke, a lone spear striking out from a sea of rubble.

Vhagar joined them. They hovered in the air, one in each cardinal direction.

"Dracarys." Rhaenerya Targaryen ordered, and all four dragons unleashed fire on the Great Keep of Pyke.

Criston found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. The castle caught fire in an instant, withering under flames green, silver, blue and red. The four were unrelenting, pouring even more fire onto the castle. Until molten stone trickled down the sides of the sea stack like melted wax down a candle.

This wasn't a battle or a siege. This whole exercise had been an execution. To make an example of the rebels. To show how trivially easy it was for the Iron Throne to overpower them.

It was only when the castle had been completely reduced to slag that they stopped, turning around and landing on the island. The seat of House Greyjoy now little more than a graveyard of shattered and burning stone and rubble, surrounding a blazing pyre.

———

The Dragonseeds were put to work visiting every last holdfast, castle and town on the Iron Islands. They gifted each of these places stones from Pyke, blackened and half-melted, firsthand proof of the Scouring of Pyke.

"Kneel or die." They had ordered. "My Prince will offers you mercy if you kneel. Decide quickly, or when the moon finishes turning, our dragons would take to the skies once more, and drown every Ironborn on the Iron Islands in Fire and Blood."

There were quite a few houses that refused and had to be made examples of, but by the next month, three months after the wedding of King Viserys, the western front ended.