Starve them to death

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-third person Pov eleventh moon 288 AC

The storm unleashed its full fury over Pyke and its surroundings, transforming the already inhospitable and treacherous castle into a frozen hell. Howling winds and biting cold turned the place into the perfect stronghold for the Ironborn defending it. Each gust cut to the bone, challenging even the hardiest men to stay warm. The raging waves battered Pyke's towers, echoing like a roar of defiance, a warning to those who dared challenge the ancestral home of House Greyjoy.

In the camps below, the combined armies of Westeros and Prussia waited, shielded from the storm as best they could. Reinforced tents and heavy cloaks provided some protection against the punishing weather, though for many, it was a trial of both physical and mental endurance. But as they waited for the opportune moment to resume the siege, a small team of seasoned Finnish veterans received their orders: scale the treacherous rocky cliffs to one of Pyke's outer towers. They knew that if successful, the vantage point could provide them with a crucial strategic advantage, allowing them to secure ropes and lines for the Prussian forces to enter the castle.

Led by Aleksanteri, the Finns moved with careful precision. With gloved hands, each man advanced deliberately, hammering climbing spikes into the rock and fastening ropes securely before each step. The cliff face was nearly vertical, and the wind added the constant threat of death with every gust. But these warriors were no strangers to such brutal elements; they had battled storms before, and this ferocity felt like a familiar adversary.

The ascent seemed endless. Every foot gained was a battle against nature; their bodies strained with exertion, their minds focused solely on the next hold. After what felt like hours of grueling, relentless climbing, they finally reached the base of the tower. Aleksanteri signaled for the group to halt as he carefully assessed the situation. Torchlights flickered faintly above, with only a scant few guards patrolling in the storm, believing the climb impossible in such conditions.

The tower was connected to others by old, weather-worn rope bridges, barely holding together after years of relentless wind and salt. The Finns knew that if they could infiltrate quietly and secure these connections, they would have a rare chance to capture the tower without alerting the entire stronghold. Amidst the storm that dulled sight and sound, every step had to be calculated; every movement had to be exact.

As they resumed their climb, one of the team lost his grip. The rock he clung to broke loose, and in a single, fatal moment, he began to fall. He met the eyes of his comrades, accepting his fate in silence. Without time for mourning, his companions watched as he vanished into the darkness below, then whispered a brief, solemn prayer, entrusting his soul to the Almighty.

With renewed resolve, hardened by their loss, they adjusted their gear and pressed on. Cold numbed their fingers as they gripped the rocks, driven by the memory of their fallen comrade and the unyielding urgency of their mission. The storm howled around them, but their minds were singularly fixed on the purpose of claiming that tower.

At last, they reached the edge of the structure, concealed in shadow. It was time to infiltrate the castle, to honor the mission and the sacrifice of their fallen brother. They knew that here, every step, every move, had to be swift and precise, for only the most silent and lethal could hope to survive in this place.

The Finns reached the tower's base, sheltering in the shadows of the crumbling stones, where the centuries-old walls provided a natural cover. Loose stones and cracks in the walls allowed them to climb further, their dark, fur-covered silhouettes blending seamlessly with the night. Silently, they advanced, their eyes set on the top.

Near the summit, they spotted guards on a small platform. The men muttered curses at the brutal weather, huddling under a rocky overhang to shield themselves from the rain and wind, their eyes fixed on the horizon, unaware that danger lurked below.

Seizing the distraction, the Finns made their final push, ascending with agile, restrained fury. In a swift, lethal strike, they attacked, their knives sinking silently into throats and sides. The ambush was so sudden and deadly that the guards had no time to react before collapsing, and the Finns sidestepped the blood spurting from their wounds, keeping their clothes and furs untouched.

Without delay, they stripped the guards of their armor and clothes, working with mechanical precision even as the bodies twitched in their final spasms. Each Finn took the clothing and weapons of the fallen, preparing to penetrate deeper into Pyke. With the storm and the silent complicity of night on their side, they prepared to advance, knowing every second was vital in this infiltration.

Moving with lethal stealth, the Finns descended the narrow stone steps within the tower like shadows. In each room, their knives flashed briefly before plunging into the necks of unsuspecting guards and servants, who could barely make a sound before collapsing. One by one, the bodies piled up in the shadows, leaving a trail of silent death in their wake.

Each Finn moved with unrelenting precision, maintaining absolute silence. Rooms and corridors took on a sinister stillness as they proceeded, ensuring no cries disturbed the night or alerted the defenders deeper within the fortress. Swiftly, they wiped their knives on the clothes of the fallen before plunging them into new targets, stripping guards of their armor and garb as they went. The attire of Pyke's soldiers would allow them the cover they needed to move through the castle unnoticed.

The infiltration of Pyke had begun, a silent, deadly waltz in the heart of the storm.

In minutes, the Finns had donned the guards' armor and clothing, layering chainmail, dark gray wool coats, and helmets over their black furs. Their faces revealed no emotion, only the unwavering concentration of men who understood that a single mistake could seal their fate. With every step, the mission advanced, and their infiltration into the heart of the castle grew closer to reality.

Dozens had fallen beneath the Finns' blades, their bodies lying silent in death, covered by the howling of the winds. The warriors proceeded toward the adjacent towers, connected by narrow, treacherous suspension bridges that swayed perilously under the storm's force. As they reached one of the bridges, a guard on the opposite side barely managed to spot them through the mist and rain.

"What's going on? Are you mad? Crossing the bridges in this storm?" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the wind's roar.

"We saw something. We need to report it," one of the Finns answered, his accent so perfect that it could fool any islander. The guard hesitated, intrigued but not entirely convinced.

"What the hell did you see? I can barely see you!" the guard shouted back, squinting to focus through the rain.

"We're not sure," another Finn replied ambiguously, baiting the guard closer to their trap.

"Well, don't just stand there like fools! Cross before the wind sends you to hell!" the guard urged, stepping closer to get a better look.

The Finns advanced onto the suspension bridge, the ropes creaking under their weight as it swayed dangerously over the abyss. The moment they reached the other side, the slaughter began. In one swift and lethal move, the first Finn plunged his dagger into the guard's throat, covering his mouth and slashing cleanly to prevent any sound.

Within minutes, the rest of the guards in the tower met the same fate. The Finns moved from room to room, corridor to corridor, unleashing silent death as they went. No one had time to react or even comprehend the threat that had infiltrated the castle. Soon, the tower was left utterly deserted, every guard and servant lying dead in the shadows as the Finns prepared to press further into the heart of Pyke, hidden by the storm's chaos and darkness.

Emboldened by their success, the Finns continued their infiltration with deadly precision, replicating their lethal tactics in two more nearby towers. Without hesitation or mercy, they eliminated every member of the garrison they encountered. Their ruthless efficiency left only the cold silence of empty rooms and lifeless bodies in their wake.

Finally, they reached their true objective: the kitchen tower, Pyke's most vital stronghold during a siege. They knew that control over the food supplies could break the defenders of any fortress. Moving swiftly, the Finns seized control of the tower without raising any alarm. The terrified servants tried to flee but were swiftly subdued in silence, for the Finns could afford no risk of alerting the rest of the castle.

In mere minutes, they ensured that no activity within the tower would betray their presence. They took command of the stores, claiming the vast food reserves the Ironborn had amassed to withstand a prolonged siege. Barrels of grain, salted meats, and carefully preserved provisions became strategic assets now held by the invaders without the defenders' knowledge.

To solidify their position, the Finns severed the bridge connecting the kitchen tower to the other sections of the castle, preventing any attempt to retake the area without direct confrontation. From this vantage point, they held a crucial tactical advantage.

With the mission accomplished, the Finns threw ropes down from the towers, allowing a steady stream of soldiers to scale the walls and enter the castle's interior. One by one, more Finns arrived to secure the taken positions and reinforce control over the strategic towers, especially the kitchen tower, where the vital food supplies were stored. The night remained their ally, and in the silence broken only by the wind's murmur, the new arrivals moved like shadows, occupying every corner of the captured structures.

Finally, as dawn broke, the storm relented. The clouds parted, and a gray, dim light bathed Pyke, revealing the grim reality of the infiltration. As the fog lifted, the Ironborn defenders realized with horror what had transpired during the night. Guards and servants who should have been at their posts were absent; routes to the captured towers were blocked; and, most dire of all, they realized that their essential food stores, vital for resisting the siege, were now in enemy hands.

The news spread rapidly through the castle halls. Confusion and fear took hold of the defenders, who now understood that somehow, the enemy had infiltrated and seized control of a critical part of the fortress. The nobles and captains of Pyke, until then confident in their stronghold, were confronted with a reality they had never anticipated: their own castle had been invaded from within, and the Finnish forces now waited in the captured towers, ready to enact Pyke's downfall.

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Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

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I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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