THE IRON KRAKEN
Victarion grumbled to himself as he walked the long courtyard of Harrenhal, looking for a dark place to empty his bladder. Damned Harren. Everything about this place is wrong. Even the shadows. Victarion swore quietly to himself as he ducked into a corner, and loosened his breeches. The stream of piss came heavy and warm. It dimly occurred to Victarion that this was the first thing he'd done at Harrenhal that was actually a comfort. Including get drunk. Damned greenlander ale, he thought to himself. Weak as water all of it.
He gave his head a shake. He should not be here. No Ironborn should be here. That little dwarf his silly young brothers were fond of might have been better served by being given to the ocean at birth then being allowed to grow old and clad himself in silks and finery, but he was not wrong when he called this place Harren's Folly. Look it, big as sin, and leagues from the sea. This where it all went wrong for us, and not just when the dragons came. When the Hoares started to lay the first stone...
The stream was at last weakening, but too quickly - the dribble splashed his boots. He gave a grumble, and wished himself back home. If he were on Pyke right now, he would be enjoying good strong drink, in the company of his elder brothers, in preparations of the war that was to come. Instead he was here, making his way slowly to King's Landing, watching his younger brothers make fools of themselves, with the damned Lord of Trout standing over him the entire way, looking at him in that awful knowing way of his, as if Victarion was preparing to rush off with his valuables if he let his gaze falter for a moment. It was infuriating, all of it, but his Lord Father had ordered him to go, and Victarion was a dutiful son. He was for King's Landing, to pledge his sword to this Stag King, and tell him the Ironborn would aid him, aye, and help him lay the Reach so low it would never trouble him again, if he would but give them a few choice baubles...
Victarion frowned as he tucked his member away. Greenlander ideas, all of it, but Lord Quellon was besotted with them. And it was no doubt where it all came from. This all bore the mark of the woman - he would not call her mother, never - who had so bewitched him with her charms. His father needed to show the Ironborn he was still the great captain he had been. Instead he stared at maps, and muttered things about terms. Men were growing restless - the Drowned Men were making grim prophecies, and a man had appeared at the Lonely Light, claiming to be Lodos come again, though he was likely nothing more than a Farwynd bastard. He'd been mad enough - after proclaiming his kingdom, he'd gone out in a rowboat during a spring storm to 'speak with the Drowned God', and drowned himself. Blaspheming fool. Still it boded ill.
He remembered the long talks with Balon and Euron, the endless complaints. "Father won't dare anything!" Balon had snapped once. "At times like this, he becomes a scared boy, sailing with Grandfather against the Fair Island!" Euron had agreed, and even Victarion had to nod at this, for all this talk against Quellon made him uneasy. Every time Balon spoke to him of action, Quellon regaled his eldest sons with the tale of their grandfather, Turlogh the Black, who dared to attack the Westerlands when the man they called the Toothless Lion even in the Iron Islands was Lord of Casterly Rock. The tales of weakness, and the success of his lesser lords brought Turlogh south, eager to win glory at the easy pickings now available, his sons Quellon, Theon and Vickon rowing at the oars. "He found glory for a while," Quellon was fond of noting. "Followed by bloody death." Oh, Lord Lannister was a weakling and a fool, but his bannerman Lord Farman was not. When it was clear that his liege would not move against the Ironborn, he assembled his own fleet and wrought a bloody vengeance driving Turlogh's reavers away. Turlogh was amongst those slain in that battle-Turlogh and his two younger sons. Quellon became the Lord of the Iron Isles cradling his brother Theon in his arms as the life dripped away from him, and it had affected his entire rule.
"A scared old man," Euron used to mutter to his brothers, "frighting at shadows and afraid of being outshone by his sons." But never to Quellon's face. No Ironborn dared to risk the Lord Reaper of Pyke's anger, which was great, and backed by prodigious strength, even now, and a great cunning that seemed to only grow with age. Even wily Euron had been made to look a fool by their father, when he tried to match wits with him. Truth be told, it was hard not to admire a man like Quellon, no matter how you disagreed with him. At least, Victarion found it so.
"Enjoying the night air, sirrah?" came a sharp female voice as he finished lacing up his breeches. Victarion turned swiftly to see the eldest Bracken sister standing behind him, a saucy grin on her face. He felt a sudden embarrassment as he wondered how long she had been standing there.
"I was... I had business..." he heard himself offering weakly, and was half-amazed he even bothered to reply.
"Yes, pissing," she noted. "You see? I can use the word and not faint." She stepped forward bold as could be. "Truth be told, I even do it myself on occasion, as the mood strikes me." Barbara glanced up at the night sky. "A pleasant evening, no? I find this spring air makes my blood run hot. What of you, my giant of an ironman?"
"My blood runs as it runs," answered Victarion, trying to make heads or tails of the lady's speech. "Why are you pestering me so?" he asked at last, trying for a direct answer.
She stared at him for a moment and then gave a chuckle. "Well, you are a forward blunt one, I'll grant you, and as I'm in the mood for forward bluntness, I'll answer you in kind. I followed you out here, good Greyjoy, because I like the look of you."
Victarion's right hand went to his long, plain face almost of its own accord. He was not unfamiliar with the charms of women - Euron had seen to that one evening in the Summer Isles - and he had wed the year before last, besides, but even so he had never had a woman talk to him like this. "The look of... What are you speaking of?"
"I thought I was perfectly clear," answered Barbara with a shrug and a grin. "I enjoy how you look. Oh, you're not Jaime Lannister, or those pretty brothers of yours, but you've a pleasing enough appearance for me." The grin grew several degrees sharper. "We Brackens are horse-breeders after all, and if my Lord Father taught me anything it is that you don't judge a mount by the face." She paced around him casually, giving him an appraising glance. "You judge it by the haunch."
Victarion watched her warily, trying to follow what she was saying. "Well... very well then. You like to look at me. So what?"
Barbara made a little pout at this. "You wound me, giant. I praise your looks, and what do I get in return but more angry questions." She stepped forward, looking up into his eyes. "Do you not like to look at me as well?"
Victarion backed up at this, and felt a foot strike the wall. "You're fair enough," he stated.
The pout vanished, the grin returning. "Very good. And so as both of us find each other... passable at least, why don't we celebrate this shared affinity, hmmm?" His bafflement must have been clear on his face, for the lady continued. "Come, here we stand, a Greyjoy and a Bracken, in this place the cruel men who were masters of our kin built with our unwilling aid. Now they are all dead, but we - we are alive. Let's use that life to make this ruin ring out with pleasure, my iron giant." She raised an eyebrow meaningfully at him.
Victarion shifted uncomfortably at this. He'd heard that greenlander women were strumpets and whores from living their lives in unseemly luxury, but being confronted with this in the flesh was somehow different then he imagined. "You... your father..."
"Is miles away, and would as like do little but swear and curse me for a slut if he found out," she replied. "I am his heir, and shall be unless my dear little stepmother should somehow spit out a boy from her womb. Should that happen, I've no doubt I'm off to some motherhouse to repent my sins, so I feel should make them well worth it. And should it not, then rest assured whatever husband I take will swear to my virtue." She smiled. "As well as to my beauty, my charm, my wit, and my utter wonderfulness. Stone Hedge may be an ugly castle, but it's a pretty piece of land." She stepped forward, and placed a hand on his chest. "Come now. I've always heard you ironmen are ever keen to ravish we Riverland women, and I'm keen to be ravished at the moment." She chuckled. "Why, if you are good enough, I may decide to keep you. Wouldn't that be a nice little prize for an evening's play, mmm?"
"I am married," said Victarion suddenly. "To a Goodbrother of Old Wyk." He tried to recall his wife's face to his mind but found he could not. Ute was... an unassuming woman, something Victarion had always been glad of until this very moment.
"You have my sympathies, then," said Barbara. "Still, that changes little, does it not? As I recall, you ironmen may have more than one wife. You may wed me, then bring your Goodbother of Moldstick dirt wife... that is the term, no? Anyway, you may bring her to Stone Hedge, with you, and I will amuse myself by dressing her silks and lace, and you will amuse yourself with whichever of us strikes your fancy at the moment..." She glanced at him, frowning and irritated. "Well? Must I ravish you for any of this to begin?"
He pushed her hand off and moved away. "I... this tires me. If you wish to make mock of me, do so behind my back with your friends."
"But what I wish is to fuck you," stated Barbara following behind him. "You cannot tell me this is such a terrible ordeal for you. I've known men, and trust me, as a rule, they enjoy it."
Victarion glared at her over his shoulder. "You are crying to be raped," he snapped.
"I've heard that one before," said Barbara with a sneer. "The man who said it before you regretted it. I'm sturdier than I look, giant, and you men have lots of little pieces to grab and break." She gave a dark chuckle. "They tell me the oaf might never be able to pick up a sword again. Which is more than fair to my mind. Another weapon he's incapable with." She gave a mocking bow. "Well, a good evening to you then, Victarion Greyjoy. When your nethers ache and pine for me in the dark, remember it was you who sent me scurrying elsewhere when you take the matter in hand." And with that she went off.
Victarion headed off himself then - in the opposite direction - swearing to himself about greenlander women and their wanton ways. That was when he heard the shout. Worried that the woman might blame him for whatever the trouble was somehow - he would not have unearned dishonor placed at his feet - he turned and headed to the source of the noise.
Barbara Bracken stood over a fallen man, prodding him repeatedly with her foot. "You should lay off that," he muttered as he came by her side.
"I see no reason," muttered Barbara, with a distasteful frown. "This man is dead, giant, and cannot object." She gestured to the blood pooling from the body's slit throat. Crossing her arms, she looked at Victarion for a moment. "You've powerful lungs, I wager. Care to help me raise an alarum?"
