The House of Ice and Fire

Krakens and Spears

The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows upon the worn stone walls, painting the room in an ethereal glow as he delved deeper into the grim tidings that maester Vaegon had delivered. Aemon looked under the table to see Ghost, who contrasted greatly with his white fur against the dark, barely illuminated room and the black dragon bone, and white weirdwood table. Ghost pushed his head into Aemon's open palm as if trying to calm his master before the boy thought of flinging himself from the window out of pure frustration. Aemon turned to the side to see the fireplace was buried a little lower than he liked; he cared not for the heat; being of the North and having Valyrian blood made sure the boy had a high tolerance for both heat and cold, but Aemon needed the sound of the crackling flames and the burning wood to clear his mind and give him some comfort.

Aemon looked to the side and saw his left of cocked steak, which was brought to him an hour ago, and he dropped it to the ground for Ghost to eat; the wolf moved from under the table; Aemon had forgotten the white beast was near the size of a full-grown horse. While the wolf ate, Aemon walked to the flames and threw another log.

The Ironborn, that seafaring scourge of the western shores, had unleashed a fury unlike any seen in recent memory. Lannisport, the jewel of the west, had been reduced to cinders, its proud spires now naught but smoking ruins. With Lannisport and the Lannister fleet burnt, there would be no instant retaliation for future raids. Casterly Rock, that impregnable fortress withstood the ravages of time and war, had not been spared the Ironborn's wrath, its mighty walls now scarred by the flames of destruction.

With ruthless efficiency, the Ironborn raiders had seized Seagard, establishing it as their foothold in the heart of the Riverlands. From there, bolstered by twenty thousand sellswords and ten thousand of their kin, they had launched a relentless campaign of terror and plunder, laying waste to the fertile lands that had once flourished under the protection of House Tully. Aemon had even heard a report or two that they had captured the Blackwood and Frey heirs, killing a decent portion of the remaining Freys. Aemon suspected that they would use the hostages to keep the Blackwood and Freys from joining future battles, but Aemon did not know.

Entire villages had been put to the torch, their inhabitants fleeing in terror as the Ironborn descended upon them like avenging spirits from the sea. Keeps and castles, once bastions of strength and power, now stood as little more than crumbling husks, their once-proud banners torn and tattered in the wind.

And yet, for all their might and fury, the Ironborn's cunning proved their greatest weapon. With thirty thousand warriors at their command, they had swiftly overwhelmed any attempts at retaliation by the other lords of the realm, striking with a speed and precision that left their foes reeling in disarray. While thirty thousand were currently in the Riverlands doing God knows what, another thirty-five thousand were Ironborn pillaging, reading, and moving closer to the Stormlands. Aemon accounted for twenty thousand sold swords, meaning the Ironborn had forty-five thousand men, almost twice as many men as he recalled them having in Jon Snow's lifetime. Aemon decided the increase of numbers was due to a combination of a lack of battles for men to die to overall through the Seven Kingdoms and the fact that the few times they did pillage, the Ironborn claimed many salt-wives to bear their children, or as most would think of them, bastards with their father's name.

With thirty thousand men taking the Riverlands and not allowing the Riverlands to contrate their power to repel them, it was more than likely the Tullys would never regain their position without outside help, like what happened with House Hoare during the Conquest where Aegon the Conqueror had to destroy House Hoare for the Riverlanders to regain their holdings. Aemon would admit it was rather difficult to reclaim a territory easily invaded when there were no natural differences, unlike the Vale, which had mountains and ranges, or the north, which had a cold so horrible only a Northman could tolerate it. For lack of a better word, the Riverlands are fucked until someone could help. And with another army of thirty thousand pillaging other lands, it forces everyone to look to themselves.