KnightofTempest
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Interlude: The Defenestration of Pyke
🕑 Added 2025-02-11 22:29:45 +0000 UTCGIt had finally happened. His treacherous Goodbrother had finally decided it was time to attempt to coup him. Goodbrother indeed, to Balon Greyjoy's mind, there was nothing good about Rodrik the Reader. Not now, when Pyke was under attack by forces of the Reader's so-called Reform Movement. To make matters worse, the Botleys of Lordsport had thrown in with the traitors and now Balon's forces were outnumbered on their own island!
"I should have had him killed when I had the chance! You counseled patience, well look where that has gotten us!" Snapped Balon, rounding on his brother.
Aeron Damphair couldn't do much to gainsay Balon. It was the truth, after all. The Youngest surviving son of Quellon Greyjoy stood in Balon's Solar in the Sea Tower of Pyke as he and Balon tried to come up with some strategy to hold out for long enough to be reinforced by loyal men from Great Wyk, Old Wyk, and Orkmont. Of course, Aeron knew that such loyal houses had troubles of their own with other would-be Reformers and that such reinforcements would likely be a long time in coming if they came at all. He had told Balon such, but his brother was not of a mind to understand such things.
"My counsel then would have been the same even knowing about this treachery. Ironborn should not shed the blood of Ironborn." Insisted Aeron.
"Is that so? Tell me, brother, what do you call what is happening below, then?" Questioned Balon.
"A mistake that is like to cost the Reader his place in the Drowned God's Halls." Answered Aeron.
"Is that so? A mistake? I call it treason, and waiting until it is sprung on you to respond in kind was also a mistake. Now that I think about it, the only piece of counsel you have given me that has worked well was to send Asha away in order to secure the future of House Greyjoy." Snarled Balon.
"The tides of fate are fickle, brother. You of all people must know that. We must trust in the lessons that the Drowned God has taught our people to navigate them." Insisted Aeron.
"And what does the Drowned God have to say about such things as this revolt, Brother? What wisdom can we glean from his teachings here?" Queried Balon.
"I am unsure of specifics, but the Drowned God favors those who help themselves. It is the underlying principle behind the Iron Price, after all. The reason that he commands us to eschew the Gold Price whenever possible. If we can plan a strategy that will work, the Drowned God will favor us over the Reader's Heretics. Of this, I have no doubt." Responded Aeron, trying to steer the conversation back on track.
Balon snarled at that but had no choice but to acquiesce. His spleen was not yet fully vented, and he wished to rage at the predicament he found himself in more, but even he had to admit that it would be counterproductive to do so at Aeron. His Brother may have inadvertently given bad counsel, but he had not given false counsel. Aeron had only ever tried to help him.
For his part, Aeron understood his Brother's anger. Even in his wildest imaginings, he had never thought he would live to see the day that Ironborn turned on Ironborn. There had not been a civil war in the Iron Isles since the days of Urron Redhand. That such times would come again in his lifetime was unthinkable to Aeron, at least before today it would have been.
As the pair attempted to come up with a plan, both worked on the unspoken assumption that their Third Brother, Victarion, would continue to hold the enemy at bay for long enough that the Heretics of the Reader's Reform Movement would be kept from the Sea Tower. This assumption was predicated on Victarion's undying loyalty and his Martial Prowess. There truly was no finer warrior in all the Iron Isles, and that was why Victarion was in command of the Iron Fleet.
Unfortunately for both Brothers, Victarion Greyjoy was about to find out that just because you were a formidable warrior in an Era before various innovations came along, that did not make you one now that certain things were in play. After all, what good were longships when Galleys mounted with Four-Pounder Cannons were able to sink you before you could close to boarding range? What good was the muscle to swing a longaxe when your opponents were numerous and almost as well-armed and well-trained, thanks to the Militia System imported from elsewhere and the purchase of large amounts of equipment funded by trade?
No, it was going to be a very long night for House Greyjoy, one that it was unlikely that they would survive. . .
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Victarion Greyjoy snarled as he whirled his axe around, bisecting a poor bastard who had the misfortunate of being sworn to House Goodbrother. He should have known that Gorold Goodbrother would have thrown in with the Reader's Movement. After all, the Man had long since stopped paying the Iron Price for anything. Why would he when his mines produced so much damned metal? No, for Gorold, the Gold Price wasn't just viable, it was more attractive than the Iron, the bloody coward.
"Damn then all to the Storm God's Hells!" Spat Victarion, ducking a thrust of an incoming Halberd. An upward swipe of his axe sheared the head off the wooden haft of the Halberd and his backswing carved the legs off the Harlaw Halberdier like he was cutting into a goose. He leaned away from a thrusting sword of a Botley Man, kicking the bastard off the wall to land hard on the stone below, breaking his neck, even as an axe from a Drumm Man rebounded off his pauldron with a resounding clang, the blackened castle-forged steel of his Plate Armor resisting the axe blade. Victarion lashed out with his axe and took the Drumm Man's head clean off.
This is what he was made for, honest battle. Not bandying about fine words in some Lord's Hall somewhere. Victarion was in many ways a simple man. Some would call him a lackwit, but that wasn't quite the case. He had a knack for tactics and logistics as well as for fighting. It was more that diplomacy and learning simply did not interest him, and thus, he only put the barest amount of effort into such pursuits. He could strategize with the best of them when it came down to battle, case in point, his strategy for holding Pyke.
Victarion had known that there was more of Pyke's everpresent foul and damp weather coming in tonight and that all he had to do was hold out on the Walls until that weather returned after sunset. Such things, he had been told, rendered black powder less than effective. His strategy had been built around taking advantage of that. While he had sent the Iron Fleet against the Reader's Fleet, he had done so as a delaying action, to keep the Reader's Fleet from making landfall as long as possible to avoid them dragging their cannons into position for long enough that they could blow holes right through Pyke's Walls.
It had worked, and by the time they could get into position for such an attempt, the dampness and wetness that Pyke was known for had started up again, forcing the enemy to do things the Old Fashioned way and assault the Walls of Pyke via ladders. It was just a shame that he'd had to sacrifice so much of the Iron Fleet to do it. Still, if they could hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive, they could seize the Reader's Fleet as recompense. Wouldn't that be something? Ironborn Fleets equipped with Cannon to wreak bloody terror in the Greenlands? They might even be able to conquer lands by the Iron Price, like in the days of old!
For now, however, Victarion had to try and hold here. It was difficult, many of these Heretics seemed just as well-equipped and well-trained as the Pyke Guards. None were a match for Victarion individually, of course, but there were just so many of them. Perhaps too many. Victarion had been holding the walls for a few hours now and was starting to tire. His men were likewise tiring, as the fight for the Walls on the Headland had dragged on into a battle all of its own. Furthermore, Victarion could see that the enemy under Ser Harras Harlaw had gained a foothold on the wall near the stables in the over three hours that the fighting had been ongoing, which wasn't great for the tactical picture.
If the enemy managed to clear a path to the headland, Victarion and his men would be cut off in the Gatehouse while the Heretics had a clear path forward to the bridge out to the stacks and the keeps there. It galled him, but Victarion knew he would have to call a retreat soon. Fortunately, the covered stone bridge that led to the Great Keep would form the best choke point any commander could ask for. They could hold there indefinitely, or at least until reinforcements arrived. Four hours would be enough, Victarion Judged. He would call for a withdrawal back to the Great Keep and the covered stone bridge after four hours of fighting for the Walls.
As he decided that, Victarion caved in the chest of a mail-clad Botley Man with the back of his longaxe, ducking under a sword slash from a man whose tabard bore the nine-headed Serpent of Saltcliffe, before shoving him into another man wearing the green and black of Blacktyde. The pair went down, allowing victarion to Parry a rushing spear thrust from a charging Saltcliffe Man, whirling about to smash him into the other two with the back of his axe. The three men from Blactyde and Saltcliffe bowled themselves off the wall from the extra momentum that Victarion imparted with his axe, smashing themselves to pieces on the rocky ground below. That was perhaps thirty seconds down, with fourteen and a half minutes left to go before Victarion called the retreat as he counted down in the back of his mind to when he would have to order the Withdrawal.
He lashed out around him with his longaxe, huffing and puffing from exertion as he did so. The constant fighting was beginning to take its toll on Victarion, even with his advantages. Victarion's axe swept through the raised arm of a Harlaw Captain, trying to parry with a sword only to be too slow and have his swordarm taken off at the elbow. He swept his longaxe low, using the beard to hook the leg of a Drumm Man to send him tripping off the wall to his death. He parried the attack of a Goodbrother Man on the haft of his axe before grabbing the man around the throat and squeezing till his eyes popped out of his sockets. Tossing the corpse at a Blacktyde man clambering up a nearby ladder, he bowled the man back off the wall to fall to his death below. Another thirty seconds gone by, meaning there were fourteen minutes left, by Victarion's mental count, until he would order the withdrawal.
Again and again, Victarion fought, counting down in thirty second increments as he continued to lay about him, taking out men from the Heretic Forces. Here he would slice through a pair of Blacktyde Men clambering onto the wall, there he would aid some Loyal Men in pushing away a mixed quartet of Saltcliffe and Botley Men that had pinned them down. On and on it went, with Harlaws, Drumms, Goodbrothers, and others falling to his axe, all while Victarion kept his mental countdown going.
It was at the five minute mark in that mental countdown that a familiar face made its way onto the wall to challenge Victarion. Clad in what appeared to be scale armor made of the black Arsenal Steel that the Seawynd Whelp pumped out, with an axe of the same material, bedecked in runes, was a man Victarion knew well. Andrik the Unsmiling, one of Dunstan Drumm's best Captains and the Man some claimed to be Victarion's only competition for the title of the Fiercest Warrior in the Iron Isles. Victarion had hoped that Andrik hadn't followed his Lord into heresy and revolt, but clearly he had.
"Andrik." Grunted Victarion.
"Lord Captain." Nodded Andrik.
"I see they got you too. I didn't take you for a man to be swayed by petty things such as fancy new equipment." Spat Victarion.
"I wasn't." Responded Andrik.
"Then what was it? What got you to side with these Heretics? They're little better than Greenlanders, Andrik. Why side with them?" Asked Victarion.
"There's a future here, Victarion. One where my son isn't made a thrall to whoever the Greenlanders decide to promote from within their own ranks as the Lord of the Isles. The Old Ways don't have a future for us. Maybe they did before the Seawynd Boy, but not now." Answered Andrik.
"So it's cowardice then? I never expected that from you!" Snarled Victarion.
"I knew you wouldn't understand. How could you when you've no children of your own?" Sighed Andrik.
"We would have fought Andrik! You just let your fear overcome your pride!" Scoffed Victarion.
"Aye. We would have fought well. Died just as well." Insisted Andrik.
"If that's your attitude, then there's nothing more to say here." Intoned Victarion.
"I suppose not." Agreed Andrik.
With no more words to be said, Victarion Greyjoy and Andrik the Unsmiling faced off against each other. Victarion, however, was tired from fighting for hours, while Andrik was relatively fresh. Oh, for certain, he'd fought during the fighting with the Iron Fleet, and again against the advanced party that Victarion had sent under Nute the Barber and Red Ralf Kenning to try and stop the Reader's Forces from making Landfall, but after Ser Harras Harlaw had slain both Nute and Red Ralf Kenning, and Andrik led the Reader's Men to scatter the rest of the force that Victarion had sent, he had mostly been able to rest. Meanwhile, with Red Ralf Kenning and Nute the Barber dead, Victarion had to inspire the men on the walls himself, which meant fighting amongst them.
What this meant for the duel was that it lasted only a half a dozen moves before reaching its endgame. Victarion had lashed out first, trying to end things quickly to preserve his flagging energy. Andrik had parried, which left things in a literal bind as each man tried to maneuver the other either off the wall or into position for a killing stroke. Andrik tried to wrench Victarion's axe away from him, only for Victarion to pivot into the attempt, absorbing the momentum and channeling it into a shove that Andrik hopped backward to avoid. Victarion lashed out at Andrik as he landed in a sideways cut of his longaxe, only for Andrik to duck, striking up with his own axe and hitting the blade, knocking Viictarion's longaxe out of position as Andrik rushed forward in a bull rush.
Victarion, tired as he was, with his axe out of position, couldn't muster the required strength to either set himself against Andrik's charge or wrestle his longaxe back into position. Andrik the Unsmiling's shoulder smashed into Victarion's Torso, the clash of the Arsenal Steel of Andrik's Scale Spaulders ringing out like a bell against Victarion's Castle-Forged Steel Breastplate, tolling the end of Victarion Greyjoy as the Iron Captain topped off the side of the wall. Victarion fell awkwardly, landing on his head and neck.
His helmet protected his head from being dashed on the rocks, but did nothing to prevent the fall from snapping his neck like a twig. Victarion Greyjoy fell dead to the ground, and Andrik the Unsmiling finally proved himself the better Warrior. His last thoughts were that at least his end had come in battle, to a man he had at one time called a friend. No blood had been shed in the doing, either, which meant that the Drowned God's teachings on that front had still been followed.
And really, Victarion Greyjoy couldn't have asked for a better death than that. . .
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The fighting didn't last much longer than that, around six minutes after Victarion died, the Loyalist Forces began to break. After just over four hours of fighting on the Walls, with their commander dead, taking heavy casualties against a much more numerous foe, they finally reached their limit. The loyalists fled for the covered stone bridge, trying desperately to make it to the supposed safety of the Great Keep. Only a very few made it, and those few hundred men tried to hold against three times their numbers.
Somehow, they did so, holding out for two hours before they had to fall back within the Great Keep. By this point however, they were inside, and the wetness of the weather was no longer a concern as the Matchlocks came out to play. It was still damp, even inside the Keep, causing misfires to occur, but even with one out of every three shots resulting in a misfire, with powder failing to ignite, that was still more shots than the Loyalists could deal with.
First the Great Keep fell, then the Bloody Keep, then the Kitchen Keep, and the various towers. By dawn of the following day, all that remained in the control of the Loyalist Forces was the Sea Tower. Unfortunately, there was no sign of any reinforcements in sight. It seemed that loyalists on other Islands were too absorbed in their own microcosms of what was occurring on Pyke to send much aid. Balon and Aeron Greyjoy knew that their end was drawing near. However, they still had hope that they could hold the Sea Tower a while longer.
That hope would soon be shattered, however. . .
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The everpresent roar of the wind outside of the Sea Tower was, for once, drowned out by the sounds of battle. The only other time this had been the case in living memory had been during the Siege of Pyke, back during Balon's Ill-Fated Rebellion. That time, it had been the Greenlanders, though. This time it was their own people. To both Balon and Aeron's mind, that was a disgrace.
"It doesn't seem real. This is to be my end? It seems a cruel joke! I never even got to avenge my sons." Scowled Balon.
"The Drowned God works in mysterious ways, Balon. Perhaps it was his will that Asha be the one to avenge all of us." Consoled Aeron.
"Indeed. However, I will not meet my end breaking the Drowned God's prohibition against drawing the blood of Ironborn. Unlike these heretics, I refuse to give up my seat in the Drowned God's Halls for the sake of expediency." Scoffed Balon.
"Nor will I. I have spent most of my life serving his will. I will not turn from that course now." Agreed Aeron.
"So what now? We simply await the end?" Questioned Balon.
"No, Brother. We do not. I can think of one way to meet our ends as martyrs. Perhaps to inspire the other Lords yet loyal to our traditions to fight to the bitter end against these Heretics." Mused Aeron.
"How so?" Queried Balon.
"Why not head to the roof? You must have an access to replace the banner of our house upon the Iron Spike? We should head up there and make our statement to those still loyal." Intoned Aeron.
"You mean to have us jump off the Tower into the Sea?" Asked Balon.
"Why not? It would be better than waiting for someone to run you through." Shrugged Aeron.
Suddenly, however, the sounds of battle quieted and the noise of armored footsteps could be heard mounting the staircase to the landing where Balon's Solar resided. There was a shout, a series of stacatto clangs, and a few strangled screams before the footsteps resumed absent of any further noise of combat. Balon sighed and looked over at Aeron.
"It seems as if we have run out of time." He intoned.
"Alas, I fear you are correct, Brother." Concurred Aeron.
The door to Balon's Solar opened, revealing the black armored form of Ser Harras Harlaw, Valyrian Steel Blade awash in the blood of good, loyal, Ironborn stepped inside. He was swiftly followed by the Slayer of Balon and Aeron's Brother Victarion, Andrik the Unsmiling. A gaggle of guardsmen from various Heretic Lords entered afterward. Balon could see the sigils of Drumm, Goodbrother, Harlaw, Botley, Blacktyde, and Saltcliffe on the Guards. It seems almost as if every island except Lonely Light had traitors and heretics amongst them. It was no wonder that reinforcements weren't forthcoming.
"Harras." Sneered Balon.
"Ser Harras, Uncle." Reminded Harras.
"Bah, you are no kin of mine. Not when you have that joke of a title or when you spill the blood of men who should be your brothers!" Snarled Balon.
"It is just that sort of attitude that would lead us to being made thralls in our own islands. We cannot fight all of the Greenlands at once, not anymore. Even you have to see that." Insisted Harras.
"No, instead of thralls, you would have us be made lapdogs! How much gold has the Reader been loaned by the Lannisters? How soon before Tywin Lannister demands you sail to his aid?" Growled Balon.
"Tywin Lannister is losing his War. Badly, by all accounts. He is in no real position to demand anything. We will lose nothing by refusing his demands, not when there are others who would gladly trade with us what we need, now that we have embraced a New Way." Refuted Harras.
"You speak blasphemy, Boy. Balon is right, you are no kin of ours. Slay us if you must, indulge your heresy and spill our blood, but know that this will not be the end. Asha is not here and you will not find her anywhere in the Isles. She will return to avenge us and upend your blasphemy one day." Spat Aeron.
"Spill your blood? Uncle, I would never. It wouldn't be the honorable thing to do." Protested Harras.
"Then you mean to keep us as captives? Hostages against Asha? How honorable of you. Just like a Greenlander." Scoffed Balon.
"I will not spill your blood, Uncle. However, I cannot keep you hostage. Asha would not care. I could have you executed, of course, but there is little enough time for that, not with Hammerhorn under siege. There is, however, another way. One that will keep with the traditions you hold so dear while fulfilling my duty to see your cause ended expediently." Intoned Harras.
As he said that, Andrik the unsmiling moved toward the heavy wooden boards that acted as window shutters. The Ironwood Boards kept much of the damp out and wouldn't rust, however, it wasn't foolproof, which was why the opaque bottle glass was there. Of course, both could be removed if the day was sunny enough and the seas were calm enough. Usually, this happened just before, during, and after dawn, as for a few short hours every day, things were generally calm enough. At least outside of Winter, which was fast approaching. It wasn't here yet, however, and Andrik opened the window to Balon's solar, letting the breeze in.
As he did that, Guards seized Balon and Aeron, grabbing them two at a time and frog-marching them over toward the window. It suddenly dawned on Balon that they were going to throw Aeron and him out of the window and into the sea to drown. It would hardly have the same impact as if they had done it themselves, but it would at least prove that in this case, at least, no Heresy would be involved in their deaths.
"I hope the Drowned God receives you well, Uncles. You will be among the last of his worshippers to go to his Halls following the Old Ways." Announced Harras.
Then the Guards tossed Balon and Aeron out of the window. The wind whipped around them both, and Balon lost sight of his brother as the salt spray carried on the ocean breeze stung his eyes and forced him to close them. He felt a sensation of weightlessness as he fell, then a shock of freezing water as he plunged into the sea. The current swept him up and Balon resigned himself to it, feeling the tug of the ocean pulling him down deeper into the sea.
Then his consciousness faded as he was pulled into the inky depths and Balon Greyjoy was no more. . .
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AN: All right, so here's the next chapter. We get a look at how things are going on Pyke. It seems that being on the Backfoot has caused Balon to start calling in his markers. We already saw that with Littlefinger, but now we're seeing his plans for the Ironborn Reform Faction put into action. Now the Iron Isles are in a state of Civil War, something not seen since Urron Redhand slaughtered a bunch of Lords to put an end to the institution of the Kingsmoot and fought with any Lords who refused to bend the knee. That was five thousand years ago.
Of course, as we heard Harras mention, this also isn't likely to go Tywin's way, since he's on the Backfoot in the War and by the time the Ironborn finish their Civil War, isn't likely to be in any position to demand anything from anyone. The Reader plans on simply replacing Tywin as a trade partner with Stannis, which will mean bending the knee to Stannis in the process. How well that works out has yet to be seen.
At any rate, the next chapter will have us back with Ricasso's POV as he begins his campaign in the Riverlands.
Stay tuned. . .
