The duck was cold.
Lord Rickard stared distastefully down at the plate. The servants of late had been ignorant and lazy, and he would have to replace them soon if they didn't start learning how to work properly.
"M'lord?" The serving girl who was standing by tentatively leaned closer. "Is there a… a problem, m'lord?"
"Yes," Lord Rickard said curtly. "This isn't even warm. It was just brought out of the kitchens and you cannot seem to keep it above the temperature of ice."
The serving girl quailed at that, and Lord Rickard sighed. "I'm not going to punish you. Who cooked this?"
"S-Symon Hender, m'lord," she said, voice trembling. "He w-was the cook for tonight."
"Well, kindly tell Symond Hender that he'll be needing a new job as of tonight." Lord Rickard sighed. "I may as well eat this."
The serving girl curtsied, bowing her head, and scuttled away. The vast stone halls here were damp-feeling and you could hear the sound of the sea echoing through the hallways.
House Levithan had always owned the Iron Islands. But they hadn't been ruled with an iron fist until Lord Rickard had returned them to the old ways. The last proper lord of the Islands had ruled over a thousand years ago, and they had been complacent ever since. No longer, Rickard had decided when his father died and he ascended the Seastone Chair. No longer.
Footsteps sounded, and Lord Rickard glanced up as his younger sibling hurried into the room. "Ah," he said, raising one eyebrow. "Kind of you to join me, Roman."
Roman glared at him. "Kind of you to summon me."
The corner of Rickard's mouth twitched. "I rang the bells," he said innocently. "It is no fault of mine if you had your ears stuffed full of cotton skirts."
Roman flushed slightly. He drew himself up taller and strode up the hall to take his seat. Lord Rickard felt the air move as he passed. Fascinating, that he had managed to take on such a chilly attitude so quickly.
Roman was four years the younger of Lord Rickard, and the second son of three. The third had been killed two years before when his boat sank at sea. Lord Rickard did not particularly pity the lost brother; Doren had been weak, no true Levithan, only a stupid young child from a second wife. Their lord father had fallen from a tower and died before his third son has lost his life; everyone had mourned the tragedy, save for Rickard and Roman. In time Rickard became Lord Rickard, Roman became the next in succession, Doren became dead, and no one ever had to know how Lord Neron fell out of a tower he had lived in all his life.
As soon as the mourning period for Lord Neron was over, Lord Rickard had taken control and implemented some changes in the Iron Islands. He had confined Doren's lady mother to the Ten Towers on Harlaw and rid himself of her influence, then systematically picked out those who were willing to betray him and removed them from his service. Roman was his confident for now, his partner in the crimes he committed- rather, didn't commit, because no one could testify to them. Roman was invaluable resource- and an enormous weakness. Rickard found him more useful than dangerous, however. For now.
He brought his rule down upon the Iron Islands like a mailed gauntlet. He reformed them down to the households of smallfolk. The Islands that he governed would be as strong as the ones of old that fought and raided up and down the coast of Westeros.
"Who was it this time?" Lord Rickard slid his eyes over to glance at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Roman said nothing, only gestured to be served. The girl who had vanished earlier reappeared after a second and laid a dish in front of him- the same as Lord Rickard's, and just as cold by the look of it.
"This is cold," Roman said after a moment. The serving girl inched backwards, trying to look impassive. Her terror showed, however, and she flicked her eyes between the brothers fearfully.
"I'm aware of this," Lord Rickard sighed. "The cook needs… replacing."
"Again?"
Lord Rickard smiled. This was not a common sight, and thus it was frightening. His face was broad and open, his hair shorn short, but his eyes were narrow and sly. When he smiled, he pulled his lips back to reveal near-perfect teeth. His mouth moved, but the smile never touched his eyes. They remained cold as stone, as seawater. "We'll eat well from now on, Brother."
Roman raised an eyebrow and smirked.
At that moment, their semblance of a dinner was interrupted as an old man shuffled into the room. He was a maester, though most disregarded him, and he was only kept around for his skill with ravens. "My lord Rickard," he croaked, then coughed and revived his voice somewhat. "My Lord."
"What is it, Gaeren," Rickard said, sounding bored. The maester usually came with trivial news about Westeros that no one in the Iron Islands cared about.
"My lord, there has been an uprising in the south of Westeros."
"Tell me more."
Gaeren failed to hear the sarcasm. "Yes, my lord. House Helian has slain the prince living in King's Landing and instilled their own king in his place. Crowley Helian has proclaimed himself as King of Westeros in the south. The royal family must respond, and go to war. They will call upon you, my lord, as will the Helians."
Now this was interesting. "War, you say? Must I support one or the other?" His eyes glittered. The Iron Islands was not a part of Westeros, and couldn't be regarded as such. If the realm was torn between two royal houses, he could raise his own claim as King of the Iron Islands instead of merely Lord. He would answer to no one.
He liked the sound of that.
Gaeren caught the tone of his voice and was about to speak, but paused. "My lord… you cannot possibly be thinking of…?"
"Of course I'm not," Lord Rickard snorted derisively. "Don't be a fool. Gaeren."
The maester pursed his lips, but nodded. "As you say."
"Go. Say nothing as of yet, but I will keep this in mind."
Maester Gaeren bowed stiffly and left the hall. Lord Rickard sliced a piece of cold duck and ate it thoughtfully, staring down the stone walls to nothing.
"We could be kings," Roman said, the instant Gaeren couldn't hear them anymore. "That's what you're thinking, right?"
Lord Rickard sent him a sharp look. "Not so loudly, Roman," he sighed. "Unless you intend on blurting every plot and plan ever made within the Islands to the world at large, hold your tongue until I declare anything."
Roman, suitably chastised, lapsed into silence. Lord Rickard stared down at his meal, but it was improperly made and distasteful, and he couldn't bring himself to eat any more. Instead, he sat back in his chair- maybe a throne, perhaps, someday, maybe soon- and steepled his fingers. Roman glanced up at him every so often, and found him staring off into space, smiling disconcertingly.
That was two smiles in as many minutes. The Iron Islands were about to change.
