Game of Thrones: Winter's Fire

Gorne Magnar

The waves lapped around the shore, as Gorne Magnar, Magnar of Skagos, stood on the edge and looked out and saw. He had done what no Magnar had done for thousands of years had done, and had rebelled against the might of Winterfell. It was for the best that was what he believed, Winterfell had broken away from the Iron Throne, and had put the north through war, why should Skagos not benefit from this independence and fight for its own freedom?

Bolton had written to him some time ago, expressing a desire to work together to end the Starks hold on the north. Gorne had been interested then, with the Bolton's rebelling, alongside several other northern houses on the mainland, that would give Winterfell enough of a headache to not be able to effectively deal with a rebellion in Skagos, a break for freedom could be made. Now all he had to do was drum up support amongst the chieftains and other lords on the island.

That as it had turned out had been easier than expected. Houses Crowl and Stane had been more than willing to rebel against Winterfell, and had been willing to make a break for independence. Though Gorne had been expecting that on some basic level, what with Sigorn Cowl being his brother by marriage, and Alys Stane being his sister by marriage. The chieftains had been much harder to convince. Each had questioned why they should not be the ones to lead Skagos into the freedom and independence that Gorne spoke of. Some of the chieftains had rebelled against his authority, and so a battle had broken out in Skagos, a civil war within the island before Gorne could truly plan for a full scale rebellion.

The fighting though short had been fierce, and had resulted in many deaths for the chieftains, though once the leader of the rebellious chieftains had been slain, Gorne had earnt the clans respect, and so the planning for the rebellion could go on. The arming of the clans and the soldiers began first in secret, and then once Lord Horras wrote to Gorne saying that the rebellion had the full support of the Iron Throne it began in earnest, in the open, the call to arms rang throughout Skagos, and the shouts of freedom began.

Gorne though did not particularly care what happened on the main land, as far as he cared, Daeron Stark could exterminate the Boltons, or the Boltons could exterminate the Starks, so long as either side became too weak to deal with an independent Skagos by the end of their own conflict, that would be the ideal situation for Gorne. He did not want to support the Targaryens attempt to recapture the north for the Iron Throne, oh no, he wanted independence and he wanted it through his own efforts, he would not be handed it on a plate, no he would fight for freedom, he would do it the old way, the Targaryens and their incest born spawn be damned.

Looking back on the planning now, Gorne realised that in his haste to fight for his freedom in the old way, to prove himself worthy of becoming the king of Skagos, he had underestimated Winterfell's true power. Back when Skagos had last had a king, Moat Cailin had been a desolate ruin, Winterfell had just finished dealing with a Bolton rebellion, and had a child for a king. This time the situation could not be more different. Moat Cailin was a stronghold once more, the Starks had the Iron Islands and a sizeable fleet of their own. They had greater man power now than they did those thousands of years ago. As Gorne watched his island burn, as he saw the ships of the Starks burn their way through his peoples little fishing boats, and saw the men drown, he felt a sense of dread and foreboding creep across him like winters own icy hand.

He moved away from the edge and drew his sword, he was determined that if was to die today; he would die with his sword in hand, like a true warrior, like a true Skagosi. He drew his sword and let loose a terrifying battle cry and ran down from the edge and began cutting his way through the men from Winterfell who would suppress his people.

He hacked and slashed his way through men bearing the merman of House Manderly, bloodying his sword and making his own sing with joy at being free from worries for the moment. This was what he was born to do, fighting and killing, not the politicking of the main land. He hacked and slashed, ducked and dodged, and gutted more and more men, littering the ground with bodies, and blood, the ground drank the blood greedily, and still Gorne went on. Hacking and slashing his way through the men who would prevent his island from being free.

He hacked and slashed, and hacked and slashed, and cut and gutted his way through so many men, he had begun to lose count when suddenly he came across a man with the grey direwolf over grey castle on a field of white that pointed him out as a Stark of Moat Cailin. Gorne let loose a battle cry and charged forward swinging his sword. The other man raised his sword, and they met in a clash of steel. Sparks flew by, and still the two men pushed against each other, their swords clanging and screeching around them. When they broke apart, more sparks flew, but then Gorne with the battle lust on him, swung his sword in a wide arc, and managed to get past the other man's upraised sword, and when he felt his sword strike the man's chest and saw the dent that his sword had made, he gave a lecherous grin underneath his helmet.

Gorne did not relent on his attack, not with the battle lust on him, he swung again and again at the Stark. Sometimes his blows would strike true and would dent the man's armour, sometimes the man would be able to block his sword swings, other times Gorne hit the man's helm and heard the sickening crunch of bone being crushed. Still he kept going, there was not ending to it, not now, no he kept swinging his sword, and by the time he pulled back to catch his breath the Stark looked a state, his armour was dented in several places, blood was pouring out from some of the dents, and from the hits Gorne had dealt to his helmet.

The man gave as good as he got though, and soon Gorne found himself on the defensive. The Stark swung his sword like a pro, like a man who had fought in several battles, not just the one. He swung and slashed and hacked, and Gorne found himself on the back foot, raising his sword so many times to block swings that his arms were beginning to hurt, and he wondered when the assault would end. Not for a long time it appeared. For the Stark kept swinging his sword, and Gorne was becoming lax with his tiredness, he felt the man's sword strike him in the arms, shoulders, chest, legs even on the helmet. So that when he began feeling blood pour out of the dents that the Stark had made, he knew that serious wounds must have been dealt to him. They were even now.

Still Gorne would not give up without more of a fight. Staggering toward the Stark, he drew his sword forward and raised it high into the air, and brought down but was met half way by Stark's sword, the screech of steel on steel echoed in Gorne's ears. Still he pushed on, using all of his strength to try and force the Stark to relent, it did not seem to be working, and so Gorne broke off and then began a series of jabs and cuts and hacks that seemed to weaken the Stark, making the man's movements much slower. When Gorne pulled back to catch his breath, the Stark did not follow him as he had done the first time they had engaged in blows, instead he hovered slowly and unsteadily on his feet, blood beginning to pour down from his helmet, from the many dents to his armour.

The Stark had guts though, Gorne would give him that much. Despite being heavily wounded and close to death, the man managed to stagger forward, sword raised and managed to deliver a series of quick jabs and cuts that had Gorne back on the back foot, defending himself. The assault, short though it was, was enough to have Gorne bleeding heavily once it was done. Stark had piled him with cuts, jabs, swings, slashes and hacks, some of which found their mark and dented Gorne's armour even further, some of which managed to break his armour and open up fresh wounds and draw blood. Still Stark was failing, when he felt to his knees; Gorne kicked the man's sword out of his hands, and then pointed his own sword at the man's throat. Saying a quick prayer to the old gods, Gorne removed the man's helmet and then raised his sword and brought it down in one single arc, cleaving Stark in two. Blood spattered Gorne's already heavily bloodied armour, but he did not care, that was one less Stark in the world.

Much later as he sat inside his tent with a man tending to his wounds, he heard one of his men give him the report of how things had been going. "The Starks burnt most of our boats Your Grace. The Hundreds of men in the boats died. Sigorn Cowl and his sons were all killed. Alys Stane and her brood are dead."

Gorne heard the words, but did not take them in. The rebellion, that he had instigated was failing, he could not bear to think about it not now. And so instead he asked the question that had been plaguing his thoughts since morning. "Who was that Stark that I killed? Was it Artos Stark?"

The man looked hesitant. "No Your Grace, it was his eldest son Brandon Stark."

Gorne sighed. It looked like this war would go on for some more time.

High Steward Artos Stark

"Skagos has rebelled; Gorne Magnar has called the banners." Artos still remembered hearing his nephew- his king now- utter those words, and he still remembered the sense of dread and nerves that had engulfed him them. The Last time Skagos had rebelled against Winterfell had been thousands of years ago, when Karlon Stark had been sent to put down their rebellion and had been awarded Karhold as a result. The Skagosi were notoriously dangerous fighters, and cannibals to boot. The rebellion that Karlon Stark had put down, had cost him some thousands of men and his own son had died as well.

Artos had known when his nephew Daeron had uttered those words that he and Beron would be sent to deal with Skagos. What with that idiot Bolton having rebelled as well, Daeron would need to crush Bolton if he ever wanted to hope to have a secure hope of holding onto the North and the Crown of Winter. Artos and Beron had set sail from White Harbour, taking with them the Lord of White Harbour, the northern fleet and some 2000 men. The Ironborn were away raiding in Qarth, Quellon had gone there, saying he would bring back goods and riches for Daeron.

Artos and Beron had planned what their strategy would be for fighting the Skagosi whilst on the Grey Dragon- the Royal War Ship- Skagos had three main houses Magnar, Cowl and Stane and thousands of petty chieftains, who often warred with each other, their sources reported that Gorne Magnar had faced some difficulty in bringing all the chieftains into support him, but had after several skirmishes had managed to do so, though there were those who still wished to remain part of the north. The plan would be to send some of the ships to the Fingers to bring up more men, the rest of the royal fleet would assail Skagos, and with help from those clans that disliked Gorne, they would attack the Magnar in his castle atop the Grey Cliffs.

They had arrived at Skagos when summer had been in its dying days. Greeted by Davon Greybeard, a fierce warrior who had fought alongside Artos against Raymun Redbeard, Greybeard had led Artos and his men to the Red Cliffs where he and some 500 clansmen had made their base, and from there it was that Artos learnt that the Skagosi were more divided than had first been thought. Sigorn Cowl wanted to be king of Skagos, whilst Alys Stane simply wished for Gorne Magnar to die, but all three were related through blood or marriage, and all wanted their independence from Winterfell. The forces of Skagos were not gathered in one place, but different parts of the island, and each leader of these different parts of the army wanted some part of the glory, there was tension in Skagos alright, tension that Artos could use to his advantage.

The first fighting had taken place in the Black rocks near the Bay of Seals; men led by a chieftain called Aemon Battleaxe had fought Artos and his men. It had been a fierce battle; lots of men had died, including Battleaxe himself. Artos hacking and slashing his way through the Skagosi clan Battleaxe and their cohorts, had felt the familiar blood rush that often came with war and fighting, he had hacked one man's head clean off, and then had hacked another man's arms off, then cut and jabbed his way through the Skagosi until he came face to face with this Aemon Battleaxe. Battleaxe was a big beast of a man, with long flowing red hair and even redder beard. He wielded a great big axe, and fought like a brute. He had swung at Artos, Artos had managed to just about raise his sword to block the man's swing, and had then engaged in a fierce duel, the kind that he had last fought with Raymun Redbeard.

Hacking and slashing, cutting and jabbing, ducking and dodging. Doing all he could slow down big Battleaxe, for he remembered the lessons the old Berrick Cassel- Winterfell's old master at arms- had taught him and his brothers, "A giant may be big and be strong, but they tire easily, the bigger they are the harder they fall." He jabbed and cut at Battleaxe, provoking the man to swing his axe wildly, and sometimes Artos would even allow the man to strike his armour, leading him to believe that he was winning, when in fact the big brute of a man was tiring himself out. When the man had begun to struggle to lift his axe up, Artos bruised and bloody and jabbed left, then right, then had gone straight for the brute's heart, piercing through the light boiled armour the man had worn, killing him with one deep jab through to the heart. Battleaxe's men had either been slain or had bent the knee once they had learnt of their leader's death.

Next had come the fighting with another prominent clan chief who was leading Gorne Magnar's effort at the Red Cliffs was Bjorn Breakborn, with a name like that Artos had expected the man to be as big, if not bigger than Aemon Battleaxe had been, but when they had arrived at the Red Cliffs, they had found themselves greeted by the sight of a dozen bodies hanging from the tree branches. Red crosses on their bodies, no one knew who could have done the deed but the message was clear, they would rather die than be part of the North again. Artos did not mind for that was one less battle he and his men had to fight.

Then had come the autumn rains, and that had halted their progress. The Skagosi rebels, hid behind their castles, or their cliffs, or their huts and came out at night, and plundered and killed Artos's men, and took their armour and weapons and food. Waking up in the morning to find, men dead, their throats slit, their armour gone, reminded Artos horribly of the description that his brother Willam had given him, whenever he spoke of the conquest of Dorne, and the haunted look he would get in his eyes, was the same look that was reflected in many of Artos's men. They no longer thought they were fighting men or savages, but ghosts, and cannibals. Artos prayed each day for the skies to clear, for them to able to march to deal with the Magnar, but each night they went to sleep never knowing whether they would ever wake up again, or not. More often than not, they would wake to find one of their men dead, his throat torn open, or a man missing only to find him later that day, with large chunks of his skin torn out, eaten by the savages.

Eventually the rain had cleared enough to allow them to continue marching, and so they had. The fighting continued to rage on, bitter and fierce. Artos and his son Brandon were in the thick of it, fighting the savages and killing many by the tens, then by the hundreds. Hacking, stabbing, slashing, cutting and jabbing, men had fallen like flies. Blood had spattered to the ground, covering it and the ground had drunk it in greedily. Men had died, women and children who had been caught in the crossfire of the battle had also died. No one was spared. Sigorn Cowl, the fool that he was, had come riding out from his castle, when Artos and his men had pushed close toward the man's boundaries. Riding a unicorn of all things, the man had cut down Artos's men left, right and centre. But once Artos had killed the unicorn, the man was as bad a swordsman as any man Artos had ever fought. Hacking and slashing, cutting and jabbing, all these things Sigorn Cowl had tried to do, but had failed to even scratch Artos, had failed to even reach Artos. Artos had cut and slashed, and within three blows, Sigorn Cowl was dead, a sword through his throat.

Brandon had done in for his sons, swords through the throats for them as well. The rest of Artos's men had butchered Cowl's men, it was a true butchery, and not one of the soldiers who had fought for Cowl was left alive, once Artos and his men were done. House Cowl was put to extinction that day, the same day the rains came back. With the rains came more night time deaths, and more proof of the cannibalistic nature of some of the Skagosi. The nightmare continued, as the rains continued, more and more of his men were dying, and it still seemed as if Gorne Magnar would not give up. There had been no word from Beron since he had set sail to bring more men from the Fingers, but with the weather being the way it was, Artos was not too optimistic.

His only hope was that, the Targaryens did not send any help to the Skagosi, and that his men did not die out before they could mount a challenge for the Grey Cliffs, for the Cliffs as Greybeard had told them, the Grey Cliffs were the symbol of power in Skagos, if they controlled them, they would get the island to bend the knee. Though, after the rain came the autumn storms, their food was beginning to deplete, the men's moral was weaken. Artos knew that they needed to get marching; otherwise the effort would be lost.

Two moons after the storms began, they broke, and they marched for the Grey Cliffs, with a severly depleted force of men. Some of the Skagosi that had come over to their side had been killed for traitors during the night, they bodies savaged by their kinsmen who still fought for the Magnar, most of the men Artos had brought with him had been killed either in battle or in the night by the savages. Still they arrived at the foot of the Grey Cliffs, battered and tired and ready for home, still they stood strong, and they fought with the Magnar's men. Some 2000 men from House Magnar and their levies, plus another 100 clansmen fought for Gorne Magnar, against Artos and his 500 northmen and some 50 clansmen, they should have been butchered where they stood, but the Skagosi fighting for Gorne Magnar were not battle hardened men, nor where they particularly disciplined.

Artos and his men fought a long hard battle, just as the rain began to fall again. Against the men of Magnar and their unicorns they fought, hacking, slashing, jabbing and cutting. Blood and bodies littered the ground, and still the men fought on, even as their numbers began to deplete they fought on, even as it looked like all would be lost, they fought on. At some point during the battle, Artos was separated from his son Brandon, and as he took sword wounds to the chest and arms and legs he began to see his vision fade, he began to hope that Brandon would make it out alive. He felt himself fall to the ground, his head jarring sharply against the blood and body stained ground, he saw his vision begin to shake, the battle was lost, the war was done, they could not survive, not for much longer. Around him the battle still raged, men were fighting oblivious to the truth that had become so apparent to Artos Stark as he lay there in the dirt, bleeding from multiple wounds, men died screaming for their mothers, and yet battle still raged. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard a battle cry go up from somewhere far away that sounded surprisingly like his brother Beron.

Artos Stark awoke in the dead of night, in his tent, the storms had come again. He tried to get up but winced with pain, and fell back down to bed. "Ah so your awake then. Good." Artos heard his brother Beron's sarcastic tone.

"What happened?" Artos asked.

"Well, we managed to defeat the bastards if that's what you're wondering." Beron said.

"Gorne Magnar what happened to him?" Artos asked.

Beron seemed to hesitate and then said "He still lives, he fought Brandon and killed him. He fled when he realised who I was."

Artos took a deep shuddering breath. Brandon dead, his eldest son, his little boy dead. He felt anger pool up in the pit of his stomach then, he would have his revenge, and he would. "How many men did you bring Beron?"

"Four hundred brother. Lord Sunderland was most generous, though he did tell me some disturbing news."

Artos felt his gut clench, had something happened to Daeron? If so they were lost. "What happened brother?"

"The Falseborn has sent 1,000 men north under command of our king's cousin Ser Jon Waters to try and take Moat Cailin, the bastard has help from the Flint's of Flint's Finger. Moat Cailin is under siege."

Artos felt his gut clench, his sons Benjen and Edwyle were at Moat Cailin, those Targaryen bastards had dared strike now, had they no honour, no sense of right or wrong. This whole rebellion reeked of that kinslayer. "Any news from the mainland Beron, how is Daeron doing?"

He heard his younger brother swallow. "Deepwood Motte is under siege, Ryswells and Tallharts. The Mormonts have been unable to sail to help the Glovers, Stony Shore has fallen Lord Glover is dead. Steffon Cassel is leading the effort to lift the siege, he helped retake Castle Cerwyn. No news about how the fight against that idiot Bolton is going though."

Artos sighed, Deepwood Motte under siege, with no Ironborn there to help, it could take a long time. This war in Skagos had already taken the better part of three years. "We must kill the Magnar, how many men does he have left?"

"200. Most of his men either died or bent the knee when we arrived. His sons are dead, only a little babe at the breast and a daughter remain to his line." Beron replied.

"Good, now leave me I must rest." Artos said before he closed his eyes.

It took him a whole moon to recover from his wounds, a moon in which more skirmishes occurred and more Skagosi and northmen died a moon in which the remaining clan chiefs reswore their allegiance to Winterfell and to Daeron, a moon in which they learnt of the fall of Qarth and the death of Quellon Greyjoy. A moon in which Artos allowed his anger and his desire to get revenge build up, so that when he was fully fit and ready to fight, he would be at his best.

The battle was long and fierce and lasted many a day. Much blood was spilt; more men left this world to join the old gods in the trees. But Artos fought on with a savagery he had not felt since he had fought Raymun Redbeard all those years ago. He fought and fought and fought, and never once did he put his sword down, not to rest, not to sleep ever. He kept on fighting, and with each life he ended he could feel himself getting closer to ending Gorne Magnar's life.

Eventually that day came. They fought each other on the edge of the Grey Cliff, Artos Stark and Gorne Magnar, one wielding a sword the other a Morningstar. And so they fought, hacking, cutting, jabbing, stabbing, slashing, dodging, weaving and ducking. They fought, denting and cutting and bleeding, until both men were exhausted from the effort, until both men were covered with scratches and bruises and blood. Artos Stark knocked his opponent's sword from his hand and in one swift motion pushed his own sword through the man's heart, ending the Magnar's life. But then he felt the exhaustion and the blood loss get to him, and he fell to his knees before the man whose life he had just ended and collapsed into a heap of blood and bone and steel. Artos Stark, the implacable, the able High Steward of the North, Lord of Moat Cailin, was dead.

Lord Commander Theon Stark

Summer had died, autumn was king now. The leaves had fallen from the trees, the godswood and the weirwood were crying tears of blood, and treachery had come to pass. The Boltons had declared that they were free from the Kingdom of Winter, and as such had raised a host at the Dreadfort, and had called upon minor houses to rebel with them. Stony Shore had fallen, Deepwood Motte was under siege, the Mormonts were unable to come to assist the Glovers, though Steffon Cassel was proving himself an able warrior and commander, having taken back Castle Cerwyn from the Condons, had freed the Dustins from those forces of the Ryswells and Stouts who had laid siege to Barrow Hall. Cassel was marching west to lift the siege of Deepwood Motte.

The eastern side of the conflict was just beginning, the Weeping Water was full of bodies from the night before's conflict. Still the battle raged on. Theon looked around the battlefield from where he sat atop Starfall his golden stallion, protection his brother King Daeron Stark. The battle raged around them, men were fighting and killing and dying, and screaming for their mothers, for anyone to hold back the pain. "We ride now Theon." Theon heard his brother say in his deep Kingly voice. Theon spurred Starfall on and rode, he saw where and why his brother had wanted to move now, there ahead of them were the Boltons- Horras the lord, Jonothor his heir and Domeric the second son- killing all three would end the rebellion.

They met in a clash of steel, and Theon felt his blood sing with the meeting of sword on sword. He swung at Domeric Bolton, and felt his sword connect with the man's armour, Bolton swung back at him, but Theon managed to get his shield up in time to block the blow. They exchanged blows, back and forth, till both of their armour were dented and they were covered in blood, and bruises. Domeric Bolton turned his horse around and rode back toward the Dreadfort, Theon was about to give chase when he saw Bolton's youngest brother Edrick advancing toward him, a mace in hand. Theon swung hard as did Edrick, and their weapons met in a clang of steel and metal. Sparks flew past both men, but still they kept going, hacking here, slashing there, cutting right, and jabbing left. Neither man was willing to give ground, both men were covered in blood and sweat and dirt, when eventually Theon managed to break through Edrick's defences and shoved his sword through Edrick's gut, when he pulled his sword out, his sword was covered in blood, and Edrick had fallen off of his horse and was bleeding profusely on the ground.

Theon looked around and saw his brother engaged in a fierce battle with Horras Bolton, his nephew Aemon fighting in a fierce duel with Jonothor Bolton, Theon was glad to see Jeyne Mormont and Strongaxe were near Daeron, thus allowing Theon to go on and fight more of the traitors who would think to attack his brother when he was otherwise preoccupied. Theon hacked and cut a bloody path through the Bolton soldiers and those of House Lake, hacking and slashing his way through, till he came face to face with Lord Mors Lake. Theon swung at the man, and found that he connected with the man's armour, piercing it and killing the man instantly. He rode on and cut down Lord Lake's son and heir, a sword through the throat. He rode on and cut down more and more men with the flayed man of House Bolton on their armour.

Suddenly he found himself with no more foes to fight, wondering what had happened he turned round in his saddle and saw them all fleeing back to the Dreadfort, somewhere in the distance he heard his brother Cregan shout at him to kill as many of them as he could. Theon did as requested, cutting down as many men with the flayed man of House Bolton and the sigil of House Lake and House Forrester as he could. He had counted forty men dead when he was knocked from his horse, and knocked unconscious.

He came to inside a tent, his head pounding; he looked up and saw his brothers looking over him concerned expressions on their faces. "Don't ever do anything like that again you idiot Theon do you hear me!" Daeron said anger laced in his voice.

Theon was about to protest, when Daeron spoke again. "You're lucky that you managed to kill so many of that traitor Bolton's commanders in your mad dash for glory, otherwise I'd have had you striped of your grey cloak."

Theon was surprised; he'd managed to kill commanders?! Before he could voice his thoughts though, Cregan spoke. "What will you do now brother? Bolton has surrendered, his heir is dead but Domeric has escaped."

Theon was surprised; they had been fighting for many years now, had it been three since he'd last seen Winterfell and its grey stone walls? They had laid siege to the Dreadfort for two years before Horras Bolton had finally come out and fought. Theon was about to ask what had happened to make Bolton surrender when his nephew Aemon spoke. "Uncle Daeron, the traitor Bolton is out on the block as you asked." Theon saw his brother nod in acknowledgement.

Then heard him say "Bolton will be executed, I will not have him survive, his son Jonothor is dead, his son Domeric is a hunted man, let the bastard go to King's Landing, he will never be welcome in the north again. House Bolton is dead in the north. The Dreadfort is yours Cregan, for you and Elena and your children and descendants. With Skagos brought back to the fold, Uncle Beron will be coming back to Winterfell soon. Steffon should bring those idiots Ryswell and Stout back into line. Theon will go and lift the siege at Moat Cailin, and help Edwyle deal with those Flint's in Flint's Finger."

With that Daeron walked out of the tent, and Cregan helped Theon get dressed into his clothes and armour in silence, though before they left the tent Theon could not resist the urge to crack a joke. "So you've been given the Dreadfort eh Cregan. House Stark of the Dreadfort, doesn't have the same ring to it as House Dreadstark does it now?"

His brother said nothing, but Theon saw him crack a grin. As they walked and stood beside their brother and King. Daeron looked imposing in his dark blue armour, the crown of winter on top of his head. "Horras Bolton, for rebelling against your king, for breaking your oath of fealty, for inciting other houses to rebel with you, for attempting to kill my nephew, my sister, for conspiring with the Targaryens for the detriment of the north, I Daeron of House Stark, first of my name, King of the North, King of Winter, King of the First Men, and Protector of the Faith, do sentence you to die." Theon saw his brother raise Ice high into the air, and bring it down in one smooth motion, removing Bolton's head in one clean stroke. The rebellion was over. But Theon's head was still spinning from all he had learnt.