Chapter III - The Many Lords of Lordsport
"You son of a bitch, Thorwin!" yelled a pain-stricken Dagon, his fist clenched, reddened and gushing blood, as he looked around for his ring finger, severed on the middle knuckle, as he found the tip of his middle finger - severed on the top knuckle - the men around them laughing hysterically.
"'Ol Thorwin has only ever lost the finger dance two times!" bellowed the staggering, slightly intoxicated warrior, as he held up his left hand, his middle finger clipped off on the mid-knuckle, and his pinky completely severed off.
Dagon was one of Harren's many reavers. Like Thorwin, Dagon had a lust for the dangerous game of the 'finger dance', which involves two men throwing hand axes at each other, attempting to catch the other's throw. The game results in defeat for the one who fails to catch the axe properly, and often, they in turn lose fingers.
"Sew it up, fool!" blurted Dagon, as he backhanded a thrall, with his intact hand. The thrall - put to the task of first aid - waved over the second thrall, who brought a jug of wine, a natural disinfectant. The thrall with the jug poured the wine on the wound.
"Arrggghhh!" bellowed Dagon, as he clinched his free fist and punched the thrall in the mouth, sending the thin, sickly-looking man to the ground. The first thrall had needle and thread ready, as three ironborn held Dagon down. Held down firmly, the thrall covered the alcohol-drenched stub (formerly full finger) with a wool bandage, as the second thrall (who was punched) got back up to his feet.
"Hahaha!" laughed Thorwin, as he left the scene of his victory to celebrate with some of the spectating men. "Pour me a big ol' tankard, ya bastard," he yelled to a thin Rylan Pyke, a tavern boy, who happened to be a bastard. The boy began pouring him some mead.
"By the god below that was a good dance!" said Eberon the One-Eyed, seating himself at an outdoor table, outside the tavern, 'The Prancing Crab', as he too had a large tankard of mead.
"Piss n shit. That's all we done since we slew that admiral pirate. Was yearning fur another finger dance," said Thorwin, counting his three fingers on his left hand. "Hadn't lost in ten-" his rant trailed off, as he had a gas bubble rising from his gut. Burping loudly, he finished, "-bouts!"
"Your lucky, ya old drunken gimp!" shouted Skywald, from the table next to them.
"Listen here ya limey little shite. I'll take whatever the Drowned God throws at, by removing ya head from ya shoulders, 'n I would gladly take 'n punishment it brings!"
"Ya'd have to catch me first, old man. Not an easy task to do for such a drunk gimp as yourself," said Skywald, garnering the laughs of his fellow scouts, Aleth and Daron, who sat with him.
Thorwin stood up, drawing a hand axe from his belt, and pointing it aggressively toward Skywald. "I'll cut ya fuckin' nuts off wit dis, by."
"Don't be crazy, old man. I still need my nuts. They actually have some juice left in them, whereas yours are dried up old nutshells!" returned Skywald, as he slowly drew a throwing dagger from his vest. "You're drunk. Sit down," he continued, passively waving the threat off.
"Skywald, you do this to him every time," interjected Eberon, then taking a large gulp of thick mead.
Thorwin seemed to have won the dance just in time, as now he could barely stand unattended. He wobbled over, held by Eberon, so as to not fall forward on his own hand axe. Another of the ironborn took the hand axe from Thorwin, and he seemed not even to have noticed, wobbling forward, onto the table, and then back, as he fell off his seat. All the men broke into laughter.
"Oh woe unto the grassy lords, the Greenbane strikes again!" japed Skywald, singing with a clear sense of mockery, garnering even more laughs from the men.
"Oh Skywald. You're a pretty man. Ya gotsa pretty face," said Brave Beron, all the men laughing, as he fell out of his chair, passing out.
"Bring on the wenches!" yelled Skywald, as the men hooted and hollered, pounding their tankards - full or empty - on the tables.
That being said, the tavern owner, a man by the name of Sorens, ushered out of the tavern a dozen whores, all of whom were prepared for the arrival of the famous reavers. The whores scattered, each being grabbed by the hands or hips, and put atop the laps of the men. One of the men just grabbed a whore, his cock out of his trousers, spit a slobbery mucus in his hand, rubbed his cock, as he lifted her underskirt, and bent her over a side table.
The men cheered and hooted, as they began to make out with the women, some going straight for the prize of 'lower' satisfaction.
Skywald pulled out a flute, licking his lips, he began to play a speedy tune for his brothers.
Near them, but across the walkway, six other ironborn just watched them, silent as can be, enjoying their drinks, as they do everyday at the same tavern - this time - overcome with a new rare new bunch of sea warriors.
One of the ironborn observers whispered a jest to two of the others, across from him, and Skywald had caught eye of it, stopping his flute play, he fixed his eyes to the man, who stared back at him.
Licking his lips, and looking to the man, Skywald would be the one of the bunch of pick a fight. "Did you have something you wanted to share, brother?"
The man scoffed. "I'm not your brother, skinny man."
The others laughed, but Skywald could only wince.
"Would you like me to play you a tune, brother?" he asked.
"A tune? On that tiny woman's instrument?" said the ironborn, igniting the laughs of his comrades. "Tell me, how does one possess such a wimpy instrument, in these parts? Let me guess, you got it from abroad. Where, I ask? Volantis? Perhaps some other city of shiny-haired dandies?"
"Well, actually, I picked it up from some travelling mummers, in Myr, a couple years back. They taught me to use it too," he said, heartily. "Want to see?" he said, moving closer to them, licking his lips.
He began playing the flute at a slow, drab pace. He only stopped to speak. "Oh there once was a man at 'The Prancing Crab', he liked to fish and smell like piss", he said, licking his lips - his eyes shut lightly, pausing for several moments to play the same melody on the flute, as the target man clenched his teeth, and squeezed the handle of his mug, his demeanour growing ever cross. "And that fisherman, not only a pisserman, liked a hairy gunt over a fresh, smooth cunt!"
With that, the hot-tempered man jumped up, dagger drawn, he jabbed forth at Skywald, who evaded with a quick side step, then returning a strike, Skywald jabbed his flute into the man's right eye, causing him to shut his other, by sheer natural reaction, as he let out a screeching yelp, dropping the dagger to cover his eye, as to protect the damage from further damage.
Before the others could react, Skywald immediately moved to the man who sat opposite the one he had words with, and he kicked him in the chest, forcing the man back, falling off the bench.
Two other ironborn from the man's group drew hatchets, only to be drawn on by two throwing knives, by Skywald, as well as the drawn weapons of Skywald's men.
"Just drinks, is it not?" yelled a man, dressed in full dark brown regalia, a kraken of House Greyjoy emblazoned upon his smooth, plate chest piece. The man was flanked by a half dozen others, in similar uniform, armed with spears and round shields.
Both the attacked man's men and Skywald's men both lessened their aggressive stances, once revealed to them, who this man was, his appearance relatively familiar in those parts.
"Murky Maron Greyjoy!" blurted Skywald, playfully.
"Skywald of the bow!" returned a similarly playful Maron.
"I have not seen you since you were still popping white juice from the reds of your face, my once-ugly and skill-less with a weapon friend," jested Skywald.
"I have definitely honed my skills with weapons of a numerable sort, old friend. Rest assured. Who would I be but a son of Balon, without the mastery of assorted weaponry!"
The men opposite Harren's reavers decided to leave the tavern area. They got up and pulled their slightly sobbing friend away - the man likely losing his eye from the assault.
"This isn't over you little shit!" the man uttered.
"My friend, Eberon the One-Eyed, here, would gladly recommend some eye patches for that there eye, good friend!" said Skywald, further flaming the fires of the man's disdain towards him.
Eberon did nothing more than smirk, as he bottomed-up his tankard, chugging away the contents.
"Skywald, my friend. We need talk. My brother sent me to find you and the boys, and I knew right where to look," said Maron, as he was handed a large tankard of mead.
"Your brother? So they've briefed Harren?"
"They have. Harren gave the names of his lieutenants. You, among them, will be required to attend the planning phase of the attacks."
"Attacks?" replied a puzzled Skywald.
"Better spoken in private, my friend. A brief respite will ensue for the men, now returned. In a week's time, we will convene to discuss the upcoming events," said Maron, taking a sip of his drink. "In the meantime," he said, wiping his mouth, "the men, lieutenants included," he continued, winking at Skywald, "will have time to enjoy themselves at home."
"Well, none better to entertain themselves then I!" said a boastful Skywald.
"It will all be explained in good time, brother," said Maron, seating himself with the others of Harren's reavers.
"So be it," replied Skywald, turning to the men, and raising his voice. "But as for tonight! We are the many lords of Lordsport! Bring on more drinks, wench!" he yelled to a tavern wench, nearby.
Several nights later…
Harren stared into the chaos of the fireplace, naked, with only a gigantic tankard, uncommon in size in The Islands, a possession claimed from his travels. The fire was thickly lit, illuminating the entirety of the room. It was the most luxurious room available at 'The Prancing Crab', adorned in the hanging skins of dead beasts. Mostly native to Westeros, with the exception of a lion's skin on a side wall, acquired from some distant hunter or traveller.
The room was well built, the intertwining beams that kept the roof intact, stretched into every direction on the roof, in a sort of puzzling mosaic. A giant snow bear pelt covered much of the living room, in front of the fire, the spread out space swallowing the size of the large chair in which he sat, listening to the crackle and pop of the fireplace, a never-ending ambience.
Behind him, up a short couple of steps, a massive bed, swathed in silk sheets and furs had two extraordinarily beautiful maidens warming it, where they slept.
Harren's immensely brawny physique was impeccably shone, with a thin layer of sweat that glistened upon his body, complemented from the spectacular aura of the large fireplace. Comfortable, and with little worries, he sat there, contemplating his situation, and the next steps his reavers would undertake, as he was spinning his tankard by the base, in one hand.
There was a sudden knock upon the door.
Harren turned his head, so as to listen for a second. "Enter," he said, simply, returning his gaze to the fire.
The door opened, and in walked Sigmund. He shut the door behind him, moving to Harren, he looked upon the bed, noticing the two women, he smiled.
"There he is," said Harren, taking another sip of stout.
"Always two, eh my boy?"
"It's the only way," replied a relatively relaxed Harren.
"How much were they?"
"No idea. They needn't require a pay."
"You blessed bastard," said Sigmund, seating himself in the vacant chair adjacent Harren's.
Harren took the giant jug of dark stout and poured his tankard full, also pouring one full for Sigmund, the tankard on the foot table before them, but in between, as if Harren had expected company. He pushed the tankard to Sigmund.
"Drink up, Sigmund," uttered the monstrously brawny Harren.
Sigmund picked up the tankard, and rest it on his lap, still looking at the women in Harren's bed. "They didn't cost you a dime?" he asked, rhetorically, and still amazed by it.
"Neither did this stout. The room, free of charge. The feast," he said, pointing to the dining table, by the windows, "completely without expense," he finished, without a hint of bravado.
"All our plunder, and nowhere to spend it. Even the ships armoury stocks. Replaced or repaired, with no expense. I forced the smithy to take the payment," he said.
"Your reputation breeds awe and generosity," joked Sigmund.
"So it seems," said Harren, smiling.
"Harren the Red, at my tavern," continued Sigmund, impersonating the tavern keep. "There is probably not a tavern on The Isles that would charge you a night."
Harren shrugged, his demeanour, indifferent, as if he was so used to such hospitality, that it didn't impress him anymore.
"Stay here, Sig," he said, plainly, and without explaining.
Sigmund looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Stay on the Islands, when we head out to reave the coasts."
"Stay on the Isles?" said Sigmund, anger flaring within him. "Are you out of your fucking mind, boy?"
"I know this is home, Sig. We've sailed with each other for decades. You supported me in my youth, when others didn't believe me capable of captaining a ship."
"That's solely because your a goddamn good reaver and an even better leader," replied Sigmund, putting his tankard on the side table, and leaning in.
"You've sailed and reaved more than most this island ever could, my friend. Maybe its time to retire to a manse of your own."
"Nonsense, boy. I live and die by the sea. The same as you. My end will come at the sword of some knight or brute, or carried below the depths by the Storm god. That's how my tale ends, and I'll be damned if I waste away my days looking out to the sea, when I already know the way I'm headed."
Harren nodded. "Well enough said."
"Now, what I came for was to speak of these raids. What would be our course of action?"
"Town to town," replied Harren. "One after the other. No plunder, no thralls, no salt wives. Nothing but torches and blades."
"Torches and blades, eh," replied Sigmund, leaning back, at east, in his chair.
"We will move quicker, without the excess weight on the ships, and with only what supplies we require day to day."
"Agreed."
"Feastfires, Seat of House Prester," continued Harren. "Then perhaps a skirmish with Kayce, if time permits. The Crag, Banefort, and then upwards to the north."
"The north?" asked Sigmund.
"The heartland of Robert's outward support. His closest ally, by friendship. The wolves of the north will staunchly defend the stags. With the lions bled out, we will need to swiftly strike the north to deal the blows necessary to their strength, for they will formulate defences in no time, and move their hosts to the coasts," replied Harren, as if he had fully thought out and calculated the events before them.
"We seldom skip plunder, in its many forms, and as such, we will strike harder and swifter than ever before, spending no longer than hours at each town. We will be upon the next before the flight of the ravens, and so on and so forth," he continued.
"A wise tactic, to ignore the takes."
"Focus on the spread of terror and mayhem is ultimately the goal, and I'm sure that will all be explained in the morning," he said, referring to the war council that will convene in the morning.
"Rightly so," said Sigmund. "I near forgot about that. Well, I should be off then, in that case," he finished, as one of the girl's had gotten up and come over to Harren, behind him, rubbing her hand down his impeccably chiselled chest. Sigmund smiled.
"You better be there, Sig. Don't let me alone with these crab-legged scoundrels," he said jokingly, as the girl began to kiss up and down his neck.
Getting up, to see his friend off, the girl wrapped herself in Harren's arms, the man, freely allowing her to do as much. "On the morrow, brother," he said, to a departing Sigmund.
"On the morrow," replied Sigmund, shutting the door behind him, as Harren proceeded over to the bed, the girl turning, wrapping her arms around his neck, and jumping up, to wrap her legs around his body, as he knelt on the bed, laying her down, climbing over her with his massive body, he began to kiss her.