Chapter 14: The Siege Begins - Part 1
The Ironborn fleet stretched across the bay like scattered black teeth against the dawn horizon. Twelve longships riding at anchor, their crews preparing for an assault that should have been a simple matter of overwhelming a skeleton garrison. Theon Greyjoy stood at the prow of the lead vessel, squinting up at Winterfell's walls through morning mist.
He expected to see scattered defenders, maybe thirty or forty men trying to hold fortifications designed for three times their number. Instead, he found Kole Thorne standing on the battlements like a figure carved from winter itself, surrounded by fighters who moved with the disciplined precision of seasoned veterans.
The sight sent ice through Theon's veins. He'd hoped to find Winterfell vulnerable, its defenders demoralized by Robb's absence. The reality was disturbingly different—the castle looked ready for war, and the Iron Wolf looked ready to wage it.
"That's more men than expected," Dagmer Cleftjaw observed, his scarred face grim as he studied the walls. "And they're not running around like headless chickens. Someone's been preparing for this."
"Kole," Theon muttered. "He always was too clever for his own good."
"The boy with the strange gifts? You said he could do tricks with metal."
"Tricks." Theon's laugh had bitter edges. "That's one way to put it."
But tricks or no tricks, Theon had two hundred hardened Ironborn raiders against maybe fifty defenders. The mathematics should favor an overwhelming assault, even with Kole's unnatural abilities factored into the equation.
They beached the longships on the rocky shore and marched toward Winterfell in loose formation, axes and swords gleaming in morning sunlight. Theon had planned this moment for weeks during the voyage from Pyke, rehearsing words that would justify his actions to people who'd raised him as family.
The great gates remained closed as they approached, but Kole's voice carried clearly from the walls:
"That's close enough, Greyjoy."
Theon stopped fifty yards from the gate, close enough for conversation but far enough to avoid crossbow fire. He looked up at the man he'd once called brother and felt a familiar mixture of envy and hatred twist in his chest.
"I've come to claim what's mine by right," Theon called back. "Surrender the castle, and no one needs to die."
"Yours by right?" Kole's tone carried genuine puzzlement. "Last I checked, you were Ned Stark's ward, not his heir."
"I'm Ironborn! I pay the iron price!" Theon's voice cracked with emotion he'd thought buried. "Robb treated you as a brother, and you repay him with betrayal by standing against me!"
The accusation hung in the air like smoke from burning ships. Around the walls, defenders stirred with the restless energy of men prepared for violence but waiting for their leader's signal.
"You're no lord, Greyjoy," Kole replied, his voice carrying to both armies with deliberate clarity. "You're a bitter child playing at war because your father's approval means more than the family that actually raised you."
Heat flooded Theon's cheeks. The words cut because they carried truth he'd never admitted even to himself—that Balon Greyjoy's cold letters meant more than years of Stark affection, that proving himself worthy of the Iron Islands mattered more than betraying people who'd never shown him anything but kindness.
"And you're an abomination!" Theon shouted back, his voice breaking with rage and desperation. "A freak who doesn't even belong in this world! I've seen what you can do—the way metal moves around you, the way you heal from wounds that should kill you! You're not human!"
The accusation was closer to truth than Theon knew, and Kole's response was quiet but carried clearly in the morning air:
"Then come take your price. If you can."
Theon drew his sword and pointed it toward the walls. "Attack! Take the castle!"
What happened next would haunt his dreams for whatever remained of his life.
The Ironborn charged with the battle fury of their ancestors, axes high and voices raised in the old war cries that had once terrorized every coast from Dorne to the Wall. They expected terror, chaos, a desperate but doomed defense by men who'd never faced seasoned raiders.
Instead, they met nightmare made manifest.
Kole's Brotherhood moved like a single organism, each fighter knowing their role with mechanical precision. Arrows flew from the walls with devastating accuracy, finding gaps in armor and exposed flesh with the skill of hunters who'd been training for this moment. Scaling ladders were met by defenders who seemed to anticipate every assault before it began.
But it was the metal manipulation that transformed organized assault into chaos.
Iron rungs on scaling ladders twisted and warped, sending raiders tumbling twenty feet to the hard ground below. Grappling hooks tore free from stone walls as their metal points repelled magnetically, as if the castle itself rejected Ironborn presence. Sword hilts grew too hot to hold, forcing attackers to drop weapons mid-swing and face armored opponents with bare hands.
Theon watched in growing horror as his carefully planned assault dissolved into confusion and slaughter. Every piece of metal his men carried seemed to betray them at critical moments. Axes twisted in grips just as killing blows should have landed. Crossbow bolts curved mid-flight to strike their own shooters. Chain mail armor constricted around torsos until ribs cracked and breathing became impossible.
This wasn't battle—it was butchery orchestrated by someone who could turn every weapon into a liability.
"Fall back!" Theon screamed, his voice barely audible over the sounds of dying men. "Retreat to the ships!"
The surviving Ironborn fled in disorder, carrying wounded and leaving nearly forty dead beneath Winterfell's walls. An hour of assault had gained them nothing but casualties and the bitter knowledge that conventional tactics were useless against an enemy who could control the battlefield through supernatural means.
Dagmer Cleftjaw found Theon sitting on the rocky shore, staring at blood on his hands and trying to process what he'd witnessed.
"The stories were true," Dagmer said quietly. "The boy's got unnatural gifts. Sorcery, maybe, or a blessing from the Drowned God's enemies."
"He's a monster," Theon whispered. "I always knew there was something wrong about him, but this..."
"Monsters can be killed. We just need the right approach."
"What do you suggest? We've lost a quarter of our men, and he hasn't even bloodied his sword yet."
Dagmer's scarred face split in a predatory grin. "Siege. Starve them out. And if that doesn't work, we burn them out. Fire doesn't care about metal tricks."
The suggestion sent fresh chills through Theon's exhausted mind. Burning Winterfell would destroy everything he'd supposedly come to claim, but perhaps that was fitting. If he couldn't rule the North as its lord, perhaps he could rule it as its conqueror.
They established a siege camp within sight of the walls, close enough to maintain pressure but far enough to avoid the worst of Kole's metal manipulation. Cook fires burned low, and sentries watched for sorties that never came. The defenders seemed content to wait behind their ancient stones, confident in their ability to outlast any siege.
But Theon knew something they didn't—that patience was a luxury neither side could afford. Robb's army was marching south, bleeding the North dry. Winter was approaching, and armies couldn't campaign in deep snow. Time was running out for everyone involved.
Inside Winterfell's walls, Kole stood watch from the battlements and assessed their situation with the cold calculation of someone who'd learned strategy from necessity rather than training. They could hold for weeks, maybe months, but not indefinitely. Supplies were adequate but not infinite. His Brotherhood was elite but tiny compared to Theon's numbers.
Worse, he knew from the show that Theon would eventually resort to desperate measures—threats against innocent civilians, attempts to burn the castle rather than capture it, escalating violence that would force impossible choices between tactical necessity and moral principle.
"We'll hold," Mira said with quiet certainty, appearing beside him as midnight deepened around them. "Because you won't let us fall."
Her faith was absolute, founded on months of witnessing impossible feats performed by someone who treated supernatural power as just another tool in an arsenal of protection. Kole wished he could share her confidence, but he knew the trials ahead would test every bond they'd forged.
"It's not about holding," he said finally. "It's about what we're willing to do when holding isn't enough."
Around them, Winterfell settled into the rhythm of siege—guards rotating watch shifts, civilians preparing for rationing, defenders checking weapons and armor with the methodical care of people who knew their lives depended on perfect maintenance.
But in the depths of his enhanced consciousness, Kole felt a disturbance like thunder before a storm. Something was stirring beyond the immediate crisis, something vast and cold and hungry that made his metal manipulation instincts scream warnings about threats that had nothing to do with Ironborn raiders or political betrayal.
On the third night of the siege, he dreamed of the three-eyed raven.
It perched on a weirwood branch that bled sap like tears, and when it spoke, the voice belonged to Bran but carried wisdom that seemed older than the Wall itself.
"The betrayer is not your greatest danger," the raven said, its black eyes reflecting futures that hadn't yet crystallized into certainty. "The burning is coming. Choose who lives and who stays."
Kole woke in cold sweat, knowing that the siege of Winterfell was just the beginning of trials that would test not just his power but his humanity. The cosmic force that had brought him to Westeros was preparing another test, another choice between survival and sacrifice.
The dead were gathering beyond the Wall. The Boltons were positioning pieces for their own betrayal. And somewhere in the Iron Islands, Balon Greyjoy was planning raids that would spread destruction across the North while its defenders fought amongst themselves.
But first, he had to deal with Theon—his brother in all but blood, now his enemy by choice and circumstance. The boy who'd been jealous of Kole's place in the Stark family, who'd chosen Iron Islands heritage over Northern loyalty, who now threatened everything Kole had sworn to protect.
The siege was just beginning, but already Kole could feel the weight of decisions that would haunt him regardless of which path he chose. Save Winterfell, but at what cost? Protect the innocent, but how many others would die for that protection?
Winter was coming, and with it choices that would define not just the war's outcome but the shape of the man who survived to see its end.
The Iron Wolf prepared to show his teeth.
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