The assault on Pyke began under the cloak of a new dawn, not with the rising sun, but with a lingering, preternatural gloom. Loki's magic, honed and focused, pulled a fresh blanket of mist and low hanging clouds across the sea, effectively blinding the Ironborn watchtowers and obscuring the true scale of the Viking fleet. It was a weather Loki himself commanded, a grey veil drawn by his will.
Jarl Astrid Stormchild's light scout drakkars, sleek and swift, led the charge. They were designed for stealth and speed, manned by crews as agile as the ships themselves. Instead of heading for the heavily defended main harbor of Pyke, they slipped into the shallower, rock-strewn coves along the island's northern coast, where the Ironborn expected no major landing. These were treacherous waters, but Astrid, guided by Loki's uncanny sense of the sea and her own fierce skill, navigated them with chilling precision.
"Silence!" Astrid hissed, her voice a low growl barely audible above the gentle lapping of waves against the drakkar's hull. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the rocky shore. "Remember your training. Swift and silent. No mercy for the watchmen. They die before they can scream." Her shield maidens, a select group of her most ruthless warriors, gripped their axes, their faces grim, their anticipation a palpable aura.
They beached their drakkars on a secluded stretch of jagged rocks, the impact barely a whisper compared to the crashing waves. Like shadows, the Viking vanguard poured ashore, scaling the perilous cliffs with grappling hooks and practiced ease. Their objective: the undefended rear of Pyke Castle, away from the formidable sea facing walls and the Raven's Teeth siege engines that now pointed uselessly out to sea, anticipating a frontal assault.
Meanwhile, Loki's main fleet, commanded by Hakon and Jarl Kael the Silent, had indeed approached Pyke's main harbor. They were a sight to behold: hundreds of drakkars, their dragon prows looming out of the thinning mist, oars beating a relentless rhythm, war horns blaring a terrifying, cacophonous challenge. This was the distraction, the roaring maelstrom designed to draw Balon Greyjoy's eyes and men.
On Pyke's walls, Lord Balon Greyjoy, grim faced and gaunt, stood with his remaining captains. The news from Great Wyk had reached him, fragmented and horrifying a sudden, overwhelming force, a slaughter. His fleet, already scattered by Euron's machinations and his own reaving parties, was struggling to regroup. He saw the approaching Viking fleet, a terrifying mass of foreign ships, and assumed this was the main assault.
"To the walls! Man the Raven's Teeth!" Balon roared, his voice hoarse. "They want Pyke? Let them taste our iron!" He pointed towards the sea, oblivious to the silent, deadly assault already underway on his unprotected flank. "Drown them in the waves! For the Drowned God!"
As Balon focused on the seaborne threat, Astrid's vanguard scaled Pyke's cliffs. They moved like wraiths, their axes whispering in the pre-dawn gloom. The few sentries stationed on the rear walls, accustomed to complacency, were dispatched with brutal efficiency. Throats were cut, heads were cleaved, bodies dragged silently into the shadows before a cry could be raised. Within minutes, a section of the wall was clear, and a rope ladder was thrown down.
"The gate!" Astrid hissed, pointing towards a small, rarely used postern gate. "Open it!"
The Skardheimers swarmed down, axes already drawn, hitting the surprised Ironborn garrison from behind. Panic erupted. Shouts of "Intruders!" mingled with the screams of the dying. The Ironborn, trained to defend against frontal assaults and boarding actions, were utterly unprepared for an attack from within their own castle walls.
This was the signal Loki had waited for. On the Serpent's Kiss, anchored just beyond the main engagement, Loki raised Oakhide. "The gates are breached!" he bellowed. "Hakon! Kael! To the castle! No survivors who do not bend the knee!"
The diversionary fleet, which had merely harassed and drawn fire, now surged forward with renewed ferocity. Hakon's berserkers, unleashed like rabid hounds, crashed into the Ironborn longships with boarding actions as brutal as any seen before. Kael the Silent, leading the main land assault, directed his men to scale the walls that were now weakly defended, his warriors clambering up ladders and ropes with terrifying speed.
The battle within Pyke Castle was a chaotic, bloody nightmare. Ironborn fought with desperate ferocity, but they were outmaneuvered, outnumbered, and outmatched. Loki's warriors moved with a relentless, disciplined brutality that shattered Ironborn morale. Berserkers, stripped to the waist, foam flying from their mouths, tore through ranks, ignoring wounds that would cripple normal men. Shield maidens fought with a cold, precise savagery, their axes flashing.
Loki himself landed near the main gate, where the fiercest fighting raged. He moved like a force of nature, Oakhide a blur of steel and blood. An Ironborn captain, a veteran with a scarred face, lunged at him, roaring about the Drowned God. Loki merely parried with a casual flick of his axe, then brought it down in a devastating blow that split the man's skull. He felt the life drain out of the captain, the familiar resonance of death that always accompanied his work.
He advanced steadily towards the main keep, towards the screams and the sounds of fierce resistance. He could feel Balon Greyjoy's presence, a stubborn knot of defiance in the heart of the crumbling castle. He wanted him alive. There was a point to be made, a message to be sent.
Inside Pyke's keep, chaos reigned. Lord Balon, realizing too late the true nature of the assault, abandoned the battlements. He gathered his personal guard, a mere handful of grim faced men, and prepared for a final stand in his hall. The Ironborn fought with the courage of despair, but it was a futile gesture against the tide of Loki's Vikings.
Loki, trailed by Hakon and Thora, broke through the last line of defense, bursting into the Greyjoy Hall. The chamber was dimly lit, reeking of salt and fear. Balon Greyjoy, aged and weary, stood defiantly before his throne, a heavy axe in his hand. Around him, a few of his loyal guards formed a desperate circle.
"You! Invader!" Balon roared, his voice trembling slightly but still defiant. "You have broken the hospitality of the Ironborn! What god do you serve that would condone such treachery?"
Loki stepped forward, his axe lowering slightly, but his stance remained one of predatory calm. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over Balon. "I serve Odin, Thor, and Freya," he said, his voice a low, chilling growl in Common Tongue, his accent thick. "Gods of war, wisdom, and destiny. Gods who demand conquest, not petty reaving." He gestured around the hall, littered with the bodies of Ironborn, blood staining the stone floor. "And treachery? We showed you what you could not see. Your gods are weak. Your people are soft. Your 'iron price' is a child's game compared to the blood price we demand."
Balon snarled, his face contorted in a furious grimace. "You speak blasphemy! The Drowned God will rise and consume you all!" He lunged forward, a desperate, wild swing of his axe.
Loki parried the blow with casual ease, the clang of steel echoing in the hall. Balon was strong, but he was old, and his movements lacked the precision, the sheer, brutal power of a true warrior of Skardheim. Loki parried a second blow, then a third, slowly forcing Balon back. His Oakhide moved with deliberate, terrifying control, chipping away at Balon's defenses.
"Your god drowns men, old fool," Loki mocked, his voice calm, almost bored. "My gods forge them in fire and steel." With a sudden, lightning fast movement, Loki twisted his axe, disarming Balon with a jarring blow that sent the Ironborn Lord's axe clattering to the floor. Then, before Balon could react, Loki brought the flat of Oakhide down on Balon's head. The blow was precisely measured, strong enough to stun, but not to kill. Balon collapsed, his eyes rolling back in his head, a thin trickle of blood escaping his ear.
"Secure him," Loki commanded, his voice cold. "He is mine. The Drowned God will have to wait for him."
Hakon moved quickly, binding Balon Greyjoy's hands and feet. The remaining Ironborn guards, seeing their lord fall so easily, threw down their weapons, their defiance broken. They were mere men, facing a force of nature.
The battle for Pyke was over. The shouts of combat faded, replaced by the grim sounds of looting, the cries of the terrified, and the systematic work of securing the castle. The Ironborn, so proud of their unyielding spirit, had been utterly crushed in a single, brutal night.
Loki walked through the desecrated halls of Pyke, past the familiar sigil of the kraken, now splattered with Viking blood. The castle, though impressive in its defiance of the sea, felt cold, empty. It was not Skardheim. It was a stepping stone, a temporary base. But it was his now.
He ordered the Ironborn banners torn down, replaced by the fearsome dragon-prowed emblem of Skardheim. The ancient, sacred rituals of his people would be performed in the Drowned God's hallowed spaces, defiling them, claiming them for Odin and Thor. The Salt Throne, that symbol of Ironborn independence, would be purified by fire and blood, or perhaps simply cast into the raging sea.
Word of Pyke's fall would spread like wildfire across Westeros. The blow would be catastrophic for the Greyjoys and a chilling warning to all other Houses. The Lannisters, the Starks, the Targaryens, they would know a new terror had arrived. A force that did not play by their rules, that respected no crown but its own, and whose god was not the Seven, but the relentless, conquering spirit of war.
Loki stood on the highest tower of Pyke, the salt wind whipping around him. Below, the sea was a churning mass of grey, and the shores were stained red. His gaze swept across the horizon, towards the distant, unseen mainland. The Iron Islands were merely a prologue. The true conquest, the fulfillment of the ancient prophecy, was yet to come. The Seven Kingdoms would soon learn the name Loki Bloodaxe, and they would tremble.