Victarion.
Victarions life was made up of small traditions. Church every Sunday, followed by coffee at the little beach café around the corner. Every morning, he took his boat out in to the harbour – come rain or shine. On Wednesdays, he would get takeaway from the little Chinese two blocks from his house. It would always be the same meal. On Friday, he would visit his mother's grave and leave a bunch of yellow roses.
And Thursday meant the evening at his brothers house. The weekly Greyjoy family dinner had existed long before Victarion and would doubtless continue long after him, marching ever onward in an inevitable procession of slightly undercooked meat dishes and bland vegetables. Some traditions were easier to endure than others.
His brother had inherited this home from their father, and had made no concession to comfort or sentimentality. It was a large, sprawling place that had seemed to grow over the years in a rather organic but uneven manner. Various extensions had been made to the sides and the attic, expanding the original building up and out, like a hungry beast, eating up the space around it. Some sections had been rebuilt or knocked down, others left to rot in quiet decay once they were no longer needed. It ran the gamut of dull, sea-foam colours like the ocean under a cloudy sky. Balon did not spend money on anything so frivolous or cosmetic as re-painting. Nevertheless, there was a certain charm to it. It would never be sold. It was tradition.
The food tonight had been passable at least. The turkey had been dry, but at least it was hot and not quite all the flavour had been cooked out of the vegetables. Victarion remembered that it had not always been so grim. As a boy, the house had been filled with the rich smells of roasts and fry ups, grease and salt and spices, fish in batter and pork crackling in its own skin. Every meal left his belly full and his mouth watering. But when there was no money to pay the cooks and the maids, they had not stayed. Some of the older ones had done, out of loyalty, but they had all died now. Balon did not beg the others to return. He would rather suffer this meagre offering than go hunting for some substandard staff who were there just for a paycheck. There was a time when shop keeps would have sent over the best of their stores to the house, just to pay their respects. A Greyjoy only had to walk down the street to be handed bags of groceries, all with the compliments of the owner. Victarion often reflected on the irony of it. When they had been rich, they had never needed to pay for a thing.
Still, the well had not yet run completely dry. There was money left enough for Carellen's furs and Aeron's drinking, for Euron's cigars and Balon's suits. And they had the port.
The Greyjoys had always run the docklands. It was the reason Aerys had not smashed them completely; their connections had made it far easier for him handle the particular imports that kept his business alive. Drugs, cars, girls… whatever he needed to bring in, the Greyjoys had provided. As long as they behaved, Aerys had no reason to oust them. It was how they had survived. But it had soon become apparent that that was all they were going to be allowed to do – survive. Quellon had been happy to accept that. Balon was not.
After dinner, Victarion would have a brandy to help him digest the dinner he had just endured – another ritual, hard to break. He liked to drink it alone, sitting in the high-backed chairs by the bay windows, overlooking the waterfront. Tonight though, he found Euron already in his seat. His dark-haired brother grinned up at him from the gloom, his one eye glinting mischievously.
'Do you smell it, brother?' he asked, cryptically. He was sat low in the chair, his legs spread and his arms loose at his sides. He closed his eye and inhaled deeply.
'It's the smell of change.'
He looked up again and smiled another wide grin. He was half in shadow, half in the orange glow of the street lights.
'Our brother is making plans. Can't you feel it in your blood? It's stirring. Something lost, now reclaimed.'
He licked his lips slowly. Victarion took the seat opposite him, all the while painfully aware that it was the wrong one. There was an expression in his brothers eye that he had not seen for a while, and it brought with it memories he would sooner forget. A dark corner, a knife, the fear so sharp it made his stomach lurch. Euron was older than him, and had always been stronger. He had held him down so easily….
He took a sip and looked away, towards the sea and the comforting rock of the water. He could still feel the eye on him though.
'Don't deny it, it excites you just as much as it does me' the other man chuckled. 'You remember the old days, don't you? You remember what we used to be?'
'I remember five boys. Doing stupid things, pretending to be adults. It didn't end well.'
Euron shrugged and put his hands behind his head, stretching.
'Five, and now four. The way Aeron drinks, it'll be three soon enough. But you know what I mean… After all of that.'
He leant forward then, casting more of his face in to the light. His one remaining eye looked like jet. Smooth, black and featureless. Like a shark.
'I remember. You smiled as you killed him. The man who took my eye. We both smiled as the blood washed over us.'
Victarion remembered. He remembered all of them. He hated himself for that smile; it had betrayed him. Euron smiled. He was not like Euron.
'It will be like that again. And soon. Our wise brother has finally decided to bite the hand that feeds him. I can't wait.'
Victarion took another drink and tried to ignore the fact that his pulse had quickened. Ever since that ride home from the church, he could deny that his thoughts had drifted ever more back to those days. He had been just barely in his twenties, quick to temper, a gun in his hand and no one but Balon had been able to stop him using it. He had been so angry… He thought he was winning back their respect. His family was owed that at least.
'It won't be like before' he managed to say, hoping his voice didn't give him away. 'Only those that need to will die.'
Euron gave a shallow laugh.
'There's a difference?' he asked.
