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"Pah!"
Ramsay struggled in a pile of dead warhorses and finally managed to push half his body free. He immediately spat out a mouthful of mud mixed with blood.
A squad of Winterfell infantry carrying torches were checking corpses and finishing off the wounded. When they saw Ramsay forcing his way out from among the dead horses, they came over with spears in hand.
"I am on your side! Ramsay Bolton of the Dreadfort!"
Ramsay saw the Winterfell soldiers as well. He quickly wiped blood from his face and shouted.
By torchlight, one Winterfell soldier recognized him and nodded. "It is Lord Ramsay. Brothers, help him out."
The other soldiers immediately moved the dead horses aside and pulled Ramsay free. He was so smeared with thick blood that he was nearly unrecognizable.
"Lord Ramsay, His Grace is outside the camp. Some brothers might not recognize you in your current state. I can take you to him."
"Good. Thank you. I will remember you, and I will reward you properly later."
Looking at the soldier who had recognized him, Ramsay nodded his thanks.
Led by that man, Ramsay skirted the Dreadfort camp, now carpeted with blood and corpses. From a distance, he saw Robb standing outside the camp.
At that moment, beyond the Dreadfort camp, a dark mass of ironborn prisoners knelt on the ground. Nearly a thousand cavalry and infantry stood around them with weapons in hand, surrounding them tightly.
Robb was speaking with several ironborn who looked like leaders.
After Robb nodded in confirmation, Owen, the Winterfell infantry commander at his side, led cavalry and infantry to escort all the prisoners toward Lordsport.
"Ramsay, good. You are safe. I was very worried about you just now and ordered them to find you no matter what."
Robb looked Ramsay over from head to toe. Seeing his miserable state, he smiled and spoke.
"Thank you for Your Grace's concern. I led the Dreadfort soldiers to face more than twice our number without fear of death. We fought bravely and finally delayed them long enough for Your Grace to destroy them."
After thanking him, Ramsay forcibly turned his position as tactical bait into the key to victory.
Robb raised an eyebrow, then answered, "Of course. Lord Ramsay's contribution was indispensable. Hm. The Dreadfort soldiers fought bravely, and now fewer than a hundred remain.
"Then... these fifteen hundred prisoners will be your reward. They will be placed under the Dreadfort to replenish your strength."
This battle had lured the ironborn deep, surrounded them, and destroyed them. Winterfell's cavalry and infantry had suffered very few casualties.
The surrounded ironborn treated the enemies inside the Dreadfort camp as their main target. Of the more than a thousand Dreadfort soldiers and thralls, fewer than a hundred survived.
Of course, the ironborn had suffered even greater losses. More than twenty-five hundred ironborn had joined the battle, and those tough, fearless men lost more than a thousand dead, almost half their number, before finally surrendering.
Hearing that Robb was giving the captured ironborn to him as a reward, Ramsay forced a smile and said, "Thank you, Your Grace. I will tame them well and continue fighting for you."
"Good. You worked hard. Let us return to Lordsport first. When you are ready, you can find Owen and receive the prisoners."
"Yes, Your Grace."
After nearby soldiers brought horses for them, the two rode toward Lordsport.
The cleanup of this battlefield and the now defenseless Botley fortress would be handled by others.
When Robb and the others entered Lordsport, the port had regained a human presence. Campfires and lamplight shone together, as if the whole harbor had suddenly come alive.
Bloodwind had sensed Robb's approach early. As soon as he entered the port, the terrifying giant wolf feared by countless men acted like an overgrown hound, pressing close and asking for praise.
Playing with Bloodwind was more tiring than killing enemies. After roughhousing with him for a while, Robb began making the final arrangements for the day.
After this battle, the Iron Islands no longer had any chance to turn the situation around. The surviving leaders from Great Wyk and Saltcliffe had already chosen submission.
From what Robb had learned, Great Wyk was the largest of the Iron Islands, and its strength was second only to King Balon's. The smaller islands that had not yet joined the fighting could gather at most another three thousand ironborn warriors.
Robb did not need to do anything now except hold Lordsport for a few days. By then, aside from the two thousand soldiers left at Moat Cailin, the rest of the more than twenty thousand northern troops would all arrive in the Iron Islands.
When nearly thirty thousand troops pressed down on them, the remaining small islands would either submit or be destroyed.
After ordering his men to guard the forty ironborn longships carefully, Robb had several dozen Winterfell soldiers under Crey pack the heads of Sawane, Lord of Lordsport, and Donnor, the chief from Saltcliffe, together with his handwritten letter, and carry the box to Pyke.
By the time those Winterfell soldiers reached Crey's camp before Pyke with torches in hand, it was already deep night.
After Crey heard Robb's order relayed by them, he sent a messenger under a white flag to deliver the wooden box containing the two heads and the letter beneath Pyke's walls.
When Quenton and the other longship captains in the gatehouse saw the heads and the letter, their faces all changed in different ways, and all of them had different thoughts.
Without King Balon's command, however, they could not surrender even if they wanted to.
Quenton, still young and still carrying many ambitions in his heart, gritted his teeth. Quietly, he called several crewmen from his own longship and, while no one was paying attention, slipped into the darkness of the gatehouse. Late at night, beneath a full moon, a group of soldiers moved along the only causeway leading into the North before Moat Cailin. Their mouths were shut tight, and each man gripped the collar of the comrade in front of him with one hand, using the bright moonlight to feel their way forward at an extremely slow pace.
The three towers standing on either side of the causeway like monsters in the dark suddenly lit many campfires.
The archers atop those towers lit hundreds of specially made fire arrows from the flames and shot them at the soldiers attempting a night raid along the causeway.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
The fire arrows inflicted terrible damage on the soldiers marching in dense formation. Those killed outright suffered least.
Those who were hit in the body and survived, only to have their leather armor catch fire, rolled left and right on the ground while screaming in agony, trying to put the flames out.
Some fire arrows fell into the rotten swamp beside the causeway and went out. But a few happened to ignite the marsh gas trapped in bubbles just before they burst, causing sudden blooms of open flame.
Those flames did not have enough gas to keep burning for long, but the sight was terrifying.
The soldiers who had wanted to launch a night attack were ambushed in such surroundings. They no longer cared about charging the towers or keeping formation.
They scattered in every direction, thinking only of survival.
Splash!
Because overseers behind them blocked the retreat, many soldiers who could not fall back jumped into the waist-deep rotten swamp and tried to circle around.
Some unlucky ones stepped into natural traps beneath the water. Their faces filled with fear as they struggled and slowly sank into deep pits in the swamp.
And in the darkness of the rotten marsh, there were more than natural traps. Many "black logs" with eyes and teeth floated half-submerged in the water.
These black logs were lizard-lions, shaped somewhat like crocodiles. They hunted by sight and smell.
When they saw soldiers willingly jump into the swamp, they used their long tails to swim closer. Then they suddenly opened mouths full of dagger-length teeth and bit down on the prey that had delivered itself to them.
They seized the panicked, screaming men and dragged them into the muddy water, leaving only clouds of fresh red blood drifting on the surface.
Stevron stood behind the causeway and watched the three towers light their campfires. Soldiers clearly dressed as northmen kept shooting arrows and killing his men, while the soldiers of House Frey knew only to run in panic. Even the overseers behind them could not stop the rout.
He sighed heavily, ordered the man beside him to retreat, and turned back to camp to report to Lord Tywin, who had placed such hope in him.
Inside the command tent of the Lannister army, Tywin listened silently to Stevron's report.
After hearing it, he nodded. He did not blame Stevron, but instead offered several words of encouragement, sending the flattered man out of the command tent in excitement.
"So it was that fool Balon after all. Moat Cailin is still in the little wolf cub's hands. If he shuts himself in now, our entire arrangement has failed."
After Tywin sent away the simple-minded Stevron, Kevan spoke with a grave expression.
"If only Moat Cailin had gone wrong, I could accept it. What worries me is the Iron Islands...
"No. Balon burned our Lannisport years ago. Whatever else he is, he is an old and seasoned king of raiders."
Tywin's face showed neither joy nor anger. He analyzed matters rationally, then suddenly turned his words and ordered Kevan, "Kevan, tomorrow morning, take your army and continue the siege of Riverrun. You have been away for many days, and I worry something may have changed there.
"So long as you can take Riverrun, we will stand unbeaten in this war.
"By then, the wolf cub will only be able to hide in the North, and the wealth of the Riverlands will be ours to use as we please."
"Yes. I will do everything I can to take Riverrun as soon as possible."
Whether at Moat Cailin or on Pyke, the long, bloody night gradually passed.
The next morning, the sun rose from the sea and drove the darkness from Westeros.
"Ah! Someone, come quickly..."
In Pyke's main keep, a thrall's scream shattered the damp, dark stillness.
Because nearly all the ironborn in the castle were at the gatehouse, a good while passed before Quenton arrived at the lord's bedchamber with five longship captains.
In the middle of the lavish chamber, half a rope hung from a beam. Below it, Balon, cut down by several thralls, lay quietly on the floor beside the other half of the severed rope.
Aside from bulging eyes and a twisted face, Balon was very still. Nothing of his earlier madness and ferocity remained.
"King Balon could not bear the pressure of the siege and hanged himself."
Quenton looked at Balon's corpse and delivered his conclusion in a certain tone.
The moment he finished, four of the ironborn captains exchanged glances and chose silence.
The oldest captain frowned and stepped forward. After carefully examining Balon's body, he said to Quenton, "Quenton, saying King Balon killed himself is far too careless.
"When a man hangs himself, the mark on his neck should lie beneath the jawbone and form a V-shape."
Hearing the captain's analysis, Quenton immediately limped forward. He circled Balon's corpse, then came to stand beside the captain and said softly, "Indeed. It seems..."
Before Quenton could finish, his right hand drew the dagger he had prepared long ago, and he stabbed the captain repeatedly in the belly.
"Ah! You..."
The captain had only time to scream once before he died beneath the storm of stabs.
Quenton lifted the captain's corpse in both arms and threw it out through the sea-facing window of the lord's bedchamber, into the sea that accepted all things.
After doing this, Quenton turned back to the other four captains, his body stained with blood.
"You saw the result of last night's battle in the wooden box sent by the King in the North.
"The leaders of the other islands have already surrendered. Rather than end up packed in boxes ourselves, we might as well surrender to the King in the North and follow him to raid the green lands of the south.
"Now I say King Balon hanged himself. Does anyone still object?"
"N-no!"
The four captains who had helped defend the gatehouse and had seen the might of the Winterfell soldiers, as well as the box of heads, swallowed nervously and answered together. In the dungeon of the Bloody Keep, Theon sat dazed in his cell, his heart turned cold by his own father.
He regretted it deeply. He had been a commander at Winterfell in good standing, yet he had insisted on worrying about this cold and heartless father, and now he had been locked in a cell.
Yesterday, he had commanded thousands of soldiers and held a position higher than some northern lords. Now he was a prisoner. The fall naturally stirred all kinds of thoughts in him.
Tap. Tap.
Uneven footsteps approached. Quenton, changed into fresh leather armor and wearing a grief-stricken expression, came to the cell.
He unlocked the door, walked inside, and dropped to one knee before Theon, who stared at him in confusion.
"Your father could not bear the pressure and has hanged himself. Euron is exiled, Victarion and Aeron are dead, and Asha is imprisoned at Deepwood Motte.
"Now, as the sole lawful heir to the Seastone Chair, Theon Greyjoy, I, Quenton Greyjoy, offer you my fealty. Please ascend the Seastone Chair and make an alliance with the King in the North."
'Father is dead? I will become King of the Iron Islands?'
The news from Quenton brought Theon both grief and joy. But for a man personally imprisoned by his father and left to be exchanged for Asha, joy was inevitably greater than grief.
After a moment, Theon, who was about to gain the throne he had dreamed of for years, straightened his chest and nodded to Quenton.
"I accept your fealty. From now on, we are brothers who share salt and iron.
"Now let me out. I need to see the King in the North."
Robb had never expected Theon to bring him such a great surprise first thing in the morning.
In the inn at Lordsport, Robb quietly listened as Theon, with faint sadness, described how his father had imprisoned him, then declared with great excitement that he would become King of the Iron Islands.
Watching Theon continually share both sorrow and joy with him, Robb nodded inwardly. Putting everything else aside, the young Greyjoy truly did regard him as a brother.
"Theon, rest easy. I will help you sweep away every obstacle and seat you on the Seastone Chair. Then we brothers will crush the Westerlands together and fight our way into King's Landing."
Robb smiled, extended his right hand, and spoke with sincerity.
Theon nodded heavily. He gripped Robb's hand with his right hand and said, greatly moved, "Robb, even if I become King of the Iron Islands, you will still be my brother and my king.
"I will follow you into war and help you sit the Iron Throne in King's Landing."
"Good. Then we advance and retreat together."
After the two confirmed their offensive and defensive alliance, Robb had Owen bring in the Great Wyk nobles captured the previous night.
The leaders headed by Gormond had no objection to the news that King Balon had killed himself and Theon would ascend the Seastone Chair. In their explanation, the victor was king and the defeated were prey.
Since Balon was dead, that proved he had lost the ability to lead the ironborn. As Balon's only lawful heir, Theon should naturally take the throne.
In Robb's view, however, Gormond and the others simply knew how to read the situation. Once the Iron Fleet had changed hands, the Iron Islands no longer had the strength to resist the entire North.
After gaining Gormond's support, Theon immediately sent letters to every noble house on the other islands, ordering them to come within three days and witness his coronation and drowning.
If they did not, then after his coronation he would personally lead an army to destroy their houses in the name of punishing traitors.
The day after the letters were sent, the Iron Fleet arrived at Lordsport again with more than ten thousand northern soldiers.
Whether because the nobles on the other islands had seen the North's strength or not, by the third day all the Iron Islands' nobles had gathered at Lordsport.
They landed there, saw Robb's troops and the mighty Bloodwind, and most of the ironborn nobles chose silence.
Even if some of them had objections in their hearts, they would not show them now.
At noon that day, in a bay on Pyke filled with kraken banners, Theon's coronation and drowning ceremony was held.
"Today, we bear witness to the drowning of Theon Greyjoy, true heir of House Greyjoy. Does any ironborn object?"
A priest of the Drowned God, his body hung with iron ore and chunks of salt, pointed to Theon beside him and spoke.
When the priest finished, an old man with snow-white hair and a thick white beard, broad and sturdy despite sitting in a chair, finally seized the chance to speak.
"I, the Anvil-Breaker, Erik Ironmaker, obj..."
Awooo!
Erik had only just opened his mouth when Bloodwind, receiving Robb's thought, leapt swiftly across the rocks.
He arrived before the old man's chair and bit off the head of Erik Ironmaker, the Anvil-Breaker, with jaws full of saw-like teeth. The rest of Erik's words died before they could be born.
"Ask the question again."
Robb, smiling, looked around at the ashen-faced ironborn nobles and spoke loudly to the priest of the Drowned God.
"Y-yes. Today..."
Looking at the Anvil-Breaker's head being chewed in Bloodwind's mouth, the priest nodded and repeated his question in a loud voice.
When the priest finished, only the sea wind and the sound of waves filled the bay. No voice of opposition remained.
"Theon Greyjoy, come forward for your drowning!"
Seeing no one object, the priest spoke to Theon.
Theon turned and gave Robb a grateful look, then walked to the priest's side.
The priest pushed Theon down into the seawater and chanted loudly, "Let your servant Theon Greyjoy be reborn from the sea as you were!
"Give him the blessing of salt. Give him the blessing of stone. Give him the blessing of steel...
"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger!"
This ceremony was a trial from the Drowned God. The one being drowned had to drown in seawater. If he could not endure it and died, it meant he was unworthy and the Drowned God had not accepted him.
Only if he endured could he formally inherit the Seastone Chair. In truth, the difficulty of the ceremony depended on how quickly the priest chanted.
This priest had received Robb's specific instruction beforehand. He chanted at great speed, then pulled Theon up just as he had swallowed a mouthful of seawater and begun coughing.
Seeing that Theon was all right, the priest placed a wooden crown called the Crown of Salt and Rock on his head and shouted, "What is dead may never die!"
"What is dead may never die!"
The surrounding ironborn nobles answered together.
Thus, the Iron Islands welcomed a new king of House Greyjoy, one influenced by Robb and different from the ironborn kings shaped by old tradition.
On the very day Theon sat the Seastone Chair, he ordered every house to muster its remaining longships and warriors. He promised that this time, he would lead them to plunder wealth beyond anything they had ever dared imagine.
Seeing the imposing northern army, the ironborn nobles also wanted to follow and take their share of meat. They offered up their houses' longships and fighting men.
Several days later, more than three hundred and ten ironborn longships, together with twenty-five large longships built for war, carried a combined northern and ironborn army of more than thirty-three thousand men and sailed in a grand fleet toward the Westerlands.
At the same time, Tywin's army remained near the Neck, Kevan's army had surrounded Riverrun again, and the Mountain's cavalry continued burning, killing, and looting throughout the Riverlands.
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