NOTE - I love Victarion, he's badass. A snapshot into the developments in the Greyjoy theatre. Hope you enjoy, review, follow, favourite.
Victarion
Damn them bloody bog-devils. Damn there green-lander eyes. Then again, the land around the Neck wasn't really green, it was brown. Brown, brown and more brown. He'd been here for what seemed like years. Moat Cailin had never been taken from the South aye, but from the North, it was very weak. His Ironmen had come down on the ruined fortress at night, and slaughtered the paltry garrison the Young Wolf had left there. Now, with the Moat secure, the Northerner soldiers were trapped in the Riverlands, while Balon's reavers ran riot across their homeland. Victarion sat in his chamber at the top of the Gatehouse Tower. He had chosen this on as it was the least damaged, he hated castles, preferring his ship Iron Victory any night. As he sat, he deliberated on the situation. He had not been blessed with the brains of Balon and Euron, this he knew, but he still thought about what he would do, despite the popular belief that he was an idiot. Let them think that, then they will always underestimate me.
He had heard that Asha had taken Deepwood Motte, as according to the plan, and that she was preparing to move on Bear Island. The girl had done well, and was deserving of her command than he would ever admit. Victarion had been at the Great Council of War when he announced his plan to reclaim the Seastone Chair. He had seen the gleam in Asha's eye.
"I always wanted a castle of my own." She had said.
"And whats my role in all this?" Theon had asked. A stupid boy, made soft by the Starks. He was no Ironman, Victarion had thought.
"Your role would be to stay here if it were my decision, boy. You are a soft greenlander, not true Ironborn." Victarion Greyjoy always spoke his mind.
His brother then informed Theon that he would take a ship to raid the villages on the Stony Shore. His expression had been priceless, Asha had smirked, Victarion had bellowed with laughter. Then Theon had begun to go on about his greenlander lord, Robb Stark. The Lord Captain stopped listening, the way the lad went on about the Young Wolf was enough to make anyone think they were lovers. He was pulled back to the conversation by his own instructions.
"Brother, you will take the Iron Fleet and seize Moat Cailin. This will cut off the Stark army from their homelands, with them out of the way, we will secure the Neck, and everything above."
He had done as he was bid, as had Asha. The problem, as he predicted, was Balon's limp-pricked, boy whore of a son. The lad had somehow mustered the balls to have Dagmer Cleftjaw attack Torrhen's Square, drawing off the Stark defence forces, and attack the undefended Winterfell. Well, it had backfired spectacularly. Stark's loyal puppy Rodrik Cassel had left the Square and besieged Winterfell. Granted, Cleftjaw had then taken the Square, but how long could he hold it? Victarion placed his money on not long. Not that he had a need for money, he paid the iron price, not the gold. His arrogant nephew had sent a raven calling for reinforcements, Victarion had not replied, would not reply. The boy was a fool, to attack so far from the sea. Their strength was in their fleets, they had not the men to hold such a vast expanse of dry land - they needed the ships. Now that word of Winterfell's fall had spread, the Stark boy would lead his men north, and that meant he must force the Moat. Victarion would be damned if he would fail his duty to his King, but all the same, it was Theon's bloody fault. If his stupidity got them all killed, he swore he would rip out his throat. The last words of his brother Damphair came to him. No man is as accursed as the kinslayer. He had said the same when Victarion planned to kill Euron, damn his smiling eye, after he had been forced to beat his wife to death after Euron took her.
His mind returned to Howland Reed's bog-devils, with their poison darts. It did not bother Victarion, who wore full plate even at sea, but few of his men had access to proper mail, never mind full plate. Not a day had gone by without at least two men being hit. The worst part was the pestilence. No matter how hard his healers or the Drowned Priest he'd brought from Old Wyk tried, the wounds festered. He'd been to see the first man to fall like this, his leg swollen and green, in absolute agony, the rot spreading up to his chest. Victarion had known there was naught to be done. He had taken the knife from his belt and killed the man there and then. He had seen the panic in his eyes. But it had to be done.
He had led an attack party out after a week of these pot-shot attacks, but all resistance had melted away when he led a party of fifty heavily armed and armoured men into the marsh. They tried to follow the paths, but sank nonetheless. He had heard them screaming behind him as they panicked, got stuck and began to sink. Maron Blacktyde had gone like that. Andrik Sunderly, his cousin, had been bitten by some foul creature of the depths. He had fought the poison, had almost made it back to the Moat, but had fallen into the water. A lizard-lion took him. Huge, grey and scaled. Andrik was not the only one who'd gone like that. Not the death of an Ironborn. Granted, he had died in the water, but the Ironborn should die at sea, not in some foul marsh. Another sortie had not been attempted.
Then the raven had come. His King was dead, had fallen from a rope bridge at Pyke. The letter was in the hand of his brother Damphair, so he knew it to be true.
The King of Salt and Rock is dead. I had the news through Gerold Goodbrother. Euron has claimed the Seastone Chair, he arrived on Pyke the day after Balon fell from the bridge. Lord Botley was murdered for opposing him. No godless man may rule us. I am calling a Kingsmoot. You must return brother. Euron cannot rule us, you must. Continue Balon's legacy, come to the Kingsmoot on Old Wyk.
Aeron's words were brief, as always. Yet no doubt was left in the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. He would sail, with the majority of his strength. The Moat could always be retaken, and he had never been so eager to leave a place. Who else would stand against the Crow's Eye, who else could? Theon was the heir of Balon's body, but he was as good as dead. Cassel would only suffer him to live long enough for his precious Robb to come north and take his head off personally. Asha was next, yet no woman could sit the Seastone Chair. That left Euron, Aeron and himself, yet the Damphair would not stand. He did not know which fools of the other islands would put forth their names, but they were not krakens. It would be the Crow's Eye or the Lord Captain. He would rule, he must. No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair. He was resolved, he would stand for the Kingsmoot. May the Drowned God see him take Balon's place. He had never been a match for Euron, except with an axe. Of all his brothers, the Crow's Eye had been the one he hated, long before he claimed his wife. God be just, he would see him dead. But not at my hand, no man is as accursed as the kinslayer.