Theon breathed slowly as he hid next to the giant tree, his eyes locked on the woodland trail in front of him. He and two hundred other ironborn were hidden on either side of the track, waiting for the northern relief force marching down the path. Theon had put out a full screen of scouts to the east as he and his raiders moved through the forest, and the results had been fruitful. His scouts had soon reported a large force, perhaps five hundred men, moving through the woods towards the Stony Shore. Both forces were on a collision course.
What had worried Theon was who was leading the force. It was Ser Rodrik Cassel, the old master-at-arms of Winterfell. He was not pleased with seeing the old knight again. He thought that he was still in the south at Riverrun, where Lady Stark would no doubt be. Perhaps Robb had sent the knight north when he had heard of the ironborn attack, but there was no way the Cassel had made it north so quickly.
There was also another man who rode with Ser Rodrik, which Theon guessed was Cley Cerwyn, the heir to Castle Cerwyn if his tabard was any indication. Theon had seen him fight in the occasional tourney at Winterfell. He was good, better than most, and would most certainly take a lot of Theon's raiders with him if he was going to die fighting.
Dagmer shifted his bulk, easing himself into a more comfortable position in the west snow. The raider had placed himself right next to Theon, a battered fog horn in his hand that would act as the signal to attack. The old man had a fearsome grin on his face, clearly excited for the upcoming fight.
From the tramp of feet and the slight thunder of hooves, the northern reinforcements were now very close. Ser Rodrik did not quiet his men, whose voices could be heard well down the trail. Apparently, the old knight felt confident in the Wolfswood, which was understandable. Not many would assume that the ironborn would be so far inland, or be on the same trail that led from Winterfell to the coast.
But Theon wasn't like more ironborn.
Theon eased the bow off his shoulder and drew an arrow from his quiver. All around him, the forest came alive for a moment as men grabbed their weapons, grinning fiercely to one another. They were used to swift and bloody surprise attacks, sneaking up on unsuspecting towns and villages and hitting them when they were unprepared. This was their style of fighting.
Theon sighed quietly, shifting so that his pant leg, his knee already drenched with mud and water, was a little more comfortable. He and his men had been hidden for at least an hour, waiting for the enemy.
As they waited, Theon tried to reason with himself why he was doing. So far, most of his actions had been motivated by his desire to show his father, and the rest of his family, that he was an ironborn and deserving of the name 'Greyjoy'. That's why he wanted to take Winterfell. Yet, he didn't feel like an ironborn raider, but like a man posing as one. Wearing the armor, killing northerners, it didn't feel right to him. When he had fought next to Robb at the Whispering Wood, that had felt right.
But there was no going back now. Benford's words ran through his bread without pause.
Theon the Traitor.
Theon the Turncloak.
Finally, just like at the Whispering Wood, Theon began to hear the light thunder of horse hooves pounding on the trail. It was not like the rolling thunder, the sound that had heralded the arrival of the Blackfish and the Kingslayer, along with their hundreds of men. This was more like surf slamming onto the coast during a storm.
The northern host rounded the bend and came into view, marching at a brisk pace. At their head, just as was reported, was Ser Rodrik and Cley Cerwyn, both with masks of grim purpose, a look most northmen had perfected at an early age.
Theon once heard the Kingslayer call it 'thunderous rectitude'.
Ser Rodrik wore ringmail armor with a longsword and dagger at his side. On his head was his steel helm, the same one Theon remembered Arya wearing when King Robert entered Winterfell. Seeing the man again was more of a sad occasion rather than a shocking event. Theon didn't want to kill the knight, but he knew it would end up happening. Everyone in this host needed to be killed so that Theon's attack on Winterfell wasn't given away by any stragglers.
Cley Cerwyn certainly looked like a man ready for war. He wore plaited leather with steel pauldrons and a steel gorget. A tabard bearing the twin axes of House Cerwyn covered his armored chest. He wore a broadsword and had a steel buckler strapped to his saddle. Slung over one shoulder was a double-bladed, black-steel battle axe.
Theon watched as the enemy began to move past where his ironborn were positioned. When they were nearly to where Theon, he nodded to Dagmer. The old raider raised the horn to his lips and blew, creating an ear-shattering blast that startled the northern host as their eyes were drawn to the woods around them that were suddenly filled with ironborn raiders.
Theon stood and with one fluid motion, drew back on his bow so that the fletching of the arrow tickled the side of his face. His aim was set on Ser Rodrik, who had drawn his sword and was bellowing orders to his men. Theon was an excellent shot and had a clear view of the old man's neck.
He fired, watching as the arrow went cleanly through Cley Cerwyn's throat.
The northern host fell to confusion as arrows came from the shadows, striking down northerners where they stood. Within a few moments, more than fifty northerners had been either killed or wounded by the first volley, but the arrows did not stop.
Ser Rodrik attempted to regain control of his men, but that's when Dagmer and the infantry struck. The old raider roared and ran from his hiding spot, as dozens of ironborn ran out of the woods, waving their axes and swords over their heads. From the east and south came more raiders as Theon's plan was executed to bloody perfection.
The son of Balon Greyjoy continued to fire arrow after arrow into the mass of northmen as they tried to form a defensive formation, but it mattered little at this point. The raiders were on them like rabid dogs, claiming two or three northern warriors for every ironborn that was cut down.
With the northern infantry distracted, Theon turned his attention to the cavalry, who were cutting his raiders down with terrifying ruthlessness. With the last of his quiver, he put down a dozen horses, taking careful aim to place arrows right behind the left shoulders of the beasts. Other archers began to follow his lead as well, turning the horses into pin cushions until they were unable to stand, causing their riders to be thrown into the mud, creating easy targets for the raiders.
With no more arrows, Theon drew his sword and jogged towards the fight, crossing the last few meters at a sprint as he entered the fray, his sword rising and falling as he carved a swathe through the infantry. He didn't bother looking into their faces. There was a good chance a few of them knew who he was.
And he knew them.
The faces he did see were of old men with grey beards and slow reflexes and young boys with eyes filled with fear. Theon ignored it all, continuing to stab and hack with all his might. His sword was covered in gore, he continued to splatter himself with scarlet. He didn't care. He kept going forward.
Theon kept this up for an hour. Hack, stab, thrust, parry, stab, hack, stab, keep going forward. He heard nothing, he felt nothing, immune to the carnage that was happening around him. It was almost an out-of-body experience for the young noble. He was no longer in control of his body, but could not stop the horror that was in front of him.
In a moment of clarity, Theon heard the roar of Dagmer as he fought someone, spitting curses and abuse. It was then he realized how far he had strayed from the center of the battle. He was now closer to where his hiding place had been and the still body of Cley Cerwyn was close by.
Ser Rodrik fought next to his downed horse, his face and armor covered with mud and blood from where he had fallen. Even at his age, the warrior had claimed his fair share of kills, most likely men who saw an old man and thought he would be a quick and effortless kill. Ser Rodrik had fought in two wars and numerous single combats. Theon remembered watching him on the tourney field.
The man was as graceful as a danger and as ferocious as a direwolf.
The two old warriors threw themselves at each other with differing approaches, but still showing that age was just a number to them. Cassel fought with controlled fury, his feet perfectly positioned, his sword moving like an extension of his arm. Dagmer battered the old knight like a sea storm, his battleaxe a whirling circle of light that attacked with devastating power, all while the old raider screamed abuse at his opponent.
Theon began to move towards the fight, slowly at first till he was sprinting across the field. He was constantly stopped by northerners who recognized him as the leader of the raiders, but they were cut down without a second thought. Theon only had eyes for the two old men fighting. No one else mattered.
The fight was over before Theon reached the pair. Dagmer stepped to the side, avoiding a blow that would have split him from brain to balls. With a mighty roar, the raider's battleaxe came down and took off Rodrik's hand at the wrist. To the man's credit, Cassel didn't cry out, but sunk to his knees in front of the raider, holding the bloody stump with his good hand.
Dagmer smiled grimly, hefting his axe again. "Well fought," he said, before binging his axe down in a savage strike, cleanly cutting through flesh and bone as he took the knight's head off.
Theon reached Dagmer just as Rodrik's head rolled to a stop in the mud, the undead, half-lidded eyes staring at Theon with damning sadness. The younger man was full of unknown emotion. He didn't know if it was sadness, happiness, or some undefinable emotion that was a mix of both.
Whatever it was, Theon wanted it to stop.
Dagmer clapped Theon on the shoulder, turning him so that they were both watching the last of the northern host be put to the sword. The ground was littered with dead, but it was obvious that the majority were northerners. The raiders walked among the dead, putting the injured to the sword, helping their comrades where they could. Others simply looted the bodies, claiming victory trophies.
"Well done lad." Dagmer laughed. "We certainly fucked them up!"
Theon nodded, his eyes roaming the bodies, noticing for the first time faces that he used to know. He had been protected by them, he had trained with them, hunted with them. They had families and children who they would never see again.
He had killed them.
He had gone too far now. He had gone too far when he had killed Tallhart back at the village on the coast. He was committed to attacking Winterfell, and he had no choice but to keep moving forward.
"Collect whatever arrows you can, clean your weapons, and take what you need," Theon said, taking charge. "We leave in an hour. We have a castle to take!"