Chapter II - Returning Home

War Council Chambers,

Pyke Castle, The Iron Islands

"If we are to strike at Seagard, then we must first deal with the Lannister fleet, father."

"Nonsense, Rodrik. We needn't trouble ourselves with that pathetic excuse for a naval force. The Lions have the gold to buy their ships, yet none brave enough to crew them - fishermen and deckhands. Gold can buy a lot of things, but natural skill and bravery are without price."

Rodrik stood up straight, taking his gaze off the map laid out before him. "And what do you propose we do then?" he said, sternly.

"Watch your tone with me, boy. I may have made you commander of my armies, but you will show me the respect, not just as your father, but as your liege, in turn," snapped an angry Balon Greyjoy.

"Apologies, Your Grace," said Rodrik, in a subtly sarcastic tone. "But it is essential we remove a naval threat - irrelevant of its quality - as it is still a threat, by day's end."

"So be it," replied Balon, waving his hand in seeming content, as he paced about the room. "I suppose Victarian could use the action to embolden his men, and solidify the greatness of our naval power."

"Right then, father. We must move to make plans to hit on multiple fronts. Our best course of action, given our current scenario, would be to strike fast and hard on multiple fronts."

"Surely securing a ground base at Seagard and the burning of the golden fleet will suffice as first strikes, my son. I see no need to overextend our forces more than is necessary, given our superiority in all natural combat, land and sea," replied Balon, hands clasped behind his back, as he stared deeply upon the Greyjoy kraken, atop the Seastone Chair. "We only need strike to send a swift message to King's Landing that we intend to protect our holdings. The lords elsewhere will rebel, once seen that the Stag will do nothing."

"What if they don't rebel?" began Rodrik, stopping, as commotion was heard outside the room, in the adjacent hall. The words spoken were muffled, and so they could not be made out.

The doors opened and in came a guard. "Captain Harren to speak with you, Your Grace."

Balon turned, as if for a moment an excitement blazed within his cold being. "Granted," he uttered, waving off the guard.

Rodrik turned to the door, to behold the captain.

Harren walked through the open doors, into the council chamber. "My Lord - or I suppose Your Grace?"

"Your Grace is right, Harren," replied Rodrik, with a curt smile.

"By the God below, its the kraken of stone and sea. The Crown Prince, I would assume?"

"Ha ha," laughed Rodrik, as he moved around the table and approached his friend, his arms raised upward, as if to receive him.

"Fear the kraken, or so they say," japed Harren, receiving his friend and pull him in close, with a giant squeeze of a hug.

Rodrik released and grabbed Harren by the arms. "Solid as stone, massive as a giant. You look good, old friend!"

"Look good and feel better," replied Harren, flexing. "While you and your dandy brother danced around these rocks, attempting to skip stones in the rough waves, as if simple and half-witted, I was reaving day and night. There is seldom a coastal city in Essos that has not felt the wrath of the ironborn."

"Our men, brother. Ironborn true and through," replied Rodrik, gleefully.

Harren nodded, and turned to Balon Greyjoy, who seated himself in the Seastone Chair, legs crossed over one another, the man looking on, his face withered and unchanged.

"It is good to see you again, Your Grace. For last we met, we did not see eye to eye," said Harren, approaching the Seastone Chair.

"Captain Harren," said Balon, nodding in polite acknowledgement of his presence. "Long have we waited for these days to be upon us. How many generations have suffered the soft ways of the Greenland. The kings of old would have cast us all out to sea, if they had seen where we ended up."

"I agree," said Harren, walking to the window, placing his hand up on the wall, and looking out. "I refuse to live under the laws of a fat drunkard of a king. Atleast, the last time we were at port in King's Landing, he was a fat drunkard. I imagine gluttony and indulgence have only plumped up the pig more. Pathetic waste of flesh. Him and the lot he companies with."

"All the more reason for us to claim what is rightfully ours," replied Balon. "The usurper stag does not have the same grasp over Westeros as the dragons did. This makes his position weak and generally unsupported. It would be easy pickings to separate and take what was once our peoples'," he said, raising from the chair and approaching a side table, where wine awaited him.

"Dorne will certainly follow suit - their hatred of the Lannisters already apparent. Following Dorne, the snubbed and dried out flowers of the south, in Highgarden. They have no true liking of the Lannisters or Baratheons," he continued, pouring himself a drink. "One by one, Robert's 'loyal' people will turn on him. All the while, we will take and take and take, until we've restored what was one held by your namesake, Harren.

"And to what strength do the Islands possess? It has been quite long since I have been home," said Harren, leaning against the wall, near the window.

"The numbers are still coming in. Great Wyk has uttered 15,000. Another 12,000 from Harlaw. 5,000 from Pyke itself. And we estimate another 10,000, at least, gathered from the other isles," replied Rodrik, skimming the map of the Islands, with his finger.

"Substantial, indeed. Are these men ready to die to uphold independence and protect the way of old, I ask?"

"I hope so, for the sake of what we are risking, now. They will outnumber us at least five to one, initially. Perhaps more, with all the levies raised. Minus those who do not raise in response to Robert's call."

"All will raise, that is for certain. They would not risk the drunkard king's wrath, I assure you," replied Harren, taking another drink, his assurance solidly placed.

"We need to expand the initial assault. We need to show them we will not be pushed over. Who better to lead our men into battle than yourself?"

Harren smiled. "You brought me halfway around the world to permit me to reave?"

"Permit you to reave Westeros, my friend," he replied.

Balon was listening, patiently. "It's no rumour, but a fact that your reavers are by far the most experienced, Harren. The stories come in from the traders of your adventures abroad. Most of the greenland doesn't believe the tales of Harren the Red's reavers…"

"It is true, my friend," confirmed Rodrik. "The tales have intensified over the years. The travellers call you the spawn of the Drowned God and some mighty sea dragon."

"They call me the son of the sea wind," uttered Balon, fidgeting his hands together. "But I think it is you, captain, for I have not reaved in years."

The council room door opened, and in walked Victarion Greyjoy, commander of the Iron Fleet, and Euron Greyjoy, the middle brother of Balon and Victarion, whom was known widely as 'Crow's Eye', for the patch he wore over his eye. Victarion removed his gloves, placing them in his belt strap, he immediately walked over to the table of strong wine, and poured himself a large cupful, uttering not a word, or even acknowledging the other in the room. Euron walked straight ahead, seating himself at the feasting table, alone. He began to pick away at the food prepared.

Balon kept silent, ignoring his brothers' presence, perhaps out sheer spite of being ignored.

"Uncles," acknowledged Rodrik.

"Nephew," replied Victarion, coldly.

"Well, aren't we blessed on this fine afternoon. Harren the Red. In the flesh. It has been some time since you graced your people with a presence?" mocked Euron, snapping a crab's leg, and sucking the meat out of it.

"Euron Crow's Eye. I was busy spreading the fear of the Drowned God to turtle worshippers and sword dancers," replied Harren, picking up a cooked salmon, eating the whole of the head first, the juice gushing out of his mouth. "While you used your mighty fleet to catch loads of fish, squandering away the life given to you from the depths, I was raping cities and burning women… Or, was it the other way around?"

"Smart mouthed as always," replied Euron. "It can get you into trouble in these parts, where japes can be understood in your own language."

Standing up, and straightening his posture, pulling his shoulders back, Harren gave Euron a cold stare. "I could grab you by the throat, pull out your tongue, and push your eyes into the back of your head, rip your arms off and beat your bloodied body senseless, as the last vestiges of your life slowly slip away from you. And I would surely take great pleasure in it, as well as any disdain it may bring, from below."

Standing up, Euron placed his clenched fists on the table, gazing over at Harren. "You think yourself a great hero, don't you?"

"You pull the tongues out of the mouths of thralls and you think that makes you a big man? I could throw you out that window and I promise that not a single one here; your brothers or your nephew would do a single thing about it, you pathetic whelp," replied Harren, the tendons in his huge arms, tightening, and showing the constraint of his thick skin on his veins, as they wrap around his immense muscular frame.

"A fickle hero's threat," snapped back Euron.

"Enough!" bellowed Balon. "The fight is out there! Beyond the sea!"

Euron, straight-faced and emotionless, suddenly broke a smirk, backing out of his aggressive stance, he sat back down, and grabbed another crab leg. The man was brave beyond belief - of which his bravery could rival that of Harren's - yet the man was no physical match for the massive war captain. It only fuelled Euron's disdain for the man, that perhaps there were some greater than he.

"I'll lead the initial reave," said Harren, to Balon, spitting on the plate that Euron prepared for himself. Euron just dipped the open crab leg in the spit, and sucked the meat out, the man's brutish disregard for disgust, apparent.

"How many men did you return with?" asked Balon, inquiringly.

"Near 400 reavers," replied Harren.

"I command over a thousand," said Euron, interjecting.

"I command reavers, not tongueless man-whores," snapped Harren, unamused, as he walks over to the wine table, with a half-full flask, emptying the contents on the floor, as he goes to fill himself a flask-full of mead.

"They've told you of my plan to take out the Lion's fleet?" said Euron, boastfully, as he put down an empty crab leg shell, and brushed his hands together, leaning back in the chair. "That was me. Genius, is it not?"

Harren scoffed. "You could have 100,000 men, for you wouldn't be the commander to lead them, they'd only be able to crew your pathetic excuse for a ship - the 'Silence', is it?"

"My brother will lead the fleet, but I masterminded the strike," responded Euron, ignoring the slight. "My dear nephew, here, will lead the assault on Seagard."

"I will lead the first reave," said Harren, boldly, and unexpectedly.

"What plunder is claimed would be yours to keep, Harren," replied Balon, staunchly appeased by the reputable war captain's initiative.

"No," he replied, sharply. "What does plunder matter, now? This is far more than common reaves for loot. I have more plunder than any greenlord in Westeros could dream of. Even the comfortably wealthy," he finished, with a smirk.

"This is the reestablishment of something taken from our people, centuries ago," he continued, walking to the map. Rodrik stepped aside, as Harren gazed upon it. "We will send a message to the unlucky candidate. We will ensure our wrath - once feared and unquestioned - will be remembered in tales of horror to come. We will strike swift and hard, and burn their coastal cities to the ground" he said, his finger running up and down the western coast of Westeros.

"Here," he said, pointing inland. "The usurper's strongest ally. The north," he said, unclipping Rodrik's sheathed dagger, by the hilt, and drawing it from his belt. He flipped it in his hands, masterfully, as he fixated his eyes to a target location, unrevealed to the others.

"The might of the north involves the strongest point in the west. We will slaughter the men, rape the women - slowly slitting their throats, and leave nothing but charred and orphaned children," continued Harren, breathing in deeply, his chest raising out, its impeccable size. "There will be a deep cry in the north, and it will echo across Westeros for years to come. The darkest tides will strike in sweet time, and none will escape the iron judgment that follows. We will burn Barrowton to the ground!" he yelled, in his deep and commanding tone of voice, jabbing the dagger into the town, on the map.