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It was a large ship, one that few would not be able to see in clear weather; fortunately, they were hidden by an evening mist that had blanketed their approach for the past three days and nights. Its size bellied its speed and deftness. It was a fine ship, long and graceful; yet deadly when raking lesser vessels.
It deserved aptly its name.
Iron Victory
He stood near the ships prow, a large kraken's head carved into the bow. He wore a greathelm that was fashioned in the same likeness of the ships kraken figurehead. Adorning the rest of him was big, hulking armor that was in the color of tin; it was impeccably clean for something that so often would be exposed to wind, salt and water. Many of the ironborn thought him daft for wearing plate armor, even if they had the blessings of the Drowned God, wearing plate seemed to be mad.
He felt only contempt for these sorts of men, he was a true son of the Iron Isles. He was blessed under the Drowned God. He did not fear the sea, he was born from it through salt and blood. The sea was no kinslayer. It was from whence all Ironborn came from. To fear drowning was like to fear life.
Yet even so he felt trepidation here. The lord of these islands was a son of Stormlords, those servants of the vicious Storm God. He had spent weeks tracking them down, these craven ironborn who had stolen from his House.
Although to the greenlanders he would say he was bringing 'justice' to these men. They were planning to reave after all. Though to him that was not a cause enough for punishment. Indeed, to reave was one of the most sacred customs of the Ironborn, the fact that it was forbidden made him all the more resentful of the rulership under southron lords.
Yet these men they hunted, they were not true ironborn.
They did not pay the iron price for what they had taken. They stole it through deception and lies, not through strength of arms and will. He could not let such a personal slight pass so brazenly.
He had recently become Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet hence he was easily deemed too important for such frivolous tasks. Victarion Greyjoy felt these wretches had personally earned his enmity and needed to feel the bite of his axe, much to the consternation to his father.
Like a shark gliding through water they found the gaping maw to the cove. He may have been dull, but even he knew that these traitors would have needed a more discrete place to hide. They hugged the coasts of Dragonstone, carefully evading the ships patrolling her waters. They came across this small place, ahead of their quarry. They hid themselves behind the pillars of a small islet. When their prey entered did they begin their strike.
"Ready your arms. Tonight we kill." Victarion said grimly to his sailors. It was always a terrible thing when ironborn blood had to be shed. Although Victorian had intended to use the haft of his axe to bludgeon them to death; but, he figured it too tiring to do so and decided that by fleeing the Iron Islands they were technically no longer ironborn, hence the spillage of blood was less sacrilegious.
The cavern they slowly drifted into was a massive thing, like the gullet of the creature that was this island's namesake. The roof was many feet high, jagged teeth like stalactites hanging menacingly. Next to the where the cave's soil met the deep waters there was what looked to be the remnants of a small harbor in times long bygone. Anchored next to it was their prey.
It was quiet.
He jumped downwards as soon as they made port, his steel studded sabatons sinking into soft earth, he grabbed the disturbed soil and smelt it.
"Salt and soil." He smiled, it was an immensely satisfying odor to his nose. It smelt like Pyke. He couldn't wait to return to his family. To his father, and brothers; especially now with Euron dead on the Mander. Though kinsman he never liked the man.
They went towards the harbor and then towards the ship, they spent some few seconds exploring the deck. When they went deeper they were struck by a pathetic sight.
A dozen thralls lying on top of each other, they whimpered and recoiled for every step they took. Their prey had neglected their oarsmen; this explains why they had stayed here.
He ordered some men to stay on the ship, taking the rest deeper into the caves. Though they thought themselves lost, they eventually heard the sounds of screaming and shouting.
Eventually they found themselves in a particularly large natural chamber dominated by a crystal clear pool of water. They saw their quarry surrounding a large butte within the middle of the cavern. On top was a bloodied boy who threw rocks and curses at them.
"GET DOWN HERE YOU COWARD!" He knew that voice, that was the voice of the man who stole from him.
"DO THE WOMEN OF THE IRON ISLES NOT TEACH THEIR SONS HOW TO CLIMB?!" The boy spoke back with venom; he was awfully brave for someone who was like unto a cornered animal.
Their attentions were quickly taken by the approaching mass of soldiers.
"By the Drowned God." The man breath out with widening eyes. His group of ten raising their weapons and moving into stances.
"Dagon." He spoke dully.
"Victarion Greyjoy. I suppose you're looking for what I took from you?" To that he nodded.
"Too bad, it's up there with him." He pointed towards the bloody southron boy.
"You stole from me." Victarion was not going to let him off with ease.
"Iron price." Was Dagon's answer.
"You were entrusted with guarding it. You have forsaken your duties. That is no Iron Price." Dagon was getting nervous.
"Well then… I suppose this is good a time if any… ATTACK!" Dagon and his men surged forward. They attacked like desperate men.
Victarion readied his shield, feeling the force of a mace striking it. He looked at his attacker, his skin was darker than anyone he's ever seen. His scalp was bare and he had a rabid look to him. A thrall hailing from the southern continent?
Victarion did not care, he easily swept aside his blow and raised his mighty axed. In a single motion he had bisected the southern islander from the hip. His face contorted into one of shock as the two halves of him fell into the pool.
Two others descended on him. One was old, with long grey hair that looked like seaweed. The other was surprisingly a woman. She was young and buxom, wielding two different daggers while the older man held a spear.
The seaweed headed man thrust his weapon towards Victarion. He batted it aside contemptuously with his shield. The girl took advantage of that and stabbed him from side to side.
He grunted.
Her eyes widened in horrified surprise. Not expecting him to move. He dropped his weapons and held her close in an imitation of an intimate hug.
"I wear chainmail." He simply said as he butted her head with his greathelm
"Nia!" The older man said, no doubt a relative or close friend.
He butted her again, there was blood on her nose.
He did it again, blood was seeping from her eyes.
A third final time, and her head lolled back lifeless.
He threw her corpse towards the seaweed haired man, he grabbed her and sobbed weakly as he tried waking her up.
He did not feel the axe separating his head from his shoulders.
Soon it was only Dagon now, who fell to his knees and begged for life. He did not bother remembering the man's lamentations. He had heard it all before.
He kicked him down, planting his foot on the man's chest.
"Victarion please n-"His pathetic mewlings only served in making Victarion angrier. This was not how an ironborn should act at the hour of his death. He took his round shield, carefully and slowly thrusting the sharp edges into his neck.
He met resistance at first, the man gurgled out blood as the shield tore through his veins and flesh. Eventually it cleanly sliced his neck and his head started rolling downwards.
"Fucking hells." Victarion looked up, the southron boy stared at him with a pale face.
"You are safe now greenlander." Victarion said in the most diplomatic voice he could muster. Now all he needed to do was to make peace with the lord of this island.
This stormlord was grim. Victarion did not know of any man who could make him say such a thing. He stood by Stannis Baratheon as his men scoured the cove. By his side was the bloodied squire, his bruised face curled into a frown.
"You were foolish in delaying these men." Stannis Baratheon chastised the boy, Victarion had to agree. It was fortunate that the boy was attacked by such incompetent ironborn.
"I thought mayhaps you would have had my head for letting them escape." Stannis shook his head.
"You are my squire. Your responsibility is to be a squire. Leave the task of safeguarding Dragonstone to me. I will not have you risk your life for my duties." The boy scowled.
"I shall write of this to your relatives back at Dorne. They shall be informed of your bravery." The boy's resentful faced turned into one of surprise.
"I thought you said I was being foolish?" Stannis stared at him.
"Even foolishness can be useful." The boy scowled even more.
"They do not need to know." He spoke quietly.
"They don't, but that falls upon me and not you." The boy looked to the side.
"May I take my leave now?" Victarion decided to intrude into the conversation now. He had no desire to be subject to further inconsequential talking.
"Do you have sufficient rations for your journey back to the Iron Isles Lord Victarion?" Stannis spoke like a dullard, severe and possessed with no inkling of warmth. It was refreshing to hear a man who spoke with purpose and not vapid courtesy. A pity he was born a stormlander and not an ironborn.
"No, but we will manage." They spoke alike, it was such an odd feeling.
"How much rations do you have left?" Stannis did not relent.
"I said we will manage." He didn't as well.
"If that's the case then I forbid you from leaving." His eyes narrowed.
"By what right?" Victarion spoke dangerously.
"You ignored my powers as lord of Dragonstone, acting on your own initiative. Be thankful I am being merciful." Victarion ground his teeth.
"You have no right greenlander. I am ironborn, not some southron wench" He growled out.
Stannis stared him down.
"Then how about a duel for your right to passage?" Both the boy and Victarion looked at him as if he were mad.
"L-Lord Stannis?" The boy had said, unbelieving of Stannis' question.
"Fine. At the morrow." Stannis raised his hand. To which Victarion grabbed and shook furiously.
This Stannis should have been born under salt and sea.
It was morning in the gallows. The dawn had just arrived and the morning sun's rays was reflected by their armors. Victarion had refused to sleep within the castle of Dragonstone, electing to slumber in the Iron Victory. Their little duel had attracted a small crowd of people. From the smallest small folk to the highest lord.
Victarion noticed among them a blond woman and her entourage. She looked nervous, fearful even.
He had learned moments before they took their places that she was the daughter of Tywin Lannister and the supposed betrothed of the man he was about to fight.
He had a dark smile underneath his helm.
The Westerlands had been an ever constant foe to the Iron ISles. Indeed, it was the home of one of the greatest traitors of ironborn. House Kenning of Kayce, who betrayed the driftwood kings to the kings of the rock.
He would love nothing more than to make the stag bleed in front of his pretty soon to be wife. Then his eyes drifted to a woman beside him. She looked like her, but a bit plumper. She averted her gaze quickly once she realized he was staring at her.
Westerland whores.
"Are you ready Lord Captain?" Stannis wore great plate like his. It was similarly dully tinted. The only ornamental thing about it were the stag antlers jutting from the crown of its helm.
"What is dead may never die." Victarion gave his answer.
"But rises again, harder and stronger." His eyes widened to Stannis' response.
Those were the words a priest would use when anointing one under the Drowned God. How did a Greenlander know those words?
He shook his head out of his surprised stupor. He wasn't going to let mere words distract him from this duel.
Once the cry was given they began their duel in earnest, well Victarion did.
He charged towards Stannis, shield at the front ready to trample him under foot. All the while Stannis stood his ground, readying his own kite shield.
Like waves upon rocks the sigils of the stag and the kraken crashed into one another. Victarion smiled as he felt Stannis being pushed back, he easily plowed through him. For a time.
His smile quickly turned as he felt more and more resistance to his charge until finally they reached a standstill just inches form one of the walls.
He heard Stannis grunting out in immense pain. He couldn't believe it.
He was holding him back.
Victarion cursed quietly as he felt Stannis push, he was astonished as he felt his legs falling backwards. He never encountered a man who matched his sheer strength, even if barely so. He was ready to strike him at the neck with his axe until he felt something hit him on the head.
He fell to the ground. The stag's blade had not managed to pierce his helm, but it was painful enough to daze him. He felt his ears ringing and his mind scrambled.
Then he felt a great force strike him on the back, planting his face onto the ground. It took the breath out of him.
He weakly tried getting up, Stannis had just struck him on the backside with his shield. He raised his head, his eyes momentarily blinded as he saw the glint of a blade just inches from his neck.
"Do you concede?" Stannis Baratheon looked haggard, his shield arm hanging loosely as if it was ruined.
It was an odd feeling to lose when one had never lost in such a manner. Victarion did not feel rage or anger at his defeat by a southron lord.
Those eyes that stared at him were not the eyes of a soft southerner. Those were the eyes of salt and sea.
Ironborn.
His spent here for two days now. This place was haunting. He could not describe accurately what he felt; but, he felt like he did not belong within these halls. Dragonstone was like Pyke, what disturbed him was what differences it had.
This place was not of any make he knew of. Whatever created this place did so through no mortal methods. This was a creation of magic, foul magic of fire and blood. The fact that it stood within the sea, unharmed by her wrath only furthered made this place more disturbing for him.
Lord Stannis seemed well suited to be this place's lord. It matched his temperament. Grim and unrelenting.
Staying here reminded him of Pyke. Oh his now old and aging father, of Aeron and Balon. Even Euron now that he was gone. Pyke was his home among sea and salt. It was his one respite from the ravages of the world.
These greenlanders were different than the one's he was accustomed to.
Davos was not of noble blood, but even so was a man of the sea. He smelt it off him. The Maester was like any other, bookish and of little notice, the only noteworthy thing of him was his age. Lucerys Valeryon was an interesting personage as well, he had visited a day earlier and was instantly rankled by the presence of ironborn, he would have sundered his skull if not for Stannis' intervention. The redheaded knight was also among the offended, no doubt like many others they thought the ironborn rapacious brutes. Though that was not an entirely wrong description.
The whores from the westerlands were different. Each of them were the very image of what he thought when the word Greenlander was mentioned. All of them were weaklings who hid behind words and pretty dresses.
They paid the golden price.
Whilst he paid the iron price.
The iron price was all that mattered, indeed it was his House' own words.
We Do Not Sow.
He was particularly annoyed by one of them, a fat sow by the name of Leonella Lefford. She pestered him incessantly, tweeting away like some annoying bird.
She asked him what the Iron Isles were like and if the tales of their rapacious natures were true. He was close to giving her a firsthand explanation if she continued further.
Now he was in the chamber of the painted table, surveying the map of westeros. His eyes staring at the Iron Isles.
Stannis Baratheon was beside him, they were discussing something. His arm was in a cast of some sort as it was slowly impressed him, that the Lord of Dragonstone was willing to sacrifice an arm to prevent his departure. If the ironborn had the same dedication they would he ruling the world by now.
"The seas are clear and you are fully stocked." Stannis said plainly.
"Yes." Victarion said once he took his eyes off Pyke.
"Describe to me your route." Victarion slowly nodded.
"We would sail out of Blackwater bay; around Masseys hook, bypassing shipbreaker bay; pass the sea Of Dorne and continue our journey towards Old Town from whence we will rest and restock. Then we will sail directly towards the Iron Islands." Stannis nodded.
"What of the Valyrian blade?" Victarion did not wish for the southron lord to see it, but his squire had possessed it for a time.
The object that he so coveted was a Valyrian Steel blade that he had paid the Iron Price for, taking it from a fleet of merchant vessels that were from Lys. It had a purplish tint to it, shaped into a bastard sword.
"What do you mean?" Victarion did not like the stormlord talkings of the sword.
"Are you going to use it as it is?" The question bothered him.
"What is your meaning?" Stannis bent his head forward.
"You much prefer the axe correct?" Victarion nodded hesitantly at that.
"I know of a master weaponsmith in King's Landing who can re-forge it into an axe." Truly?
"I had done something for him in the past and hence he owes me some favors." Why was he doing this?
"Why?" Victarion voiced his simple question.
"Men who fulfill their duties need to be rewarded." That straightforward answer made him feel all manner of things.
"Even ironborn?"
"Even ironborn."
Just then Stannis managed to attain something that few Greenlander lords were capable of getting. A treasure that could not be bought with all the gold in the world. An artifact that is rarely seen in history, rarer than dragons even.
An ironborn's respect.
"Thank you." Was all Victarion could say in the end.