A/N: I want to thank Hapanzi over on The Citadel on Reddit for all their help and insight in answering my questions. Your patience and knowledge were greatly appreciated. I also want to thank all those who took the time to review the first chapter. It was awesome to hear that others found this AU idea interesting. Thanks for all the support.

With Avatar 2 and Black Panther 2 on the horizon, I think it's safe to say: The Ocean so hot right now. Or as it's called in one of my favorite movies: The Big Blue Wet Thing. So I thought I'd capitalize on that wave and drop another chapter. It's short, but I did warn you that I'd be doing that.

Speaking of warnings: This is your reminder that this is CRACK AU so leave canon at the door.


Farwynd & Fire

By Spectre4hire

2: The Fabled Farwynd

"Was he questioned?" Dagon Farwynd wished that the wood beneath his feet were that of his ship instead of his private dock. However, he needed to be near while he waited for word from Magister Illyrio, and his royal guests.

"Sharply, Captain."

He nodded, regarding the prisoner for the first time. Tattered clothes hung from a pale, beaten body. His hair was dark and stringy, falling over his bowed head. The prisoner made no attempt to speak for himself, in either his defense or pleading for mercy. He crouched at the side of his gaoler like a loyal dog.

A pathetic shade of the man he once was, Dagon thought, not knowing Naero well, but enough to know that the Volatene had once been a good warrior, with a mean temper. "And what secrets and plots were you able to get out of him?"

"He was a spy sent by Euron Greyjoy."

"Greyjoy?" That did surprise Dagon. He was partly expecting him to have been bought off by the hired knives who had been hounding the Targaryens for years. Magister Illyrio had warned him they dwelled in the city, ambitious and cunning, believing they'd be rewarded with or without an order from King Robert. With the Crown being so grateful that the last two threats to their throne were finally removed.

"Yes, captain," he answered, "Euron Greyjoy hired him and promised more gold if he was to inform him where we were heading next. I suspect Greyjoy would use this traitor's help to try to spring a trap against you, Captain."

Euron Greyjoy has been exiled from the Iron Islands for more than a year and has used that time menacing the seas and trying to stir up trouble against him. Wanting to destroy what I've built. At what I've become. However, his pirating and raiding was only making Dagon richer. Merchant fleets were paying him handsomely for the privilege of escorting them between ports, keeping them safe from storms and sellsails including Euron's ship, The Silence.

"Is that all?"

"He was to kill you if he got near enough."

"He's near enough now," Dagon observed, taking in the trembling, broken warrior before him.

"He's been corrected for that mistake, captain."

"Well done," Dagon praised, but he was not surprised. Turning away from the prisoner and to his trusted crewmen. His curly black hair was slicked back, blood drops dripping down his hairline showing why he was called: Ramsay Bloodhair.

He was not the first bastard to enter his service, and he would not be the last. Several had come to join Dagon's growing fleet all throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Second and third sons too, seeking to make their own way and fortunes. He did not care if they were noble born or natural born, what mattered to him was if they were willing to work to earn their keep.

The sea helped to separate those too weak or arrogant. Those who did not wish to sully themselves by performing hard labors. While others did not like taking orders, some on principle, others feeling slighted that they served under a second son ironborn of humble holdings. Upon first meeting Ramsay Snow, he thought the Bolton bastard would be one of them, bitter and arrogant as he was.

He had been sent by the Lord of the Dreadfort, but he claimed it was not his father, but Lady Barbrey Dustin and her father, Lord Ryswell, who insisted on his departure. Neither willing to tolerate any threat that would stop her nephew, his grandson from inheriting the Dreadfort. He saw merit in this perceived plot since one of Barbrey's brothers, Rickard Ryswell had come to join too. Another second son with little to inherit, who was likely here to watch Ramsay and to ensure the Bolton bastard stuck to his new life, and if he didn't, to stick a knife in him.

That would prove unnecessary. The sea humbled Ramsay, like it humbles all men who believe themselves greater than what they are. He has earned his keep, Dagon's trust, a new name, and has come to appreciate the ways of the sea. The Drowned God blessed him, and then reshaped him into a faithful servant. Ramsay Bloodhair helped to root out spies, traitors, and other enemies and threats. Dagon's fleet, and his gold attracted plenty of greedy sellsails, and others of an unsavory sort.

Ramsay's work proved invaluable once again. "What shall we do with him, Captain?"

"We are to give him to the sea," Dagon sought the Drowned God's blessing for the task that lay ahead of him. "Do you wish to do the honors?"

"I do," Ramsay's fingers were already stained red, when they went to remove the knife from his sheath. He dragged Naero to his feet.

"Not too deep," Dagon cautioned his excited supplicant, "She likes them still moving."

Ramsay pushed the prisoner to the edge of the dock. "Is she close?" The knife was poised at Naero's throat, who took the sharp tip with meek acceptance.

"Yes," Dagon Sharkskin didn't need to call her. He just had to wait.

It was called different things. This gift. His father saw it as putting on worn boots, his grandfather as wearing gloves, but to Dagon, he viewed them as doors, made of clear crystal. Five doors lined in a row inside his mind's eye, allowing him to see through. But they can use it too. He sensed she was close without needing to look through her door. He would not open it, not for this part.

He was a boy of six when his grandfather told him what he was. A skinchanger, he had explained, a gift from the Drowned God.

Dagon saw flashes of water engulfing him, feeling a prickling across his throat. The raw hunger coiled tightly within. He dispelled a breath to clear his thoughts. Sometimes, they could get the door to budge without his help. Grandfather had warned him that the tether that bound them could be pulled both ways.

Stronger, stubborn animals, those who are not used to man, will fight harder, but you must endure their rage, their fear, if you wish to bond with them. Maron Farwynd had cautioned his grandson when he realized that he was unsatisfied with seals and gulls. Be careful, Dagon, his grandfather would warn him, Do not lose yourself to either the seas or the skies. They'll graft onto you, change you, but you are still a man. Do not forget that.

A cry of elation went up, pulling Dagon from his reverie. He saw the reason for Ramsay's ecstatic cheer, a fin emerged from the waves. A grey knife cutting through the calm waters of the Bay of Pentos. He turned back to see that with the prisoner's own blood, Ramsay had crudely drawn a smiling face on Naero's now bare chest.

Naero reacted too. A small, pitiful sob slipped past quivering lips as he realized what was coming for him. Soiling himself, but before he could struggle with whatever strength he had remaining, Dagon gave the order.

"Accept this offering," he heard the wet gasp of the knife cutting across the throat, and then the splash as the sacrifice was shoved into the water. "I seek your favor," He said over the splashing and spluttering, "Your blessing."

The scream pierced through his prayer, high and loud. The familiar sound of ripping flesh followed. Dagon did not need to look up to know what was happening. To see the rows upon rows of teeth as sharp and long as daggers grip firmly onto the sacrifice. Sawing through meat and bone, devouring piece after piece while the sacrifice screamed and writhed through it all. Until the noise abruptly ended. The sudden silence could become just as eerie as the previous screaming. A limp, mangled body that had been bobbing in the water like a toy top, was forcibly tugged into the darker depths of the bay, leaving behind a red wake.

"She was hungry," Ramsay observed fervently, having never grown bored of their rituals. His gaze was on the blood muddled water and the pieces of Naero that floated along the surface of the waves. Dagon saw a finger among the carnage before the gulls came, cawing and swooping down to feast on what remained.

"She was," Dagon's thoughts, however, were not on the sacrifice or on her, but on hoping the Drowned God would accept his offering and help him. He will, Dagon believed it, The Drowned God helps the bold. And what was bolder than this?


"You risk a great deal, Captain. Many lost men to bring her family down."

Dagon was still on the dock when they found him. A knot of grumbling men who had come to complain when they learned of his intentions with the Targaryen princess. He was more interested in the sea than them, trying to gleam a portent from the Drowned God after delivering his sacrifice. Even without a sign, he still took comfort and strength from the water. The lapping of waves was more pleasing to him than any minstrel plucking their harp. The sea smell wafting in the air was crisp and invigorating.

Just as many families lost men to keep her family on the throne, Dagon kept that to himself knowing it would fall on deaf ears with this audience.

His back was to them, but he knew all those gathered. The cry of a sea hawk called overhead, but none of the men paid it any notice. Its heralding caw did scatter some of the lingering gulls who had come after the sacrifice.

There was Ser Lyn Corbray, a vain knight from the Vale who Dagon was introduced to by Petyr Baelish when he was still working in customs at Gulltown. He was accompanied by his younger brother, Ser Lucas. The Corbray brothers were joined by other men from the Vale including Mychel Redfort, Lyn's squire, who had dreams of marrying a bastard when he earned enough gold. Beside him was Ser Donnel Waynwood, who had been given the name Ser Proper for his unfailing courtesies. With him was his squire and kin, Sandor Frey.

Another of their kinsman or so Dagon thought was the one who had just spoken, Alesander Frey, he captained the Wind Whistle. With him was Harry Rivers, the Bastard of Bracken who had kept relatively quiet. He was a good and strong young man, whom Dagon suspected had come out of obligation for his captain. Besides him was Ser Rolland Storm, a pox faced knight, who worshiped the Warrior as if it was the only face of the Faith. With Ser Balon Swann, a second son who had joined Dagon's fleet before their venture to Yi Ti. The two stormlanders served aboard the same ship, The Stormy Knight; their captain, Dagon, noticed was not among those gathered.

Those absent were just as notable. Just as there were families who fought against the Targaryens among Dagon's fleet. There were just as many who fought to keep the dragons on their throne. They may have bent the knee to the stag, but he suspected they still harbored hope for the dragons to return.

"Remind me, Lord Alesander, how many men did your family lose in the war?"

"None, Captain," Alesander was fortunate to take after his mother rather than his father. He spoke with a slight Braavosi lilt and would often be heard singing while aboard his ship. He was one of the first nobles from outside the Iron Islands to join Dagon. His grandfather Lord Frey was never one to miss an opportunity to make gold and to secure good positions for his family. The Lord of the Crossing had enough kin to crew his own small fleet but had settled on two ships.

It was not meant as a reprimand, only a reminder. Dagon considered Alesander one of his best Westerosi captains, but before he could assuage the Frey, another voice spoke up, louder and angrier.

"We lost plenty to them," Hother Umber was an old man who lost none of his strength. "They killed our liege lord, they killed his heir, they took his daughter." Hother spat, listing off every grievance, "Fuck the Targaryens!"

"Why else would I court a Targaryen princess, Lord Hother?" Dagon asked, unperturbed by Hother's anger. "If not to lay with her."

There were some guffaws, but Hother remained unamused. "Get yourself a Lyseni whore, Captain," he replied, "And spare us this headache."

Nodding along with Hother was Ser Wendel Manderly, the captain of The Lady Ariel. Supposedly named after one of their ancestors, his ship was crewed entirely by northmen. One of three who were sponsored by Wendel's father, Lord Wyman, the Lord of White Harbor.

Rickard Ryswell, the captain of Sea Steed, murmured his agreement. Before he was named captain, the men called him Sick Rick since the sea did not agree with him in those early days when he was brought into Dagon's fleet to watch the Bolton Bastard. He eventually got over his seasickness, found his sea legs, and had risen to become a captain. Honoring his success, he changed his personal banner to now be the quartering of his black horse head with a golden seahorse head.

"A lyseni whore doesn't bring royal prestige," Dagon countered calmly, "Just a lighter coin purse and mayhaps, a rash if you're unfortunate."

"This princess will bring you nothing but trouble," Hother warned, "The King hates the Targaryens, if he hears of this-"

Umber's shouting had scared off more gulls, distracting Dagon from what Hother was saying when he noticed there were seven gulls now remaining. Seven, he knew it was a holy number, but not to him. But it came from the sea. This had to be a portent sent from the Drowned God, answering his prayers, pleased with the sacrifice. He couldn't consider what it meant for long, needing to put it aside knowing he had to settle this first.

"I will not keep you here," He informed them, but they already knew that. After each expedition, the captains and their crews were free to leave upon receiving their cut. There were good men in front of him, good captains too. He'd be disappointed to lose them, but he did not lack for ships and good crews. Two ships from Planky Town had recently arrived seeking to join him.

The sea was lucrative. They all knew that, but it was an expensive gamble. Even the most competent captain could lose his ship, his cargo, or his life, to a storm or sellsails. One risks losing everything every time they set sail. The men would make gold without him, but not as much and for not as long. Dagon saw the flashes of uncertainty across some of their expressions. The doubt creeping over them. Their resolve wavering, the silence was stewing between them. None of them were quick to declare their intention to leave.

"My mind is made up in regard to the Targaryen princess. I'll accept any and all consequences that come of it," he looked them over, "I'll give you a few days as I plan our next expedition. I'll expect your answers then." They left after that, far more subdued in their departure than they had been when they came to meet with him. That was when he noticed someone familiar approaching him.

Lanky Lonnie ignored the retreating nobles, coming straight to him. He bowed his head as soon as his foot touched the wood of the dock. Lonnel Tawney easily earned his name with his tall, thin frame. He had a round face with an eyebrow that was thicker and bushier than the mustache resting above his upper lip. He was a distant cousin to the main House Tawney of Orkmont.

"Captain," he said, raising his head, "I've just returned from the Magister's manse."

"I'm aware of where you went, Lonnie," Dagon replied dryly, "I recall sending you there."

A bit of red came to his cheeks. The young man worked tirelessly, determined to try to carry his family's name above the embarrassment of his great uncle. Jon Tawney had been convinced a separate man lived inside his finger, telling him of a paradise beyond the Sunset Sea. He was last seen on a rowboat, paddling out to sea. That had been years ago.

Despite his infamy, he was rewarded with a good death. Dying at sea was the best death a man could ask for. To the sea we belong, and to the sea we return.

"Yes, captain," Lonnie recovered quickly, "The Magister invited you to his manse tonight for a feast in your honor."

Dagon thanked and then dismissed him. He took one last long look at the Bay and left. The Drowned God had given him this chance. I cannot squander it.


A/N: Last Kingdom fans should recognize Ramsay's nickname in this chapter.

HOTD fans likely caught the saying Dagon mentions in this as it's used by House Velaryon. I used it b/c I thought it made sense for those who follow the Drowned God. It's likely inspired from the famous verse: "For dust you are, and to dust you will return."

So originally, I had no intentions of using Ramsay, but then this idea came to me. I initially rejected it and then remembered this is Crack AU so let's embrace that excuse from time to time. Which leads to my next point of the characters in this chapter. I just picked the ones I either: 1) liked, 2) found interesting, 3) had potential and 4) was somewhat believable (the exclusion being Ramsay) So I did stop myself from going full Crack by not using some families/characters because I thought they'd be too biased against ironborn. There's also more to come (some I already have in mind) since Dagon noted there were several not there. Maybe I'll bring out Darkstar, the greatest knight EVA or a Sand Snake or two.

Dagon does follow the Drowned God, but his belief is more nuanced instead of merely being black or white: Believe or don't. I thought it more realistic since how often do people twist/change/emphasize a belief/religion/cause to help form/reinforce their own narrative. We'll get more into his beliefs in later chapters.

In regard to Dagon's skinchanging, I was first going to start him with three, and then have him get a fourth one during the story. However, I changed my mind after remembering Martin's subtle, but hilarious/clever reference to Varamyr as Varamyr Four skin. So that meant, I didn't want to start with either three or four so as to avoid that joke, which means Dagon has five to start the story. Seems like a lot, but then I remember I said he may be kinda OP, so why not just lean into it a bit. They have all been picked and will be revealed as the story unfolds.

I was not planning a Dagon POV this early, but the muse kinda took over. Daenerys is still the primary perspective, but if you didn't find this too dreadful, I'll consider sprinkling in some more in Dagon's POV.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire