The dawn broke over the Sunset Sea with a deceptive serenity, the sky a canvas of soft oranges and pale yellows, a stark contrast to the crimson stain that would soon mar the waters of Lannisport's harbor. In the bustling port city, life was beginning its familiar rhythm. Fishermen cast their nets, their weathered hands moving with practiced ease, their voices echoing across the still water as they called out to one another. Merchants, their stalls laden with silks and spices from distant lands, haggled over prices in the crowded markets, their laughter and complaints mingling with the rhythmic clang of the shipwrights' hammers repairing hulls and building new vessels in the bustling dockyards. Children chased stray dogs through the narrow, winding streets, their innocent shrieks a counterpoint to the city's commercial hum. Few noticed the ominous shapes emerging from the lingering sea mist, their dragon-headed prows silent harbingers of a brutal dawn.
Olaf Stormblade's longships, fifteen in number, glided through the fog like specters of a forgotten nightmare. Three thousand Skardheim warriors, their faces grim and their weapons at the ready, filled the decks. Their breath plumed white in the cool morning air, their eyes, sharp and predatory, fixed on the unsuspecting city. Olaf, a giant of a man whose braided beard, interwoven with silver rings that glinted in the nascent sunlight, reached his broad chest, stood at the helm of the lead ship, The Sea Wyrm, his one good eye, the other long lost in battles in distant lands, scanning the intricate network of docks and quays with a chilling intensity. The rhythmic beat of their oars, muffled by the mist and the gentle lapping of waves against the hulls, was the only warning Lannisport would receive.
The shriek of the lookout from the Sea Gate tower was the first note of the city's death knell, a strangled cry that ended abruptly as a black-fletched arrow, loosed from the bow of a Skardheim marksman on the lead ship, found its mark with deadly precision, piercing the watchman's throat. Chaos erupted in the harbor as the longships, with terrifying precision honed by years of raiding along the coasts of distant lands, rammed into the defenseless merchant vessels. Splintered wood rained down, the cries of startled sailors caught in their sleep or preparing for the day's work were drowned out by the guttural roars of the berserkers who leaped onto the docks, their axes, stained with the salt of the sea, now thirsting for the warmer, thicker fluid of human blood. Olaf Stormblade, his massive axe Tide-Cleaver a blur of motion, led the initial assault, cleaving through the panicked city watch like a scythe through a field of ripe wheat.
The attack on Lannisport was a maelstrom of brutal efficiency. The Vikings, their bloodlust ignited by the scent of fear and the promise of plunder, surged through the city's narrow streets, their war cries echoing off the stone buildings, shattering the morning's peace with a symphony of violence. Homes were torched, their thatched roofs erupting in plumes of black smoke that stained the pale sky. Inhabitants, dragged screaming from their beds, were cut down in their doorways, their pleas for mercy answered only by the cold steel of Viking blades. The narrow streets became killing grounds, choked with the contorted bodies of men, women, and children, their lives extinguished in a heartbeat of terror. The air filled with the acrid stench of blood and burning wood, the screams of the dying a horrifying chorus of despair that mingled with the triumphant shouts of the invaders.
Victim's Perspective in Lannisport
Old Man Hemlock, a fishmonger whose weathered stall had stood by the harbor for seventy years, a fixture of Lannisport life, was just setting out his morning catch, the silver scales of herring and cod glinting in the nascent sunlight, when the screaming began. He looked up, his rheumy eyes widening in disbelief as armored giants, their faces painted with grotesque symbols of war, poured off the strange ships, their axes raised high in a terrifying salute. A young boy, his grandson Tommen, his small hand clutching Hemlock's calloused fingers, tugged at his sleeve, his face pale with terror, his eyes wide as saucers. Before Hemlock could utter a word of comfort, a towering Viking with a horned helmet that scraped against the low-hanging awning of a nearby shop and a bloodied axe that dripped onto the cobblestones was upon them. The last thing Old Man Hemlock saw was the glint of steel as it descended, a swift and brutal end to a long and simple life.
Across the city, in a modest weaver's shop nestled amongst the taller merchant houses, Elara clutched her two children, little Myra and Willem, close to her breast, the sound of breaking doors and savage shouts drawing inexorably nearer. Her husband, Gareth, a usually jovial man with a strong back and kind eyes, was a member of the city watch, and had left before dawn, his duty calling him to the harbor. Now, the horrifying sounds of fighting told Elara with sickening certainty that he was likely dead, his warmth and protection gone forever. A monstrous roar, unlike anything she had ever heard, echoed from the street outside, followed by the splintering of the heavy oak door of the neighboring apothecary. They were coming. She squeezed her eyes shut, whispering a desperate prayer to the Mother, begging for a mercy that the gods seemed unwilling to grant.
The Goldengrove, the sprawling estate of House Lannister within the city walls, its manicured gardens and grand halls a testament to the family's wealth and influence, became a focal point of the Viking assault. Ser Karys Vance, a grizzled knight who had served House Lannister faithfully for forty years and was left as castellan in Tywin's absence, rallied the household guards, their polished steel armor gleaming under the flickering torchlight as they formed ranks in the main courtyard. But their discipline and training, honed for the ordered battles of Westeros, were no match for the berserkers' furious rampage and the sheer, overwhelming number of the attackers. The grand halls, adorned with tapestries depicting Lannister victories and lined with stern-faced portraits of ancestors who had shaped the history of the West, became battlegrounds. Blood splattered the gold-leafed frames, and the clang of steel against steel echoed through rooms that had known only peace and quiet for generations, now filled with the guttural roars of the invaders and the dying gasps of the defenders.
Meanwhile, fifty leagues to the east, under a sky still thick with the pre-dawn gloom and a moon hidden behind a veil of dark clouds, a different kind of terror was taking root at Casterly Rock. The ancient fortress, carved deep into the living rock, a symbol of Lannister defiance that had stood impregnable against countless sieges throughout the long centuries, now found its very foundations undermined by shadow and sorcery. A thick, unnatural mist, smelling faintly of sulfur and ozone, clung to the craggy cliffs like a malevolent shroud, obscuring the movements of fifteen hundred elite Skardheim warriors led by the implacable Freya Battle-Wise. Theron Shadow Weaver, his pale face illuminated by the eerie glow of the intricate blue runes etched into his skin, moved among them, his whispered incantations twisting the very air, bending the natural world to their dark purpose.
The assault on Casterly Rock was a silent, creeping horror, a violation of the fortress's very essence. Using ropes and grappling hooks forged in the fires of Skardheim and imbued with dark magic, the Vikings, their movements muffled by the unnatural fog and their footsteps sure on the treacherous rock face, scaled the seemingly sheer cliffs. The outer sentries, their senses dulled by the oppressive mist that seemed to seep into their very bones and lulled by the fortress's long and unbroken history of invincibility, were dispatched with swift, silent efficiency, their lives extinguished by unseen blades, their deaths unnoticed until it was far too late.
Victim's Perspective in Casterly Rock
Maester Alaric, his chambers high in the rookery filled with ancient scrolls detailing the history of the Rock and the scent of dried herbs and forgotten lore, was awakened not by a clang of steel or a shout of alarm, but by a chilling, unnatural silence, followed by the soft, sickening thud of a body impacting the cold stone floor just outside his oaken door. He peered through the narrow crack, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, and saw a hulking figure clad in dark, strangely ornate armor, an axe dripping with a viscous, black liquid that shimmered in the faint light, disappearing silently down the dimly lit corridor. The mist, impossibly thick even within the seemingly sealed walls of the castle, swirled around him, carrying faint whispers that seemed to slither into his mind, speaking in a harsh, guttural language that he did not understand but instinctively knew was evil.
Lysa, a young serving girl barely sixteen summers old, her hands still chapped from the morning's chores of drawing water and lighting the cooking fires, was tasked with lighting the ceremonial braziers in the west tower. The narrow windows offered a breathtaking view of the surrounding landscape, usually a source of quiet contemplation. Tonight, however, as she fumbled with flint and steel, she heard a soft, almost imperceptible scrape of metal against stone just outside the thick glass of the window. Curiosity turned to icy terror as a tattooed face, framed by wild, dark hair that seemed to writhe like living shadows, peered back at her through the swirling mist. A guttural snarl, animalistic and filled with malice, escaped the figure before a hand, strong as iron and adorned with rings of blackened bone, smashed through the thick glass, showering her with razor-sharp shards that sliced through her skin.
The interior of Casterly Rock, a labyrinth of twisting tunnels and echoing chambers carved deep into the living rock over millennia, became a claustrophobic nightmare. The Vikings, their senses preternaturally sharp in the magically enhanced gloom, moved through the darkness like predators in their own den, their footsteps silent on the cold stone floors. The screams of the Lannister guards, cut down in the oppressive darkness, their surprise turning to mortal terror in their final moments, reverberated through the ancient halls, a horrifying symphony of death echoing the Rock's long history of defiance turned to utter vulnerability.
Freya, Skull-Splitter a bloodied extension of her implacable will, led the vanguard, her massive form a terrifying specter in the flickering torchlight carried by her silent, deadly warriors. Each swing of her hammer was a death sentence, shattering plate armor as easily as bone, leaving a gruesome trail of mangled bodies and shattered limbs in her wake. The ancestral tapestries depicting the triumphs of House Lannister, woven with threads of gold and silver, were ripped down and used to stanch the flow of blood, their vibrant colors soon obscured by the thick, dark crimson of the fallen. The intricate carvings in the stone walls, depicting lions rampant and the proud history of the West, became silent witnesses to brutal executions.
Theron's Dark Magic
Theron Shadow Weaver moved through the chaos, his long, pale fingers tracing glowing runes in the air, the arcane symbols burning with an inner, unsettling light. Where his fingers passed, shadows seemed to deepen and writhe with a life of their own, clinging to the Lannister defenders, slowing their movements and clouding their minds. Lannister guards swore they saw phantom figures flanking the Vikings, their spectral weapons striking with chilling accuracy, wounds appearing on their comrades with no earthly blade to cause them. The very corridors of Casterly Rock seemed to twist and shift, familiar passages leading to dead ends, grand staircases dissolving into nothingness, disorienting the defenders and leading them into deadly ambushes.
Lord Tygett Lannister, the aging castellan, his face etched with a lifetime of service to House Lannister, attempted to rally the remaining defenders in the Great Hall, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and a desperate, fading defiance. But as they formed ranks, a wave of icy dread washed over them, emanating from the very stones of the Rock. The air grew heavy, thick with a palpable sense of ancient malice, and whispers, not of mortal men, but of something cold, vast, and malevolent, slithered into their minds, planting insidious seeds of panic and utter despair. Several seasoned guards, men who had faced down seasoned reavers and wildling incursions, dropped their swords and fled in blind terror, their courage utterly broken by the unseen, unholy horror.
The brutality was absolute, devoid of any semblance of mercy. No quarter was given, no pleas for life heeded. The ancient halls of Casterly Rock, which had stood for millennia as an unyielding testament to Lannister power, became a charnel house, the stone floors slick with the mingled blood of attacker and defender, the air thick with the metallic tang of death and the stench of fear. By the time the weak morning light finally filtered through the arrow slits, casting long, dancing shadows across the carnage, the proud banners of House Lannister, the golden lion rampant on crimson, had been torn down and replaced by crude standards bearing the unsettling symbols of the Norse gods – the raven of Odin, the hammer of Thor, defiling the very heart of Lannister dominion. Freya stood amidst the carnage in the ruined Great Hall, Skull-Splitter resting on a grotesque pile of corpses, a grim smile, devoid of any warmth or humanity, twisting her lips.
Tywin's Internal Turmoil
Miles away, as Tywin Lannister, his mind consumed by battle plans for the swift march west, reviewed maps spread across a heavy oaken table, a cold dread began to creep into his heart, an icy tendril of premonition that tightened with each passing moment. The ravens that arrived were not the orderly messengers he was accustomed to, but frantic, panicked birds, their messages fragmented, stained with blood, and filled with unimaginable horror. Lannisport… under attack… burning. Casterly Rock… breached… fallen? He initially dismissed the garbled reports as the panicked ramblings of frightened peasants, exaggerating the threat. But the sheer volume and horrifying consistency of the grim tidings soon shattered his carefully constructed wall of denial. He saw again the proud, golden walls of Lannisport rising from the sea, the formidable silhouette of Casterly Rock against the sky, the faces of his kin, Kevan, Genna, his grandchildren, and the weight of eight centuries of Lannister rule, now threatened by a foreign savage and his barbaric horde.
He summoned the messenger who brought the definitive news of Casterly Rock's fall, a young guardsman barely a man, his eyes wide with the vacant stare of deep trauma, his hands still trembling uncontrollably as he clutched the remnants of a bloodied Lannister banner. As the boy stammered out his disjointed tale of the unnatural mist that clung to the cliffs, the silent, almost spectral scaling of the seemingly impossible heights, the slaughter in the dark, echoing corridors, Tywin felt a cold, visceral fury grip his heart, squeezing it with an iron fist. His breath grew shallow, ragged gasps escaping his lips as his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned bone white. Casterly Rock… fallen. The words echoed in the silent chambers, a death knell not only for the lives lost but for his own pride, his family's honor, and the enduring legacy he had striven his entire life to protect.
Jaime stood beside him, his golden hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword, his face a mask of grief and a raw, undisguised disbelief. The other Lannister lords present, hardened veterans of countless battles, shared their shock and simmering anger, their hushed whispers a low murmur of disbelief that quickly curdled into a primal thirst for vengeance. For the first time since his return to King's Landing, Tywin saw a flicker of genuine, unadulterated emotion in Jaime's emerald eyes, a raw pain that mirrored the icy agony in his own soul.
Tywin's hand slammed down on the intricately detailed war map, scattering the carefully arranged tokens representing armies and strongholds like fallen dominoes. The hushed whispers of Ser Kevan and other more cautious advisors, urging a strategic reassessment of their plans, a careful evaluation of the enemy's strength, were lost in the roaring tempest of his incandescent rage. This was no longer about cold strategy or political maneuvering; it was about family, about the sanctity of his ancestral home, about the blood that had been spilled on Lannister soil.
"Prepare the army," Tywin's voice was a low, guttural growl, each word a venomous barb laced with a deadly intent that sent a shiver of fear and anticipation down the spines of his assembled commanders. "We march for the West. Every Viking we find, man, woman, or child, who bears the mark of that foreign serpent, will be put to the sword. Lannisport and Casterly Rock will be ours again. By the blood of my ancestors and the fire of my wrath, they will pay tenfold for this unimaginable atrocity."
The Lannister host, their numbers swelled by the fury of their lords and the fear of what had befalled their homeland, turned westward with a grim determination, their march no longer a calculated strategic maneuver but a desperate race against time, a pilgrimage of vengeance. The proud banners of the golden lion, usually symbols of wealth and power, now flew with a fierce, vengeful purpose, their crimson field seeming to foreshadow the rivers of blood that were yet to flow. The fragile peace in King's Landing, a delicate construct built on a shared enemy, fractured further, the horrifying news of the Westerlands' devastation sending shockwaves of fear and uncertainty through the capital, threatening to reignite the simmering conflict between the Stag and the Lion. The fragile hope for a unified resistance against Loki Bloodaxe, a beacon that had flickered briefly after the liberation of the capital, seemed to crumble into ash with each grim report carried from the West. The Serpent had struck again, and his venom had found its mark deep within the very heart of the Lion's den, promising a war more brutal, more personal, and far more terrifying than Westeros had ever known.