5

Rodrik

The squawking of seagulls woke him. He opened one bleary eye and just as quickly shut it, mumbling a thousand curses as sunlight lanced through his skull. Where the fuck am I? he thought. Blindly, he sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. The wooden floor felt rough beneath his feet. The room swayed gently and the pungent stench of fish and salt wafted through the air. He was on a ship, that was obvious enough. Now the question became: Why the fuck am I on a ship? The answer to that question would have to wait, as his bladder felt likely to burst at any moment, and he refused to piss his own bed. Rodrik Greyjoy may have been a drunk, but he had standards.

He opened his eyes, slowly this time, and spied the chamber pot in the corner of the room. His eyes adjusted to the light, which did nothing to lessen the feeling that an axe was buried in his skull. He lurched to his feet, his manhood swinging freely between his legs, and stumbled to the chamber pot.

He was a large man, surpassing six feet in height, his arms and legs thickly corded with muscles, his belly round and protruding. He blamed the ale for that last part. His hair was long and black and he had a thick beard to match. His weathered face, tanned and creased like old leather, made him look older than his thirty years.

Making it to the chamber pot without issue, he let loose with a mighty stream. He leaned against the wall for support and gazed out a nearby porthole. The ship was docked, a small, bustling town rested past the dock and a great castle sat on a hilltop overlooking the town. He had the feeling he had been here before, but for the life of him could not remember.

"Where the fuck am I?" he asked aloud this time.

"Seagard, m'lord." The voice startled him, sending his stream off target. He looked over his shoulder and saw a woman in the bed he had come from, as naked as he. She wasn't very pretty, her nose too big for her face, her tits too small for her body. Her pale skin was mottled with bruises here and there and marred with scratch and bite marks. He grinned to recognize his own handiwork.

"Seagard?" he questioned, turning back to the chamber pot. Memories from the night before began to resurface. His grandfather, Quellon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Isles, had sent him to the greenlands to serve as the Iron Islands' evoy to the royal wedding. He and his grandfather had quarreled because the old man had refused to allow him to sail his own longship to Seagard.

"Seagard is our ally now," the withered old cunt had wheezed. "But centuries old animosities are hard to forget. They will not take kindly to the sight of Ironborn longships in their harbour."

Angry with the old man, he had gone to one of his favorite alehouses to drink the night away. At some point, he must have boarded a ship and brought the ugly wench with him.

Finished with the chamber pot, he made his way back to the bed. "And who the fuck are you?"

"Myra, m'lord." She seemed to hope her name would jog his memory. When it didn't she continued. "I served you at the alehouse. I told you I had never been to the greenlands before and you promised to take me."

Rodrink grunted. "Well, here we are." He pulled on his breeches and looked about the cabin for his doublet. "How long have we been docked?"

"Since morning."

He didn't find his doublet under the bed, but found an empty wine pitcher instead. Cursing, he rose to his feet. "I told the captain to wake me when we arrived." His memory was coming back to him clearer now.

"He tried, m'lord, but you struck him a fierce blow and he fled the room."

Rodrik laughed heartily, his belly shaking. He found his doublet hanging from a scone and pulled it on. "Find him and tell him to send word to the castle that I've arrived." He pulled on his boots and laced them up. "And then find me something to drink."

The woman jumped to obey, throwing on her shift and her gown and scurrying out of the room. She returned a few minutes later with a pitcher of wine and bearing news that a messenger had been sent out. He had nearly finished the pitcher and was considering giving the girl another tumble beneath the sheets when the captain of the ship tentatively knocked on the door and announced that men from the castle waited on the docks.

He strode to the deck, free of his headache thanks to the wine. The serving girl did not follow.

"I thought you wanted to see the greenlands?" he asked.

"I've seen enough of them already, m'lord, I'll be staying on the ship and returning to Pyke."

He shrugged. He had thought to keep her with him, she could have proven useful if a better bedmate couldn't be found to accompany him on the long road to King's Landing, but he didn't care enough to force her to stay at his side.

Out on the docks, he recognized who had been sent to greet him. Though he had grown taller, his little brother Theon still looked like the boy he remembered from his youth, skinny and dark of hair and eyes. Though at least in his youth his little brother had passed for an Ironborn. Now he looked like a greenlander, dressed in a fine velvet doublet and crisp leather boots, with arms and hands which looked as if they had never worked an oar and a face which looked like it had taken too few punches. That last part Rodrik intended to correct, at least.

"Little Theon." He pulled his youngest brother into a fierce hug, squeezing him with all his might. "Or do I have to call you Ser Theon now? Forgive me if I don't bow and scrape in your knightly presence."

Theon had been sent to Seagard near ten years ago to serve as Lord Jason Mallister's ward and squire, part of their grandfather's grand scheme to ingratiate House Greyjoy with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Little Theon had taken well to life amongst the greenlanders and had earned his knighthood a year past. Rodrik had roared with laughter when the news reached Pyke, imagining his skinny little brother kneeling in a sept while some grey robed septon smeared oils on his forehead and mumbled some words about his soft, greenlander gods.

"Just Theon will suffice, brother," his little brother said, trying to regain his composure, a small smile on his face which made it seem like he was in on the joke. "Might I introduce you to Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason's son and heir."

The lordling seemed to be of an age with Theon, with sandy blonde hair, watery blue-grey eyes and an aquiline nose. He had the type of looks that made greenland maidens swoon, the type of looks Rodrik despised.

"If you'll follow us, my lord," Patrek said, "My father has had rooms prepared for you in the castle."

Rodrik scoffed. "Couldn't be bothered to come greet me himself?" He cut off whatever defense Patrek had of his father. "No bother. Tell your lord father I appreciate his hospitality." That sounded like something his grandfather would have wanted him to say, though not in such a snide tone. "But I've no desire to stay in his castle. If my little brother would be so kind as to escort me to this town's finest brothel, assuming his knightly honor isn't offended by such an establishment, I'll gladly take up room there."

Theon's smile widened. "Follow me, brother."

If the brothel Theon lead him to was the best Seagard had to offer, Rodrik felt pity for the men of the town. More likely, his little brother had thought himself clever and lead him to the worst brothel in town. Rodrik cared little. The brothel's rates were cheap and with the coin he'd brought with him he was easily able to keep himself on a steady supply of wine and women.

The next day, when Theon came to collect him, he wisely sent his pimple faced squire to wake him. Rodrik sent the squire to his knees with a punch to the gut for the offense. Once he had dressed and settled his debts, and his morning headache had been cured by another dose of wine, he and the squire - whose name he didn't bother to learn - met Theon outside the brothel. Together they rode to the town's gates, where they met Lord Jason, his son and a score of Seagard knights and their squires. Lord Mallister had the look of a seasoned warrior, tall and broad and hard of face, his age made clear by the smattering of white in his brown hair.

Theon made the introductions.

"Well met," Lord Jason said, extending his hand. Rodrik squeezed the man's hand with all his might. Lord Jason's eyes narrowed and he returned the favor, his grip like iron. They released after a long moment. "My son tells me you chose to room in the town. I'm sorry my accommodations weren't to your liking."

"The fault lies with me." Rodrik remembered the lessons in courtesy his grandfather had forced on him as a child. They had lasted only until Rodrik had wrestled the maester to the ground and forced his head into a privy. What little he had learned had been washed away by time and drink, but he remembered enough to know that refusing a lord's hospitality was a grievous offense. "I should have informed you beforehand that I am a man of certain sensibilities." He pulled out one of his many wineskins and took a long drink. "Besides, that castle of yours was raised to keep my people out, I wouldn't want to sully its reputation."

"Indeed," Lord Jason said through clenched teeth. It was clear he disliked Rodrik already, not that Rodrik minded. Most men he met disliked him, he had long since grown used to it. "Though those times are long past. Your grandfather has done much to amend the relationship between our peoples."

His words painted a pretty picture, but his eyes told a different tale. Mayhaps over the years Lord Mallister had grown used to Theon's presence, but it was clear an ingrained hate for the Ironborn still lurked deep within his heart. What a fun trip this will be, Rodrik thought, taking another swig from his wineskin.

"Well said, my lord," he said. "I look forward to growing the relationship between our houses on this journey."

The Lord of Seagard nodded, seemingly tired of conversing with Rodrik already. He gave the order to ride and they set out together on the road to Riverrun. At Riverrun they would meet up with his little sister Asha and her lordly husband. From there they would travel to the crownlands via rivership and make their way to King's Landing.

They camped for the night beneath the ruins of an ancient, ruined castle atop a hill. The greenlanders called it Oldstones and talked about it in such reverent tones Rodrik assumed it must have been some sort of sacred place. He half remembered a song about a girl from Oldstones, heard in one port or another. 'Jenny of Oldstones with flowers in her hair.' Might be he had heard the song from Maron. His fool of a younger brother had long been infatuated with songs.

"There's no quicker way to get a maid to drop her skirts than to sing her a pretty song," he had always said. He had won that pretty wife of his with a song, he always claimed, and dozens of other maidens besides. Rodrik had never cared much for songs, he had his owns ways of winning over maidens.

While the greenlanders set up camp, Rodrik explored the ruins with the last of the sunlight. All that remained of the castle was a tumble of old stones spotted with lichen. Wild, waist high brown grass and ash trees had overtaken the castle's walls and courtyard. Exploring the ruin with his wineskin in hand, he stubbed his toe into a hard bit of stone. Looking down, he realized he had stumbled into the sepulcher of a long dead king, half hidden by the tall grass. Mumbling a curse for his aching toes, he studied the lid of the sepulcher, which had been carved in the likeness of the man who had been laid to rest there. Time had smoothed out the stone man's features, leaving no discernable characteristics save a beard.

"Fuck you, whoever you are," Rodrik muttered. He pulled out his manhood and let loose with a stream of piss on the base of the sepulcher.

"You have the honor of pissing on King Tristifer of House Mudd, Fourth of his Name, King of Rivers and Hills."

Tucking his manhood away and lacing his breeches, Rodrik turned to see Theon ambling toward him, his ever present smile firmly in place. "Friend of yours?"

"A hero to the greenlanders. If Lord Jason saw you pissing on him, he would probably have your cock cut off."

Rodrik shrugged. "I'm sure I'm not the first to piss on him."

Theon came to stand at his side. "They say King Tristifer fought in a hundred battles and lost only one. How many of those battles do you suppose he fought against the Ironborn?"

"The one he lost, at least." He took a long pull from his wineskin and purposefully did not offer his little brother any. "Does your rambling about this ancient dead man serve some purpose, or did you only wish to let me know that you've become a greenlander in truth and worship their soft heroes?"

Theon's smile lost a little bit of genuineness. "The point is that while King Tristifer might have been our enemy, the same way Lord Jason's father might have been our enemy, and his father and his father and so on and so forth for thousands of years, things are different now. Lord Jason is not our enemy, but if you keep carrying on around him the way you have been, he'll have your head on a pike."

"Better men than him have tried, little brother. Much better men. Men with salt in their veins and iron in their heart. Not that you would know anything about that."

Theon bristled. "I'm no less Ironborn than you."

"Try looking in a mirror and telling yourself that." Rodrik laughed. "When I was your age I was fighting pirates in the Stepstones, I had already slain a dozen men and bedded twice as many women." Rodrik felt the heat begin to rise up in him. "What do you know of being Ironborn? You wear that golden kraken on your chest, so finely stitched, but until you've captained a longship with the kraken on your sails and seen men flee before you, you know nothing of being Ironborn."

"I'll not stand here and be insulted." Theon began to march away.

Rodrik grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around, striking him across the face with a hard blow and sending him crashing to the ground. As Theon made to rise, blood in his mouth, Rodrik stood over him with a fist raised. "If you'll not stand to be insulted then grovel on the ground like the greenlander you are."

Theon rose to his feet, free of his smile for the first time since Rodrik had arrived in Seagard. It was that change which kept Rodrik from hitting him again.

"Since you came here to teach me a lesson, let me return the favor," he said. "This notion Grandfather's filled your head with about making friends with the greenlanders is bullshit. What's more, what little he's accomplished will soon be undone. He's an old man, soon to die, what do you think Father will do with all his plans and schemes when he returns to take the Seastone Chair?"

Their father, Balon, had exiled himself five years past. He had been wroth with their grandfather for arranging marriages with greenlanders for his children. The final straw had been when Asha was married to a soft, little greenland lord. After that he took a crew of loyal men and sailed for the Summer Sea, vowing never to return so long as Grandfather sat the Seastone Chair. In the meantime, he had turned to piracy and crowned himself the King of the Summer Sea, a terror to the ships and coastal villages of the east.

"It might be Grandfather will find himself a new heir," Theon said, raising his chin. "One who will continue his work."

The implication was clear.

Rodrik struck his little brother again, a blow to the stomach which sent him keeling over. Theon jumped to his feet quickly, attempting to tackle him to the ground. Rodrik easily overpowered him and flung him back down.

"I'll give you some credit," he said, "There's a vestige of iron left in you."

He had long since suspected his grandfather would name one of his siblings heir instead of giving the Seastone Chair to their father. He had also long since suspected he would not be the one chosen. Theon's words and the confidence with which he spoke them confirmed his suspicions. He crouched next to Theon who, having knocked his head against King Tristifer's sepulcher, seemed incapable of rising to his feet.

"Hear my words, little brother, and know them to be the truth," he whispered. "I will see you dead before I see you sit the Seastone Chair ahead of me."

The same went for any who would try to strip him of his birthright.