50 AC
Deepdown
Third Person Pov
As their ship approached the docks, they could see a small group of Northern lords waiting for them: Ned Umber, Rickon Karstark, Osric Glover, Ronnel Bolton, and Karlon Dustin, their faces etched with anticipation and excitement.
Theon and Jonnos disembarked, and the lords stepped forward to greet them. Ned Umber, a large, boisterous man, asked Theon. "Lord Commander," he boomed, "welcome back! We'd heard you dealt with the Stanes at Driftwood Hall."
Theon inclined his head. "The fighting was... decisive, Lord Umber. We secured Driftwood Hall."
Osric Glover, a more reserved man, spoke next. "And House Magnar of Kingshouse, Lord Umber and I took that task."
Ned Umber grinned. "Aye, we did. The Magnars were tougher than the Stanes, but we prevailed. Kingshouse is ours."
Theon stark, his eyes sharp and calculating, raised an eyebrow. "And Deepdown? Lord Karstark, Lord Dustin, and Ronnel Bolton I trust you had success with the Crowls?"
Rickon Karstark, a man of few words, nodded. "We dealt with them. The Crowls resisted fiercely. There was a battle."
Karlon Dustin, a pragmatic man, nodded. "A swift end. Good. Skagos has been a thorn in our side for too long."
Jonnos met Their gaze. "We all fought as the North demands. The Skagosi were fierce, but they were ultimately no match for the combined strength of our forces."
Ned Umber clapped his hands together. "Well, that's that then! Skagos is ours. Lord Stark will be pleased." He looked at Theon. "What are your plans now, Lord Commander? Will you be returning to Winterfell?"
Theon hesitated for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords. "Not immediately," he said. "We have... other matters to attend to. Matters of great importance to the future of the North."
Rickon Karstark frowned slightly. "Other matters? What sort of matters?"
Theon exchanged a look with Jonnos. "Matters that cannot be discussed here," he said, his voice low. "I will speak of them in private, at Winterfell, when the time is right."
The lords exchanged glances, a mixture of curiosity and unease in their eyes. They knew Theon was not a man to be trifled with, and if he said the matters were of great importance, they did not doubt that they were.
Karlon Dustin, ever the pragmatist, spoke again. "Very well, Lord Commander. We trust your judgment. But know that we are here to serve the North, whatever the task may be."
Theon nodded, a hint of gratitude in his eyes. "I know, Lord Dustin. And when the time comes, I will call upon you. For now, let us return to Winterfell. There is much to discuss."
With that, the lords turned from the docks and made their way towards Deepdown Hall. The news of their victory spread quickly, and soon the hall was filled with the sounds of celebration. The long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, casks of ale flowed freely, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of food, drink, and the heady aroma of victory. Theon, Jonnos, and the lords joined in the revelry, sharing stories of the battles, honoring the fallen, and toasting to the future of the North. The feasting and drinking continued late into the night, lasting until the hour of the wolf, when the fires began to die down and the revelers, sated and weary, began to drift off to their beds.
A month crawled by in Deepdown, each day a stark reminder of the brutal task at hand: the eradication of the Skagosi cannibals. The initial relief of victory had long since curdled into a grim determination. Theon and Jonnos, their faces set in hard lines, directed the systematic cleansing of the islands.
One evening, as reports trickled in, Jonnos found Theon hunched over a map in the war room. "Another village cleansed, brother," Jonnos said, his voice heavy. "But the tales... they are sickening."
Theon didn't look up. "They are what we expected, Jonnos. Savages who preyed on the weak for generations. This had to be done."
"I know," Jonnos sighed, running a hand through his hair. "But the sheer scale... are we sure this is the only way?"
Theon finally raised his head, his gaze unwavering. "What other way is there? To let them live, to continue their abominations? No. The North will have peace on its borders, even if it's bought with blood."
Raiding parties returned, their faces grim, their swords stained. Lord Umber, his usual boisterousness subdued, reported, "Found another altar, Lord Commander. Bones... too many to count. And signs of children..." His voice trailed off.
Theon's jaw tightened. "Burn it. Every trace of their filth must be erased."
Osric Glover, his normally reserved demeanor shaken, spoke of a desperate last stand in a hidden cave. "They fought like cornered wolves, Lord Commander. But they were no match for our steel."
"Did any survive?" Theon asked, his voice flat.
"None," Glover replied, his gaze meeting Theon's with a grim understanding.
As the weeks passed, the flow of reports slowed. The islands began to fall silent. One evening, Jonnos found Theon staring out at the turbulent sea. "It's almost done," Jonnos said quietly.
Theon nodded. "The silence is deafening. But it is a necessary silence."
"What then?" Jonnos asked. "Once Skagos is empty?"
"Then we rebuild," Theon said, turning back from the window. "We bring Northmen, loyal families. We build fortifications, establish trade. Skagos will become a shield for the North, not a wound."
Lord Dustin, ever pragmatic, raised a concern during a strategy meeting. "The cost, Lord Commander. In men, in resources..."
"The cost of inaction would have been far greater, Lord Dustin," Theon countered sharply. "A festering sore left to poison us all."
The psychological toll weighed heavily on the Northmen. Ronnel Bolton, his usual sardonic wit absent, admitted to Jonnos, "I've seen my share of battles, Jonnos. But this... this was different. Hunting down people like animals..."
"They were animals, Bolton," Jonnos said, his voice firm. "They forfeited their humanity long ago."
As the final reports came in, Theon gathered the lords on the desolate shores of Driftwood Hall. "Skagos is cleansed," he declared, his voice echoing across the empty land. "A dark chapter in the North's history has been closed. Let us not speak of it again, save to remember the price of vigilance."
Lord Karstark, his face grim, simply nodded. "It is done."
In the weeks that followed, the sounds of construction began to replace the echoes of violence. The North began the slow, arduous process of claiming Skagos as their own.
One evening, as they prepared to finally depart for Winterfell, Jonnos looked back at the distant shores of Skagos. "Was it worth it, Theon?" he asked quietly.
Theon met his gaze, his own eyes holding a weariness that went beyond mere exhaustion. "It had to be done, Jonnos. For the North. For our people." He paused, then added, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, "And perhaps... for something more."
The final night before their departure from Deepdown arrived, heavy with the weight of the past month. Theon, ever pragmatic, decided a feast was in order. Not a celebration, but a gathering, a chance for the lords and warriors to break bread, share stories, and perhaps, finally, begin to heal.
The Great Hall of Deepdown, usually echoing with the boisterous energy of Crowl men, felt different. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and ale, but a somber undercurrent lingered beneath the surface. The faces of the men were etched with exhaustion and the lingering shadows of what they had witnessed.
Theon surveyed the hall from the high table, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords. He saw Ned Umber, his booming laughter noticeably absent, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a quiet contemplation. He saw Ronnel Bolton, his sardonic wit muted, his sharp eyes still haunted by the images he couldn't shake.
He raised his goblet, the silver gleaming in the flickering candlelight. "My lords," he began, his voice carrying through the hall. "We have accomplished a grim task. We have cleansed Skagos of a darkness that plagued our shores for too long."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall, a collective acknowledgment of the burden they had all carried.
"We have seen things," Theon continued, his voice low, "that will stay with us. Things that will test our strength and our resolve. But we have also shown our strength. We have shown the strength of the North."
He paused, his gaze meeting each lord in turn. "Tonight, we do not celebrate. But we gather. We remember those we lost. We honor those who fought. And we look forward, to the future we have secured."
Ned Umber, his voice rough with emotion, stood and raised his own goblet. "To the fallen," he roared, the hall echoing his words. "May they find peace in the halls of the Old Gods."
The hall erupted in a chorus of "To the fallen!" Goblets clinked, and the somber mood began to shift, ever so slightly, towards a shared sense of camaraderie and resilience.
Jonnos, seated beside Theon, leaned closer. "It was a good idea, brother," he said quietly. "They needed this."
Theon nodded, a rare hint of a smile touching his lips. "We all did," he admitted.
As the evening progressed, the atmosphere in the hall began to lighten. Stories were shared, not of the horrors they had witnessed, but of battles fought long ago, of hunts in the Wolfswood, and of the enduring spirit of the North.
Even Ronnel Bolton, after a few tankards of strong ale, found his sardonic wit returning, albeit tempered with a newfound respect for the men around him. He regaled the table with a tale of a particularly stubborn Skagosi warrior, his words drawing reluctant chuckles from his companions.
Karlon Dustin, ever the pragmatist, spoke of the plans for Skagos, of the families who would settle there, of the new fortifications that would rise from the ashes of the old. His words offered a sense of hope, a vision of a future built on the sacrifices they had made.
As the night wore on, the feasting and drinking continued, but the mood had shifted from somber remembrance to a quiet celebration of survival and resilience. The men of the North, bound together by their shared experience, found solace in each other's company.
Theon, watching the scene unfold, felt a sense of grim satisfaction. The scars of Skagos would remain, but the North would endure. And tonight, at least, they could find a moment of respite, a brief respite from the darkness they had faced.
As the hour of the wolf approached, the fires in the hearth began to die down, casting long shadows across the hall. The lords, their faces weary but their spirits lifted, began to drift off to their chambers, carrying with them the shared memories of the evening.
Theon and Jonnos remained at the high table for a while longer, the silence between them filled with a quiet understanding. They had faced the darkness together, and they had emerged, scarred but unbroken.
Finally, Theon stood, stretching his weary limbs. "It is time," he said, his voice low. "Tomorrow, we return to Winterfell."
Jonnos nodded, rising to join him. "Aye," he said. "And we will carry the burden of Skagos with us. But we will also carry the strength we found here, in each other."