Victarion had given the brave, but foolish scholars the rest of the night in the aftermath of the attack to reconsider his generous offer. He had assumed that they would do what all sheep do; give in to the demands of the wolf. But it seems one particular sheep was no sheep at all. Tarly, the fat maester-in-training, had managed to hold the Citadel through four attempts by the ironborn to take it. Before each assault, Victarion had gone to that opening in the doors and had spoken to the younger man, offering him a chance to open the doors, and each time he had been rejected.
Victarion respected the man's courage. In the face of overwhelming odds and against actual warriors, he had managed to withstand the ironborn using tricks and deception. In the fourth and latest attack, Victarion's men had made it inside the Citadel, but it had been a trap as they had found themselves herded under the globe-shaped chandelier, which had been dropped on the unsuspecting raiders.
Some two hundred men had been killed or injured as the maesters managed to drive the confused raiders back out of the doors, shutting and boarding them up once again.
Perhaps the ironborn were taking the scholars too lightly. After all, they were not trained warriors. But they always managed to be one step ahead of Victarion's men, luring them into traps, confusing and tricking them before pushing them back out of their home, fighting with fury that surprised even Victarion.
It was the fury of the desperate.
So far, after four days, Victarion had lost around six hundred men to the brave and foolish scholars, though they themselves have not gotten off without their own losses. Victarion wasn't sure how many were left, but they were surely running out of tricks. Sooner or later, the ironborn would break through those doors and every single maester in there would be put to the sword.
The rest of the city had been well and truly plundered. Everything that of value that hadn't been nailed down was now safely aboard a ship, along with saltwives and thralls. During the battle and in the day following, at least half of the women in the city had been raped, while many of the men had been killed. The Starry Sept was a smoking pile of ash, and the bank was nothing but a large coffin full of corpses that used to be bankers.
The only structure in the town that hadn't been touched was the Hightower itself. One of Victarion's braver captains had led two ships in an attempt to try and take the ancient lighthouse, but they had all been killed and their ships had been set aflame. It was a clear message to Victarion; the city hasn't been fully taken, not while the Hightower stood.
"Lord Captain," Lord Sparr greeted grimly as he and others prepared to attack the Citadel. The sun had just risen in the east, and Victarion was preparing for his morning discussion with Samwell Tarly.
"Sparr," Victarion grunted, striding past the man. When he reached the opening in the doors, he knocked. "Tarly?"
"Lord Victarion," was the response as the fat maester showed himself. He had a bandage around his head and his face was dusted with dirt and blood, but he still looked just as resolute as the last time Victarion had seen him.
In one hand he held an ironborn axe.
"Are you ready to accept my generous offer?" Victarion asked, crossing his arms.
Tarly shook his head. "You best leave when you can. King Robb has no doubt heard of your attack and a force is being assembled as we speak to take the city back."
"Our business isn't finished!" Sparr shouted from behind Victarion. "I want my fucking son back!"
"Our prisoners are being treated fairly. Their wounds have been seen to and they have been fed." Tarly answered firmly, crossing his arms. "I assume the same isn't happening with the poor souls in the city."
"The Old Way is clear…." Victarion started.
"The Old Way is barbaric!" Tarly snapped. "Killing defenseless women, children, and men? Where's the honor in that?"
"What would you know about war, boy!" Sparr snarled, walking up next to Victarion. "You look like you spend more time around the dinner table than in the training yard."
"My father is Randyll Tarly," Tarly shrugged. "If there's one thing I know, it's war."
Victarion gazed at the boy, knowing it was a lie. He was putting on a show for the others. He was being brave in the face of two men who could cut him down as easy as cutting into a meat pie. The boy was no warrior, nor was he a strategist.
But he was brave. That much was clear. He fought and he inspired others around him to never give up. There was steel in him that Victarion couldn't help but respect.
"We paid the Iron Price. There is your honor." Victarion answered. "Now, will you open your doors?"
Tarly shook his head. "Never. Not to the likes of you."
"Why you little…." Sparr roared, moving forward while one hand went to his axe, but Victarion grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back.
"Enough!" The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet roared. "Get the men ready to attack."
Sparr glared once more at the fat maester before stalking off, shouting orders for men to prepare for the assault. Victarion's raiders looked tired and worn, their constant defeats at the hands of the scholars taking away from the victorious high they had when they had taken the city. They did not look happy to be attacking the Citadel, and there were rumors that the maesters were using magic.
It was all nonsense to Victarion.
"Lord Victarion," Tarly said, sounding much closer.
Victarion turned back towards the door to find Tarly standing nearly as close to the hole as he was. Now he got a better look at the man who had turned back four ironborn assaults. He was a fat man in his early twenties with a scraggly beard and thinning brown hair. He had a slight slump in his posture, an almost defeated or worried look on his face, but in his eyes was firm resolution behind terror. He was scared, but he wasn't a coward.
Once again, Victarion couldn't help but respect the man.
"Think about what will happen if you destroy the Citadel?" Tarly continued. "Centuries of knowledge are housed here. This is the center of learning in all of the known world. Leave us be. If you kill us, then you destroy an institution that allows houses to message between themselves. You are killing generations of healers, teachers, historians, messengers, and advisors. Maesters are essential to Westeros."
"Then give up your jewels," Victarion replied.
Tarly shook his head. "I cannot. The Citadel does not keep wealth for purely monetary purposes. They are used for scientific research and for forging chains. They will be put to good use here instead of collecting dust in your chests," he raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "Surely you see that there's no point in taking the Citadel."
"You think you can appeal to my better nature?" Victarion snorted. "I am an ironborn, lad. I take what I want with the Iron Price."
Tarly shook his head. "Your brother is said to be a man who is lost in despair because of his failed rebellion years ago. The Damphair is said to be a godly fanatic. Euron…."
"Euron is nothing!" Victarion snapped.
"He is nothing." Sam agreed, taking a step back out of fear. "You followed your brothers loyally into one rebellion, and look at what it cost you. Now you do so again thinking that it will be different? Choose your own path."
"What do you know of choosing your own path!" Victarion snarled, annoyed that the maester was trying to lecture him like he was a child. He was the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. He knew exactly who he was.
"My father is one of the foremost commanders in all the realm and is currently besieging Casterly Rock, and yet here I am in the Citadel." Sam replied calmly, backing away from the door. "Perhaps it's a good thing too."
With that, Tarly returned to the safety of the barricade, leaving an annoyed and furious Victarion behind.
The Lord Captain returned to his men, one hand gripping the haft of his axe. He had half a mind to break the door down and kill the Tarly boy himself, but he held himself back. Like all captains, Victarion held his emotions in check and looked to be in total command of himself and situation. Sparr, on the other hand, was pacing like a caged lion in front of the two hundred ironborn, making X's with his sword as he loosed up his arms.
"Lord Sparr…." Victarion called, about to give the order to attack when a raider came sprinting down the street, his face red and dripping with sweat.
"Lord Capt'n!" He cried when he saw Victarion. "They're here!"
"Who?" Victarion barked.
"Reachmen!" The raider answered. "Thousands of them!"
Victarion shared a glance with Sparr and began to march towards the city walls. "Get every man to the walls now!"
"What about the maesters?" One raider asked.
Victarion grabbed the man by the front of his armor and pulled him forward till their faces were a few inches apart.
"Fuck the bloody maesters," Victarion hissed, throwing the man on his ass. "All of you, spread word through the town. Everyone get to the walls."
The two hundred raiders nodded and began to run in different directions, shouting at the tops of their lungs. Victarion and Lord Sparr made their way towards the walls, where there was even more activity happening. Victarion had left Greydon Goodbrother, Heir to Hammerhorn, in command of the walls. He knew that the lords of the Reach would put together a force to fight the ironborn. Depending one the size of the force, Victarion would then decide to fight or retreat.
Assaulting the Citadel had caused Victarion to stay longer than he wanted to, but he couldn't allow the scholars to outlast him and his men. He had sworn after the first failed assault to stay in the city until he men finally breached the fucking building.
Now a Reach army was outside the walls.
It took a few minutes for Victarion to reach the walls, fighting against the river of warriors as they ran, armed and armored, to man the defenses. When he finally arrived, he marched up the steps and soon found the loud young man shouting and cursing, shoving men into position.
"Greydon," Victarion said, approaching Gorold's son.
"Lord Captain," Greydon responded, nodding to Victarion. "Just as you said. It's an army of the Reach."
Victarion looked out over the walls, and repressed a curse. There had to be close to ten thousand men marching in formation towards the walls. Blocks of infantry marched with their shields up while loose groups of archers walked behind them for support. On the flanks, wedge-shaped companies of cavalry rode easily, their lances and armor shining in the morning sun.
Victarion did not recognize many of the banners that flew over the army, but there was one he did. It was a golden rose on a field of green; the sigil of House Tyrell.
"What are we going to do?" Greydon asked.
"We'll head back to the ships," Victarion growled. "Barricade the gates and leave the city."
"That's no longer an option," Lord Drumm said grimly, marching up the steps, followed by dozens of raiders. "We've been cut off."
"What do you mean?" Lord Sparr cried.
"Look," Drumm said, gesturing with his sword towards the harbor where a giant cloud of black smoke was rising from where Victarion had left his ship. "I had the ships inspected at sunrise, just as the Lord Captain ordered, and some men found barrels of oil and tar spilled on the decks. The ships soon showed up and fired flaming arrows at us. The fires started on a few ships, but soon spread to others."
"How did that happen?" Greydon asked.
"Euron had men sneak onto ships using rafts to spread oil and tar," Victarion said grimly. "It's the same bloody tactic we used at Lannisport."
"So what now?" Greydon asked again.
"Drumm, how many men do you have with you?" Victarion barked, turning back to the lord of Old Wyk.
"I left about two hundred with my boy back at the harbor." Drumm answered. "Other than that, I have everyone I could find."
Victarion immediately began barking out orders like he was back on a ship.
"Greydon, you're in charge of the archers. As soon as the reachmen are in range, fire at will on them," he said. "The rest of you, gather all our men and bring them to the main gate. Those fuckers want a fight, we'll give them one."
The ironborn nobles around Victarion nodded and ran off, but Victarion grabbed Drumm before he could leave.
"Take a few hundred men and grab as many ships as you can get your hands on. Rafts, boats, barges, I don't care. Take them through the river gate," he ordered.
Drumm nodded and ran off, the raiders who he had brought following him.
After an hour, the defenders were ready. The enemy were in place and the archers had been exchanging fire for some time. Greydon had cursed and barked at his men for about ten minutes before getting an arrow in his side. He wasn't dead, but it had certainly shut him up. His brother Gormond was now in command of the archers.
While the archers were fighting, someone had retrieved Victarion's shield and helm. He was already in his armor with his gold cloak over his shoulders. Now, with Sparr and Gorold Goodbrother at his side, along with about nine thousand ironborn raiders, he was ready.
"Open the gates!" He shouted, looking up at the gatehouse.
A raider nodded and echoed the order. Soon, the wooden doors slowly swung open and the iron portcullis rose, leaving a clear road towards the reachmen infantry. The raiders began to move forward, but Victarion stopped them.
"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" He bellowed, lifting his helm so that he could be heard clearly. "BUT RISES AGAIN, HARDER AND STRONGER! TO THE DROWNED GOD!"
"THE DROWNED GOD!" The raiders echoed as Victarion led the charge out of the gate.
The men of the Reach had been peppered with arrows, but they still managed to lock shields and lower their spears at the sight of Victarion and his men charging out of the main gate, racing up the Rose Road at them.
One man, an older, portly man wearing ornate silver armor and seated on a fine white charger called orders to his men, seemingly trying to inspire them. The infantry cheered half-heartedly. Then another fellow came forward, bearing a tabard with a green apple. He shouted at the men, getting a better cheer from them.
Victarion raised his shield as a wave of arrows arced down on his men. The cries of the wounded and dying soon filled the air as the deadly rain continued, but most raiders followed Victarion's example and raised their shields, weathering the arrow fire.
"Fuck 'em bloody!" Goodbrother roared excitedly, waving his axe over his head.
The two forces came together in a crash of metal and bodies as the ironborn formed a wedge with Victarion at its head, tearing into the first body of infantry it met. The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet chopped off the steel point of one man's spear before burying his axe in the man's skull, kicking the body off as he continued on to his other opponents.
Victarion, still annoyed from his conversation with Tarly earlier that morning, gave into the battle rage that came over him. Nothing could stand before him. Every man who did was either buffeted aside by his shield or felt the cold bite of his axe before falling to the ground. He didn't know friend from foe, and didn't care. He cut down anyone who came towards him.
While Victarion fought, the man with the green apple on his tabard brought his right flank of infantry and cavalry down on Victarion's men, forcing them towards the river where Drumm and his men were fighting a losing battle. He had led his men out of the river gate, just as Victarion had instructed, and had slammed into the backs of the reachmen. The plan had worked for a few minutes, but the infantry had soon realized what was happening and turned around to fight Drumm's men, and with the help of armored cavalry, they had turned the tide on the Lord of Old Wyk.
The ironborn were segmented into two parties. Victarion and the bulk of his force was in a giant circle of silver, with infantry surrounding three fourths of his men and cavalry at his back. Drumm was pressed against the river with infantry on his right and cavalry on his left.
All the while, the enemy archers were raining arrows down on both ironborn armies. The ironborn archers tried desperately to provide support for their comrades, but they were running out of arrows much faster than the reachmen.
Gorold Goodbrother went down under a swarm of spears and swords on Victarion's right, but the large man didn't seem to care, seeking out more enemies to kill. Sparr had died earlier in the battle, killed when a pike was shoved through his chest. Now Victarion was alone, a single ironborn surrounded by a dozens of corpses and a ring of nervous reachmen, all with spears and swords pointed at the giant man.
"Come on!" Victarion roared, ripping off his helm and tossing it away, same with his shield. He swung his axe with both hands.
"Surrender, ser!" The portly man demanded, riding through the ranks of infantry men, the other man right behind him.
"Never!" Victarion growled, setting his feet.
The portly man drew his sword and dismounted, marching towards Victarion. The other man seemed to be caught by surprise by the action.
"My lord!" He cried.
"It's fine, Ser Jon." The other man responded, closing the visor on his helm and bringing up his shield. "I will deal with this brute."
Victarion growled like a wounded bear and swung his axe with everything he had. The man deflected the attack with his shield, lunging with his own sword and managing to strike the ironborn captain in the ribs, cracking two under his armor.
Victarion grunted and stepped back, feeling pain every time he breathed. He growled and attacked again, his axe a blur of silver. His opponent moved back slowly, dodging and deflecting the axe while his men watched with awed silence. The two warriors battled for a few moments before Victarion intentionally swung for the man's shield, his axe tearing through the thin layer of steel and into the wood beneath.
The other man cried out in pain as his gauntlet crumpled under the axe and pierced his hand. He released his shield, his gauntlet a mess of blood and steel that he held close to his body. He was breathing heavy now, sweat pouring out from under his helm.
Victarion attempted to shake the ruined shield off of his axe, and became more enraged as he was unable to do so. Finally, he roared and slammed the shield into the nearest thing, which happened to be the other man.
The portly warrior was sent reeling, his helmet knocked from his head to reveal sweat-matted curly brown hair and a finely trimmed beard. There was a slight trickle of blood from where the shield had hit his helm.
"Mace!" The other mounted warrior cried worriedly.
"Mace?" Victarion said, the red haze lifting slightly when he heard the name. He stood up a little straighter, his axe falling to his side, the ruined shield sliding off of its head. "Mace Tyrell?"
The portly man nodded, glaring at Victarion. "I am."
"It will be an honor killing you," Victarion growled, raising his axe. "I am Victarion Greyjoy."
"Then you'll go with me." Mace responded.
The two threw themselves at each other, but within a few moments, everyone knew who was going to win. Mace had been an average warrior in his youth when he was fitter but he had given into the pleasures of the flesh as he had aged, and was no longer in the same fighting shape as his youngest two sons. He had surprisingly held his own against Victarion, but the ironborn captain was a much better warrior and in much better shape. Mace managed to dodge Victarion's axe a few times, but the final blow was struck when Victarion feinted an overhead blow and instead turned the attack into a sideways swing that cleaved through Mace's armor and into his chest, hitting his lungs.
The Lord of Highgarden went down with a weak cry, landing on his back as the blow took him off his feet. His men cried out as their lord went down. They had been surprised with his skill and the fact that he had lasted so long against the ironborn, but his luck had soon caught up to him.
Victarion ripped his axe from Mace's chest, looking around for a new opponent when he felt a blinding pain in his left knee. Looking down, he saw Mace's sword, struck with the dying's man's remaining strength, thrusted cleanly through Victarion's knee, severing the muscles and bone.
The feared Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet bellowed in pain and fell to one knee, dropping his axe in the process. Mace chuckled weakly, red foam coming from his mouth.
"I….got….you…." He whispered before going still, his hand falling limply from his sword.
Victarion watched as a line of pikes surrounded him, the man with the green apple striding between them. He moved swiftly and with purpose, ripping the sword from Victarion's knee and holding it against his neck.
"It's fitting that Lord Tyrell's sword should finish the job." The man said grimly. "Any final words?"
Victarion looked down at Mace's body before looking back up at the man.
"He fought well."
The man nodded and brought the blade back before swinging it at Victarion's neck.
Everything went black after that.