50 AC
Driftwood Hall (Skagos)
Jonnos Sköll Pov
The salt spray stung my face as the longship sliced through the choppy waves. Around us, the fleet stretched as far as the eye could see, a formidable armada of Northern might, all heading towards the forbidding shores of Skagos. The air thrummed with a nervous energy, a mix of anticipation and dread. To our left, the jagged coastline of the island loomed, a dark and unwelcoming silhouette against the grey sky. This was it. Driftwood Hall.
I turned to my brother, Theon, who stood beside me at the prow, his gaze fixed on the approaching shore. His face, usually marked by a wry grin, was set in a mask of grim determination. He looked every bit the Lord Commander, the weight of responsibility sitting heavily on his shoulders. But beneath that, I could see the familiar glint of steel in his eyes, the eagerness of a warrior ready to prove himself.
"Ready?" I asked, my voice barely audible above the creak of the ship and the roar of the wind.
Theon simply nodded, his gaze unwavering. I knew that look. I'd seen it countless times before, on the training yard at Winterfell, during skirmishes with pirates and bandits, even in the heat of mock battles. It was his battle face - an impassive mask, his features seemingly carved from stone, revealing nothing of the storm of adrenaline and focus within. It was a disconcerting sight to those who didn't know him, but to me, it was a familiar reassurance. Theon was ready.
The longship shuddered as the oarsmen strained, bringing us closer to the shore. The sounds of battle began to reach us - the clash of steel, the screams of men, the guttural roars of the Skagosi. It was a chaotic symphony of violence, a stark reminder of the brutal task that lay ahead. We were about to dock.
As soon as the prow of our ship scraped against the rocky beach, a hail of arrows rained down upon us. The air filled with the deadly hiss of their flight, and the screams of the first men struck.
"Shields up!" Theon roared, his voice cutting through the cacophony.
"Shields up!" I echoed, bellowing the command to the men closest to me. We scrambled forward, a mass of steel and leather, the arrows thudding against our shields in a deadly rhythm. We pressed on from the beach, seeking what little cover the rocky terrain offered. Jagged outcrops of dark stone became our sanctuary, a temporary respite from the Skagosi barrage.
From behind our cover, Theon's voice rang out again, sharp and decisive. "Archers! Knock, aim, loose!"
Our archers, who had been huddled behind the larger rocks, nocked their arrows and returned fire. The tide of the battle began to shift, and the Skagosi archers on the higher ground were now forced to take cover themselves. The exchange continued for a time, a deadly dance of projectiles, until, as suddenly as it had begun, the arrow fire from the Skagosi ceased.
A tense silence fell over the battlefield. The only sounds were the crashing of the waves and the ragged breathing of our men. Then, a scout returned, reporting that the enemy had retreated to their keep, a formidable stone structure further inland.
Theon, ever decisive, turned to me. "They've fallen back. We're making our way to the keep to lay siege to it."
As we advanced, the grim reality of our objective settled upon me. We weren't here to negotiate or broker peace. We were here to subdue, and Theon's words hinted at a ruthlessness that made even my blood run cold. When we reached the keep and began to assess its defenses, I felt compelled to speak.
"Theon," I said, my voice low, "shouldn't we send someone to negotiate? Offer terms?"
He turned to me, his face devoid of any sentimentality. "No," he stated flatly. "There's no need for negotiation. We will eliminate all adult men of House Stane today. If the Lord of the house has a daughter, then we will marry her to one of our bannermen and grant him the lands of Stane. The same will happen to the other two houses on this island." His gaze was hard, unwavering. "This isn't a parlay, Jonnos. It's a conquest."
I nodded, my throat tight. It was brutal, but I couldn't deny the cold logic of it. This was how we Starks had maintained power for eight thousand years. Kill the enemy, take their lands, and bind their remaining kin to us through marriage, forging new alliances from the ashes of the old.
Theon turned back to the keep, his gaze assessing its defenses. "We'll take it by nightfall," he said, more to himself than to me. Then, he turned back, his eyes gleaming with a strategist's intensity. "I need you to take twenty men."
"Twenty?" I questioned. "For what?"
"For a little... infiltration," he replied. "The keep is well-defended, but it's old. There are weaknesses, hidden passages, ways that they likely haven't used in centuries. I want you to find one."
"And then?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.
"You and your twenty men," Theon continued, "will climb the walls. From the back, where they least expect it. I want you inside, quiet as shadows, before they even know you're there."
"And once we're inside?" I pressed.
"You open the gates," Theon said, his voice low and urgent. "Let the rest of our forces in. But you do it silently. No horns, no signals. Just open them, and we'll do the rest."
I nodded slowly, the weight of the task settling upon me. It was a risky plan, relying on stealth and surprise. But it was also bold, audacious, the kind of move that could break the back of the Skagosi resistance before they even had a chance to mount a proper defense.
"While you're playing shadows in the dark," Theon added, "I'll be keeping them busy. We'll hit them from three sides at once – a full-scale assault, loud and brutal. All their attention will be on us, giving you the time you need to slip in."
"A diversion," I realized. "A bloody one."
"The bloodier, the better," Theon confirmed. "The more noise we make, the less they'll hear you. And the more men they commit to defending the walls, the fewer they'll have inside to stop you from opening the gates."
He clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm. "You'll be leading the Wolfpack," he said, referring to the elite company of scouts and climbers I commanded. "They're the best we have for this kind of work. Trust them, trust your instincts, and get those gates open."
"I will," I vowed, my voice low and steady. I knew the risks, but I also knew Theon. He wouldn't send me on a suicide mission. He had a plan, a carefully calculated gamble, and he trusted me to play my part.
"Good," Theon said, his expression hardening once more. "Then we have nothing left to discuss. Prepare your men, Brother. Tonight, we take this keep."
It was night. A cold, Skagosi night, the wind howling like a hungry wolf, carrying the scent of salt and blood. I stood with twenty of my best, the Wolfpack, huddled in the shadows of a gnarled copse of trees at the rear of the keep. The massive stone walls loomed before us, dark and silent, a formidable barrier against the darkness. We were ghosts, barely a whisper in the night, waiting for the signal.
The tension was a tangible thing, a coiled spring ready to unleash. Each man was focused, his senses heightened, every creak of a branch, every rustle of leaves, amplified in the stillness. We were climbers, scouts, infiltrators – the best the North had to offer in the art of unseen warfare. Our lives, and the success of this entire assault, hinged on our ability to move like shadows and strike like vipers.
Then, a distant, ragged roar came – the unmistakable war cries of Northern throats. The sound was faint, carried on the wind, but it was enough. That was Theon. That was our signal.
"Move," I hissed, my voice barely a breath. And like phantoms, we did.
The rough stone of the keep wall bit into our gloved hands as we began our ascent. We moved in silence, each man finding his own handholds and footholds, years of training and experience guiding our every move. The wind whipped around us, threatening to tear us from the wall, but we held fast, our bodies pressed against the cold stone, becoming one with the shadows. My own senses were heightened beyond human limits, the werewolf transformation granting me an almost supernatural awareness of my surroundings. I could hear the faintest whisper of wind, smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, and feel the vibrations of the battle raging on the other side of the wall.
The war cries from the front of the keep grew louder, a chaotic symphony of battle that masked our movements. We could hear the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, the guttural roars of men locked in combat. It was a brutal soundtrack to our silent climb, a reminder of the bloody work that awaited us on the other side.
Higher and higher we climbed, our muscles burning with the strain. The keep was old, as Theon had said, and time had taken its toll on the stone. Cracks and crevices, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, provided precarious purchase for our hands and feet. We moved slowly and deliberately, and each step was a calculated risk, a test of our skill and nerves.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we reached the top. We pulled ourselves over the battlements, one by one, our movements fluid and silent as water. We were inside.
The courtyard below was a scene of chaos. Torches flickered, casting long, dancing shadows, illuminating the frenzied fighting. Men clashed, steel rang against steel, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat. But here, on the walls, it was quiet, a pocket of stillness in the heart of the storm.
We moved along the battlements, hugging the shadows, our eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. We were predators in enemy territory, and we moved with the stealth and precision of wolves on the hunt.
Our first encounter came quickly. Two Skagosi guards stood talking, their voices low and gruff, oblivious to our presence. I signaled to two of my men, and they moved forward, their daggers glinting in the torchlight.
The guards never knew what hit them. A quick, silent thrust to the throat, and they slumped to the ground, their lives extinguished without a sound. We dragged their bodies into the shadows, leaving no trace of our passage.
We continued our silent advance, moving deeper into the keep. We encountered more guards, patrolling the walls, their eyes fixed on the battle raging below. Each time, we dealt with them swiftly and efficiently, our daggers finding their marks with deadly accuracy. My enhanced senses allowed me to anticipate their movements, to hear their heartbeats, to smell their fear.
We were like ghosts, moving through the keep, leaving a trail of silent corpses in our wake. The Skagosi were too focused on the assault at the front to notice the danger lurking in their midst.
We reached a narrow staircase leading down into the keep. This was where the real challenge began. The interior of the keep would be more heavily guarded, the Skagosi warriors alert and ready for a fight.
We descended the stairs, my senses heightened, every nerve on edge. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and blood, and the sounds of the battle echoed through the stone corridors.
We moved cautiously, hugging the walls, my ears straining to pick up any sound. We encountered small groups of Skagosi soldiers, rushing to join the defense, their faces grim and determined.
We took them down quickly and silently, using the shadows and the narrow corridors to our advantage. A quick ambush, a silent struggle, and they were gone, their bodies hidden in the darkness. My werewolf abilities granted me speed and strength far beyond that of a normal man, making each encounter swift and decisive.
We were making progress, but the keep was a labyrinth of stone and shadow, and the enemy was everywhere. We had to be careful, patient, and ruthless.
We reached the main gatehouse. This was our objective. The gate was massive, made of thick, iron-bound wood, and heavily barred. It was guarded by a dozen Skagosi warriors, their eyes scanning the courtyard, their weapons ready.
This was going to be the hardest part. We couldn't take them all silently. We would have to fight, and the noise would alert the rest of the keep.
I signaled to my men, and we spread out, taking cover behind pillars and archways. We were ready.
I gave the signal, and we attacked.
We burst from the shadows, a whirlwind of steel and fury. The Skagosi warriors were taken by surprise, their eyes widening in shock as we descended upon them. But they were seasoned fighters, and they reacted quickly, raising their shields and drawing their weapons.
The gatehouse erupted in a cacophony of violence. Steel clashed against steel, the air filled with the grunts of exertion and the cries of pain. I fought with a ferocity born of my werewolf heritage, my enhanced strength and speed allowing me to cut through their ranks with brutal efficiency.
My men fought with courage, each one a veteran of countless battles, their movements fluid and deadly. We were outnumbered, but we were better trained, better equipped, and driven by a single purpose: to open those gates.
We fought back-to-back, a circle of death in the heart of the gatehouse. The Skagosi warriors fought bravely, but they were no match for our combined skill and determination. One by one, they fell, their bodies crashing to the stone floor.
The battle was fierce and brutal, but it was short. In a matter of minutes, the gatehouse was ours. The floor was slick with blood, and the air hung heavy with the stench of death. But the gate was still barred, a massive barrier between us and the Northern army outside.
I ordered my men to find the mechanism to open the gate. We searched frantically, our hands slick with sweat and blood, our ears straining to hear the sounds of the battle raging outside. Finally, one of my men found it – a large iron lever, hidden behind a tapestry.
With a heave, he pulled the lever. A grinding, groaning sound filled the gatehouse as the massive bars began to retract. Slowly, inexorably, the gate began to open.
A cheer erupted from the Northern army as they saw the gate swing open. They surged forward, a tide of steel and fury, pouring into the keep. The battle was far from over, but the tide had turned. We had breached the Skagosi defenses, and the Northmen were coming.
Theon led the charge, his twin swords, Jon and Theo, a whirlwind of death, cutting down any Skagosi who dared to stand in his path. He fought with a grim determination, his face splattered with blood, his eyes burning with a cold fury. The Northmen fought with renewed vigor, inspired by their Lord Commander's bravery, pushing the Skagosi back towards the heart of the keep.
The fighting was fierce and chaotic. The narrow corridors and open courtyards of the keep became a slaughterhouse, the air thick with the stench of blood and the sounds of screaming men. The Skagosi fought with the desperation of cornered animals, but they were outnumbered and outmatched.
As Theon pressed forward, he found himself face-to-face with Lord Stane, the Skagosi leader. Stane was a large man, his face twisted with rage and defiance. He roared a challenge and charged at Theon, his own weapon a crude but deadly axe.
Theon met his charge with a cold face. He parried Stane's clumsy blows with ease, his movements fluid and precise. It was clear he was toying with the Skagosi lord, a predator playing with its prey. He could have ended the fight quickly, but he seemed to relish the moment, drawing out Stane's fear and humiliation.
He dodged Stane's wild swings, his twin swords flashing in the torchlight, leaving shallow cuts on the Skagosi lord's arms and legs. Stane roared in pain and frustration, his attacks becoming more desperate and reckless.
Finally, Theon had enough. With a swift, decisive move, he disarmed Stane, sending his axe clattering to the ground. Stane stood before him, defenseless, his eyes wide with terror.
Theon raised his twin swords, Jon and Theo, his face impassive. He paused for a moment, letting the silence amplify the tension. Then, with a smooth, powerful thrust, he plunged Jon through Stane's throat.
The Skagosi lord gurgled, his blood spurting onto Theon's armor. His eyes widened in disbelief, then glazed over as life ebbed away. Theon withdrew his sword, the blade dripping crimson. Lord Stane's body slumped to the ground, his reign of defiance finally over.