Theon Greyjoy listened to the sounds of dawn with a thrill he could not name.
Warhorses snorted. Men whispered tensely around him. The direwolf banners snapped and cracked in the fierce wind.
Every bird and beast had long since fallen silent, frightened into hiding or already slaughtered by the iron host.
That was all the more reason to strike now. The Lannister camp must be stuffed with plunder; the lions had stripped the surrounding lands bare.
The plan to attack at first light had been set long ago.
Most of the camp would still be asleep. The sentries would be weary from the long night watch. The garrison inside Riverrun would find it easier to support the assault.
In the clear summer dawn they could aim true at the enemy's rafts and skiffs. As every lord had said, accuracy would decide everything.
Theon could not help grinning.
Brynden Tully might once have been a great warrior, but that was ten years past. The old men who nodded along with him—Mallister and the rest—were relics.
He and his new comrades knew the truth. Yes, goose-feathered arrows could kill, and Theon the hunter understood that well enough, but today victory would be won with cold steel.
The Riverrun garrison, after two crushing defeats, had crawled behind their walls like frightened children. Theon had never counted on their help.
This battle and this victory would belong to the army that had marched south with him—and to him above all.
That mattered more than anything.
On the Iron Islands a man—especially a lord's son—had to earn the captains' respect with blood and steel.
Today Greyjoy would take one vital step toward his father's throne, even if others could not yet see the ambition burning inside him.
Some of his own blood might grumble that he had bled for the Starks. Fools would always wag their tongues.
But countless ironborn had sailed to the Stepstones as pirates, selling their swords to Tyroshi oyster merchants and Lysene whores, and returned home heroes. Lords and captains had fought to win their loyalty.
Their so-called deeds amounted to nothing more than raiding Volantene traders or chasing Qartheen spice ships—scraps from the Narrow Sea's table. The moment a real war galley appeared they fled like rats.
If throwing in with one side brought richer rewards, why not?
When he—the Prince of the Iron Islands—returned laden with spoils torn from the bald lion's claws, no one would dare call him coward or fool again.
House Greyjoy had gone too long without making the Lannister cats pay in blood. Whose banner he fought under was irrelevant.
His father and uncles would acknowledge him. Every man would kneel willingly.
"Ready, Greyjoy?" Patrek Mallister asked. The cheerful young knight had become Theon's closest companion in the ranks these past weeks.
"Of course, Mallister," the boy answered with deliberate lightness. "You look a little pale. Bad oysters last night, or did you forget to visit the privy before battle?"
"I plan to use Lord Tywin's privy—and see whether it's truly paved with gold." A dozen good-natured laughs rose around him. For Theon that was the finest reward.
Let them laugh. When the killing began they would fight all the harder.
He had won the place of honor in the vanguard, riding beside Ser Brynden Tully and a dozen other glory-hungry youths—Karstark sons, Mallister heirs, second sons and younger brothers from half a dozen houses. Every one of them hungered for renown.
To be the first to clash with the Lannisters, to tear down or capture the old cat's banner—perhaps even take the man himself alive!
The singers of the Iron Islands would carry his name across the sea. Maidens and wives would sigh for him. When his father died, the Seastone Chair would be his by right.
All he needed was to win this fight.
Today they would triumph.
The future ruler of the Iron Islands refused to admit any other possibility.
"Forward!"
At last the Blackfish gave the order every man had been waiting for.
The distance between the northern camp and the Lannister camp flashed past in Theon's mind.
Once thick wooden palisades had shielded the north bank of Riverrun. Now they were gone, chopped down by the bald cat's slaves to build siege engines.
The Blackfish's vanguard shot forward like an iron fist, making no attempt to hide. Let the Lannisters piss themselves with terror!
They had dug ditches and raised stakes around their camp, yet one wide lane remained—just wide enough for the vanguard to thunder straight in.
Once they tore the camp apart, the main host could pour through the gap unhindered.
Thanks to a fine horse and years of practiced riding, Theon was among the very first to burst into the enemy lines.
He smashed his sword against a short sentry's helm; the man dropped like a stone. A perfect opening!
He spurred Thunder onward, slashing left and right.
Horns blared. Terrified shouts rose from Lannister throats. Steel rang against steel and the first dying screams wove a bloody dawn chorus.
"Burn and kill! For Riverrun! For Lord Robb!" Ser Brynden roared, and a thousand voices answered.
"Kill!" Theon joined the cry.
He had no wish to praise Stark or Tully, but to fight in silence would have been stupid.
Their task was simple: smash the outer defenses with a lightning charge, shatter the Lannister formation before it could form, and prevent any organized resistance.
Then Robb would lead the main body in and sweep the northern camp clean.
The vanguard's share of glory would be the scraps—but scraps taken with steel still tasted sweet.
"Form up! Form up, you bastards!" An enemy officer's shout made Theon sneer.
After the first shock, what formation could they possibly make?
Perhaps they had never expected an attack at all.
It was almost too easy.
Theon swung again; another man fell.
He knew neither their colors nor their names, yet he sent the poor fool to the Drowned God all the same.
Never in his life had Greyjoy felt so alive, so full of fire.
What delicious irony for the singers to immortalize!
Then he spotted a particularly fine tent ahead—clearly belonging to some minor western lord.
He spurred toward it, meaning to overturn the pavilion and picture the nobleman crushed beneath his own bed.
Disaster struck without warning.
Thunder screamed. The horse lurched violently. Theon realized too late that a knight's sword had severed the destrier's foreleg.
Only quick reflexes saved him; he leapt clear before the dying animal could trap him.
The knight—shield blazoned with a burning tree, armor finely wrought—could have killed him then and there, but a northerner engaged the man instead.
Three strokes later the Lannister dog felled the northerner, then forgot the dismounted boy entirely and charged back into the fray.
"Damn you!" Theon cursed.
But an ironborn learned young to overcome every setback.
Without a horse he still had a good sword.
He hurled himself at the nearest hulking knight, determined to prove himself.
Only then did he understand how fast and merciless true battle could be.
They had exchanged no more than five blows when an Umber axeman split the knight's helm. Theon himself barely dodged a spear that came from nowhere.
No time to hunt the spearman—another soldier bearing a lion on his chest drew his eye, then another.
How many of the damned lions were there?
Theon was swallowed by chaos.
All around him men fought and fell—northerners, riverlanders, westerners, lords and smallfolk, veteran killers and boys who had picked up spears only yesterday.
The roar of battle began to sicken him. Steel crashed like thunder. Amid the groans, curses, and screams he heard a few voices he knew.
He forced the dark thought away and focused on the next target, killing as many lions as he could.
At least there were plenty left.
Yet every swing that found flesh brought him less joy. The slaughter had become a long, stinking chore.
Between breaths Theon glanced deeper into the camp—the part they had failed to break.
The knight with the burning-tree shield had gathered his men into a solid red-and-gold wall. Spears bristled like a hedge, shields locked tight.
At the killer of Thunder's command the glittering mass began to advance.
The enemy numbers were terrifying.
"Form up! Stop scattering inside the camp!" Ser Brynden's voice rang out. The old man was still alive, still fighting! The order was wise—never face a formed line alone. "Form up! Everyone together!"
A shameful thought flickered through Theon's mind—one unworthy of a warrior, let alone an ironborn—
Should the Blackfish order a retreat?
They had failed to break the enemy, failed to sow real panic among the lions…
Then three horns sounded behind them, deep and urgent.
Robb had finally launched the main assault.
The Young Wolf could surely see more than Theon, who saw only his own sword, his shield, and the few feet of slaughter around him.
The boy threw himself at the nearest knight, fighting desperately to drive every cowardly doubt from his head.
Reinforcements had come.
Help was on the way.
Everything would be all right.
He only had to kill a few more lions…
Suddenly he saw a knot of soldiers surrounding a knight whose armor bore a silver eagle.
Mallister!
Patrek needed help. Theon charged with all the mad fury of his blood, one man against five if need be!
His sword punched through a tall militiaman's belly, then sheared off another's arm.
In the press someone struck his helm. A Karstark warrior drove the attacker back.
Only after the first shock did Theon look down.
Patrek Mallister lay motionless. Something heavy had crushed his helm; the ever-smiling, good-natured face was now a ruined mass of blood and bone.
He would never drink with Patrek again, never drag him to the miller's wife he loved…
No time for mourning.
The Karstark who had saved him bellowed for him to fall back and rejoin the northern line.
The blow to his helm still rang in his ears. Theon took his place at once, gripping his weapons.
Their swift assault had failed utterly.
The lions here were terrifyingly many; for every one that fell, three more took his place.
The enemy was commanded with cold skill and showed no sign of panic.
Theon could not see what was happening toward Riverrun, but he knew the old lion would find a way to bring reinforcements.
Robb was locked in bitter fighting, while they remained desperately far from the riverbank.
A terrible suspicion struck him: what if this battle ended another way?
Not the easy victory he had imagined in his haste?
With every scrap of will an ironborn possessed, Theon crushed the thought down.
He only had to kill a few more lions… everything would surely turn right. Just a few more.
For Patrek. For Robb. For himself.
He could not die on this filthy riverbank. He still had to become Lord of the Iron Islands!
To live, he had to fight—fight to the end, until the last lion fell.