Land of the King

Chapter 11: The Iron Fortress

Amroth

Amroth watched carefully, his face betraying no emotion as the fire ship approached the enemy fleet. The waves had moved it forward. One of the Greyborn ships moved to board and investigate but the rest continued moving forward. They had the advantage now, sailing downwind. In an ordinary battle, their greater speed would increase their ramming power. But this was no ordinary battle.

Turning to the flagship, he observed with baited anticipation as his brother took the steelbow, lit the tip on fire and drew it. Carefully noting the wind conditions, he waited… and waited. Until finally, for a brief moment, the wind shifted slightly and he loosed the arrow.

The entire fleet watched the arrow sail through the air, as it climbed high into the sky, remaining in the air for a few short seconds before it turned downwards crashing upon its mark like a hammer stroke.

In an instant, a deafening roar sounded in Amroth's eardrums. He was temporarily blinded by a green flash. Averting his eyes, he could see the wildfire spreading, like the breath of a dragon, destroying all in its path.

Men screamed as their ships ignited beneath them. In front of him, the roar of the green flames burned, ever hotter.

Amroth began to grow concerned when the inferno came rushing to him, growing swiftly beyond control. This was not according to plan. The wildfire should not have been able to reach their fleet! Panicked, he turned to see the fleet being immolated, briefly seeing his brother's fearful face before the fire consumed him.

Turning back, he saw the fire, rushing toward him, coming to eviscerate him. And Amroth knew it would be his end. They had made a mistake.

I'm going to die.

With a loud cry he woke from his sleep. Still stunned, he patted himself down quickly, checking for any burns. There was none. Right. It had just been a dream. The wildfire hadn't gone out of control. They had accomplished all their objectives in that battle without losing a single ship, yet why, why did he still feel like this?

Sighing, he got up from his bed, taking a while to adjust to the rocking on his ship before leaving his cabin.

Damn dreams.

It had been three weeks since that battle, the battle that the men had started calling the 'Glowing Sea', and Amroth had been plagued by nightmares of it almost every night.

Sometimes he would dream of the plan going wrong and their entire fleet being burned by the wildfire, and other times he would simply dream of that sight, that eerie and unholy green light below the waves. According to scouts, the wildfire was still burning and even three weeks later, the sea was still glowing emerald.

The 'Glowing Sea' had been burning so hot that the Arnorian fleet had not been able to cross the area. A few ships that had tried, had almost sunk trying to sail through boiling water. Tarondor had ordered the fleet to take a detour around the entire battle area and then head straight for the Grey Islands.

The plan had worked near perfectly. Only a few ships had escaped the encirclement they had created. No doubt they were well on their way to their home ports to warn their allies but it mattered not. The Islands would fall. Tarondor would make sure of that.

Amroth felt more than a little uneasy about Tarondor's bloodlust. For the past few years, his brother had become obsessed with this invasion. Along the way, it had turned from neutralising an enemy into Tarondor's personal revenge mission. He felt for his brother, he really did. Amroth had lost his father in an accident with a horse, a wild animal. Sure, it had hurt, but his father had known the risks of those expeditions and had done them anyway. And Durmôr had served his brother well for many years now.

Tarondor had lost many, many, friends and men under him to the Greyborn over the course of his long years at sea. They had all been killed by raiders, savages who desired the hard-earned possessions of better men.

It came as no surprise to any that Tarondor was hungering for Greyborn blood. Yet, revenge was not the answer. How would he enact his revenge? Would he raze the islands to the ground and salt the ashes? Where would his revenge leave Tarondor in the end? As a violent and bloodthirsty tyrant, seeking to destroy any who had slighted him? Or would Tarondor be left an empty shell with no purpose, his revenge having felt cheap and pathetic?

Amroth had never felt more scared and concerned for his brother than in the moment that Anardil had finished presenting his wildfire plan. For a few brief moments, Tarondor had sounded less like a Dúnedain king and more like a tyrant, cackling like a madman. His evil laugh reminding him of the histories they had learned as children, of how the last Kings of Númenor had become arrogant and cruel. He had never been reminded of those stories more than in that moment.

Yet it was not Amroth's place to question Tarondor. They had been closer to each other in the past twenty-three years than they had been for the two centuries before. Amroth did not want to jeopardise that relationship. There was still time, Tarondor had not yet done anything that warranted his intervention. Until then he would serve loyally and without question.

Amroth's current task was to secure the submission of Great Wyk. On Tarondor's orders, Houses Farwynd, Goodbrother, Merlyn, Sparr, and Hoare were to bend the knee or die. Amroth would do his duty to his king and his country.

"Loose!"

A volley of arrows surged over Amroth's head, falling like rain upon the defenders of Hoare Castle. Flaming boulders battered the walls and towers of the castle, launched by catapults and giants alike. Smoke climbed high into the air, rising from the fires that had been burning. They had been assaulting the castle since midnight, and its walls were due to fall at any moment.

On the horizon, a red sun rose, its morning rays lightening up the sky with a crimson dawn. The sunrise reminded Amroth of the parley with the foolish Lord Hoare.

Amroth stood before the gates of Hoare Castle. He had called for a parley with the lord of the castle, one Halleck Hoare and had been waiting for him for a while now.

Growing impatient with the lord's tardiness, Amroth had only just moved to leave when the gates of the caste swung open. Out walked the Lord of Hoare, flanked by two mean and tough guards on either side.

If there was a typical look for a Greyborn, then Lord Halleck was it. He was an average height, for one not of the Dúnedain. Black hair flecked with grey hung past the small of his back, behind his wrinkled, bearded, face and hooded nose. Broad shoulders and lean, toned muscles complimented his grizzled and grey appearance well.

'A hard man, for a hard land,' Amroth thought.

"Greetings Lord Hoare. I am Prince Amroth, an emissary of my elder brother, His Majesty, King Tarondor, King of Arnor and the Dunedain, the Casterrim, the Tawarwaith and the Orodondrim. Lord of-

"Enough with the titles. What does your kingly brother want from House Hoare?" Halleck Hoare interrupted rudely.

"Very well then. Lord Hoare my royal brother demands your submission and your obeisance to him as vassal."

"I can give no such thing. I know not about you Arnorians, but I am no faithless oathbreaker. I swore an oath to King Aeron, and I will not break it."

"King Aeron's days and the days of House Greyiron are numbered. He is holed up like a rat on Orkmont. The King himself is leading a force so great that Aeron could not possibly hope to stand against it. Mark my words my lord, my brother will flush him out and he will end Aeron. It is not a matter of if, but when."

"You Arnorians think that you are so high and mighty. Hah! I spit on your highness," Halleck said, his spittle landing at Amroth's feet.

"You listen here, princeling. This is the Grey Islands, and we are the Greyborn. No prissy Greenlander will take our lands from us."

"Lords Merlyn and Farwynd would beg to differ my lord. They have seen the wisdom in kneeling and have surrendered to me. Their counterparts, Lords Goodbrother and Sparr are dead, their houses attainted and extinguished."

Lord Halleck looked hesitant at hearing that. Affirming his resolve however, he bit back, "Then they were no true Greyborn."

Amroth called out to him as he turned back to his castle, "This is your last chance! Yield now and you may remain as Lord of Hoare Castle. Yield now and your sons will live to rule after you. I have ten thousand men outside your walls."

"What is dead may never die, Arnorian, but rises again, harder and stronger. Ten thousand men can march on my walls and ten thousand men will die. What is outside my walls is of no matter to me," Halleck said, walking back into his castle.

Before the gate closed however, Amroth gave one final warning, "When the sun rises, your line shall end."

They had begun the bombardment at midnight. Volley after volley of flaming arrows and boulders. The whole time Amroth had waited to see the white flag of surrender. But it had never come. The standard of House Hoare had remained proudly flying above the castle's battlements. And so Amroth had resolved to fulfil his promise to Lord Hoare.

As sunrise, approached, the bombardment on the castle had intensified. Amroth had ordered them to focus their fire on one particular section and his command was bearing fruit now.

With a great rumble, the wall of Castle Hoare, cracked and collapsed, crashing down and leaving a wide hole in the castle's defenses.

Ordering his archers to cover their advance, Amroth turned to his army and commanded them, "Advance! Bring me Lord Hoare. Dead or alive."

With practiced ease, the regiment swept forward. Despite their fast pace, they kept a perfect formation, a testament to the drills and training of Arnor's army.

They were met with little resistance as they passed through the gap. As the regiment fanned out from the courtyard to the rest of the castle, they slew the resistant and captured the yielding.

In front of Amroth, the keep of House Hoare stood. A last defense for the family no doubt sheltering within. Were they any other army, it would have taken them longer to breach the keep after the outer wall had fallen, but they were no ordinary army.

"Wun Wun, break down the gate." Amroth ordered in Casterric, turning to one of the giants, a tall silver haired male."

Saying nothing, Wun Wun obeyed and marched forward to the gate. He swung his steel mace at the gate two times before kicking it in with his foot. The force of Wun Wun's kick sent the doors of the gates flying of their hinges, slamming into the defenders behind. Any survivors fled upon seeing Wun Wun, terrified.

Amroth walked calmly, slowly into the hall. Lord Hoare and his two sons almost tripped over themselves as they moved to kneel to him. Amroth place his sword blade at Halleck's chin, and forced him to raised his head up.

Staring into his eyes, Amroth spoke coldly, "I promised you your line would end at sunrise. Tell me Lord Hoare, did you take that for a jape? What is dead may never die but you are most assuredly alive… for now."

Somehow, still retaining some semblance of pride, Halleck gritted his teeth and answered. "I yield Castle Hoare to you my prince. I swear fealty to King Tarondor and beg his forgiveness for my dithering," he said, sounding like every single word hurt him physically.

Mercilessly, Amroth replied, "No. Your surrender is not accepted Lord Hoare. During our parley, you insinuated that Arnorians do not keep their oaths. I will prove to you that we keep every word we say. Your family's lands shall be stripped, your house attainted, and you executed. Should your sons be willing and able to swallow their pride and beg my brother's mercy, they may perhaps be restored to the slightest inch of land. I must warn you though, that he is not as forgiving as I am."

"YOU-", but any other words Lord Hoare may have wanted to say were cut off, as Amroth thrust his sword blade through his throat.

"You bastard!"

Amroth turned to see one of Lord Hoare's sons rushing at him with a sword. Before either Amroth or the Hoare could do anything however, he was cut down by an arrow from one of his archers.

Nodding his thanks to his bowman, Amroth turned to the second of Lord Hoare's sons. "So, do you choose to die like your brother and father or live as my prisoner?"

The young Hoare stared at Amroth with hatred in his eyes. If looks could kill, then Amroth had no doubt that he would be in the Void with Melkor and the Great Other already.

Grudgingly, the Hoare answered. "I… I surrender," he said choking out his words.

"Excellent."

As the men dragged the Hoare away, Amroth ordered for his brother and father to be buried. They had been his enemies but their corpses still deserved proper treatment.

Amroth highly doubted Tarondor would restore any land to the young Hoare after he heard of today's events. It was far too dangerous. He would simmer and stew, his resentment growing into a rebellion. No, it was better to nip that problem in the bud.

Still as he stared at the corpses of Lord Halleck and his eldest son, Amroth felt the slightest bit of remorse. His enemies they had been, but had they truly been evil? Tarondor believed all Greyborn were evil but Amroth did not think the same. All men had an equal capacity for good and evil and the Greyborn culture and religion, which they had been raised in since birth, had pushed them to latter.

Looking at the son, Amroth wondered what his name was, what his goals and ambitions had been, whether there had been a girl he had loved, and if he had truly been evil at heart.

A month later, all the Islands had submitted to his brother. To cement his rule, Tarondor had summoned all the lords and commanders in the Islands, those from Arnor and those of the Greyborn who had bent the knee, to come and acknowledge him as the ruler of the Islands.

As if to rub salt in the wound, Tarondor struck deep at the Greyborn culture by decreeing this ceremony to take place at the ribs of Nagga the Sea Dragon, the holiest site in the Islands to the Greyborn.

Looking at his brother, reclining in the Seastone Chair, Amroth had to supress the urge to shake his head at his antics. He had been informed that Tarondor had had the throne shipped all the way from Orkmont just so he could do this. And now he was leaning back on the throne of the Greyborn kings, smirking as he rested his head on one arm on the armrest.

The Greyborn lords and priests were glaring at Tarondor in anger, but that only made him smirk more.

With a triumphant voice, Tarondor announced to the Greyborn lords, "Welcome my lords. Here I will take your oaths of fealty."

Gesturing to the lords, they stepped forward at his command. The lords swore fealty to Tarondor and acknowledged him as king. In return, he confirmed their lands and titles. Personally, Amroth wondered how many would rebel the moment their army left the Islands.

When he had finished accepting their oaths of fealty, Tarondor called forth members of the Dúnedain group, praising them and honouring them with great rewards for their service. Some were granted promotions and gifts, others even more loyal and capable were raised to lords and granted the lands of the unyielding Greyborn.

Amroth had started tuning out his brother's words although he was quite impressed at his ability to remember every service and his willingness to reward almost each and every one of them. Amroth had been very interested when Anardil, his brother's wildfire adviser was granted a minor lordship as well. He was a bit concerned that some of the older nobility would take issue with that but they would have to deal with it. Tarondor was King and it was his prerogative to give lands to whomever he wished.

Never in this time did Amroth stop to think and wonder if his brother would reward him as well. Which is why it came as a surprise when Tarondor called him out.

"Amroth, son of Tarcil, come forth."

At once all eyes looked to Amroth. Despite his own surprise, he noticed that no one else was surprised at his summoning. Walking forward, he presented himself before Tarondor and knelt.

"Prince Amroth, this reward you have earned not by virtue as my younger brother but for your loyal service and steadfast support, not just in this campaign, but for the entirety of my reign as well. I name you the Prince of Kayce, a title and fief to be held by you and your line until the end of time."

"You honour me with your generosity, Your Majesty, I-", but Tarondor wasn't finished yet.

"Furthermore in light of the retirement of Lord Celosien, I name you to position of Steward, second in power only to me. I can think of none other that I could trust with such a post."

At that Amroth was left speechless. To not only give him a principality, something not even the Lords of Minas Anor and Minas Ithil were, but to make him his Steward as well? Amroth felt almost giddy. There could be no greater expression of trust than this. Briefly his brother's promise under the White Tree all those years ago came to him. He had done it. He had earned Tarondor's trust.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I will not fail you."

Tarondor smiled warmly at him, "I know you won't"

A few hours later, Amroth was walking with Tarondor on Nagga's Hill. His brother had dragged him out from his bed, saying that his first task as Steward was to accompany him for a walk. Amroth had had a sinking suspicion that a possible reason Tarondor had made him Steward was to give him nonsensical tasks on a whim. And knowing Tarondor, that was very possible.

Well if he was here, he might as well try his best to enjoy it. According to the Greyborn, these pillars and beams were the remains of the great hall the Grey King had built from Nagga's bones. It was the holiest site in the Islands and before the Greyirons had ended the practice, it had been the site of the kingsmoot for centuries. In many ways, this hill was the religious and cultural centre of the Islands.

"Do you plan on destroying Nagga's bones brother?" Amroth asked, breaking the silence.

Tarondor thought a while, before answering, "No. I had considered it but decided against it in the end."

"I thought you would have enjoyed the idea of destroying a symbol of the Greyborn's culture and religion."

Grinning, Tarondor said, "Oh no. I have something even better in mind. I fully expect there to be countless rebellions from these troublesome islands, so to suppress them, I intend to build a citadel here on Old Wyk. This citadel would encircle Nagga's bones entirely and the Seastone Chair will be the seat of my viceroy in the Islands. "

Grudgingly, Amroth conceded, "That is actually a good idea. We could strengthen the legitimacy of our rule whilst denying the Greyborn any symbol to rally around."

Tarondor looked at him in mock confusion, "Is that why you thought I chose that plan? No Brother. I was having such a great time imagining the faces of the Greyborn priests that I knew I just had to continue with it."

Despite his words, Amroth was well aware that Tarondor had realised the more political ramifications of his decision and had weighed them alongside his personal desire to spite the Greyborn.

"What?" Tarondor asked, noticing Amroth staring at him.

"Nothing." Amroth was glad that Tarondor had chosen a healthier way to enact his revenge.

"Now come along Steward, it's time to leave," Tarondor said, walking back to camp.

Shaking his head at Tarondor's antics, Amroth followed. He knew his place now. He was Amroth Tarcillion Elendillion, second son of King Tarcil and younger brother of King Tarondor. Once long ago, all Arnor had believed he desired to usurp his brother, but in truth, despite their shattered relationship, he had only wanted to support him. He had found his place in Tarondor's shadow and accepted it. It would never be his place to question or hinder him, only to serve him loyally, and Amroth was satisfied with that.

"Hey, I'm curious. What do you intend to name your citadel?" Amroth asked.

Smirking, Tarondor turned back and replied, "Blood and iron will keep these islands in line. Angrenost will keep them in line."

Author's Note: That moment when you name a chapter after something but its only mentioned at the last line, aah. And so ends the Hirgaer arc, it was really really fun writing about Tarondor and Amroth but all good things must come to an end one day. I will not say do not weep for not all tears are an evil.

Notes on the chapter:

1) Tawarwaith and Orodondrim were the Sindarin names chosen for the Children of the Forest and the Giants respectively. Kudos to Helezhelm for recommending Tawarwaith! Orodondrim means 'Tall mountain people' which I guess is acceptable and for me it sounds kewl.

2) The full title of the King of Arnor will be revealed eventually (if only because I haven't completely worked it out.)

3) I do not think Mischievous! Smug! Tarondor to be out of character as this is the same guy who thought that he could command a horse to serve him (and actually succeed, lol) Also he was sitting on the Seastone Chair Skyrim Jarl style if that tells you anything bout his actions at the time

4) Amroth's full name: Canonically the Dunedain don't really have last names. Their last name is their father's name. But I was thinking that they would start if they lived in Westeros, which is obsessed with last names. So Dunedain nobility have a three part name [given name] [father's name] [house name}. The surname for members of the House of Elendil is Elendillion

5) Just a clarification, but Amroth is Prince of Kayce now. However his keep becomes known as Dol Amroth later on so the title changes to Prince of Dol Amroth.

6) Credit due for inspiration. That one scene of Amroth thinking on how evil the Hoares really were was based on Faramir's words on the evilness of the Haradrim man in LOTR: TWO TOWERS EXTENDED EDITION (Extended is only acceptable edition for watching the movies).

That scene of Tarondor reclining on the Seastone chair is actually inspired by a scene from cyrileom's Everyoung Dragon where Daeron was reclining on the Throne of Dorne. Sadly the author has said the fic is dead but I would still recommend checking it out.

P.S Sauron's Wrath, Ive answered a few of your reviews in PM. Pls acknowledge in PM chat.