The sun, now high in the sky, cast long, distorted shadows across the ravaged shores of Great Wyk. The acrid smell of smoke hung heavy, mingling with the tang of salt and fresh blood. Everywhere, the work of conquest was in full swing. Loki's warriors, efficient and relentless, were already dismantling what the Ironborn had built, and rebuilding to their own brutal specifications. Houses were being systematically cleared, their contents either plundered or discarded, their timber repurposed for watchtowers and palisades. The few remaining Ironborn, those who had surrendered or been too slow to flee, were herded into crude pens, their faces etched with a mixture of terror and disbelief. They had boasted of paying the iron price, but never had they imagined a price so steep, paid in such raw, uncompromising currency.
Loki Bloodaxe surveyed the scene from the captured Farwynd keep, which his men were already fortifying. The keep itself was modest, built for defense against sea raiders, not against an army of Jarls. But it offered a strategic vantage point, a solid base from which to command. He watched his warriors move, a well oiled machine of destruction and efficiency. There was no questioning, no hesitation, only obedience. That was the Skardheim way.
Hakon joined him on the battlements, his massive axe now resting on his shoulder, its blade still gleaming from recent use. "The last pockets of resistance have been crushed, Jarl," he reported, his voice devoid of emotion. "A few small groups fled into the hills, but they will starve or be hunted down. Great Wyk is ours."
"Good," Loki grunted, his gaze sweeping over the bay, now filled with his own drakkars, a stark contrast to the burning wrecks of Ironborn longships. "Begin the tally. I want every resource accounted for. Every bit of iron, every stock of grain, every capable man for our ships, every woman strong enough to serve. And those who are not strong..." His voice trailed off, the implication clear and chilling.
Hakon merely nodded. "It will be done. Our ravens are ready to carry word to Pyke, though I doubt any bird will reach their intended destination." He smirked. "Ragnar's feint will have them scrambling like crabs in a bucket. They'll be too busy fighting shadows to see the axe fall."
Loki allowed himself a rare, thin smile. "Indeed. The Ironborn believe themselves cunning. But they are merely savage. We are both. And that makes all the difference."
He turned his attention to the captured Ironborn. Hundreds of them, perhaps a thousand, mostly men, but some women and older children too, were now being sorted. The process was ruthless. Strong men, those who looked like they could pull an oar or wield an axe, were separated, their fate uncertain but undoubtedly grim. The rest, particularly the weak, the old, and the very young, were treated with callous indifference. Many would simply be left to die, or perhaps sacrificed to their own Drowned God, a brutal irony.
"Jarl," came another voice. This time, it was Thora, her face grim, her axe now sheathed. She dragged a struggling, snarling Ironborn man by his hair, his hands bound. He was a lordling, by the look of his slightly finer clothes, a minor Farwynd, perhaps. "He claims to be the castellan of this keep. Says he has vital information. Begs for an audience."
Loki's eyes, cold as the deepest fjord, fixed on the man. "Does he?" he mused, a dangerous calm in his voice. "Does he understand what he is begging for?" He stepped closer, his imposing figure towering over the captive. The Ironborn lordling, for all his bluster, visibly trembled under Loki's scrutiny.
"My Lord, Jarl!" the man stammered, his voice raw. "I am Lord Erik Farwynd, second son of Lord Gylbert. I know where the hidden gold is kept! I know the strength of the other Houses! I can tell you about Pyke, about Lord Balon's plans!" His eyes darted nervously, desperate, seeking any sign of clemency.
"Gold?" Loki scoffed, a deep rumble in his chest. "We take what we want, worm. We don't need your trembling hand to guide us. And your Lord Balon's plans are already crumbling under Ragnar's fleet." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "Tell me, Lord Erik, what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. Is that your creed?"
Erik swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Yes, Jarl. It is the truth of our faith."
"Then you understand," Loki said, his voice flat, "that true death is not the end for the strong. But for the weak, it is merely oblivion." He snapped his fingers. "Thora."
Thora understood. Without a word, she produced a short, sharp dagger. Erik's eyes widened in terror. He began to scream, but the sound was choked off as Thora's hand clamped over his mouth. She worked swiftly, brutally, carving away at his chest, a ritualistic violence that would leave no doubt about his fate. The screams of the Ironborn prisoners in the pens amplified, a collective wail of despair and horror as they witnessed the brutal punishment their lordling was subjected to. It was a clear message to all: defiance meant annihilation, surrender meant nothing. For the Skardheimers, terror was a weapon, as potent as any axe.
Loki watched, his face impassive. This was not pointless torture; it was a demonstration, a chilling testament to their power. The Ironborn were proud of their Drowned God, of their iron price. Loki would show them a new kind of god, a new kind of price. His gods demanded blood, but they also demanded conquest and the crushing of all who stood in their way.
Afterward, the task of setting up a new command structure began in earnest. Loki dispatched teams of his most trusted warriors to patrol the island, hunting down stragglers and mapping the terrain. Engineers began work on expanding the harbor, building deeper berths for their larger drakkars, and erecting formidable watchtowers on the cliffs overlooking the sea. The Farwynd keep, now stripped of its old banners and defiled, became Loki's temporary war council hall, its stone walls ringing with the harsh Nordik tongue.
Inside the keep, Loki called his key Jarls and captains. Hakon, ever present. Thora, now covered in splatters of blood, but as calm as if she'd just finished a day of training. Jarl Kael the Silent, a hulking warrior known for his grim efficiency and terrifying strength. And Jarl Astrid Stormchild, a fearsome leader of the light scout drakkars, whose cunning was as sharp as her blades.
"The initial landing is secured," Loki began, his voice low, commanding attention. "Great Wyk is ours. Casualties are minimal. The Ironborn are broken, scattered. Their defiance was pathetic."
"Pyke will be harder," Kael grunted, his voice deep. "Balon Greyjoy may be a fool, but his castle is strong. And their fleet, what remains of it, will be desperate."
"Desperation makes men predictable," Loki countered, a glint in his eye. "Ragnar's feint should have them bleeding their strength. We will use the fog to our advantage once more. Astrid, your drakkars will lead the way, slipping around their main defenses, landing troops on the shores of Pyke itself, away from the fortified harbor. The longships are agile; use them to their fullest. Kael, your forces will follow, striking at the heart of their defenses once the initial breach is made."
Astrid, her face stern, nodded. "It will be done, Jarl. The shores of Pyke will run red with Ironborn blood."
"And the Raven's Teeth?" Hakon asked, referring to the infamous Ironborn siege engines. "They can throw heavy stones. Dangerous to our ships."
"They are slow, cumbersome," Loki dismissed with a wave of his hand. "We will be too fast, too numerous. And if any of Ragnar's ships draw their fire, it serves our purpose. The more chaos, the better." He looked out the window, towards the distant, hazy outline of Pyke. "I want Balon Greyjoy brought to me. Alive. I have a message for him, one he will carry into the Drowned God's halls."
The discussion continued into the night, mapping out the next phase of the invasion. Loki's strategic mind was a complex web, weaving together brute force, magical manipulation, and cold, calculated psychology. He envisioned not just the fall of Pyke, but the swift, brutal pacification of all the Iron Islands. He would leave a garrison, strong and ruthless, to hold them. But his gaze was already drifting eastward, across the vast Sunset Sea, towards the mainland of Westeros.
His visions, always present, sometimes fleeting, sometimes vivid, had shown him glimpses of the chaos to come. The Lannisters, the Starks, the Targaryens – names that meant little to him beyond potential obstacles or pawns. He saw battles, political maneuvering, a land teetering on the brink of civil war. It was the perfect breeding ground for a new power. He would not wait for Westeros to tear itself apart. He would accelerate it, and then unite it, under his own rule.
As the meeting concluded, and his commanders departed to prepare for the assault on Pyke, Loki remained in the keep's main chamber. He picked up a discarded Ironborn banner, its kraken sigil stained with mud. He crumpled it in his hand, a symbol of their broken pride. Their gods were weak. Their kings were weaker.
He thought of his own gods, of Odin's wisdom, Thor's might, and Freya's fierce beauty. Their power flowed through him, emboldening his ambition. The true war was not with these petty Ironborn, but with the entire continent, with the very idea of kings and lords who squabbled over a rusty throne while the true threats gathered in the shadows. He would tear down their established order, their pathetic Seven, and replace it with something stronger, something purer. He would carve his own legacy into the annals of this new world, not merely as a conqueror, but as the one who brought true order through absolute power.
Outside, the sounds of his men working, building, and preparing for the next phase of war echoed through the night. The screams had died down, replaced by the rhythmic beat of hammers and the low, guttural chants of his warriors. Great Wyk was subdued. Pyke was next. And after that... the world.