Veron V
As he climbed the steps into Faircastle's sept, Veron braced himself for the coming encounter. News of the expedition sent to Crakehall had arrived, although he had been amongst the last to hear of it. Dalton had relegated Veron to a position of near insignificance after he had claimed the remaining Farman sisters weeks before. He was cold before, but now he is… frozen. It had become clear to him that what little affection Dalton may have once felt had bled away quickly once it became clear that Veron was no longer willing to blindly obey his commands. Veron's political and military influence had swiftly been curtailed after he had returned from the Crag. Dalton will suffer no rivals. He certainly will not suffer those who oppose his overarching goals for the campaign. The Crag will likely have been my last expedition. His suspicions had been confirmed when Dalton had dispatched Lord Sigfryd Harlaw to secure Crakehall.
Situated along the wooded coasts of the southern Westerlands, any fool could see that Crakehall commanded the roads into the Reach and was a natural target for asserting control over the entire coastline of the Sunset Sea. Beyond its stout walls, the Reach beckoned, and its fall would signal the end of Dalton's campaign for control of the Westerlands' littoral. The Shield Isles would be a natural next target. We would be landing on the Shields just as the first ravens arrived, demanding a cessation of hostilities. Veron was increasingly uncertain that those calls would be heeded, however. Dalton had become ever more willing to listen to his closest supporters, many of whom seemed less and less likely to offer any words of warning or advice. Sweeping success breeds lickspittles, not sober advisors. Hard won victories become routs, and the fall of fortresses is viewed as little more than a formality. But what will happen when we bleed ourselves white conquering each and every piece of land, our resources running low and winter setting in? While we fritter away our men on the coastal seats, the Lady of the West opens the nearly limitless vaults of the Rock to raise new armies in the interior, preparing to cut us to pieces. Captains who had foraged inland for booty and foodstuffs had ceased returning, with scattered members of their crews returning to the shore, begging for rescue. Shaken survivors spoke of fires in the hills at night, and horns echoing amongst the snowy boughs of the forest. What had been a campaign that had wildly exceeded their expectations had ever so subtly turned into a campaign of attrition, and Veron knew all too well which combatant had more men, and deeper coffers. We have missed our chance to deal a decisive blow, if we ever even had an opportunity to do so.
Entering the chapel, his boots crunched on shattered glass. The windows, formerly crafted of stained glass, had been shattered as part of the voracious looting that had occurred within Faircastle's walls for months. He took solace in the cold wind that blew through the windows, smelling like salt of the sea. Before him stood a mighty gathering of Lords and captains, buried beneath layers of furs and mail. His own brother stood before them all, surrounded by shattered statues of the Gods of the Greenlanders, watching his approach. Dalton was dressed simply, his clothes the basic blacks that would be worn at sea, stained and greyed by the kiss of its waves. He had wedged Nightfall into a gap between the flagstones of the Sept's floor, his hands planted upon it firmly, almost as though he was using it for support. In the past few months, even the Lords present on the expedition had begun to have to go without as their stores ran low, and Dalton bore the marks of that belt-tightening. His sharp features were unmistakable, his malicious eyes gleaming like black diamonds from behind skin drawn tightly over angular features. Long black hair had been pulled back into a braid, with a few strands still dangling over his forehead. A cruel smile had twisted his features as Veron entered, but it could not completely obscure the signs of tension that his brother exhibited. Something is wrong, and it has little to do with my presence. He looked to the faces of those about him, and to his surprise many were grim, shifting uncomfortably in the dust and snow and glass shards that formed a dangerous morass at their feet.
As Veron stopped at the base of the dais Dalton stood upon, his brother kicked a burlap sack from where it sat at his feet towards Veron. He watched as it struck the stones before him, landing with a solid thud. The base of the bag was dark. Dried blood. As he lifted it before him and drew the strings that bound it closed apart, his nostrils were assaulted by the sickly sweet smell of rotten flesh. Making sure to show no hesitation, he reached inside and withdrew its grisly occupant. In his gauntleted hands, he held the head of Lord Sigfryd Harlaw. His features were unmistakable, even in a state of advanced decay. The atrophied flesh had caused his lips to pull back, giving him the appearance of grimacing. To his disgust Veron noted that the Lord's hair, which had once been full and brown, barely clung to what remained of his scalp. He had been very proud of the way he had braided it, in the style of the Old Way. Placing it back in the satchel, he let it drop once more at his feet.
"So Lord Sigfryd is dead. Do we have word of his men? We sent close to three thousand to take Crakehall."
Dalton spoke with a measured tone, clearly attempting to mask his rage. While that may be effective for the other Lords, I can see it plain as day. "It appears… it appears that few, if any, survived. We received a letter along with Lord Sigfryd's remains. Ser Erwin Lannister sends his regards, as does Lord Norbert Crakehall. They allowed Lord Sigfryd's youngest cousin, a boy of twelve, to return to us with their messages."
Veron was taken aback. "Lord Harlaw was one of our best captains. Some of our best men went with him. How could this have happened?"
Dalton hissed through his gritted teeth. "They were intercepted where the sea road enters the forest. Those following the host in longship by sea to keep them supplied swear that they entered the forests, but simply did not come out."
Veron cursed. In his mind's eye, he could see it. Upon reaching the woodlands, their men would have been forced to break marching formation and would have been strung out for over a mile. Attacked by mounted knights who knew the terrain, they'd have broken and fled further into the woods, hunted by enraged bands of local levied smallfolk and Lannister men-at-arms. He did not envy them their deaths, ripped to pieces under the ancient oaks and snow laden pines of the Western coasts.
"Was it not possible to disembark from the longships closer to Crakehall itself?"
Dalton scowled. "I had forgotten you did not attend the planning for this expedition. That must have been an unfortunate oversight on my behalf." Snickers emanated from some of the captains present. "Alas, it was not possible for them to do so. Crakehall is far inland, and the nearby coast is rocky, and mostly cliffs. Longships would have been dashed to pieces attempting to land their occupants. The most suitable beach was nearly thirty leagues from Crakehall."
Veron nodded. That expedition was nothing short of a disaster, then. From what he could calculate mentally, their defeat had cost them nearly half of their remaining effective men. As winter had set in, disease had begun to thoroughly harrow their numbers, to say nothing of the foraging and raiding parties lost on a weekly basis. We must needs seek peace, now. If we continue like this, we will be unable to hold even what we have conquered thus far.
"Brother, we have disagreed about what ought to be done in the past, but I feel compelled to once again impress upon you the need to enter into some sort of negotiations. If we act now, we might be able to keep Fair Isle. We would still accomplish our goals, and have an excellent port with which to menace the Sunset Sea."
Dalton made no effort to hide the vitriol now overtaking his features. Speaking to the crowd of assembled captains, he began: "Do you all now see why I have barred this man from my councils? It shames me to call him my brother, or to acknowledge him as my blood! One defeat, and he speaks of peace!" His brother spit out that final word as though it were a dreadful curse. Turning to Veron he continued. "Brother, in your infinite wisdom, what, pray tell, do you think the Lady of the West would do with our attempts at negotiations? In all likelihood, that cowardly whore would be emboldened by such entreatments. We must force her to give us what is ours by right of conquest. The past shows us that no peace has been achieved between men of Iron and the Greenlanders that wasn't won through slaughter and subjugation. They are low, cowardly creatures that can only be compelled to act according to our wishes by force!"
A cold rage burned within Veron as he observed how many captains still nodded in accordance with his brother's words. Fools. We will burn for this, or worse.
"What of Balon and Alester Wynch? What of Gunthor Goodbrother? What of Lord Amos Stonehouse? Those men were good, formidable captains, and they were all slain in the past month! They and their crews were sent to retrieve foodstuffs, and were cut to pieces by the very smallfolk they were supposed to prey upon the moment they were far enough from the shore to no longer be able to hear the waves crashing upon it! The Greenlanders are learning, Dalton, and they are no longer willing to suffer our raids. As men of Iron, we pride ourselves in taking what we may with the Iron Price, but we now can barely enforce our will upon our enemies. Every man we lose is hardened, trained, and irreplaceable. Every man they lose is immediately replaced with Lannister gold and promises of revenge and glory. If we allow them to keep bleeding us, we will not even be able to properly man all of the Iron Fleet! We will be helpless as we watch hundreds of sails appear on the horizon, paid for with the gold of Casterly Rock!" He let go a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. He could picture the Isles burning, blood staining the sand and rocks. He could smell the smoke, hear the screams. He had to try. Turning to the assembled captains, he spoke: "It won't end with our ejection from the Westerlands. It will end as it has before, with Greenlanders stalking our very Isles, laying waste to our seats and despoiling our women. They will raze our homes to the ground and salt the earth, as they have done before. But we can still avert it! Use the aid of our allies, beg them to send us aid, a dragonrider if they can! With that, we can force a favorable peace."
The room was silent. Many of the assembled captains did not meet his gaze, and while some did, they met it with hatred. To his surprise, however, some Lords did look on him with approval. Veron made a point of making eye contact with each of the great captains. Torgon Blacktyde, whose look of approval was as welcome as it was unsurprising. Lord Angred Botley, my enemy since I was a lad. Hilmar Drumm, eyes still promising vengeance for the denial of the Crag. Lord Ygon Farwynd, the half-mad. The Lord of Lonely Light nodded approvingly, staying true to the support he had promised Veron and Torgon not three weeks before. Lord Arthur Goodbrother, who until recently had firmly supported Dalton, looked uncertain. Perhaps this recent defeat has shaken even the most formidable of captains. Lord Hagon Orkmont, furious. His second son Garmund was recently granted Kayce by Dalton, so Lord Hagon's loyalties come as no surprise. Lord Dagmar Saltcliffe stared daggers. One of Dalton's most detestable lickspittles. Lord Benton Sunderly regarded Veron with interest. Benton 'the bent', mocked by our warriors for his twisted back. I can think of few who have sailed further and seen more. His support would be welcome.
Veron turned back to his brother, coldly calculating. Dalton's insistence on only allowing his supporters to fight has evened the numbers of our supporters significantly. The loss of Lords Harlaw, Stonehouse, and Merlyn must have been painful for him. I could have never hoped to sway men to my cause being so outnumbered. When he met his brother's gaze, a chill ran down his spine despite himself. An odd light danced in his brother's eyes. While enraged, he seemed to still have the presence of mind to be weighing the merit of Veron's suggestion.
"A dragonrider you say? Now that is a most interesting thought indeed, brother. While I am loathe to beg aid, a battle tested dragonrider would completely shift the scales once more. Armies raised with Lannister gold would be worth little more than kindling." A thin, hateful smile carved its way through Dalton's features. "I do not believe you have heard, brother. News came days ago on raven's wings, informing us of a great gathering at Harrenhal. Lord Stark's host has finally come south, and with him ride the Riverlords, what remains of them. The message even stated that the Vale is represented."
So the Princess' coalition has been maintained. "What of their dragons, brother?"
"Our… allies… inform us that contrary to certain rumors, they won a great victory in the Reach. Three of the Prince's dragonriders were slain, including his youngest brother. The Princess's forces lost none of their own riders. Three dragons now roost at Harrenhal. We have little reason to believe that the Prince can match their numbers. He can only count on his mount and that of his sister." Dalton scoffed. "I cannot even imagine the shame; placing one's fate in war in the hands of a woman."
Shame, Dalton? It was the hands of two women that helped to forge this realm, alongside their beloved brother. Visenya and Rhaenys broke the backs of Kings, and brought their hosts low. We would be as foolish as Harren to mock their might.
"The Prince Aegon and his wife Helaena will likely be forced to remain in the capital to protect what little of the Kingdom remains to them. It stands to reason that even two dragonriders at Harrenhal would bind them to their seat, leaving them unable to aid the West. With even one dragon we could cow the Lady of the Rock, and perhaps even maintain a siege of Casterly Rock itself."
Dalton's eyes gleamed, returning to their characteristic revelries and brutal fantasies. I have him, thought Veron.
"To seize the Rock itself. Such an act would make my legend immortal. None before have accomplished so much. Not even the Conqueror himself."
"Brother, allow me to send for a dragonrider. If we can convince our allies that the war can be won here, in the West, we may just be able to preserve our winnings and force them to kneel."
Dalton's eyes refocused, and he gazed at Veron from the ruined dais. "Go then, brother, and send a raven. I will await their response with interest."
Veron could not help but notice the carven statue of the Warrior looming behind Dalton as he spoke, its stone head cloven in twain. Glass crunched underfoot as he exited the chamber.
Veron had seen to the letter personally, carefully supervising its writing and watching closely as Fair Isle's maester sent it aloft. Afterwards, he had followed the muddy paths of Faircastle out of the keep and through the gatehouse into the town below. It had become his custom in the last few weeks to drink at the tavern in peace. While stocks of food had run low to the point of rationing, stocks of ale and the like were always in great supply, thanks to the dutiful labors of the breweries on the Isles. While he had been away from Pyke for over a year, he took solace in the distinctive flavors of its ale and the smell of the sea that pervaded the inn. As he nursed a tankard, Torgon entered the inn, followed closely by several other men that Veron had come to recognize from past meetings. As they took their seats around the table that had come to be their traditional haunt, Veron was pleased to notice a few new faces amongst their numbers.
Torgon, the new lord of Blacktyde after the death of his father two weeks previously. He had taken solace from his loss in the planning they had embarked upon. Ygon Farwynd, our first ally and adherent. Lord Benton Sunderly, 'the bent'. A firm believer in the benefits of trade over war. It took Veron a moment to adjust to the newest arrival, however. Towering over the other lords, Arthur Goodbrother took a seat amongst their number, looking somewhat uncomfortable but resolute nonetheless. Alongside him were Gunthor Goodbrother, of Corpse Lake; Greydon Goodbrother, of Crow Spike Keep; and Torbert Goodbrother of Downdelving. The potential allegiance of the Lord of Hammerhorn means that the cadet branches will follow. To Veron's great surprise, Lord Rodrik Sparr entered the tavern a few moments later, evidently following the lead of his liege, though clearly unhappy about it.
Veron took the opportunity to shake the hands of each man that had come. In times such as these, my respect and gratitude will earn me the loyalty that my desire for a negotiated peace will not.
Clearing his throat, he began. "I must thank Lord Torgon for speaking with you all about a meeting today. After speaking with my brother, I thought it might be necessary to speak with those who are more partial to my course of action in order to coordinate our plans." He took a deep breath. "The Drowned God seems to have begun to spurn our requests for his favor. I cannot begin to understand why, but the disaster at Crakehall will be difficult, if not impossible to fully recover from. I have sent to our supposed allies and requested that they send a dragonrider to assist us, though I have doubts that our request will be fulfilled. It seems to me that they will find their needs more pressing, and our cause… distasteful… as Greenlanders so often do. In the event that we do not receive support, I propose that we have other plans in place."
For a moment, all around the table were silent. Arthur Goodbrother shifted uncomfortably on his bench, before finally speaking.
"Veron, as you well know, I backed your brother to the hilt from the earliest days of this war. I still believe he is capable of great things, and hope that he will see reason. That being said, I will not be partial to treason of any kind. Meetings such as these do not sit well with me, what with us lurking in the shadows and plotting like scullery maids." He stroked his great black beard. "I am willing, however, to support your desires for negotiations. You are correct that Crakehall was a disaster. We either should have gone with all the forces available to us, or not gone at all. Sending the Harlaws was asking too much of too few."
The other Goodbrothers nodded in agreement. Lord Rodrik muttered something under his breath, before spitting in the rushes. His watery eyes had adopted an expression of distaste not long after the discussion had begun. He will be one to watch. He likely feels he must back his liege, but still believes in my brother and the Old Way.
Veron rose his hands in a gesture of understanding and compliance. "Lord Arthur, I have absolutely no intentions of treason or anything of the sort. While my brother and I's relations have been… strained… as of late, no man can question my loyalty to him personally. I have fought by his side since we were little more than lads." Taking a deep drought from his tankard, he continued. "What I propose is that we cease our inland raids. Each of us commands the loyalties of at least one ship, if not more. We cannot afford to continue to go into the interior of the West and give our enemy opportunities to isolate and slaughter us at will. Everything within ten leagues of the coast has already been plundered or removed anyways. If we can agree to hold our forces in reserve, we can ensure that at least some of our host remains in a permanent state of readiness, in case of further Lannister aggression."
Lord Benton Sunderly nodded, taking a sip of his ale. Lord Farwynd seemingly had been lost in his thoughts, but seeing the developing consensus around the table, added his assent. The Lord of Hammerhorn seemed to be pondering his words. Finally, he spoke, grey eyes serious. "I can see no fault with your plans, Veron. But such restraint will be unpopular with the men. They already grow hungry for want of adequate rations, and believe that reaving is the only solution to their growling stomachs."
Veron nodded. "We have all gone wanting for several weeks now. But reaving will do naught but expose us to further retaliation. We must needs find other sources of food. We may need to consider increasing our demands from the Isles themselves."
His proposal prompted shocked and disapproving looks from the assembled Lords. It was Torgon who spoke first. "Veron, the final harvest has only just been retrieved, and as I am sure you are aware, it was a disappointing one, with so few men available to bring it in to the storehouses. Winter has set in, and the smallfolk have already sacrificed much for this war. I fear they may not support much more, especially not with news of Crakehall."
Veron grimaced. He could only imagine how Dalton would respond to an uprising of the smallfolk. Running a hand through his hair, he responded. "If we cannot demand any more of the Isles themselves, we will have to rely on what can be had locally. With the mainland denied to us, that will mean combing this island for livestock or wildlife, and fishing the Sunset Sea. We may be able to buy ourselves at best a few more months of time if we are determined. Beyond that, I can think of no other way to sustain ourselves."
It was clear to him that his words came as no comfort to those assembled. Veron was certain that most of them had already lost men to fever or other illnesses pervading their mens' camps and quarters. Underfed men sickened quickly, and the situation was likely to worsen over time.
Lord Sunderly spoke, his voice raspy and little more than a whisper. "It is laughable, really. We have mountains of loot all about this damnable isle. Gold, silver, Myrish Lace, Arbor Wines, tapestries and manuscripts crafted by the finest guilds of Oldtown. In times of peace, we could afford to feed the entire Iron Isles with such riches for years to come. Now, we can do little more than parade them around as ridiculous baubles. Any of our ships that make port in the Shields or Oldtown would be drawn and quartered, for obvious reasons. It is maddening to think we have the means with which to buy enough to feed ourselves, but none willing to sell."
Ygon Farwynd cleared his throat. "What of Seagard? The Riverlands may still be willing to trade a portion of their stores with us. Especially if we come with gold and silver in hand."
Lord Benton responded, his voice tired. "Indeed, they would have, if it were not for the Prince Aemond. If the stories are to be believed, most of the Riverlands south of the Twins is naught but ash and smoke. If there were surplus stores to be had, we would have a solution to our problem. As it currently stands, they are likely struggling to feed their own."
Veron could see why so many around the table were looking increasingly dejected, but did not have any words to assuage their fears. If we cannot force a peace, the Lady of the Rock will be able to pry our conquests from our withered, starving hands with little trouble in a few months. Crossing his arms, he spoke up.
"My Lords, it seems we must make do with what we can find. But I must once again reiterate: we cannot afford to take any more unnecessary losses. Make do with what we can, and pray that the Drowned God sees fit to send us a dragon."
The dried apple was a welcome addition to his sparse supper, which had consisted of a particularly tough piece of dried meat and two thick slices of dark brown bread. As he relished the faint flavors that still remained within the fruit, he heard the door to his chambers close behind him. Turning his head so as to perceive the intruder, he was unsurprised that it was the first of his 'saltwives', the formidable Elissa.
"Have you eaten?" He asked between bites of dried fruit.
Nodding her head in the affirmative, she sat across from him. Wasting little time, she got to the point of her visit. "Veron, word has spread sufficiently of the massacre at Crakehall. I… I hope you did not have any friends on that particular expedition."
A low, wheezing laugh emanated from within him. "Peace, Elissa. I am well aware that you would care not a whit whether I did or not. Were our roles reversed, I would be celebrating as I am certain many within the castle are even now."
Brown eyes widened with shock, before a genuine giggle escaped from her lips. "I did not expect such honesty, even from you, husband."
He waved a hand in response. "You already know enough about me to see my head on a spike. I have little desire to maintain our charade in private." Taking a moment to chew the last bits of apple he had consumed, he continued. "Besides, while Crakehall was a devastating defeat, it was particularly devastating for those who think my brother a living host of the Drowned God. The men who were slaughtered were amongst his firmest adherents. Dalton, while enraged, may prove slightly more pliable given that the number of my supporters grow whilst his diminish, by sentiment or by blade."
She nodded. "That is to your advantage then, good."
He sat in silence, and raised a dark black eyebrow. "It is. As much as I appreciate your ability to listen to my successes and failures, I cannot help but imagine that you did not come to congratulate me concerning the deaths of my brothers-in-arms."
Elissa pushed a few curly brown strands of her hair away from where they hung in front of her face. "You are correct. I was uncertain about how exactly to broach the topic, but given that I seem to have found you in an agreeable mood, I will get straight to the point. The battle at Crakehall has left many saltwives unclaimed. I will need you to go about claiming them."
Veron groaned. "Claiming my 'brother's leavings' left me in hot water that I may only have just climbed out of. Claiming the widows of the honored dead will not be received favorably. I will be seen as a particularly lustful vulture."
Elissa was no longer feigning sympathy for him, he could see plainly enough. Not that I am particularly deserving of it.
"Will you do it, or will you not? You are brother to the Red Kraken. You can claim whoever you wish. As I understand it, the Ironborn respect strength. Even if men grumble within their cups, they will abide by your decision, or will challenge you to fight. If I know you at all, I have no doubt you have been starved of good fighting opportunities recently."
He chuckled. "You know me well enough to know that I have craved the singing of steel for weeks now." Now to see what is in it for me. "So what do I stand to gain? The affection of these women? They are no more likely to welcome me into their beds than their former husbands, even if I were so inclined."
Elissa rolled her eyes. "You dolt. We women are allowed everywhere in this castle. When we aren't cooking, cleaning, or being bedded, we might as well be invisible. The more salt wives you take, the more eyes and ears you will command, loyal only to you. If your brother or his adherents ever seek to do you harm, you will know of it practically the moment it is decided. You Ironborn have no mind for such things, but we women do. There is much and more we can keep you informed of that you would otherwise be blind to. In return, we are kept safe and untouchable, by virtue of being your wives."
Veron considered her words for a moment. There is truth to her words. Especially now that I lack my brother's favor. Besides, the more wives I take, the less anyone will see me for anything other than a man consumed by his own lusts.
"Where are these women?" He asked.
A sly grin spread across the features of his chief salt wife. "I can take you there now."
Their journey took them throughout the castle, and into the camps beyond. After they had retrieved the first five women, Veron realised that this process was going to be far more involved than he had imagined. By the end of the evening, they had made their rounds, and twenty-nine souls followed behind him and Elissa. He followed in her wake. Women young and old, all comely in their own way, ill-used and with eyes that sometimes stared at something he could not see far in the distance, made up their company. At first, men guffawed as they passed, uncertain of what was transpiring. Word spread quickly, however. Soon, they spat in their path, muttering curses under their breath. It is as I suspected. They think that I disrespect their fallen comrades with my actions. He frowned. And I do. This is not honorable. Casting a glance at one of the lead women, who had once been a tavern keeper's daughter, he grimaced as he noted the angry cuts and bruises that were just visible above the neckline of her dress. But is subjecting these people to such torments honorable? Veron knew the answer. While he had been raised in the Old Way, he had never been particularly comfortable with that particular tenet. Perhaps it is my unnatural lusts, but I would rather conquer a worthy enemy than rape his wife. Lost in his thoughts, he began to ignore the looks of disgust that he received from the men they passed. It is not as though they looked on me with love before this moment. Dalton and his supporters have poisoned the minds of these men towards me long before I claimed these women.
Eventually, they reached the quarters that Elissa had claimed for herself and her sisters, along with Eleyna Westerling. Many makeshift bedspreads, cots, and other means of bedding down had been set up throughout the chamber, and from what Veron could tell it must have been used for storage, perhaps as a granary during long summers. Most importantly, he observed it had a strong oaken door, which could easily be barred from the inside. As Elissa's sisters guided their new charges to places where they could rest, Elissa herself turned to Veron.
"I am most pleased you allowed me this opportunity, Veron." Casting her eyes about at those wandering about the chamber, she added: "And allow me to thank you on their behalf. Many will someday come to understand what you have done for them, but it will take time. They… they have suffered terribly. When they have had a chance to rest, I will explain their duties to you. Soon, you will know of everything that transpires within Faircastle."
Veron nodded. While part of him felt sore that none had offered their thanks or expressed their gratitude, the more calculating part of him understood. Aye, they may be grateful with time. But I will still always be one of the men that ruined their lives. Savior or not. Suppressing the disgust he felt, Veron turned, and exited the chamber. He could not help but notice the sound of the door bar being lowered behind him.
The axe struck the cobblestones with a screech. Sparks flew in several directions upon its impact, and Veron saw them out of the corner of his eyes. His opponent was fast, and very strong. Not allowing his momentum to be sacrificed on a missed strike, he used the force of the impact to direct his weapon back into the air, spinning it around in a dazzling arc above his head before sending it sailing towards Veron once more. This time, Arthur Goodbrother's axe sheared off part of his oaken shield, almost knocking him off balance and forcing him to shift his weight so as not to stumble. In response, Veron dove forwards, sending himself crashing into the larger man and forcing him backwards. One step, two steps, three… on the fourth backstep, the Lord of Hammerhorn found his footing again, and pushed back, roaring all the while. Veron, to his unpleasant surprise, found that not only could he no longer push his opponent backwards, but found instead that he was not even able to hold his own ground. His opponent had dropped his great axe by that point, however, and instead had grabbed a war pick from his belt, and was currently attempting to crack Veron's helm with furious strikes that left him dizzy. He struggled to focus as the whole world started to ring. With one final furious push, Veron was sent sprawling backwards across the cobblestones. His enemy rose his war pick above his head, screaming bloody murder, as spittle flew from his lips. It was only then that Arthur Goodbrother noticed the razor sharp mailbreaker that Veron had stabbed expertly through his midriff, purposely avoiding flesh and instead puncturing the mail and leather that his foe used for protection. The Lord of Hammerhorn cursed, and tossed his weapon aside, offering a massive hand instead as a peace offering. Accepting, Veron stood somewhat shaikly, still reeling from the blows upon his helm.
"Well-swung, Lord Arthur. Had you continued with that pounding, I may not have had a head to think with."
Arthur scoffed. "Had you put that blade of yours through my heart, I wouldn't have even been able to give that head of yours a single knock. You got inside my guard, and I paid for it. Or would have, had we met upon the field of battle."
Ott, the master-at-arms, listened intently to their exchange. Once Lord Goodbrother had quit the yard, he pulled Veron aside.
"Once more, you've relied on finesse, Master Greyjoy. While such things are a sight to behold, you ought to know better than to allow yourself to be struck in such a manner. If your opponent had cracked your helm, you may have fallen into a stupor from which you might've never returned. I've seen too many promising lads be felled by what at first seems a relatively unremarkable blow to the head."
Veron nodded. Ott is right, of course. My propensity for style could be the death of me against a more skilled opponent. Then again, against a more skilled opponent I would be more concerned with survival than flourish.
The master-at-arms evidently could see that Veron was processing his words, and gave him a firm slap on the back in recognition of his victory. As Veron was about to call for some ale, he instead found himself face to face with the maester of Faircastle. The older man wore his grey robes, chains dangling about his neck, and clutched a rolled message within his gaunt hands. Veron's stomach dropped. So today is the day where we will learn if we are to be saved.
Without fail, he snatched the missive from the hands of the maester and made his way quickly through Faircastle's great hall, past its fading tapestries and mountains of looted goods. Behind the Lord's seat was a firm door, which when opened led up a spiral staircase whose narrow lancet windows looked out onto the grey winter sea, rolling out beyond Fair Isle's cliffs. With each step Veron took towards Dalton's chambers, he found himself growing more and more apprehensive. When he finally burst into his brother's room, he found him seated at a great table, using a Myrish lens to pore over a map of the Westerlands. It has been a long while since I have been able to speak with him privately like this. Dalton mostly prefers to 'put me in my place' before his lords and captains.
His brother adopted a guarded, but curious expression as Veron unrolled the message in his hands, struggling to keep them from shaking from the anticipation. Before him, in the unmistakable penmanship of a maester, was scrawled a response.
To the Lord Dalton Greyjoy and his brother, Veron Greyjoy,
We received your request for the aid of a dragonrider recently, and have deliberated our course of action most thoroughly. As we muster our forces in hopes of avenging our fallen Queen, we are troubled by the knowledge that the Usurper Aegon and his sister-wife Helaena can still muster two large and formidable dragons against us. With our own riders, we have a slight numerical advantage as it currently stands, and thus hope to triumph in the event of an attack. Reducing our number of dragons at so critical a time could prove devastating, and allow for a blow to be struck in such a way that our beloved Queen's cause might perish outright. It is for this reason that after much debate we, the commanders of the Queen's remaining forces, have determined that all three of our dragons must remain at Harrenhal. We wish to extend to you our gratitude for your contributions to the Queen's cause, as we all look on our chances of victory more favorably knowing that the might of the Ironborn is what keeps the wrath and fury of the West at bay.
Veron had feared that the response of their 'allies' would be to deny them a dragon, but cynical expectations were far less devastating than outright confirmation. As he read the words of the letter to his brother, he watched as whatever guarded anticipation Dalton had originally shown drained slowly from his expression. Once more, the hateful, guarded expression that his brother had worn upon receiving the news at Crakehall reemerged, and his eyes narrowed, becoming little more than vitriolic onyx slits. Veron traced the waxen seals of the Starks, Tullys, and Arryns at the bottom of the letter, his heart growing cold with hatred. Faithless friends indeed. To them, we are naught more than a necessary sacrifice. We will bleed and die and be driven into the sea whilst they win decisively in the east.
Dalton slammed his fist into the wooden table, causing the various baubles and instruments placed about it to bounce about, some crashing to the stone floor of the chamber. Drawing a breath that shook with rage, his brother looked him in the eyes as he spoke.
"We have been abandoned." He hissed between gritted teeth.
For once, Veron could only nod in agreement. "Would that they had agreed to help us. We could have won the peace."
Dalton scoffed. "There will be no peace now. Only annihilation. As it has been between our ancestors and those of the Greenlanders. There can only be one end to this war. Utter subjugation, or utter victory."
Veron had little doubt as to who would triumph in the long run. All we will ensure is the slaughter of our people. We cannot hope to match our enemy man for man. Our actions will have ensured that we receive no sympathy from the other realms, either. When the war ends, they will bind themselves together once more as brothers in arms as they sail to our shores and lay waste to our Isles. Perhaps, if we maintain the fleet, we can force a peace simply by controlling the sea and denying them their conquest. He knew it was a faint hope, but he clung to it nonetheless.
He knew his thoughts would prove little balm to his brother's wounds, however. When he spoke, he kept his words simple, and conciliatory. "If we continue to keep hold of the sea, and bleed them every time they attempt to retake captured seats, we may be able to force the Lannisters to back down from their final vengeance. The war may end before they can even menace our conquests."
Dalton, surprisingly, seemed to grasp the merit of his suggestion. Without his lickspittles fueling his dreams of conquest, he still has a keen mind. It seems this letter finally shook him free of his belief in victory.
The chamber door crashed open behind them, and whirling around, Veron watched with increasing dread as Lords Angred Botley and Hilmar Drumm entered, their faces grey and haggard.
Lord Botley was the first to speak, slamming down two more scraps of parchment before them on the table. His eyes alight with an odd mix of religious devotion, murderous fury, and despondent raving, he spoke: "My Lord, we have received these messages within minutes of one another. Lord Melwick Myre of the Crag has written, saying he is besieged by a host of Tarbecks, Reynes, Marbrands, and Baneforts. Garmund Orkwood of Kayce has also written, pleading for aid. He claims that a vast army has entirely encircled Kayce, made up of Lannisters, Crakehalls, Presters, and Serrets. He fears he lacks the men to hold the walls if they choose to take them by storm."
Veron felt nausea roil in his stomach. I was so close. He didn't even need to see his brother to know his reaction. Turning, his fears were confirmed. Dalton had straightened, smiling dangerously in the firelight. A maddened look had once more begun to haunt his deep black eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, he spoke, his voice full of foreboding promise.
"Ready the men. We sail tomorrow, to ruin or to triumph."
May the Drowned God help us all. We sail straight for the Lion's maw.
A/N: As with all war, fortune can be fickle. The Ironborn are beginning to learn that lesson. If Dalton's campaign were to be compared to Operation Barbarossa, the first several chapters would be 1941-42. We have now reached 1943. Thanks for listening to my historical comparisons, and a special thanks to Kalstorm99, Tom2011, TMI Fairy, Peregrine Prince, Aegor, and the other guest reviewers for their reviews!
Answer to nicktorrez9153's question: While I don't want to give away Gaemon and Maegor's postwar sigils, Gaemon's was heavily hinted at in his last POV. As for Maegor, I'll let your imagination run wild with that until it is revealed!
