Balon Greyjoy stood defiantly in front of the man who had defeated him and his rebellion, head held high, looking him directly in the face, his unwavering, piercing gaze making the man uncomfortable despite being victorious and holding the man's very life in his hands. The viciousness of the Greyjoy's last stand had caused him to weep when he saw the death and destruction they had wrought upon his men; even now, the cloying stench of rotting flesh permeated the air around him, though it was but a few hours after the surrender. Standing here in the hall of his enemy, a thick layer of blood coating the floor upon which he stood, so deep that it went to his ankles, soaking his boots in the viscous crimson liquid, Eddard Stark felt truly alone.
Yet none of this perturbed Balon Greyjoy. The man who had fought on to the bitter end, even when his eldest sons were killed leaving him a daughter of five, one son of four years and another of one. It was those children, and their three uncles, who now stood behind their defeated lord. The biggest man standing behind Balon, his brother Victarion, looked as if he wanted nothing more in the world than to tear off Eddard's head with his bare hands. The next largest (though he could hardly be called large), Euron, wore a look of amusement, as if he knew that the rebellion would always come to this and that he was silently laughing at his brother. The smallest man, Aeron, and the two eldest children watched in fear, waiting to see what violent retribution would be brought against them. The youngest, however, who had barely seen one year and stood on unsteady legs, knee-deep in blood, stared right back at Eddard, in the same manner as his father, with such a hatred in his eyes that Eddard visibly recoiled when he met the boy's stare. He could not believe that such a young child, barely capable of speech, let alone walking, could harbour such hatred within him. He was too young to even understand why his family was doing what it did, why there was a strange man standing in his home and why he was standing in a warm, thick liquid. At least, so Eddard thought. However, interrupting Eddard's worrying about the child who would no doubt one day grow to hate the men who had torn his family apart, Robert Baratheon strode into the hall, his armour spattered in blood, his mighty hammer at his side.
"Ned!" he shouted, his booming voice echoing off the cold stone walls. "I see you've got the rebel scum under control." he growled.
Eddard swallowed nervously. After all, they had been the rebel scum only six years ago. "Though," thought Eddard, "that was justified. This was not."
"Yes, your Grace. They have surrendered. They await your sentence." he replied. Robert walked over to Balon, standing in front of him and looking him and his family up and down. He too, recoiled slightly when he met the eyes of the youngest son, whose unflinching stare caused him to lose his words for a short while. He looked Balon squarely in the eyes and opened his mouth to speak.
"Do you surrender and acknowledge me as your liege lord and rightful king?" Robert ground out.
Balon said nothing for a while, causing Eddard to tense up in anticipation of another battle, the anger and hatred in the room palpable, but he replied after a minute, coolly and evenly. "Yes."
"Yes, Your Grace." Eddard corrected, his voice also lacking in emotion. Robert waved his hand at Eddard, indicating his contentment with the way in which he was addressed.
"Greyjoy has just lost a rebellion after all." Robert mused, though he was still clearly not content with a simple surrender. Eddard simply grunted his agreement. Robert looked at Balon's eldest remaining son, an idea seemingly forming in his head, and then turned to face Eddard.
"You will take his heir to foster at Winterfell. His life will be forfeit if his father tries anything that goes against the laws of the realm." he said with finality, before striding out of the hall without a single backward glance, leaving Eddard to deal with the now-bawling child and his hostile family. The Greyjoy's did not react as he came forward to take the child away. They did not react as he picked up the crying toddler and they did not react as he carried him out of the hall. The only reaction that the Greyjoy's gave was a mild look of disappointment from Balon as his son began to cry, as if he was dishonoured by his son's fear.
"No matter." thought Eddard. "I will raise him to be a better man than his father. I only hope the gods will stop Balon from attempting such madness again."
Just before he left the hall, Eddard cast one more glance back at the Greyjoy family and saw the youngest, the boy with the indomitable quiet strength, staring straight back at him. The last thing Eddard Stark ever saw of his new ward's family was the cold, hard and unflinching face of his younger brother; Urrigon Greyjoy.
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Fifteen years later
Dagmer Cleftjaw stood on the stone pontoon a few metres from the shoreline, watching as Aeron Greyjoy, otherwise known as the "Damphair", performed the blessing of the Drowned God on the young man kneeling in the waters in front of the priest; the young man was taking the blessing on his name-day, on the day that the laws of gods and men recognised him as a man. The Damphair uncorked a hide flask and upended it over the young man's head, pouring a stream of sea-water onto his wavy, shoulder-length jet-black hair. The young man kept his eyes closed as he was blessed and kept them shut as the priest began to speak the litany.
"Let Urrigon your servant be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel." the Damphair chanted in a low voice.
"What is dead may never die." the young man replied in a loud and firm voice.
"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger." the priest affirmed, re-corking the flask and smiling gently down at the young man kneeling in the cold waters of the Sunset Sea. "Stand, nephew. You have been blessed by the Drowned God." he said. "It bodes well for your first reaving." he continued, as the young man began to make his way back to the pontoon, the shingle of the beach crunching beneath his black leather boots. The young man smiled back and nodded, but said nothing until he reached the tall, gaunt grey man standing next to Dagmer.
"Father." the young man said, bowing his head in deference. Balon Greyjoy inspected his son briefly before replying.
"Urrigon. My son." he said in his gruff voice. He looked Urrigon up and down once more before speaking again. "I am already proud of the man you have become. Though I was a year younger than you when I went on my first reaving, I do not doubt you will give me more reason to take pride in my son. Do not fail." he said, with a gentle smile before he returned his expression to his usual grim look. "Come Aeron. We have much to plan." he said, before turning and walking off, leaving his brother to hurry after him after saying another quick farewell to his nephew.
Urrigon watched his father for a short while before turning to Dagmer, jerking his head to tell him to follow, and walking towards the ship that was moored on the pontoon. His face had soured at his father's mention of how he was going on his first reaving more than a year later than his father had done when he was a boy, but he brightened again as he saw the ship that his father had given him for his sixteenth name day. The "Savage Fortune". That was the name Urrigon had given his ship, the newest, fastest and most manoeuvrable raiding longship in the Iron Islands. A single, tall mast was placed in the centre of the deck, with one long yardarm crossing it near the top. At the top of the mast was a small crow's nest which could accommodate one sailor, who would be on the lookout for other ships and landmarks along the coast, to which was attached rigging which led down to the gunwales and were attached to deadeyes keeping the mast up and in place. The sail attached to the yardarm, though currently furled, was jet-black with the golden Greyjoy Kraken sigil emblazoned on the front. Many metres of rope, coiled neatly, lay on the deck, all leading to different parts of the yardarm and the sail; ten oar-holes had been carved out of the wood of the bulwarks on each side of the ship at one metre intervals and there were benches next to each one, allowing room for three ironborn to sit on and row when they were becalmed or for getting to ramming speed when attacking other ships. The shields of each ironborn raider on the ship hung over the side, creating an awe-inspiring display of uniformity; all the shields were round and displayed the Greyjoy sigil of the golden Kraken, the men having been hand-picked by Balon for their loyalty to his house. A long and sharp ram, a long pointed piece of stout oak, covered in iron (a creation of one of the Iron Island's foremost shipwrights) that would shear through the hull of enemy ships. But the single most eye-catching thing on the ship was its figurehead; an intricately carved Kraken, its many tentacles spread backwards, clasping itself to the bow of the ship– a sight that would make any and all greenlanders tremble in their boots. All of this, Urrigon took in as he strode purposefully towards his ship, a grin spreading across his face as he got closer and closer and closer until finally he stood before the ship which would take him onwards to glory, and to victory.
Looking back at Dagmer nervously, his grin lessening slightly, he received a nod and, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he vaulted over the side of the side of the ship, landing with a resounding thud on the deck. Urrigon closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nostrils, savouring the scent of his home, the salt and the smell of the docks, listened to the sound of the screeching gulls and the slap of the waves on the stone pontoon as the tide began to rise. He heard a thud on the deck next to him as Dagmer jumped onto the ship and opened his eyes. Looking at their captain, the son of their Lord, some with eager anticipation, some with disdain, were the inexperienced raiders that were now his to command, waiting to hear his first order.
Dagmer looked at him and cleared his throat loudly, the sound twisted into a hideous noise by his split lips, attracting the attention of his new captain. "Orders, Cap'n?" he growled out. Urrigon looked briefly over to his First Mate, before looking back at his crew. His mouth grew into a predatory grin, the realisation of his power and freedom finally hitting home, before he spoke.
"Take us out Dagmer. Take us to glory!"
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Hi guys, me again, this time with a new story!
I hope you liked the prologue, I haven't seen many/any ironborn-centric fanfiction on here and I personally think they're bloody cool, what with all the "take what you want" attitude. Anyway, it'll probably end up being very graphic, I'm fairly sure there will be violent sexual scenes (during raiding, mainly) and lots of killing and death (for those who like that sort of thing, I suppose this might be a good story for you). I also wonder what could've happened had Theon not been an idiot, so Urrigon will (hopefully) end up being everything his brother wanted to be, i.e. a true ironborn.
Please leave a comment telling me what you think and whether you spot any mistakes, spelling, grammatical or otherwise.
Thanks for reading!