The Iron Islands, once a realm of fierce independence, now lay entirely under the shadow of Skardheim. Loki Bloodaxe, the Great Jarl, had forged a grip of iron and blood that was absolute. Pyke, Great Wyk, Harlaw, Orkmont, Old Wyk, every island now flew the dragon-prowed banner of Skardheim. The Drowned God's priests were either dead, converted through coercion, or had fled, their temples desecrated and repurposed for the worship of Odin and Thor. The Ironborn who remained were either enslaved, forced to serve Loki's burgeoning fleet, or lived in terror, their spirit crushed beneath a brutal, alien heel.
From his seat on the makeshift Salt Throne, Loki oversaw the brutal transformation. His engineers, skilled in fortification and siege craft, were already tearing down the less-efficient Ironborn defenses and erecting stronger, more formidable bastions. The captured longships, surprisingly numerous and seaworthy, were being refitted with Skardheim sails and reinforced hulls, their kraken sigils painted over with fierce Nordic beasts. The Ironborn iron mines, once worked by free men, now echoed with the clang of thralls' hammers, their bounty destined for the forging of new axes and armor for Loki's growing army.
"The Islands are secure, Jarl," Hakon reported, his voice a low rumble. "Garrisons are in place. The few remaining pockets of resistance are dwindling. They whisper your name in fear, Loki. They call you the 'Drowned King' who came from the mist to consume them."
Loki merely offered a grim smile. "Let them whisper. Fear is a stronger chain than any iron. What of the mainland? What news has slipped through our net?"
Thora stepped forward. "Our scouts have sighted Westerosi ships. Not warfleets yet, but patrols. Lannister galleys off the Reach, Stark longships off the Neck. They are wary, Jarl. Like dogs circling a bear they don't yet understand."
"And the ravens?" Loki pressed.
"Still intercepted, mostly," Thora confirmed. "But some messages might have gotten through before our net was complete. The whispers are spreading, gaining momentum."
Loki nodded. He had expected this. Westeros, for all its internal squabbles, would eventually react to a power like his. The speed and brutality of his conquest were meant to shock, to create a ripple of fear that would precede his next move.
Life Under the Bloodaxe
Life on the Iron Islands had been harsh before, but under Loki's rule, it became a living nightmare for the native Ironborn. The concept of the "iron price" was mocked and twisted; now, all paid the blood price, whether they wanted to or not. Forced labor was implemented on a massive scale. Men, women, and even older children were put to work in the mines, their backs breaking under the endless demands of Loki's overseers. Others were forced to clean the drakkars, repair fortifications, or clear the debris of their own shattered homes. Resistance was met with immediate, public execution, often using the terrifying Blood Eagle ritual, a spectacle designed to crush any remaining hope of defiance. The Ironborn, who once prided themselves on their freedom, were now little more than chattels.
The spiritual landscape was equally devastated. The Drowned God's altars were systematically smashed, their idols defiled, and their holy men hunted down. Some priests were simply executed; others, particularly those who showed any intellectual curiosity or fear, were subjected to forced "conversion," rituals designed to break their faith and replace it with a terrifying reverence for Odin. Loki saw their faith as weak, a religion of desperation. His own gods, he believed, were gods of strength and conquest. He intended to impose his will, and through it, his gods, upon these broken people. The old hymns of the Drowned God were replaced by the guttural chants of Odin and Thor, echoing from the repurposed temples, a constant, grating reminder of their subjugation. Small, desperate insurrections did flare up – a handful of men with stolen axes, a desperate ambush in a rocky cove – but they were swiftly, brutally, and publicly suppressed, serving only to reinforce Loki's absolute power. There was no escape, no hidden corners where the Ironborn could truly breathe free.
Loki's quartermasters meticulously cataloged every resource. Beyond the iron mines, which were now producing at an unprecedented rate for Loki's burgeoning arsenal, the forests were stripped for timber, the fishing grounds exploited to feed his ever-growing army. Even the sparse farms, usually ignored by the reaving Ironborn, were put to use, their meager yields collected to sustain the conquerors. Loki wasn't just interested in plunder; he was building a self-sustaining war machine on the Iron Islands, a fortress from which to launch his true invasion.
Westeros Reacts: A Realm Divided
The full, horrifying truth of the Iron Islands' conquest finally dawned on Westeros, triggering reactions that ranged from panicked fury to cold, calculated opportunism.
In King's Landing: The King's Fury and the Serpent's Plans
King Robert Baratheon, finally shaken from his stupor by the sheer scale of the disaster, roared in drunken fury. "What in the Seven Hells is this?! The Iron Islands? Conquered? By Northmen? Where did they even come from?" His face was red, his voice hoarse from shouting and drink. He smashed his goblet, splashing wine across the Hand's table. "Summon the banners! Send ravens to every lord! They will march! We will wipe these barbarians from the face of the earth!"
Varys, ever the pragmatist, offered a cautious, low voice. "Your Grace, the reports are consistent. A massive fleet, ships unlike any seen, carrying warriors of unmatched ferocity. They speak of magic, of mists that blinded fleets, of men who cannot be killed. And their cruelty… far exceeds the Ironborn's own legends. This 'Loki Bloodaxe' is not a mere pirate. He is a conqueror, Your Grace, with an army said to number thirty thousand." He omitted the more gruesome details of Loki's brutality, knowing Robert's delicate sensibilities, but the eunuch's own face was etched with genuine concern. His little birds had whispered of the Blood Eagle, of entire villages put to the sword.
Grand Maester Pycelle wrung his hands, his usual sycophantic demeanor momentarily forgotten. "Your Grace, the Royal Fleet is… dispersed. Lord Stannis's ships are at Dragonstone. The Lannister fleet is formidable, but concentrated in Lannisport. To gather a force large enough to assault the Iron Islands would take months. Months, Your Grace!"
Lord Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, watched the unfolding drama with an unreadable expression, a thin, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Indeed, Grand Maester. And by then, these 'Skardheimers,' as they call themselves, would be firmly entrenched. Perhaps even looking eastward." He observed Cersei Lannister, who sat beside Robert, her face pale with uncharacteristic fear. Her brother Jaime was still in the Riverlands, fighting the banditry of the Mountain. A full-scale invasion of the Iron Islands would require drawing forces away from the capital, creating chaos, depleting resources. Excellent, Littlefinger mused. This wild card from the west could be instrumental in destabilizing the realm, opening new avenues for his own advancement. He began to subtly plant seeds of doubt, whispering to key figures about the logistical nightmare of a naval invasion and the potential for a new power to rise if the King acted rashly.
Cersei, usually arrogant, felt a genuine chill. "Robert, we must act! These barbarians cannot be allowed to remain! What if they strike the Westerlands? Casterly Rock is vulnerable from the sea! My father must be informed!"
Robert, his temper flaring, simply reiterated his command. "They will march! I said it! They will wipe these barbarians from the face of the earth!" His fury was genuine, but his plan was as chaotic and undisciplined as his life. He was a bull rushing blindly, too proud to consider the consequences.
In Winterfell: The North's Grim Vigil
The news reached Winterfell like a chill wind from the sea, carried by a lone, battered merchant ship that had limped into White Harbor. It was a week later, fragmented and shocking. Great Wyk sacked. Pyke fallen. Not raiders, but an army. A foreign power from beyond the maps. Lord Eddard Stark, grim and stoic, listened intently to the trembling captain's tale. His brow furrowed. "An entire army? From where? There are no lands to the west of the Iron Islands for a thousand leagues save the Sunset Sea itself."
Maester Luwin, always pragmatic, presented his own findings. "The captain speaks of 'dragon-prowed ships' and 'warriors like demons.' He claims they spoke a tongue unknown to him, though they understood the Common Tongue. And their cruelty… he speaks of horrors beyond typical reaving, Lord Stark. Stories of ritual sacrifice and utter contempt for the Drowned God."
Robb Stark, young and eager, clenched his fist. "If Pyke falls, Lord Father, it means these aren't mere raiders. They're conquerors. And they're on our doorstep. The North's coast will be next if they sail north."
"Aye," Eddard murmured, his gaze distant, already turning towards the sea. The Ironborn were a nuisance, but they were their nuisance. An unknown, brutal force was far more concerning. "Summon the banners. Not yet for war, but for readiness. Send word to King's Landing. Though I doubt Robert will take it seriously." He already knew the King's penchant for denial. He also began dispatching his own, loyal scouts along the Western shore of the North, commanding them to report any unusual ship sightings or movements. He trusted his own eyes and the men of the North far more than the tangled web of King's Landing.
In Casterly Rock: Tywin's Cold Calculations
Lord Tywin Lannister, sharp and ruthless, received the news with grim satisfaction. The Ironborn had always been a thorn in his side. While he detested this new barbarian, he also saw opportunity.
"The King means to assemble an army in the Riverlands?" Tywin mused to his brother Kevan, a faint sneer on his lips. "Fool. These Skardheimers move by sea. They will not wait for his grand army to gather." He looked at a detailed map, his keen eyes tracing the sea lanes. "They could strike Lannisport directly. Or even attack the Reach, which is ripe for the taking, their forces stretched thin."
"What is your counsel, brother?" Kevan asked, as always, deferring to Tywin's superior strategic mind.
"Consolidate our fleet immediately. Fortify Lannisport and every coastal holding. And send word to the King that our forces are needed to defend the Westerlands from this immediate threat." Tywin's words were carefully chosen. He would protect his own first, and use the chaos to his advantage. He would eventually deal with this Loki, but on his terms, not Robert's. This was a chance to humble the King further, to expose the crown's weaknesses, and perhaps weaken other Houses forced to send their strength to Robert's ill-conceived campaign. He even considered, for a fleeting moment, if this Loki could be a useful tool against the crown, a chaos agent he could manipulate.
In Dragonstone: Stannis's Stern Resolve
Stannis Baratheon, grim and duty-bound, received the news with a rare flicker of emotion, grim satisfaction that Robert's arrogance was finally proving costly. He already knew the Ironborn were a threat, but this... this was different.
"A king from beyond the Sunset Sea," Stannis muttered, pacing his chamber, his features stern. "With ships and warriors unmatched. This is no reaving. This is an invasion. The realm is truly at risk, and Robert dallies with wine and whores. Fools abound. The Ironborn are merely a prelude."
Ser Davos Seaworth, ever loyal, stood by. "What will you do, my Lord? Will you join the King's host?"
"I will prepare my fleet," Stannis declared, his voice resolute. "Not to join Robert's foolish crusade to the Iron Islands, which will be a protracted, bloody mess. But to protect the East. These barbarians may turn their eyes towards the Narrow Sea. And I will send my own ravens to every lord, warning them of the true danger, advising them to strengthen their coastal defenses and not rely solely on the King's disorganized response. The time for games is over. If the realm is to be saved, it will require discipline and foresight, not drunken rage." He knew if Loki was truly as formidable as the whispers claimed, Westeros would need a strong hand, a disciplined mind, to lead it. A hand Robert lacked entirely.
Loki's Next Move: A Vision of Conquest
Back on Pyke, Loki Bloodaxe smiled. The trap was set. Westeros was reacting exactly as he predicted: slowly, chaotically, consumed by its own internal politics. They saw him as a barbarian, a temporary nuisance. They would learn.
His eyes, however, were not fixed on the west, but on the eastern horizon, across the vast sea towards the mainland. The Iron Islands were merely his beachhead, his fortress of supply and preparation. His gaze was already settling on the wealthy, fertile lands of the Westerlands, the vulnerable coast of the Reach, and perhaps, the unsuspecting riverlands.
Loki, ever the visionary, retreated to his personal quarters in the defiled Greyjoy tower. He lit a fire in the hearth, its flames casting dancing shadows on the rough stone. He closed his eyes, his bone charm pulsating softly in his hand. He sought his visions, clearer now than ever. He saw the opulent wealth of Lannisport, its gold shimmering even in his mind's eye, a tempting prize. He saw the rich grain fields of the Reach, ripe for the taking, capable of feeding his entire army for years. He saw the slow, winding rivers of the Riverlands, pathways deep into the heart of the continent, perfect for his shallow-draft drakkars.
He focused his magic, not just on seeing, but on sensing weaknesses. He perceived the gaps in Westerosi coastal patrols, the complacent peace in their interior cities. He felt the undercurrents of discontent between the great Houses, the simmering resentments that Robert's conquest had buried but not extinguished. He saw Lord Tywin's cold, calculated self-interest, Lord Eddard's stoic but predictable honor, and Robert's drunken impulsiveness. All were weaknesses he could exploit. He would not simply attack; he would manipulate, sowing chaos where there was order, and exploiting the existing fault lines to his advantage.
"Hakon," Loki called out, his voice filled with a cold, thrilling anticipation as he returned to the hall. "Begin preparations for a new campaign. The Iron Islands are a desolate rock. The true treasures lie across the sea. We will sail when the time is right. But this time," he concluded, his gaze turning inward, a flicker of arcane power in his eyes, "we will not merely plunder. We will rule."
He began to draw symbols in the air, unseen to others, weaving threads of fate and power. His visions of the future were clearer now, showing him not just battles, but thrones, alliances, and the grim shadow of an even greater war to the far north. He was not merely a conqueror. He was the harbinger of a new age, a storm that would reshape Westeros, whether it was ready or not.