Rodrik Greyjoy - Heir to the Heir of Pyke

It had taken Lord Mallister's party eight days to get to travel from Seagard to Riverrun. Four of Blackfishs' men and Rodrik himself took them less than four days to be inside the town's walls. There were some grumbles, but they didn't speak out, which was expected, considering they traveled with the Blackfish wherever he went. And the Blackfish wasn't one to waste time.

The fact that Rodrik gave them five dragons each to enjoy the night in Seagard before bidding them farewell certainly helped. Lord Tully had sent a raven after consulting Lord Damon to have the dockmaster stop the next Greyjoy ship that ported in Seagard so that it may take Rodrik back to Lordsport.

So all Rodrik had to do was check his chest and make sure everything he needed was available before having the servants carry it to the docks.

He noted that most lords forgot traveling by Ironborn Longships was considerably faster than a traditional galley or the common carrack used by the mainland. It would be even faster if he were on board.

The letter he had sent to Grandfather Quellon was implicitly worded to tell him which plan of action they were to follow. By now, a raven would be en route to Barrowtown, and soon, ravens would leave Barrowtown for the Rills and Winterfell.

If everything went to plan, Brandon Stark, Mark Ryswell, and Willam Dustin would be accompanying him on his voyage to Lannisport. He reminded himself that it wasn't a done deal yet. His grandfather had been sailing to Barrowtown thrice a year for the past ten years only to get invited to Barrow Hall two years past. It had taken eight years and twenty-four visits to finally ensure the Dustins that he wasn't up to any funny business. Even then, they had opened their doors just to Quellon. The rest of his crew slept on the ship in their hammocks.

He knew it was by no means an easy task to convince the Northern Lords to allow their heirs to sail with an Ironborn, but he had to try. Moreover, forming a meaningful relationship with them would be critical to the plans he had made for the future. This was why he had arranged for the Argent in Seagard to deliver a package from him to the Old Man of the Sea before they even left for Riverrun.

He motioned the servants to continue to the ship. Once he was sure that everything was being transported safely, he made his way out of the castle into the streets. The jewelers should be ready with the parts required for a dozen more exotic watches. He supposed he could make two from silver for the Dustins and Ryswells and another from gold for the Starks, like the ones he had given Hoster and his grandfather. These would be the last gifts he gave out for free.

It took a few minutes to pick up the items from the three different shops, after which Rodrik made his way to the docks.

The quartermaster greeted him with a bow and led him to the ship. The ship that was docked at the harbor was a Greyjoy longship called 'Sea Farm.' Someone was trying to be sarcastic, maybe.

The captain, an aging man around forty years of age, stood at the end of the gangplank.

"You're Balon's horserider son."

Rodrik raised an eyebrow at that. Ah, the classic ironborn way to insult someone who hadn't made a name for himself. And while he knew the captain by reputation and the engravings on his breastplate, he pretended not to know.

"Aye. And you are?"

"HA! He doesn't know me, boys! I used to be the most fearsome raider in your great-grandfather Lord Dagon's crew. And even now, no one on the Isles can match my skill with my knives."

"Oh. I thought Erik Ironmaker used a hammer. Never knew he switched to knives."

It felt terrific to needle the shit out of this wannabe captain. He looked around, and he could see various expressions on the faces of the crew. Some were laughing, showing off yellowed and grizzly teeth. The others were either watching the interaction with interest or waiting for someone to draw steel.

"I AM RALF THE SKINNER BOY!"

"Oh! You're the one whose ship almost sunk because of the great number of seals you stuffed in the cargo hold. I must say, These boots are some of the finest I've worn. I believe they came from one of those very seals that you delivered to the Lord Reaper."

And there was the finisher. The captain might've been a decent enough sailor, but he wasn't too bright. Rodrik could see the expression on his face. He didn't know whether to be proud that he caught one of the biggest hauls of seals ever or be insulted with how Rodrik claimed he almost sunk his ship. Now done with the talking, he walked up to him and extended his arm.

"Rodrik Greyjoy, cap'n."

"Ralf of Lordsport. You talk too much, just like yer old man the Lord Reaper," he gruffed out a response.

Someone from the ship called, "They call him Lord Reacher now, for the amount of grain in the larders of Lordsport. By the Drowned God, I ain't never seen that much grain left after winter!"

"Har Har!" echoed the crew.

"Aye," laughed Ralf, "He gave me this steel plate and the brigandine underneath for that haul. It's me pride, and me lad shines it err'day." He claimed boisterously.

"I couldn't believe me eyes! The Inn at the wharf of Blacktyde had mutton in the middle of winter! The Drowned One take my tongue, I ne'er thought I'd get me a bowl of steamin' mutton stew in the winter ha!" came another declaration.

"Har Har!" echoed the crew yet again. Rodrik honestly thought he'd never feel the need for a parrot if the crew kept at this behavior throughout the two-day voyage back to Pyke.

"Aye, true that may be, but me knives be begging for mainlander blood." that was Ralf yet again. Rodrik sighed.

"Get us back to Pyke, Ralf. I'll speak with the Lord Reaper and see if we can change that. Now cap'n, what's my task for the journey back. I can do the knots and manage the barrels or keep a lookout from the crow's nest."

"You give ye word that you'll speak with the Lord Reaper, and I'll have ye on the nest."

"Fair enough."

And just like that, Rodrik had reserved himself the easiest job on the longship. Of course, most sailors might disagree with him, for if anything went wrong, the one on the crow's nest is usually the first one to die. But him being who he was, he didn't have to worry about anything. Even if a Kraken somehow made its appearance, he wouldn't have to worry about falling off the crow's nest and dying. But then that would be for naught. He didn't have any godly or magical weapons yet, and he couldn't do much without it, not to a Kraken. His best bet would then be to put all his power into the ocean and will the waves to propel the ship away from the Kraken as fast as he could.

"Can ye even climb up there, or will Lanny have to take ye on his back?" asked not Ralf but one of the others on the deck. This one looked more like a pirate from the Narrow Sea than an Ironborn, with all the gold and jewels on his person and a heavy leather sun cap with straps that held it in place, so it didn't fly away with a breeze.

Then he spotted the mark on his hands.

"Ah! So we have a Sisterman in our ranks!" asked Rodrik.

"Farlen of Littlesister I am, milord." He responded snidely.

"Hmm, then let me show you how a true ironborn climbs up to the crow's nest," Rodrik declared.

It took him a few seconds to undo his seal leather boots, after which he used the laces to tie them across his neck like a garland. Then he pulled off his gloves, which went into the boots. Handing the box from the jewelers to the captain, Rodrik looked once at Farlen and walked to the mast.

He checked the wood for grip. Once satisfied with the prodding, Rodrik took a deep breath and then launched himself upwards, his hands, small as they were, yet strong enough to keep him in place while his legs propelled him up without losing much momentum. Rodrik was pulling himself into the crow's nest in under ten seconds, standing fifty feet above the deck.

To the Sisterman with the dropped jaw, he addressed his following words, "One can take an Ironborn away from the Sea, my dear Farlen, but none can take the sea away from an Ironborn!"

"HAR HAR!" The crew went absolutely bonkers.

Lord Rickard Stark - Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

"Buckets! That's a sword you're holding, not a club. I lost count of how many times you could've stabbed Addam and ended the fight!" He scolded his newest trainee. The Gods bless his temper, for these idiots were doing nothing to help.

"And Addam, I gave you a stag to get better-studded boots. Where'd that go? I swear if you slip and fall even once tomorrow, I'll tan your hide! I don't care if you're my goodbrother or no."

He looked around the training yard once more before looking straight at one of the only truly competent warriors among his men-at-arms. "Cassel, give Buckets a large rag. He'll be practicing stabbing on it. I want ten score stabs on it. Then, if even a single tear on it is big enough for the pommel to pass through, he does it all over again. No sparring till then. And tie Addam's hands to Benjen's pony. If he falls, he gets dragged, so don't fall."

"Milord!" came a voice from behind him.

He turned to see his page running towards him. Usually, one only stayed as a page till they turned two and ten, but Vayon was good with numbers and knew most of the castle's servants. Rickard thought he'd make a good steward for the castle and was grooming him for it. After all, few castles were as big as Winterfell, and managing a castle of this size was no small task.

"What is it, boy?" he asked.

"Milord," he huffed, "Lord Manderly's banners are approaching. Small party, just two leagues away."

Oh, so it seemed Wyman had news that was of a nature not to be written about.

"Prepare the barracks for the men, and send for Walder. He should be able to take care of the horses. Is he riding, or has he brought his carriage?"

"He's riding, my lord," Vayon worked out. Good, he wasn't huffing so hard anymore - beginning to sound like the son of a noble finally. "A cart and a handful of sumpter horses, but no carriages."

"Very well. Wyman would have brought his cooks if he brought a cart. Allow them into the kitchens. Gods know Gerra and her son can make good pies, but they'll make a right mess of White Harbor's supplies."

"Aye, my lord. I'll prepare the great hall," said Vayon before departing, hastily shouting for people and relaying his orders.

"Martyn, send for Lyanna and Benjen. Make sure they're presentable. There are still two hours or so for the midday meal. You know the rest—two pairs of guards at each end of the hallway to my solar. Oh, and make sure Walys stays in his tower."

Looking around the training yard once again, Rickard sighed before turning around and making his way to his chambers. Ever since dear Lyarra's passing, his chambers seemed empty. His eldest sons were fostering with different lords, and Lyanna and Benjen, though dear to him, were also mostly up to nothing good. Lyanna kept getting wilder by the day, and Benjen always followed in her footsteps.

That was why he'd sent for Buckets and Addam to foster at Winterfell so that he could substitute the feeling of training his sons in his way. Buckets was a lot like Brandon, except he had none of his charisma, and the drink made his belly swell like a Redwyne's. Addam was quiet and shy like Ned, but he'd hit manhood recently, and all his silvers were spent on whores rather than boots. He'd have to assign some stable cleaning duty - it seemed like.

He quickly splashed his face with a bowl of water, then wiped it off with the clean linens to the side. He then went to his weapons closet and brought out the yew recurve bow Wyman had gifted him at Benjen's birth feast. If he hadn't gotten even fatter, he thought Wyman would still be up for a hunt after they discussed whatever he thought warranted a personal meeting.

He brought the bow with him, making his way down to the main yard. The nearest boy he could spot was handed the bow. He would take it to the armory, have one of the lad's oil, and string it well.

His sealskin and leather cloak keeping him warm in the chills of the fading winter; he received Ice from Marlon Manderly - the squire to Martyn Cassel, the captain of his guards. Rickard quickly strapped ice to his back and made his way to the gates.

Gage, the young son of Gerra the Head Cook, quickly joined him with a silver platter of bread and salt. He smiled at the lad. If he smelled rightly, the bread was no more than a few minutes out of the oven. It was heavenly. Just then, the portcullis was lifted, and the gates opened as the Manderly party made their way towards him.

Rickard was satisfied. The winter might have been hard, but the Northmen were harder. Nevertheless, everything in Winterfell still worked smoothly, and the servants all took their duties seriously. He might just have a small servants' feast soon for their hard work and dedication through the winter.

Leading the party, on top of a massive purebred horse was an equally large Wyman Manderly. Now, this was a man whose capability he admired. Wyman may not have been a martial lord, but he had made himself far more useful than even his best commanders and great lords. He may not swing a sword, but Rickard was frankly more afraid of his crossbow. He'd seen that thing shoot a bolt three score yards with pinpoint accuracy and then pierce the mail of the dummy that he'd shot with a loud clang. He'd then seen more than a few stags felled in their hunting trips in the Wolfswood.

Now, Wyman may have been fat, but any other man would be surprised to see the agility with which he dismounted his horse. "Lord Stark," he hailed and promptly bent the knee.

"Rise, Lord Manderly. Be welcome in the halls of Winterfell." Rickard decided to keep it short and simple. Wyman was dressed in a familiar aquamarine brigandine with furs to keep him warm through the journey. However, there was a silver chain along his belt that went inside a pocket in his breeches. That was new.

"Bread and salt, my lord." He gestured, and Gage moved to stand next to Lord Manderly.

"Now that that's done with, we can move to the solar. I trust your guards know the way to the barracks? Good. Walder will take the horses."

"After you, Lord Rickard," Wyman agreed with a pleasant smile.

They exchanged meaningless small talk as they made their way towards his solar. They waited till they heard a tap-tap tap-tap from outside the door. Then, after half a minute, which Rickard used to pour them goblets of ale, he nodded.

"What news do you bring, my friend?" He asked, handing a goblet to Wyman and taking his seat across the large ironwood table.

"Would you like to know the exact time of the day, my lord? Because a certain Heir to the Iron Islands has managed to create a device that tells the time of the day. Very accurately, if I may," said Wyman. His hand dug into the pocket where the silver chain ended, and he brought out an orb of silver decorated with gemstones.

The goblet stopped halfway to his mouth. "...what?"

"Look here, my lord," Wyman passed a piece of parchment to him, which he gingerly took into his hands. "The lad devised a way to measure time accurately. Four and twenty hours to a day, each hour divided further into sixty minutes. And then, each minute divided further into sixty seconds. So, according to the timepiece, it is currently," he paused to glance at the timepiece, "six minutes and twenty seconds past midday."

Rickard just stared at Wyman, his mind thinking at a furious pace. "This… this changes things. By a lot, Wyman. How long does it work for?"

"He says this will work accurately for a dozen years, my lord, and even further if it's well-taken care for, but that remains to be seen. I'm sure you can imagine it, though, my lord. This timepiece changes the way battles are fought forever. Imagine an ambush timed to the exact minute and second—no need for the men to blow warhorns or light torches for signals, alerting the enemy."

His heart thumping in his chest, Rickard suddenly stood up, leaning towards Wyman.

"And he is selling these already?" He asked Wyman through clenched teeth.

"Nay, my lord."

"How did you acquire this?" he asked Wyman, pointing to the device sitting on his table.

Wyman gulped. Rickard's eyes sharpened. "He… he sent it with one of my agents in Seagard, my lord."

"What! He knows about your network?"

"I can't say, my lord. But the evidence points to it. I am unsure how he would even find out, but it couldn't have been through one of my Argents. They don't know who runs the system, and only three know of my identity - the ones at King's Landing, Braavos, and White Harbour itself."

Rickard didn't say anything. But he was furious inside. The Greyjoy boy knowing, it changed everything. Aerys was not a sane man; the less he said about Tywin, the better. That left Hoster Tully, Jon Arryn, Steffon Baratheon, Olenna Tyrell, and Myriah Martell. It all depended on who heard about this timepiece earliest and thus acted upon it. His head lowered, as he stared at the timepiece yet again, thinking about just how many sleepless nights a single device would cause him.

"Which of the Lord Paramounts knows about this, Wyman?" He asked, quietly.

"Rodrik Greyjoy gave one as a gift to Hoster Tully, in front of most of the Riverlords. I would expect Lord Tywin and the King to know within the sennight. Word on the docks at Barrowtown is that Lord Quellon wears one on his neck. I can't say about the rest, my lord, but Oldtown doesn't know. Yet."

Rickard swore.

"And where is Rodrik Greyjoy at the moment?" He asked, finally looking Wyman dead in the eye. Surprisingly, a small smile bloomed on his face.

"Traveling to Lordsport, where Quellon Greyjoy and Rodrik and Harras Harlaw prepare to journey to Barrowtown," came Wyman's quick reply.

Now wasn't that intriguing?

"He is coming to the North? Are you sure of it?" Rickard asked.

"Aye my lord. He also sent me a letter with the Argent of Seagard." here, Rickard could plainly see the hesitation on Wyman's face.

"Out with it!"

"My Lord, he says Old Quellon is planning to take him and a few other heirs on a voyage across all the major ports in Westeros. They start at Barrowtown, then Lannisport, Oldtown, the Arbor, Starfall, Planky Town, Storm's End, King's Landing, Gulltown, and finally White Harbour."

"And…" Rickard prompted. He could clearly see there was more to it.

"He requested me to ask you permission for Brandon to join him on the voyage." Rickard's face lost all emotion. Once again, this Greyjoy boy completely blindsided him with this strange request. He knew Old Quellon wanted ties with the mainland Westeros. Gods knew Rickard himself needed relations with the south as well, but this was certainly not what he had expected.

"Who else has he asked?"

"From what the letter tells me, Harras Harlaw and Brynden Tully are definitely coming. Harras Harlaw will join them from the start, while the Blackfish will follow after the Tourney of Lannisport. He has also requested Lord Tully to ask permission of Lord Arryn for young Elbert to join them after Lannisport."

"I can't believe this." Rickard mused. If the Blackfish had already confirmed, Jon Arryn was likely to say yes to it. After all, Elbert was Brynden Tully's squire, and that in itself made Rickard pretty confident of the fact that Arryn would agree. With Elbert, that would be three Heirs of Great Houses on one voyage. That was if he said no to Brandon joining.

"Are we looking at another Dunk and Egg, Wyman?"

An uncomfortable smile was all he received in return.

"What are your thoughts on this, tell me."

"Forgive me, my lord, but I urge you to allow Brandon to join them. Mayhaps ask the Lords Ryswell and Dustin if they'd allow young Rodrik and Willam to join Bran. I believe this will be a momentous voyage, my lord. I am certain other heirs of high and Great Lords will join them on this journey - seeing as three houses are already represented. I truly won't be surprised if we end up hearing about a young prince and his Kingsguard on the ship as well."

"Hmm," Rickard replied. As usual, Wyman hit the nail on the coffin. His political acumen enabled him to offer valuable and sound advice. He sat back down on his chair and took a sip of the ale.

"Send word to Barrowtown. Brandon is to join the Greyjoys. I'll write letters for both Lord Ryswell and Lord Dustin. Wyman, your man in Wintertown has his own ravens?" Rickard asked him.

"Aye, my lord."

"Good. Send word to Ned, he is needed back in the North. Are you needed in White Harbour in the next few moons?"

"I have some business that needs taking care of, my lord, but if I have your permission, I could send my cousin Marlon with instructions for my son," Wyman replied.

"Very well. Join me, then, for a trip to Lannisport, my friend. We are to attend a tourney. I would like to meet this prodigious Greyjoy myself." Rickard held out his goblet, which was promptly clanked by Wyman's own.

They sat in silence for a moment, processing everything that happened.

"By the way, Lord Stark, the letter also mentioned that these silver timekeepers would be going for sale during the Tourney of Lannisport. There will be ten made of gold and gemstones, and twenty made of silver, also decorated."

Rickard's eyebrows rose at that. "And how much does he ask for each?" He asked, sipping his ale.

"Ahem, ten thousand gold dragons for one golden timekeeper, and a million silver moons for a silver one."

And he choked on his drink.

A/N

Hey guys! I'm back. Sorry for the delay, but finals and a small vacation right after left me with no time to work on this. Thankfully, I still have some idea of where this story is going. I'm quite certain no one guessed the Argent network to be Wyman Manderly's work, but considering his skill with the Game and the level of respect and trust Rickard has for him goes a long way in keeping this possible.

Leave me your thoughts, please. I've never written so much conversation before this project, and I'm really not sure if what I type out and what I'm imagining is even remotely close. On another note, this one here is around 4k words, a bit shorter, but in the next chapter, we're at Lordsport, Pyke first and then Barrowtown. More characters are going to be coming in, at quite a fast pace, and I just hope my writing can keep up with my imagination. Wish me luck, haha!