Oldtown was an old and proud city, boasting the Hightower, a giant lighthouse that had been built before man had crossed the Arm of Dorne, Starry Sept, former center of the Faith of the Seven, and the Citadel where maesters were trained. It was a hub for trading and a city that rivaled Lannisport and King's Landing. In the golden days of the Iron Islands, before the Targaryens had taken over with their dragons, the city had been attacked many times by the ironborn. Now the city was ripe for the taking. Their fleet was up the coast in the Westerlands with the Redwynes and their city was left defenseless against the Iron Fleet.
Victarion had split his fleet in half, one portion led by Gorold Goodbrother and the other by himself. The Honeywine river split the city in half, and each fleet's mission was to take on half of the city.
Victarion stood on the bow of his ship, the Iron Victory, armored in heavy plate armor, a thick golden cloak, and had a steel battleaxe in one hand and his kraken helm in his other. The new moon was out, and the stars did nothing to illuminate the fleet of dark ships that glided like wolves stalking towards the peaceful city. The Lord Captain had planned the attack with pain-staking detail. He would not allow anyone to fuck up. The invasion in the North had reminded Westeros that the ironborn were still around.
Sacking Oldtown would remind them why they were feared.
The Hightower sat on an island where the Honeywine met the open sea, the fire at its top shining light on the golden kraken on the sails of the ships. Horns began to sound from the tower, and soon after the calls were echoed back by the harbor walls.
"Run, little sheep," Victarion muttered, putting on his helm.
The hull of the Iron Victory came to a stop after running up on the beach, and Victarion was one of the first off the ship, launching himself down onto the firm ground as more and more ships hit the beach. As soon as he slung his shield onto his arm, arrows began flying all around him as the panicked defenders ran to defend the walls.
"Come on!" Victarion roared to his crew, charging up the beach.
A sortie of defenders emerged from the small gate that separated the harbor from the city. They were armed with spears and shields, armored in chainmail, but Victarion could see in their eyes fear. They had been caught with their breeches around their ankles and all they could do was delay the inevitable.
He hit them like a one-man battering ram. His axe hacked off one man's arm before whirling around and smashing into the ribs of the man next to him. His crew soon joined him and tore into the defenders like sharks who smelt blood in the water.
"Take the gate!" Victarion roared.
Hundreds of ironborn had joined Victarion at this point, and while the defenders fought with all they had, it wasn't enough. For each raider that went down, three more defenders went down from the hail of arrows, axes, and spears.
After a few minutes of a hand-held battering ram hammering at the gates, the reinforced doors finally gave in and swung open, still barely attached to their hinges. The ironborn poured in like an unstoppable wave, cutting down anyone who got in their path. Victarion's crew stuck close to him, knowing their captain had a special mission of his own.
"Greyjoy!" One man shouted, charging down the steps. He was armored in chainmail and had the sigil of House Tyrell on his tabard. Behind him were a dozen or so defenders.
The two groups met with a clash of steel as Victairon and the Tyrell warrior faced off in the middle of it all.
"Before I kill you, who do I fight?" Victarion asked, his voice booming under his helm.
"I am Ser Moryn Tyrell and I will die before I let you take the city." The knight cried, attacking Victarion.
The two fought for a few minutes, testing each other's defenses. Ser Moryn used the speed his weapon allowed him to his advantage against the heavily armed and armored Victarion, but it soon became clear that the Lord Captain was the better fight.
Victarion roared and shoulder-charged the knight, causing him to stumble back right into Victarion's axe. Since the man had no helm, the battleaxe practically cut the man's head in two, splattering the ironborn with blood and brain.
The Lord Captain pulled his axe from the bloody mess and strode off, his crew finishing off Ser Moryn's men before following him.
Line Break
Samwell
The large young man came awake from someone shaking his shoulder. It was another acolyte. His eyes were wide with fear and his mouth was moving, but no words came out. Sweat glistened on his pale face and his hair was matted to his head like he had been running around a lot.
"What?" Sam asked, getting out of bed.
"The ironborn!" The man managed to say finally. "They're attacking the city!"
Sam ran to the window and looked out, seeing fires in the distance where the harbor was and he could hear the sounds of fighting.
"What do we do?" The acolyte asked, obviously terrified.
Sam didn't know how to answer. He came to the Citadel to get away from fighting.
"Come on!" He said, rushing out of the room. Acolytes and maesters alike were running around in a panic, but Sam pushed through them, heading towards the main doors.
Over the noise, he heard the clear shout of someone calling for more people to come to the main doors. Sam and the acolyte who had woken him made their way towards the voice and soon found themselves near Archmaester Theobald, the current Senechal of the Citadel. The old man was bellowing at the top of his lungs.
"Come on! Grab all you can! Tables! Chairs! Desks! Get them over here!" The Senechal roared, his chain rattling.
"Senechal? What's happening?" Sam asked as he reached the man.
"Who are you?" Theobald demanded.
"Samwell Tarly." Sam answered.
"Tarly? Randyll's son?" Theobald asked.
"Yes." Sam nodded.
"Good." The man grunted, jerking his head for Sam to follow. "The bloody ironborn had made it into the city."
"What are we going to do?" Sam asked, keeping up with the furious man.
"What can we do!" Theobald snapped. "We're fucking defenseless. I'm having everything we can get our hands on brought to the doors to barricade ourselves in." He glanced at the acolyte behind Sam. "You, go and make yourself useful."
The acolyte nodded quickly and ran off. Sam watched him go before taking a good look around. Maesters were grabbing books and scrolls by the armful and running off with them. The entire Citadel had to be on its feet.
"Is there anything else we can do?" Sam asked.
"I am the foremost expert on warfare in the bloody place, but doesn't mean shit if we don't have anyone who can wield a sword." Theobald scoffed. "All maesters have orders to move as many books and scrolls into the vaults and the archmaesters are clearing out the forbidden section."
Sam and Theobald finally reached the main doors, which were mostly hidden behind a mountain of wooden objects. Desks, tables, chairs, bookshelves were being placed in front of the doors. Half a dozen maester, presumably experts on warfare, were showing where to put what. Behind them, a few acolytes who were larger than the normal man were armed with hammers taken from the forges.
"What happened to the city watch?" Sam asked.
Theobald shook his head. "They won't be able to hold back the Iron Fleet. Our entire fleet is in the fucking Westerlands and most of our men are in the west with your father. We're defenseless." The Senechal caught the arm of one maester who was scurrying past. "Tell Barton that he is to start preserving as much food as possible. We'll be here for a while."
The maester nodded and ran off. It was almost comical to Sam that every person in the Citadel seemed to run the same way. It was a cross between a shuffle and a full sprint. It was probably of the long robes they all wore and the fact that they didn't get much exercise other than walking.
It would have been funny if there wasn't the terrifying thought that they could all die by the morning.
"What would your father do?" Theobald asked suddenly.
"My father?" Sam asked. "I don't know. Probably forced whatever could be used as a weapon into our hands and led the charge against the enemy."
Theobald snorted, crossing his arms. "We're men of knowledge, Tarly. These men have seen more pictures of swords than actual swords."
Sam shrugged slightly. "My father was a man of action. If he was going to die, he was going to die fighting."
"He has that reputation," Theobald said grimly. "If we make it through the night and even this damn attack, there will be many changes."
"Changes?" Sam asked.
"Yes, changes." Theobald snapped in annoyance. "The Citadel will need a set of guards. A group to protect the knowledge we have in this building. It's invaluable to the entirety of Westeros except for the bloody savages who just got here."
"Forgive me, Senechal, but shouldn't you be thinking about other things?" Sam asked, glancing towards the door.
"What more can we do Tarly?" Theobald scowled. "Besides, I'm an old man. If I die here or next year it doesn't matter. I'm still going to end up in the ground."
"Fair." Sam conceded after a moment.
Line Break
Victarion
The Starry Sept was a massive structure of white marble and colored glass. Its massive doors were decorated with carvings of the Seven. Through the windows, Victarion could make out the scared faces of septons and septas.
The Lord Captain marched up the steps to the church, pressing his hands against one door. The resistance he felt was not of a lock bar, but of many people pressing themselves against the door on the other side.
"Come on!" Victarion barked, chopping into the door with his battleaxe. His crew quickly caught onto what he was doing and immediately set to work chopping the door down. As they worked, more and more fearful cries came from the other side as the door was destroyed.
Eventually, Victarion threw his shoulder against the door and felt it give slightly. He repeated the action and the doors flew open, many white-roped figures scrambling away from the doors, but it was no use. Victarion's raiders were cutting them down by the dozens, their robes offering little resistance to iron axes and swords.
One man, fat and dressed in more ornate robes, stood in the center of the room, shaking with fear.
"This is…." He muttered before swallowing and trying again. "You have no right to be here! This is a godly place?"
"You're gods are here to protect you," Victarion growled, marching towards the fat man. The priest began to back up, and when Victarion faked an attack at him, he tripped over his robes and landed on his ass with a cry.
"You're pathetic." Victarion sneered, taking the man's head with a single swing of his axe.
Raiders were tearing the church apart, grabbing everything they could get their hands on. Chalices of gold and jewel. Silver platters and little jade statues. The reason why Victarion wanted this place for himself was because he knew that the Faith of the Seven spared no expense. They took their followers' offerings and spent them on themselves. It was the greatest scandal in human history that no one ever spoke about.
The Drowned God demanded nothing but blood and devotion from his followers.
"Lord Captain!" Someone called, striding into the sept. He was harmed in boiled leather and chainmail with a blue cloak with two crossing pieces of wood. He held a bloodied sword in one hand and an axe in the other.
"Steffarion." Victarion grunted. "What?"
"It's the Citadel." The son of Lord Sparr said. "The fools have barricaded themselves in. my father is asking for your presence."
"What does your father want with the Citadel?" Victarion asked, walking with the younger man outside and heading past the violence towards the third-largest building in the city.
By now, the city watch had been routed and the city was completely free for the ironborn to pillage as they pleased. Raiders were taking everything that wasn't nailed down, and that included women. The screams of the terrified were mixed with the exalted bellows of the ironborn.
This would certainly be a night that Westeros would never forget.
Line Break
Samwell
The axehead finally sheared through the door, creating an opening just wide enough for one man to look through. It was an old man, his face lined with age, with a fearsome scowled on his face.
"Open the damn door!" The man snarled. "Fuckin' cunts."
"Lord Sparr!" Theobald barked. "Stop this madness. This is a place of learning! You have no idea the damage that will happen if you take this place!"
"Open the fucking door!" Lord Sparr repeated.
"Never!" Theobald responded.
The old man grunted and moved away from the door. Even if they got through the door, it would be very difficult for them to get through the dozens of wooden furniture that supported the door.
"Fucking ironborn." Theobald scowled. "No respect…."
Before the Senechal could finish his sentence, an arrow flew through the opening in the door and embedded itself in the old man's side. He dropped to his knees, his hands instantly going to his side.
"Senechal!" Sam cried as more ran over. "Get him out of here! He's been hurt."
One maester instantly barked instructions to two acolytes, who grabbed the injured archmaester and carried him off. No one knew what to do after that. Theobald had been the de-facto leader of the defenses.
"Maesters." A deep, powerful voice came from the opening.
Sam shuffled over to the door, doing his best to stay behind some over.
"Who are you?"
"Victarion Greyjoy." The man answered. "You?"
"Samwell Tarly," Sam answered, trying his best not to stutter. "Leave us be."
"Open your doors and you will be spared," Victarion grunted. "If we come through, none will leave alive."
Some of the acolytes muttered amongst themselves, but Sam shushed them violently, glaring at them. He looked back at the man in the opening.
"We know what you did in the North," Sam answered. "We will never open our doors to you."
The ironborn chuckled with what sounded like amusement. "Brave words for a maester," he said. "You're certainly a Tarly."
"You're certainly a Greyjoy," Sam said hesitantly, unsure of how to respond. "We have nothing you want."
"I am no fool boy. You have gold and jewels in there." Victarion responded, no longer sounding amused. "It may take a day or more, but we will break-in."
"You do that and you're dead men," Sam said with a certainty that shocked even him. "Robb Stark will beat you."
"The Stark boy is in the east. Your own father is in the west. You are alone, boy!" Victarion grunted. "For the respect I have for your father, I will give you till first light before my men attack. I will be back for an answer then."
Line Break
Leyton Hightower
The old lord of Oldtown looked out from his balcony as his city burned. He could hear the cries and screams of his people as they were raped and defiled by the raiders. He saw smoke emerge from where the Starry Sept was and knew that the church would soon be ablaze.
The ironborn meant to leave their mark on the city and they would certainly do so.
"My lord?" Rhea asked worriedly, walking up behind her husband.
The ironborn had not touched the Hightower, and perhaps for a reason. Whoever commanded the raiders wanted Leyton to watch as his city was sacked and destroyed. A sight that tore at the old man's soul.
"Bloody raiders," Leyton growled, his liver-marked hands gripping the banister. "The city is lost."
Rhea nodded, her tear-stained face staring at the city. "Who will help us?"
"I don't know." Leyton sighed. "The king left Mace at Bitterbridge with ten thousand men. It will take time for him to get here. But there's no chance the raiders will be here when he does."
"What will we do?" His wife asked.
"There's nothing we can do," Leyton said gravely. "At least the Citadel looks unharmed."
"The Starry Sept is lost. Even the Seven have abandoned us." Rhea said, choking back a sob.
Leyton scowled. He was not as strong a believer as his wife, but he did not argue with her. This was a night that would scar and haunt the people of Oldtown for decades to come, and it would be years before the city returned to its former glory.
"The Seven weren't here this night." Leyton agreed finally. "Only the Drowned God."