The Riverlands had become a crucible of fire and fear. The smoke from countless burning villages stained the skies, a constant, grim reminder of Loki Bloodaxe's presence. His longships, now sailing under the terrifying banner of the dragon-prow, dominated the network of rivers, making travel and communication a perilous gamble for the Westerosi. The fall of Lannisport and Harrenhal, symbols of power and ancient might, had shattered the realm's sense of security. Loki, wielding the fearsome Stormbreaker, moved like a wraith in the heart of Westeros, his presence an inescapable, chilling dread.
From his mobile command barge, heavily fortified and disguised to blend with the natural river traffic, Loki orchestrated his campaign of attrition. The Golden Tooth remained firmly in Hakon's grip, effectively severing the Westerlands from the rest of the realm. This strategic chokehold allowed Loki to focus his forces on the Riverlands, knowing that Tywin Lannister's formidable army was caged, unable to intervene.
"The King's army moves like a dying slug," Loki observed to Jarl Kael, tracing a line on his maps with the tip of Stormbreaker. The double-bladed axe hummed softly in his hand, a living extension of his power. "They gather at the crossroads, as predictable as the tides. Let them. We will deny them sustenance, bleed them of their will, and then strike when their spirit is broken."
Kael grunted, his massive frame radiating impatience. "My men grow restless, Jarl. They yearn for glorious battle, not chasing frightened peasants through burning fields."
"Patience, Kael," Loki replied, his gaze sharp. "This is a different kind of war. A war of the mind, as much as of the axe. They will be broken before the first true clash." He knew Kael's hunger for battle, but Loki's mind worked on a grander, more insidious scale. He was not just conquering land; he was dismantling a civilization.
The King's Grand Host: A Serpent's Bait
King Robert Baratheon, driven by a mixture of outrage and desperation, had finally managed to assemble a significant portion of his forces. The call for banners had been answered, albeit slowly and begrudgingly by some. Lord Mace Tyrell of the Reach had sent a large, well-equipped contingent, though he himself remained in Highgarden. Lord Jon Arryn's son, Robert, was too young and sickly to lead, so his banners from the Vale were led by the capable but cautious Lord Yohn Royce. From the Crownlands, Lord Renly Baratheon, more interested in tourneys than war, led a colorful but less disciplined host. And finally, the desperate Riverlords, what little remained of their fighting strength, joined the King's host, clinging to the hope of deliverance.
This grand host, numbering perhaps forty thousand men, marched slowly through the ravaged Riverlands. Their supply lines were a nightmare. Every village they passed was either burned to ashes or stripped bare. Wells were poisoned, or filled with corpses, by Loki's advance scouts. The King's army, accustomed to living off the land, found themselves constantly hungry, their horses starving, their men growing restless and demoralized.
"By the Seven Hells, where are these barbarians?" Robert roared one evening, tossing a half-eaten chicken leg into a fire. His face was flushed, his temper frayed by the constant frustration. "We march for days, and find nothing but smoke and empty houses! Are they ghosts?"
His generals, weary and equally frustrated, had no answers. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a seasoned warrior, felt an unease he hadn't known in decades. "They are not ghosts, Your Grace. They are unseen. They strike, and they vanish. This is a cruel enemy."
Robert's Grand Host was a lumbering, predictable target. Loki watched them from afar, using his ravens and his own magical senses to track their movements. He saw their growing hunger, their plummeting morale. He reveled in it. This was his work.
The Hunger Games: Loki's Attrition Warfare
Loki did not seek a pitched battle against Robert's massive army. Not yet. He continued his campaign of attrition, bleeding the Westerosi army dry without ever engaging them directly.
Night Raids: Small, elite units of Skardheimers, often led by Astrid or Thora, would conduct swift, devastating raids on the King's sprawling encampments at night. They targeted supply wagons, ambushed foraging parties, and slashed tent ropes, creating panic and forcing the King's men to remain constantly on edge, sacrificing precious sleep. The psychological impact was immense. Soldiers began to see shadows everywhere, whispering tales of 'river demons' and 'forest spirits' that hunted them in the dark.
Ambushes and Skirmishes: Along the rivers and through the dense woodlands, Loki's drakkars would appear, launch quick ambushes on smaller Westerosi detachments, then retreat with lightning speed back into the river network. These were not decisive battles, but constant, bleeding wounds. Archers rained down arrows from hidden positions, berserkers burst from the treeline, axes flashing, then vanished as quickly as they appeared. The Riverlords, fighting on their own ravaged lands, suffered disproportionately, their few remaining strongholds relentlessly harassed.
The Scorched Earth: Loki's most devastating tactic remained the systematic destruction of the Riverlands. Every field, every village, every bridge that could aid the King's army was put to the torch. The air was thick with smoke, the taste of ash ever-present. This was an enemy that waged war not just against soldiers, but against the very land itself. Refugees swelled the roads leading to King's Landing, a tide of human misery that further strained the capital's resources and patience.
Westeros Fractures: Blame and Betrayal
The constant frustration and mounting casualties began to fray the already thin patience of Robert's commanders. The King's short temper grew even shorter, his drinking heavier.
King's Landing: The Serpent's Nest Boils Over
In King's Landing, the situation was dire. Food prices soared. The influx of refugees overwhelmed the city's resources, leading to riots and widespread discontent. The Royal Treasury, already depleted by Robert's excesses, was hemorrhaging gold to fund a war that seemed unwinnable.
"The realm is bleeding, Your Grace!" Grand Maester Pycelle whined, his voice trembling as he presented a scroll filled with grim reports. "The granaries of the Riverlands are ash! Hunger stalks the land! And Lord Tywin refuses to march! He fortifies Casterly Rock, leaving your armies to starve!"
Robert roared, seizing a flask. "Tywin Lannister! That traitorous bastard! When this is over, I'll ride to Casterly Rock myself and burn it to the ground!"
Littlefinger, ever the opportunist, saw his moment. "Your Grace, perhaps Lord Tywin believes you are squandering your forces. Chasing shadows in the rivers while the true prize, his homeland is vulnerable. Perhaps he believes he can defeat this Loki where others have failed." He knew these words would stoke Robert's pride and fury against Tywin, preventing any unified Lannister-Baratheon front. He began subtly suggesting that the King should return to the capital, leaving the war to his generals, knowing Robert's personal presence was doing more harm than good to morale.
Cersei Lannister, caught between her husband's rage and her father's obstinacy, felt a chilling dread. The war was destroying everything. Her brother Jaime, still away with the Mountain, was a constant worry. She wrote increasingly frantic letters to Tywin, begging him to act, to unite forces, but Tywin's responses were cold, strategic, and entirely focused on the defense of the Westerlands. She began to view Loki not just as an enemy, but as a catalyst that was tearing her world apart. She began to subtly influence Robert towards any immediate action that would force a decisive battle, hoping to end the drawn-out torment.
Winterfell: Eddard's Calculations
In Winterfell, Eddard Stark watched the chaos with grim certainty. He had received reports of the forge-fire from Harrenhal, the rumors of Loki's new weapon, Stormbreaker, further cementing his belief that this was no ordinary enemy.
"They are destroying the Riverlands to starve us," Eddard explained to Robb, tracing lines on a map. "They avoid battle, forcing our army to exhaust itself. This is not how Westeros fights. This is a barbarian's cunning."
Robb, though frustrated, understood. "But we cannot let them conquer the heart of the realm, Father. Surely we must march, eventually?"
"Aye, eventually. But not into a trap," Eddard replied. "The King's army will wear itself thin. When they finally commit to a major engagement, it will be out of desperation, not strength. And that is when this Loki will strike hardest. We will continue our preparations. Fortify the Neck, ready our ships, gather our forces. We will fight them on our terms, if they come north." He sent ravens to his own bannermen, ordering them to hoard winter supplies and train their levies, preparing for a long, grinding war.
Casterly Rock: Tywin's Siege Mentality
Tywin Lannister remained unyielding. The Golden Tooth, though now a battleground of skirmishes, held firm, preventing Loki from pushing deeper into the Westerlands. Tywin had poured all his resources into fortifying Casterly Rock and Lannisport's inland approaches. He dispatched scouts and spies to infiltrate the Riverlands, desperate for concrete intelligence on Loki's forces, their numbers, their weaknesses. He needed to understand this enemy before committing his full might.
"Let Robert play his foolish games," Tywin told Kevan. "He will exhaust his armies, and then he will come begging to Casterly Rock. Only then will I march. When he is truly desperate, and when I can dictate the terms." His patience was endless, his strategic mind cold and calculating. He would avenge Lannisport, but he would do it on his own schedule, and for the benefit of House Lannister alone.
Dragonstone: Stannis's Silent Fury and Growing Resolve
Stannis Baratheon, from Dragonstone, received the increasingly dire reports with a grim satisfaction. He saw the realm unraveling, just as he had predicted.
"The King's folly will be the realm's ruin," Stannis declared to Davos, his hand gripping the cold stone of his castle wall. "They starve in the Riverlands, chasing ghosts, while the Crownlands remain vulnerable. And the so-called 'Stormbreaker' he wields… it is a symbol of a new, terrifying power."
"What is your counsel, my Lord?" Davos asked, ever loyal.
"My counsel remains the same: preparedness," Stannis replied, his voice firm. "My fleet is ready. My men are drilled. I will not squander my strength in Robert's ill-conceived campaign. Let them break themselves against this barbarian. When the realm is truly desperate, when the 'Stormbreaker' looms over King's Landing, then they will turn to me. And I will answer, but only when they are ready to acknowledge the true king." He began to gather more supplies, hoard coin, and silently dispatch his own loyalists to key positions within the Crownlands, preparing for a future where he might have to seize the throne by force.
The Trident: Loki's First Great Trap
Loki had watched the King's host for weeks, observing their dwindling supplies, their exhausted men, their fracturing morale. He decided it was time for the next lesson. He chose a location along the Green Fork of the Trident, a stretch of wide, flat plains bordered by dense forests and the meandering river itself. It was an ideal place for a pitched battle, the kind Robert would crave.
He pulled his raiding parties back, giving the Westerosi army a false sense of success. He allowed them to "secure" some untouched villages, finding meager supplies, giving them a sliver of false hope. This was the bait.
"They will think we are fleeing," Loki told his Jarls, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "They will chase us, eager for glory. And then, we will show them the true meaning of the storm."
He gathered his main force, some twenty thousand seasoned Skardheim warriors, augmented by the strongest, most desperate Ironborn thralls, forced to fight for their new masters. He set up defensive positions hidden within the forests, ordered pits to be dug and camouflaged, and commanded his archers to prepare for a devastating volleys. His drakkars, laden with reserves and supplies, were anchored just out of sight along the river, ready to launch a flanking maneuver.
The King's army, weary but emboldened by the perceived retreat, finally stumbled upon Loki's main force. It was not a hidden ambush, but a clear, visible line of Skardheimers, their dragon banners flying proudly, waiting for them. Robert Baratheon, seeing a direct confrontation at last, roared with delight.
"Finally! The cowards stand! For the Seven Kingdoms! For the King!" Robert bellowed, drawing his warhammer. He ordered his armies to form up, the heavy cavalry on the flanks, the infantry in the center.
The battle began with a thunderous charge. The Westerosi heavy cavalry, led by proud knights, galloped towards the Skardheim lines, a glittering wave of steel. But Loki was ready. As the cavalry approached, his hidden archers, using composite bows with far greater range and power than Westerosi longbows, unleashed a devastating hail of arrows. Horses screamed, knights fell, their charges broken before they even reached the Skardheim shield wall.
Loki, mounted on a captured, powerful warhorse, surveyed the battlefield. He was not on the front lines, but at a tactical vantage point, directing his forces with precision. He drew Stormbreaker, the double-bladed axe glowing faintly. He saw Robert's fury, the desperation of the Riverlords, the grim resolve of the Tyrell forces. All were predictable.
When the Westerosi infantry finally clashed with the Skardheim shield wall, the sound was deafening. It was a brutal, grinding melee. The Westerosi, though numerous, found themselves facing an enemy unlike any they had known. Skardheimers fought with a wild, relentless ferocity, their axes cleaving through armor, their shields holding firm. Berserkers, at the core of Kael's command, tore through the enemy lines, ignoring wounds, their roars of defiance shattering morale.
Loki rode to where the fighting was thickest, where the Westerosi lines seemed to gain a foothold. He moved like a storm, Stormbreaker a blur of crimson and silver. He cut down knights and footmen with terrifying ease, the axe biting through steel and bone. He channeled his magic, causing the ground to tremor beneath the Westerosi, creating sudden gusts of wind that blew their arrows off course, and weaving subtle illusions that made his warriors appear as a monstrous, unending tide.
He sought out the King himself, but Robert, though fighting bravely, was far from the strategic center, immersed in a smaller, isolated duel with a berserker. Loki focused on breaking the command structure. He used his magic to locate and pinpoint key Westerosi commanders, sending his most skilled warriors, like Thora and Astrid, to eliminate them.
Astrid, a silent death on the battlefield, moved through the chaos, her drakkars' crews joining the ground combat. She targeted the Tyrell banners, striking at their captains, sowing disarray. Thora, leading her shield-maidens, focused on the dismounted knights, systematically breaking their formations, their axes striking with cold, brutal efficiency.
The battle raged for hours. The King's army, despite its numbers, was being systematically dismantled. Their supply lines were non-existent, their morale shattered by Loki's tactics, and their commanders increasingly isolated. As the sun began to set, casting long, grotesque shadows across the blood-soaked field, the Westerosi began to break. First a trickle, then a flood. They fled, throwing down their arms, desperate to escape the relentless, terrifying enemy.
Robert Baratheon, seeing his army shatter, his face a mask of disbelief and defeat, was pulled from the field by his Kingsguard. He had not truly understood the enemy. He had sought a glorious battle, and found only a chilling, methodical butchery.
Loki watched them flee. He ordered no pursuit. Not yet. The message was clear. The King's Grand Host, the assembled might of Westeros, had been broken, not by a single, decisive blow, but by a campaign of attrition and a brutal, tactical defeat.
He stood on the battlefield, Stormbreaker resting on his shoulder, its Valyrian steel head dripping with the blood of Westerosi lords and commoners. Around him, his warriors began the grim task of collecting the dead, stripping the armor, and gathering the spoils. The victory was immense, more than just a battle won; it was a symbol of the realm's fractured will.
Loki's visions now were sharper, clearer. He saw the Red Keep, its defenses weakened. He saw the various lords of Westeros, their loyalty to the crown crumbling. He saw the desperate fear, the internal strife. He had not merely defeated an army; he had deepened the cracks in the very foundation of the Seven Kingdoms. The path to the Iron Throne, to the ultimate dominion, was now wide open. And Loki Bloodaxe, the Serpent in the Rivers, was ready to slither forth and claim it.