Urrathon I

The men were rowdy.

They had a right to be, of course. Their hour of glory was nearly upon them.

A grin nearly split his face in two as he looked upon the growing silhouette of the Barrowmen's town. The blasting of their horns could be heard as a distant wail across the morning mists of the river they sailed upon.

Good, they were expected.

"The grave men call us to their shores," Gorold said with a laugh what they were all thinking, taking a swig from his wineskin before spitting over the side of their ship. "Put them out of their misery. Bury them in the dirt they love. Punish 'em for daring to sail our tides with that thing."

That 'thing' was what greenlander swine called a galley.

Real galleys could be fearsome. He knew that. But this? This was something else. Northerners were no sailors, but it seemed that Barrowmen were especially useless on the water.

It sailed ahead of them towards the grave town, just barely out of reach. It was ramshackle and ugly as lovers pox, but it was just enough of a ship with just enough of a crew to stay ahead of them. They harassed it with arrows, but he was content to wait until landing to put the crew to slaughter and the poor excuse for a ship to flames.

Urrathon snorted to himself.

They could catch them now, if they wanted. Of course they could.

His longship was second-to-none. Well— second to very few.

It was a good ship.

The Plunderer.

His lips pursed together. The ship had come with its name when Urrathon had inherited it from his tragically mutinied former captain. Wouldn't have been his first pick, but those things had a way of sticking even when you'd rather they didn't. Especially when your crew was full of ingrates.

Didn't help that it was now a pirate ship, so the name fit even better.

That aside, it was a fine ship. Better than the rest of the longboats following behind him, and twice their size. They numbered five together, a handful shy of three hundred men. And they were better still than the galley fleeing them. It would be nothing.

Their ship was nothing.

But it had speed. Urrathon would give them that much.

He wondered how they'd achieved it. The ship looked much the same as the few ships the Riverlanders to the south put to water, but clearly they'd done something to it. They had the wind and their oars. But those things weren't theirs alone. What else? He hadn't noticed them dumping cargo, but maybe they had little enough to begin with. Yet what was the point of it?

Before he could struggle further along that line of thinking, his men erupted into cheers and shouts.

He stepped forward and joined them, pulling his axe from his belt.

The galley had run aground on the shore, and its paltry crew were jumping ship and running up the docks. Chief among them was the boy who'd been captaining the ship, shouting orders and gesturing to the town. He drew his sword, and Urrathon sighed in contentment as the pretty thing glinted in the sunlight.

The first of the haul.

He wasn't much of a swordsman, but it would be a nice bauble.

As they made their final approach to the shore, he took a moment to scan the tops of buildings and alleys for opposition. He chuckled to himself. Aside from the crew of the galley, there was hardly a soldier in sight. Even their hill castle seemed oddly deserted. Stupid Barrowmen. Wasn't this the seat of their power? Such arrogance.

Honestly, the greenlanders were just begging to be raided.

Urrathon hoisted his shield onto his back, raising his axe with a savage roar that tore at his throat. His men quieted, even on the other ships.

They looked to him.

"This is our time!" he bellowed, leveling his axe towards the shore. "The hour is now! Take to the shores, torch and loot the town. Kill the cowering Barrowmen!"

"Kill the Barrowmen!" they cried back.

Gorold leaned far down to speak quietly to him. "We really are raiding? I thought we was going after the ship, Urrathon."

Urrathon frowned at the hulking man and his perturbed expression. He jerked his chin at the town in disgust. "And leave a prize so ill-defended as this? Are we women to cower away from risk and shriek at the sight of violence, Gorold? The ship has taunted us for weeks now, yes, but the town taunts us now. Leave and we may never call ourselves true Ironborn again."

It was clear the man harbored doubts, but he nodded through his concern.

"Still," he said, and Urrathon glared at him. "Good to be quick. No telling when they'll stop panicking and start fighting back in force."

He made a tch sound. "Yes, mother. We'll be back by supper. In and out."

Gorold nodded and backed away, barking his orders to the rest of the men. He heard it being passed along to the other ships.

The brute assumed too much.

After this… The man wouldn't last long as his first mate.

The Plunderer scraped against the shore and came to a stop. Urrathon strode forwards and laughed as the only soldiers in sight disappeared deeper into the town, running like the green cowards they were. His men laughed with him, mocking and jeering the Barrowmen as they fled.

"Kill the Barrowmen," Urrathon repeated as he prepared to leap over the side of the ship. "Take their Barrow-women, and kill the Barrow-children too!"

He only got a few scattered laughs at that, and hid a scowl.

Well, he thought it was funny.

"To land! To plunder, death, and glory! What is dead may never die!"

"What is dead may never die!" Gorold echoed him, followed by the rest of the men.

There, that got more of the cheers he was looking for. With another roar he jumped off the ship and trudged through the water onto the ugly beach, walking upon the land of the hill-fuckers for the first time.

He snorted. 'Hill-fucker'. That was a good one. He should've gone with that instead.

There was always next time.

His Ironborn departed their ships in droves behind him, cheering and shouting while fanning out towards the port and the streets of plunder beyond it.

He could hear Gorold behind him, moving his two-handed axe from hand to hand anxiously. Everyone's armor clanked and scraped together and Urrathon grit his teeth at the noise of it. He tried to shake it off. Once battle was joined, it would be drowned out by the screaming.

The port was abandoned, many of the goods being handled there only minutes ago left sitting in the open.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, they all advanced towards the streets of Barrowton.

The other crews were taking similar routes.

Streets and alleys with no group smaller than ten.

The men were shouting challenges and insults to the absent defenders, but Urrathon ignored them for the moment. His eyes darted around the narrow street he was on. Searching for plunder, yes, but more for signs of opposition. There were none.

The town was— quiet.

Not abandoned.

Wouldn't make sense for them to abandon the town. But…

"I don't like this, Urrathon…" Gorold grumbled as he looked around, hands tightening on the haft of his axe. "Where are the greenlanders? No one here."

He was right, but Urrathon wasn't about to say that.

So he shrugged and put on a show of not looking worried, even as he tried even harder to think of where the soldiers might be. Because they had to be here somewhere. "Likely hiding around some corner. Don't worry Gorold, we'll all of us protect you and your dainty self." He paused, waiting for the cheers behind him, but all he heard was concerned whispers. "Right, boys?"

"Ah— yes Captain!"

There were a few more half-hearted responses like that, but he could feel the rising tension.

"Captain!"

Urrathon turned to see a man waving his arms from the back of his group.

"Aye, lad? What's the word?" he shouted.

"Audrik's found the Barrowmen! They're coming out of the castle in force!"

Urrathon cursed, but he felt the knot in his chest loosen. Waiting for reinforcements. Of course. Things were beginning to make more sense.

He waved an axe at the back of his group. "Take twenty to reinforce! Block off the streets and hold them while we raid. Get that Jorl and that old fucker Beony to do likewise. We raid, they hold, then fight to the boats at my signal! Spread the word!"

Twenty men peeled off from his group to run after the man, back to Audrik.

He spread his arms wide and grinned at his men.

"The sniveling cowards have finally had enough running, eh? Well, too late! Crack these doors open, lads! We'll have more than we can carry!"

They cheered in response and moved to the closed shops and houses, attacking the doors with their axes or trying to kick them down.

Urrathon stepped up to the double doors of a large warehouse. "Give me this one!" he demanded, gesturing to it and grinning as his men sprang to obey. Oh, the privileges of leadership. "On the double, you mangy dogs!"

The warehouse had a great wooden log barring its entrance.

But only that.

The men hacked at it for a moment, then Gorold shouldered his way past them and swung his greataxe down on it with a roar.

It cracked and splintered apart.

Shit, the doors nearly came off their hinges.

"Good man," he said, allowing that the brute had his uses. "Now let's get paid, lads."

Gorold grinned back at him before shoving the two doors inwards.

Then he froze.

Urrathon opened his mouth to mock him, then Gorold jerked back as a volley of crossbow bolts flew out of the warehouse.

He flinched back before reflexively ducking behind his shield.

"Shields!" he screamed. "To me, men!"

That and the slowly toppling form of Gorold kept him from the worst of it. He grunted as one of them nicked his leg. His people began to form up on either side of him and locked shields. Several went down trying. The onset of shouts of panic and pain from his men were overpowered by the rising sound of blood pounding in his ears.

Then the volley ended.

It took half a second for Urrathon to remember that he had to do something now.

He lowered his shield a hair, squinting into the cloud of dust kicked up by Gorold's death. It was dark in the warehouse. He coughed.

There they were.

Sunlight spearing into the darkness and glinting off of their weapons and armor. Maybe twenty soldiers. Pitiful. They had to be pissing themselves now that their shite crossbows were spent.

Urrathon tried to grin, despite his fear.

He raised his axe.

"Kill them all!"

A dozen of his men advanced into the warehouse with oaths and war cries. The Barrowmen hoisted their shields and drew their short swords, shouting nonsense in turn. Urrathon was content to wait. Let them soften up a bit, then he could make a decent showing of things. Gorold's pincushion corpse was reason enough to do that.

"Death to the Ironborn!"

He turned his head to look down one side of the narrow street, then the other. He could see the colors of the Barrowmen, black and yellow, on soldiers down either end.

"For the Barrowlands!"

A handful of his group on either end rushed forward with glee, and battle was joined twice more. Fuck. He could barely think with the noise. Why were battles such a noisy affair? Did they have to scream so much?

"They're trying to box us in!" Urrathon bellowed, quite unnecessarily.

How many were there? Couldn't be more than ten to a side. They must be spreading themselves thin for this little maneuver.

He cursed.

Clever greenlanders. But not clever enough.

No more bolts were flying, so at least that stage of things was done with. Urrathon grabbed the shoulder of the man beside him— Jorrik or Jarrok or something, and screamed in his ear over the clamor of battle. "Jerrak! Take a dozen to hold the way to the boats! Send word to the others to watch out for this horseshit and fight their way back!"

The young man looked at him with fear and wild eyes, "My name's—"

He shoved him down the street. "Get the fuck going, you fuck! I'll kill you myself!"

Urrathon didn't wait to see if the boy listened. He shoved and cursed his way forwards and past the bodies of men, both fighting and dying, and passed the word along. "Grab what you can," he said, taking a few swipes at engaged Barrowmen and sending them to their knees with his axe. "Fighting retreat, you dolts! Get out of that warehouse and back into the street! To the docks! The docks, you useless sacks of lard!"

He paid little heed to the fighting besides what he could safely engage in.

Just had to get out…

They would get back at these scheming greenlanders and their traps. Bring ten ships next time. Twenty. Burn the whole of the port, the town, and the castle too. Every copper penny in his trove! Put every man to the sword! Every woman to the beds!

Butcher of Barrowton, they'd call him. He'd come back.

Just had to get out first.

"To the boats!" he roared, making his way through the dirge of fighting.

Urrathon didn't crave the front line, but he found himself there anyway. Roaring and swinging his axe again and again, a spray of blood from some poor bastard's throat filling the air, he stepped over the fallen of either side. He may have killed one of his own by mistake. It didn't matter, he just had to get out.

This way to the boats. Just get out. Get away from this. He just had to

"Retreat!"

"Get to the ships! Away—"

"Run for it, boys!"

Ah, shit. He should have seen that coming. A fighting retreat into a route. He was never good at striking that delicate balance. Gorold could have done it.

Gorold.

Ugh. Siglynd would be pissed at him for getting her idiot brother killed. Probably kick him out of her bed. Damn fool, that Gorold.

Urrathon swung his axe and took a man's head half off at the neck.

It flopped to the side as he fell.

Finally, they were through. He didn't care to look behind him and check on whoever was still fighting, but a quick glance around showed he still had some five and ten with him. Bruised and bloody, but alive. A few were helping some of the more seriously wounded limp along. That wouldn't last.

Good enough for now.

He spotted another group running out of one of the other streets. Were those—?

Yes. Beony's men. But the man didn't seem to be among them.

And they were precious few. Maybe ten.

He waved his axe at them, shouting, "Oi, where's that limp-dick you boys call a captain?"

Someone swore from the back, and two of the men came forward carrying a pale and one-legged Beony. Urrathon couldn't help but grin at the old man, who glared daggers back at him with his single eye. Beony Bright-Eye, he was, and now he could be Beony the Peg-Leg on top of that. Poor bastard had all the titles he could ever want.

"The hill-fuckers get you too?" Urrathon asked. Nobody laughed, but it was probably just poor timing.

"Me, most my men, and my fuckin' leg." he spat, giving Urrathon's troops a quick look with an unreadable expression. "Seems you made it out near as bad as me. Word from Jorl? Audrik? The other one?"

Neither of them had bothered remembering the last captain's name.

He shook his head.

They both fell silent for half a second, then Urrathon shook it off and looked more closely at the bloody cloth strapped to the stump just below Beony's knee.

"You'll live?"

Beony laughed bitterly, but his eyes were hard. "If any of us do, it'll be me. The greenlanders expected us, maybe baited us in with that ship," he said, referring to the abandoned galley with evident disgust. "Shit plan. Shit raid. Shit idea, Urrathon. Let's get out while we can. "

He nodded, and they made their way to the ships.

At first a brisk march. They looked out for crossbows and listened for any of the distant fighting to become less distant. A few stragglers joined them along the way. Then they came to the beach.

The fighting was less distant, alright.

Beony snarled, his face red. "Those useless fucking—"

Urrathon started sprinting.

He heard the men following behind him and Beony shouting out orders and pained curses, but he yelled out his own panicked command anyway. "To the ships! Secure the ships!"

There were maybe five and thirty men defending the five boats, but they were spread out into small groups. Shields locked, shoving and swinging wildly at the Barrowmen.

Urrathon roared and barreled into the back of the first group.

Four lost their footing, one fell.

He swung down once, then twice, and the man's scream quickly cut off.

The other three tried to steady themselves but the rest of the men trailing Urrathon were on them in seconds. One still got away, clutching at his arm.

Urrathon panted, waving his axe towards the other remaining groups.

"Go on then," he said, taking a deep breath then letting it out in a sigh. "Get the rest of them gone. Scare 'em off. No pursuit."

"This everyone?"

Urrathon glanced back at Beony and shrugged. Scanning the alleys and streets, and the port they had just walked through, he spotted a few of their men appearing and making desperately towards the ships. Maybe a dozen. Maybe two. "A few more stragglers, but I'm not keen to wait on the rest."

Beony grunted his agreement.

"Captain!" someone shouted from aboard the Plunderer.

Him and Beony both raised their gazes. "What is it?" they both asked.

They briefly glared at each other.

The boy didn't miss a beat. "The river, captains. Barrowmen have raised nets in our path! A whole load of 'em!"

Taking a few steps to look past the ships, Urrathon squinted.

He was right. The mouth of the river— and their way out, was blocked. No chain, thankfully, but there were maybe seven or eight layers of sturdy nets strung out across the whole of the water.

"Those wont stop us," he muttered, "so what foolishness is this…?"

"The fuck do you think it is?" Beony asked shrilly, and Urrathon wondered how the man was still conscious. Leaning on a poleaxe someone had fetched, he hobbled forward. "They mean to slow our escape. It'll as good as kill us. This whole raid is rotten, I tell ya. Rotten. Lured us in, now they mean to cut us off. Fuckers."

He ignored the grudging admiration he heard in Beony's voice.

"But why? Why waste the men on this? It's winter… Surely the town is packed too full for them to think this a good idea."

Beony spat blood to the side.

"Stupid question, boy. Kill us, take our things. Same as we'd do, only good and legal."

Well damn them.

They could pry his ship from his cold, dead hands.

Urrathon raised his hands to his mouth and cried out, "Make ready! We'll cut our way through this flimsy barricade. To the ships, lads. We go!"

Then he turned and pointed to a few men who didn't look so ragged as the rest.

"Cut the nets down," he barked, pointing to the trees on either side of the river the nets were wrapped around and fastened to. Clever hill-fuckers. Must've waited until his people were out of sight. "Get us free, and swim to the ships as we pass."

They blanched, looking more than a little doubtful.

Urrathon kept his face hard, lifting his axe. "Do it, or die here and now by my hand."

Sharing a few looks, the men grumbled their acceptance and split up. Two groups of three started jogging down the beach on either side. Urrathon breathed a sigh of relief.

Poor bastards.

His heart barely had time to settle, and his remaining men had just started getting in position to push his Plunderer back into the water, when shouts of alarm came from behind. Urrathon whirled, shield raised, then his heart sank altogether.

More stragglers. But they weren't coming alone.

Whatever fighting retreat each of their parties had done was well worn off by now, and the Barrowmen were taking to the beach and amassing towards them in formations. That was bad. Worse yet, Urrathon struggled to find a man among them with more than a bruise or a small cut.

"They've brought up reserves," he said numbly.

Beony screamed for a shield formation, and Urrathon silently fell into step beside the men.

The men were either calling out to the drowned god or shouting challenges, if they spoke at all. Many were silent as the Barrowmen approached. Beony was. Urrathon was too, even as his mind whirled.

His panic was rudely interrupted by a horn.

The Barrowmen came to a halt. A distance no more than eight seconds of charging between them.

He focused on his breathing.

From the ranks of the greenlander soldiers came two nobles. They could only be nobles. Finer steel and fancier livery, and that sword. Urrathon felt his rage growing as he saw the self-satisfied grin on that boy's face. Same one from the galley-bait. Stupid boy. Stupid ship. He should have— that sword should be his.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

The older man spoke first, his voice carrying above the mutters and curses.

Urrathon was still staring at the boy.

"Brigands of the Iron Islands," the man began, sounding a good deal less pompous than he had expected. "You are hereby accused and found guilty of the following crimes. Piracy, murder, vandalism, terrorizing the subjects of House Dustin, breaking the King's peace… And docking your ships at the port of Barrowton without leave from the harbormaster."

"Fuck you!" he shouted out, and his was not the only voice of outrage.

The man ignored them.

"By the authority entrusted to me by the Lady Regent Barbrey Dustin, Lord Durin Dustin, and in the name of Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I hereby sentence all but the chief among you to serve at the Wall, if you surrender now. The leader of this band will be executed." He paused to take a breath, kept ignoring their shouts and jeers, and went on. "If you take exception to this, the alternative is further battle and execution. Choose wisely."

"Or don't. We can kill you just as easy as before," the boy with the sword called out with a grin. The older man hushed him, but he looked unconcerned.

Ha. As if any of them would sell him out to greenlanders.

They were Ironborn!

The men around him slowly quieted, shifting uneasily. A quick look around was all Urrathon needed to figure out why.

They were surrounded.

The foot were bringing out spears now that they had the open space of the beach to use them in. That was ill tidings. They were giving the Barrowmen too much time to strategize. They needed to act quickly.

But when should they act?

He looked over his shoulder to check on the men he'd sent after the nets. Two bodies and one man lying prone with a guard on him.

No sign of the other group.

Shit.

Well, they could cut their way out on the water. Fine.

At long last he spotted the crossbows he'd been on the lookout for. Small mercies, they numbered no more than thirty. Fragile things, but deadly. The infantry marching towards them were in their own loose shield walls, spears facing forward, and Urrathon promised himself to bring bowmen next time.

Next time. They could still do this.

The Barrowmen had over three hundred foot, doubtless even more in reserve if they really had planned for this, but the beach favored the Ironborn. His own men numbered— maybe eighty? Seventy… More than enough! Aye, they were in a corner. But the corner was tight. Their back was to a ship. Up close they'd be fairly evenly matched. The Barrowmen had some bowmen as well, but they wouldn't keep firing once their own soldiers were in the way…

They could hold. Until his men started to fall, that is. But if they could just put the ship to water before that happened… Urrathon turned to find Beony and tell him the new plan, his mouth already opened.

Then he blinked. He turned further around, seeking out the head of greying blond hair.

He found him, and he suppressed a scream.

Beony had left the shield wall and walked to the middle of the beach while Urrathon was stuck in his own head. Stupid bastard, why would he—?

"Are you the architect of this raid, old man?" the Barrowman noble asked.

The senile fool smiled wide to show off the gaps in his teeth. "Nay, m'lord. Merely one of its tools. Beony, I am. Captain of The Delight. One of the longships you'll be taking ownership of once you're done with us." Beony bowed as best he could while using the poleaxe for support.

"Well met, Captain Beony," he said, the formality of it sounding stiff. "I am Torrhen Dustin, Castellan of Barrow Hall. Do you mean to surrender, or have you something to say?"

"Of course, Lord Torrhen." Beony gestured to the stump of his leg with some distress. "I am in no state to fight, clearly… I surrender without reservation, and I will encourage my remaining crew to follow. However, I beg medical aid… If it please you, m'lord."

The noble, 'Torrhen' or whatever, considered the stupid idiotic traitor Beony before nodding. "That can be arranged. Drop the poleaxe, Beony. You will be taken to a place of safety and be tended to."

"Oh, thank you m'lord… Thank you."

Torrhen waved off the gratitude, seemingly growing wise to the act.

"Order your men to stand down."

Beony nodded, letting his poleaxe fall to his feet and taking the arm of a Barrowman soldier with a grandfatherly smile of gratitude. Or something that passed for one among the Ironborn. He turned his head to call out to his men.

Urrathon's blood boiled. He had always hated the bastard.

"Men of The Delight, I command you to—"

Urrathon shouldered his way out of the shieldwall. "Not one of you will surrender! The first one who steps out of line I will cut down myself!" He bellowed, glaring at each of the men who dared to meet his eyes until they looked away. He pointed at Beony, who looked startled but still far too smug. "That milk-drinking fuck is no true man of the isles. Craven, I name him. Always has been. We give no quarter, and ask for none. We are Ironborn! The depths call to us, and what is dead may never die!"

A few scattered cheers met his words. He frowned, then turned it into a fierce scowl. Not quite the response he was looking for. Then again, he had always found true leadership harder than just screaming orders at terrified brigands.

Desperate last stands were a little outside his wheelhouse.

He was about to go on, but Beony started clapping. Mockingly, as he did everything.

"Well done, Urrathon. Well done." He smiled a decidedly un-grandfatherly smile. "You've gone and made this next part a good deal easier. M'lord Torrhen," he said, raising a shaking finger to point at him. "This man is Captain Urrathon, of The Plunderer. I credit him with the plotting of this fool endeavor. He is the chief among us you look for. More fool me and my fellow captains, for following him in this madness."

Torrhen looked Urrathon up and down, his expression inscrutable.

"You are who he says you are?"

Urrathon spat to the side, sneering at the greenlander. "Aye, my lord. I am Captain Urrathon, and not I nor my men will surrender to the likes of you. Ten of you will die for each of us who falls." He raised his axe towards the soldiers who stood across the rocky beach. "The water will run red with the blood of your people. When I return, I will exact an even more terrible toll upon your shitty town and— and your ugly castle."

Fuck. Grandstanding was harder than it looked. But he felt like he got his point across.

Urrathon stood tall and tried not to look embarrassed.

"Right," Torrhen said, rubbing at his forehead with a sigh. "That's simple enough then. One other captain we captured alive, Cotter, also named you as the head of this raid. We haven't found any others. So either they're dead, or they're keeping tight-lipped." The man glanced at Beony as he was being helped and escorted away from the beach. He called after him, "Beony! Are you of a mind to point out the other captains of this mess?"

"Naturally," Beony said with a bow of his head, "I am at your service, m'lord."

That fucking weasel.

Also, was Cotter really the name of that last captain? Stupid name. He'd kill the traitor.

He really needed to find better help.

Torrhen nodded, turning back to scan Urrathon's men. "I say again, a final time. Throw down your weapons now, and you will be spared. Your wounds will be tended to, as have the wounds of those you left in the streets who yet live. You will be sent to the Wall. Not the life you wanted, but it is a life. That is the offer, one which will not come again. Only one of you must die."

Urrathon looked around at his men and felt a mix of rising anxiety and loathing. They muttered and shuffled in place, exchanging fearful glances.

Now they avoided his eyes for a different reason.

Cowards. He cursed in his mind. Did they not see? They could all still get out of this! They just had to… Just fight, win, and escape. Simple.

He opened his mouth to rattle off another speech.

But it was already too late.

One man in the front line stepped forward, still avoiding Urrathon's furious glare, and dropped his shield and axe. The weapons made a splash as they fell under the shallows. "I surrender," he said, taking a few more steps before falling to his knees. "I surrender, and ask only to see my older brother, if you have him… If he lives."

He had to stop this before the rest got ideas.

Urrathon started towards the man with his axe raised, but he jerked back as an arrow hit the shield he held at his side. He blinked at it, then snarled over at Torrhen and his greenlander soldier scum.

"I said I'd kill any who throw down their arms," Urrathon began.

The noble spoke over him.

"Any who surrender now, in this moment, are under the protection of House Dustin, by my honor, until their wounds are tended and they are safely delivered to the Wall. Those who threaten this protection," he said with a steely glare at Urrathon, "will be swiftly dealt with."

A tense few seconds passed, but Urrathon didn't have to look to know the result.

The sound of surrenders and weapons being dropped into the water filled the air for a moment. One after another. Each time one of them gave in, another three seemed to reconsider their bravery. Yes, the drowned god would welcome them, and the world would remember them… But they could also live. That sounded good. The Night's Watch couldn't be that bad, right? It was a living. Fighting wildlings was decent work, had to be. Chastity? Bah. How difficult could that be to get around?

He could hear them reasoning it out even when they weren't literally trying to convince each other.

So.

That was it then.

Urrathon briefly looked back at the men still armed and standing. He disguised his derisive snort as a sigh. Over half had surrendered. With weapons held tightly, grim resolve in their eyes, and jaws clenched tightly, there were maybe thirty ready to fight and die with him.

And die they would. That much was now obvious.

"Damn," he muttered.

He was going to die.

Closing his eyes, he felt an ocean of despair threatening to engulf him. It was eating away at his spine. To his shame, he was seconds away from following in the footsteps of Beony and the rest of his men. Throw down his arms, bid his men follow. A quick death on the block. Perhaps that would be easier, if this was to be his end.

He opened his eyes, the words on his lips—

Then he met the eyes of the boy with the sword.

That fucking boy.

With that fucking sword.

That infuriating smugness in his gaze.

Like a veil, the despair was ripped away from him. Only a painful burning in his chest that he eagerly embraced. He wasn't fit for the block. His death could only ever be one of song and glory. When he died, he would become immortal.

Rage at the scheming greenlanders. Loathing for his own mewling people.

He embraced both of them.

Urrathon pointed at the boy with his axe. "Fight me, you shit!"

"I don't recall—" the older noblefuck began.

"Fight me, you worthless snot," he snarled, taking a step forward and ignoring the weapons raised in his direction. "Or do you even know how to wield that shiny piece of scrap metal? Has it ever tasted blood in your hands? If your balls have dropped, if you still have them, then fight me."

The boy half-drew his pretty sword before Torrhen put a hand on his arm, restraining him.

Urrathon kept up his seething as they exchanged quiet, heated words.

"I know I'm for the block," he said, spreading his arms wide and laughing as an idea occurred to him. Even after surrendering, his men had their uses. "I don't expect a trial by combat. But give me a fight anyway, or what remains of us will attack you and the cowards who've surrendered. I'll make a mockery of your 'protection', Lord Torrhen."

His threat was met with a dead silence.

He could feel the eyes of his men on his back. Those on their knees in the water, and the true Ironborn who still stood amongst them.

Betrayed, hesitant, and resolved.

Poor bastards… Not just those who'd given in, but those who remained. They still thought this was part of the plan; that he had a way to get them out of this, and they needed only to play along until his grand reveal.

He tried to feel bad, and he failed.

"You would disgrace yourself as such?" the boy asked, hand clenching on the hilt of his sword. "I'd heard Ironborn were scum, but killing your own men… You have found new depths to sink to. I'm almost impressed."

"Pirate." He laughed. "Honestly, greenlander. Don't put your honor at stake so lightly."

"I will not claim to lose sleep over the deaths of criminals," Torrhen said in an even tone, trying to conceal an inner conflict Urrathon could glean easily. "Yet I have offered my protection to them, and you must die. Will you allow those of your men who've surrendered to be taken from the field if my son agrees to duel you?"

His son? Even better.

Urrathon shrugged with an indifference he did not feel. "If he swears to it, and you swear on your house, honor, and other nonsense not to interfere." Seeing the uncertainty, he grinned at the man. "Fear not. My final command is for my men to stand down if I somehow die."

Torrhen's voice was low. "And if you somehow live? As you say, this is no trial by combat."

His grin widened.

"Then I suppose you'll have one more reason to kill me."

The boy made his oath easily and eagerly.

Torrhen, the old man, was less eager. But he swore, and Urrathon was satisfied.

Compared to how quickly the failed raid had happened in his mind, the wait for the duel to begin was a slog. Which was odd. Maybe twenty minutes of running and fighting compared to five minutes of waiting. It was no time at all. It was also the longest Urrathon had ever waited for anything in his entire life. That was how it felt, anyway.

The Night's Watch fodder was escorted from the field.

Good riddance.

His remaining loyal men formed up a ways behind him in a semicircle. The Barrowmen did likewise for their little noble lad. They stood maybe a dozen paces from each other.

Urrathon sneered as he watched the boy go into some practice forms, swinging his blade to and fro in repetitive motions.

For his own part he handed his battered shield off and accepted a sturdier one. He swung his axe twice, then stopped. He was ready. No pansy warm ups or exercises for him. What was this, a joust? Fucking greenlanders. Nothing but pageantry to them.

Finally, it seemed like they were ready to start.

He was spared any kind of announcement, thankfully. Torrhen, the old fucker, merely exchanged a quiet last word with his son before stepping back into the ranks of his men.

The boy stepped forward, all but his eyes disappearing beneath the steel helmet and chainmail curtain dropping from it to his neck.

Urrathon took a step forward as well.

"My name is Roderick Dustin," the boy said, his voice slightly muffled. "And I will make your death a quick one, if I can. Though you do not deserve the mercy of such an end."

"I don't care who you are, or how you die."

Roderick hesitated, then shrugged. "Likewise, then. I was only being polite."

"Fuck you," Urrathon said with a laugh. His eyes were drawn to the sword once again. "That piece of jewelry have a name, boy?"

Fancy weapons got names, that was how it went.

It would be his after this, for however short a time. May as well know its name.

"This is the ancestral sword of House Dustin. Its name is Sunfang." He lifted the blade for inspection, and Urrathon swallowed a bit of drool as sunlight glinted along it. "Get a good look, pirate. I'm afraid you wont get another."

"I'm terrified," he said dryly, "is it very sharp?"

The boy didn't dignify that with a response. He advanced, sword low and to the side.

Urrathon breathed out.

Then he stepped forward to meet him.

As they closed the distance they began to circle each other tentatively. Urrathon affected a more casual gait, letting his shield drop slightly, but his eyes were trained on the boy.

His stance was low, ready but perhaps unwilling to swing first.

Urrathon snorted.

Fine.

Throwing himself forward in two long strides, he drove his axe down on the boy with a roar.

Metal rang against metal.

His axe scraped down the length of the raised sword, and he stepped past and turned with his shield in time for it to hit the crossguard. He swung his axe around the shield.

The boy shifted back from his blind swing, and Urrathon exhaled. He lowered his shield a hair—

In time to stumble back from an attack that cracked against it.

Swords were poor tools against shields.

Yet he could feel the splinters being torn from it.

His shield was down now— his arm ached from the blow, and he braced it with both arms to shove and deflect the next strike.

Then the one after.

Fewer splinters, but his arm felt no better.

One more block, this time purposefully head on to stop the blade.

Urrathon grit his teeth against the pain, shoving his shield forward and up. The boy grunted as he tried to change his grip. Stepping in he swung up his axe to score a blow against his chest, near the shoulder.

The armor took part of it, but his axe came away with blood all the same.

Damn. Just shy of the collarbone.

Grinning even as he panted, he swung again, moving forward with the boy's hasty retreat. No blood, but his cuirass dented and a small crack appeared. He laughed as Roderick tried to shift his grip again, bringing his axe back for one more blow.

Just one more.

The boy's offhand was free, gripping Urrathon's shield to twist it back on him and in the way of his own weapon.

His wrist bent painfully, and he bit back a shout.

Urrathon was shoved away, the shield pressed against him at an unnatural angle that had him gritting his teeth. Once free, he moved to set it right—

Something snapped.

The shield hit his helmet and chest, mashing nose guard to nose, and he stumbled back a few more steps. From the boy's posture, he had just kicked Urrathon's shield in.

His wrist was on fire.

He undid the twisted strap and let the shield drop, breathing shakily and trying not to move his arm.

The two of them exchanged hateful glares.

They were both winded and wounded, but his wrist at least was broken and he couldn't tell how deep the gash in the boy's shoulder was. He still held the sword in both hands, but his grip seemed uncertain, the bulk of the weight in his main hand. Would the swings carry the same power? Hopefully not.

The mix of cheers and jeers from his own men and the greenlanders washed over him. They sounded very far away.

He licked his chapped lips and tasted blood. Was his nose broken?

Damned useless helmet.

Had to stay focused.

The boy was wounded. Less powerful swings. Urrathon's shield arm was out, but that meant he could be quicker. Swallow the pain and finish it. Kill the boy, take the sword, and— and win. Win. Kill the hill-fucker, then kill the rest of them. Win and keep winning. Figure something out.

Long-term planning wasn't one of Urrathon's strong suits. He… Beony was good at that, old fuck. Gorold too. Poor Gorold… Siglynd would forgive him, right? Not like this was his fault…

He shook his head to clear it, spitting to the side.

Focus. There'd be time enough for regretting other people's mistakes soon.

This time, Roderick advanced.

Made sense. With that wound he might bleed out if they just kept standing around.

That'd be nice.

Maybe a short breather, a bit of wine, and a sling for the arm.

Oh well.

As Roderick came within striking distance and drew his sword back, Urrathon lunged forward in a burst of speed.

The pain in his arm took his breath away and his vision filled with spots, but his axe struck true. He tore through the underside of the boy's main arm, and his cry of pain was the best thing he'd heard all day.

His grip on Urrathon's sword looked feeble now.

Gasping for breath— was he really that tired? He reached up to rub his eyes clear, blinking the spots away.

Now.

He had to finish it now.

Turning to advance and deny the boy his space, he took one last wild swing.

He roared past the pain and dizziness.

With his own strangled scream, the boy dragged his weapon up to meet him with more speed than he'd expected.

Their weapons met, and—

Urrathon stumbled forward, laughing in his triumph, and swinging… What was he swinging?

Where was his axe?

His grip loosened, and a split wooden haft fell to the ground. He didn't care. Wasn't he getting a new weapon? Shit, he felt lightheaded.

Where was…

His ship!

Right, he needed to get back to the ship… The Plunderer.

Shit name.

Falling to his knees, then onto his back, Urrathon tasted blood. He coughed some up. Damn bloody nose.

Shit helmet.

Why was he— where were they? Was this the North? So fuckin' cold, he couldn't even feel… Whose plan was this… Beony, had to be.

Shit idea


Roderick I

"You're so reckless! Did you even think about what would happen if you died? You'd be in so much trouble. Look at you… A few insults from some worthless pirate and you volunteer to get yourself killed. Were you upset that father kept you back from the fighting? Don't lie, I know you were. I thought you'd grown up a bit more than that." She flicked his ear and he flinched away, scowling at her. "Are you even listening to me?"

"No more than usual," he said honestly around the willowbark he was chewing.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, you lout," Dacey said while glaring at him. He glared back before yelping from the burning sensation of the wet cloth against the wound on his shoulder. It was cool. He fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Please, Lord Roderick. We're nearly done."

Maester Kayl was otherwise quiet as he worked.

The wound on his arm had already been tended to. Cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. This was hardly the first time the old man had patched him up, even if the wounds were more drastic than ones from the training yard. It was routine… Mostly. Roderick couldn't help but squint at some of the methods. Water instead of wine to clean the wound? Boiling thread? Why was the old man washing his hands so often?

Roderick wouldn't normally care, but his sister kept badgering the maester about it all.

Plus he was bored, as well as in pain.

He welcomed the distraction at first, but he felt a growing concern. Not just for the methods… He turned his eyes from the maester to Dacey. She had stopped glaring at him. She sat, enraptured, as the old man started to switch up the smaller wound.

"Why are you so interested?" he asked, trying not to think about the needle going in and out of his shoulder.

Her eyes flickered up at him, then back.

"Do you find my concern for your well-being such a bother, brother?"

Roderick snorted. "Your concern. Please, you're looking at me like a stuck pig. It's unladylike."

It was her turn to snort, and hers was much more derisive. "Know a lot about being a lady, do you? You sound like Mother." Shaking her head, Dacey leaned back in her seat, eyes still tracking the deft movement of the needle. Through the willowbark— Roderick had foolishly waved off milk of the poppy, he felt less and less cold air flowing across his open wound as the stitching pulled it closed. "Everyone has hobbies. I don't give you grief about yours, so why are you starting now?"

That was a filthy lie.

But it was true that Roderick made a habit of not commenting on his sister's… Eclectic interests.

Then again, they usually didn't involve him.

He told her as much.

Dacey sighed dramatically. "My dream is to become a silent sister, but Father won't let me because it's a southron religious role. My other dream is to become a maester, but Mother won't let me. Only men are allowed, she says." She paused to shoot a halfhearted glare toward Kayl, who elected not to notice. "It'd be a chore anyway, trying to learn surrounded by a bunch of bookish old men."

"So you're doing it here?" he asked, still not quite understanding. "Is my suffering just an academic curiosity for you?"

She beamed at him. "Now you're getting it."

No wonder she hadn't married yet.

Thankfully his mind wasn't dulled enough to speak that aloud, otherwise he'd already be dead.

Dacey was one and twenty, a year his senior. He knew the offers of marriage were there, his highborn friends teased him enough about it, but she seemed to dance around all of her would-be suitors. She left them confused and annoyed, but rarely besotted. It was a point of contention in their household, and one he avoided ever bringing up or contributing to.

Lest they start looking at him instead.

But then… After today, that might be inevitable.

He swallowed a lump in his throat.

He was a man now, in truth and in deed. More than just his fledgling beard and his eye-catching blade. He'd dueled the leader of the reavers. What's more, he won. His father and half the garrison had seen him do it, and he still struggled to comprehend that it had really happened.

Urrathon, the bloodthirsty Ironborn captain who had led the raid into Barrowton, had collapsed into a pool of his own blood.

And Roderick Dustin was the hero of the hour.

"Don't get big-headed on me, Roderick the hero," his sister said with a laugh, and he realized with a flush that he had said that part out loud. Maester Kayl was suppressing his own little smile as he finished up. Roderick looked away. "You've been so humble up until now."

"It's just a lot… That's all."

Her smile faded a little, and she considered him more soberly. "It is. Everyone's talking about it. The way I've heard it told, the whole trap was your idea. I'd assume Father was annoyed if he wasn't so bloody relieved that it worked and you lived. Plenty of folks made it out worse."

Lifting his arms gently, he accepted the shirt that was pulled down over him with no protest. He frowned. "Did we lose many? I haven't heard the reports… A fair number of wounded were found before the end of it."

She nodded, then seemed to hesitate. His gut clenched.

"Two and thirty dead."

Two and thirty, that was just— he blinked, went over the number again, then again.

Some of his incredulity must have shown.

Dacey shrugged. "It's not final, but I've been running around all day. Two and thirty."

"It seems— low."

The way his father had laid out the plan, Roderick had expected over a hundred even if it had all gone to plan. Which it hadn't. Some streets they'd expected the reavers to go down had stayed empty, and some lesser-defended ways had been full of the bastards. Then they'd managed to pull back towards their ships. Not unexpected, but too well done. A small part of Roderick's eagerness to duel their leader was to stop more of his people from dying. The amount of blood he'd seen…

Her smile was back, and despite the dark topic he was glad of it.

"It is low. Not all of the survivors will lift a sword again, but many who might've died will be able to keep living under their own strength."

They were both distracted by a huff from Maester Kayl that the old man hadn't tried very hard to conceal.

Roderick couldn't imagine the reason for it.

So he asked, "Do you have something to say, maester? I hear nothing but good news."

Maester Kayl turned his eyes down, shaking his head. "Nothing, my lord. Nothing more than the crowing and complaining of old men. Forgive me."

Now he was frowning.

He wasn't fond of people beating around the bush when they clearly had something to say. Reminded him of his uncle, Eckard. "Speak your mind, maester. You have little to fear from our judgment."

Once again the man shook his head, though more lightly, bowing and beginning to collect his tools as he muttered some excuse.

Dacey rolled her eyes.

"Why else would the wise old healing man be bitter? He's jealous."

Roderick was truly lost now.

He tried to keep his face neutral, but his brows furrowed anyway. "I don't follow. Why should the healer be jealous of those he's healed?"

"Not of you, you loggerhead. He's jealous of our cousin, little Lord Durin."

Huh.

Roderick nodded and grunted in understanding, even as his confusion began to blossom into a headache in defiance of the willowbark.

The maester finally stood, his tools put away into his satchel, and he leveled an unamused expression towards Dacey. One she dutifully ignored. "Please, Lady Dacey. I am not jealous of our bright young lord. His intentions are admirable."

Wait, what?

What did this have to do with his kid cousin?

"Fine then. Bitter of his successes without your input?" she asked with false levity.

"It is a matter of how these treatments will affect the wounded in the long term," Kayl said quickly, massaging his temple with one hand. He cast a dark look at the floor. "The treatments, and those fools providing them."

"The surgeons, you mean. How can you resent them? They've saved dozens upon dozens."

"They aren't Citadel trained… You can't just…" He trailed off, gesturing fruitlessly at the air as if trying to conjure something. He sighed, reigning in his ire. "A few pieces of parchment and some crude drawings, however accurate they are on the surface, do not make up for years of dedicated training. They've had mere weeks."

Roderick scratched at his collarbone, avoiding the bandage. "And yet, Maester Kayl… Aren't you employing their same methods? Are they not effective?"

"They seem to be," he stressed, "but we cannot know the long-term effects."

Well… Alright then?

He was about done listening to the maester try and justify his misgivings. His headache wouldn't stand for it. Roderick stood and nodded to him. "Thank you for your aid, Maester Kayl. Your skills are surely needed in many places. I will not keep you."

The man stiffened, but then deflated a little.

He bowed to them. "Of course, my lord. My lady."

Then he left.

Dacey barely paid his departure a second's notice. She sat and went back to flipping through the pages of instructions and diagrams she'd brought in.

At first he thought she would be content to ignore him while he considered his injuries, but eventually she spoke without looking at him.

"Are you going to speak with Mother?" she asked, a deceptive lightness to her.

He flinched, looking away from her.

"At some point, yes," he said slowly, loosening his jaw. He looked back, daring to feel a little optimism. "Has she… Is she awake? Did she ask to see me?"

Dacey hummed, tilting her head back and forth before giving a small nod. "She has been more lucid. Father hasn't told her about your duel, but I doubt she's failed to notice all the excitement around the keep." She shrugged, still not looking up from her papers. Though he did notice that her eyes didn't seem to be focused on the words. "She worries about you, brother, when she thinks enough to worry about anything."

The guilt churned in his gut. He grunted.

"Was that a yes?"

"That was a 'I will go to see her when I have time'," Roderick said, more sharply than he'd intended. The feeling intensified.

Dacey said nothing in response, and he felt worse yet.

"Fine," he said with a sigh. She perked up. "I— I'll go see her, when I can. Soon," he added when she opened her mouth to complain at him more. "I promise."

He wasn't sure he meant it. But she seemed to think he did, so perhaps he would.

"I'm glad! She'll be delighted… Father too."

With that, they fell into another stretch of silence. This time, a true one. Dacey leaned forward, now truly absorbed with her notes, humming and grunting to herself at different points. Roderick couldn't say what her studying was for. Blood and bodies? Most likely. If it was a passing fancy before— and it hadn't been, now it was more of an obsession. The work of the fledgling 'surgeons' was constantly on her mind and tongue.

Bit of a bother, honestly.

That said, it did remind him of something curious from earlier he'd meant to ask about.

Roderick blew a gust of air out in an obnoxious and obvious sigh.

When this failed to garner a response, he coughed.

Still nothing.

He leaned over to shove his sister with his good a— with his less bad arm, sending her papers flying as she flailed to keep from toppling in the chair. She glared at him in outrage as he suppressed a wince.

"So," he said as if she'd been paying attention from the start, "what's all this got to do with Durin?"

Two days after the raid, he attended the burning.

The pyres burned overnight, despite the snow and biting cold breeze. Bodies stacked upon bodies. The Ironborn were burned similarly, but received no honors. Men were stationed around the perimeter at all hours to keep an eye on the fires.

Nothing came of it.

It was morning, and again they gathered.

Now that the crisis had passed and the remaining wounded were out of danger, it was time to get the formalities out of the way.

Time to spread the ashes.

It was routine enough. Roderick had attended one or two of them in the wake of the rebellion.

But this was different.

This was something he had partaken in, and these men had died under his command. Rather, his father's command. Yet he felt the responsibility still. That sting of failure. Even though he had killed the captain before more of his people could die, enough of them were still dead and gone. He didn't give voice to his regrets.

Now wasn't the time.

As Father escorted their young lord into the center of things, stepping lightly towards the ashes, he held his tongue. He tried to present a stoicism his father wore as easily as breathing, but he knew it came off more as boredom.

Couldn't help it. His face was just shaped that way.

Father leaned down to whisper something into Durin's ear. He nodded seriously.

How could the boy manage the stoic look? He was four.

Four, and full of ideas.

That was the word, anyway. His sister said it, and he heard more and more mutterings that supported it. Most didn't attribute anything to Durin. The smallfolk didn't know. The soldiers had no idea. But now that he was looking for it, it seemed that more and more of the strange happenings in Barrowton led back to his kid cousin. The stench of soap-making, training of amateur healing men, and a growing number of other things. From what he heard his Father mutter of, more would follow in the spring.

Something about changing the crops? There was no end to it.

Though the rumor mill attributed most of the lives saved to a very grumpy Maester Kayl. Apparently, his peers would have nasty words for him if they thought he was 'handing out Citadel secrets like sweets to wide-eyed children.'

Ah, well. Damn Citadel secrets.

The old man was a capable healer, but he was one man. Once Roderick had been able to move about, he'd made a point of visiting the wounded men. He asked about their treatment, and listened as they waxed poetic about the veritable army of amateur healers who had descended on the wounded. In truth, it was little more than a dozen.

Once or twice he'd chanced upon the surgeons, as well.

He didn't know any of their names. Nor their faces. Each time he finished speaking to a soldier or surgeon and moved on, those things tended to fall away from his mind.

Roderick couldn't help that either. Memorization was hard.

But the results stuck with him.

He wasn't a battle-hardened man, only coming of age in time to command a force of Barrowmen during the rebellion, after Jorah died on the trident and Lord Willam left with Lord Stark down further south on some task. They hadn't seen much battle, just the aftermath of the sack of King's Landing. But men had died anyway. Sickness and infected wounds. It was a dire enough affair without fighting.

But after the raid?

Men survived in droves from wounds that Roderick had seen many die of before.

Even with their limited skills… Roderick would have killed for ten of these men back then. Even just one, shoutting orders. It would have made all the difference. It had, here.

And this was the work of his cousin.

He still struggled to believe it.

But here the boy was, taking on a responsibility that even Roderick hadn't taken on until he had his own command.

Father had insisted.

Durin reached down and grabbed a handful of ash cupped in both of his hands, then straightened. He seemed a little ill at the action, but this was Durin. He always seemed ill. With little encouragement from Father, Durin climbed the barrow the men had been burned in the shadow of.

Not the Great Barrow.

That was for those of his line. Dustins.

This was one of the many that dotted their lands. They were a little ways outside Barrowton.

Durin came to the top, and halted.

All of them, Roderick included, were trailing behind him. But no one else climbed the peak of the barrow. To begin the rite, it was for the highest ranked among them. The Barrow Lord, when he was present.

"Men of the Barrowlands," Durin said, hesitantly at first. His young voice only shook a little before he mastered himself. "Blood of the First Men. Your days have passed, and you have spent them in leal service to your liege. Your death has come, and you now go to the ancient halls of our ancestors, in whose mighty company you will not now be ashamed. Go with honor from your lord, and blessings from the gods."

Falling to a knee, he gently placed the ashes upon the ground.

"By my right, I release you," he said solemnly.

Then he accepted a small, plain knife handed to him by Father, hesitated for a few seconds, then made a small cut on his thumb. He flinched minutely. Replacing the knife, he squeezed the skin around the cut. A drop of his blood fell onto the ashes.

Father nodded his encouragement, though the boy wasn't looking at him.

"By my blood, I keep you."

He'd done a decent job of it, Roderick thought.

The only words that carried from man to man were the final ones. The rest had its own precedent, but was largely up to the lord performing the rite. Roderick had witnessed one man talking and talking for minutes on end, aggrandizing himself and embarrassing everyone who witnessed it while coming close to shaming the dead. This was one of the quicker speeches, for which he was grateful.

Not that Durin's words were lacking. They were effective, if a little odd.

He doubted it was all original…

But really, the boy wasn't yet five. Who could blame him?

That he was participating at all was unusual at his age, but Father had insisted on it for some reason. Granted, Durin was the Barrow Lord. He'd have to do it at some point.

Keeper of the First Fallen, and so on.

Durin turned from the ash and made his way back down the barrow. The soldiers parted around him in silence. His face was blank, his eyes seeming to slide past all of them, only briefly stopping to consider Roderick and his sword before flickering away. Roderick suppressed a shudder. He was four, he reminded himself. Just a lad. No reason to be nervous around him.

Aside from his skin, ash-colored in its own right. And his eyes, a pale blue like ice.

And his demeanor, being totally unlike the child he was supposed to be.

Other than those? No reason.

He shook off his unease and turned back towards the remains of the burial pyres, making his way towards them while tugging off his gloves. Father and he would partake with their own handfuls, as expected. But after that they would depart for home. Much of the rest would be spread around the barrow by the soldiers and smallfolk who'd come to witness the rite. Friends and family of the deceased, mostly.

Only one type of rite required them to handle all of the remains.

Thankfully, no Dustins had died.

Back in Barrowton, it was almost as though nothing had happened. The bodies were gone, the rites were done, and the few building fires were long put out. An air of grief and shock clung to the people, with the raid so recent. But it wasn't severe. The preparation and lack of deaths among the smallfolk dulled that pain.

With the cleanup done and the danger passed, the smallfolk who'd been vacated from the buildings immediately surrounding the docks were finally allowed back to their homes. In truth, they'd been lodging elsewhere for a fortnight now. Father hadn't wanted to deal with any last minute evacuations once the reavers had taken the bait. Roderick knew that already, but the people also made sure to say it to anyone who'd listen as they moved back in.

He took it in stride. Their inconvenience was a lesser price.

The three of them— he, Father, and Durin, were walking through the docks to have a closer look at the spoils of this venture. Well, he and Father were walking. Durin was sitting on Father's shoulders, yawning. Cramps in the legs and shortness of breath from all their walking. He seemed to be getting stronger, but his maladies kept him from the boundless energy other children possessed. Scary a child as Durin could be, Roderick tried his best to remember that he was still a child before all the rest of it.

More difficult by the second, that.

"Surely, you can't still be seriously considering that?" Father interrupted, unable to hide his incredulity.

Durin scowled in annoyance, which was more endearing than intimidating, but then he grinned. Roderick wondered why it felt like his father had just made a horrible mistake. "I am serious, and don't call me Shirley."

That…

His face contorted in pain.

Durin snickered to himself at the expression. "No, but really. We need some kind of help for this business," he said, gesturing out at their newly appropriated longships. "Or do you feel confident taking command of all of these ships, Roderick, now that you've had a brief run as captain of The Swifty?" With that he nodded to the galley that Roderick had run aground for the trap. It had taken some damage in the effort, but would be repaired in short order.

He looked at the ship, remembering the absolute mess his command had been. That had been a miserable couple of weeks spent trying to bait the Ironborn while keeping everyone from drowning. "I might be able to manage it well enough, in time," he said with a sigh, then shook his head. "We aren't calling it that."

"Well, what are we calling it?"

Roderick opened his mouth.

"If you say 'Graveship' or 'The Coffin' I swear I will burn the lot."

Roderick closed his mouth.

Then he crossed his arms and frowned, changing the subject with all due haste and little subtlety. "In any case," he began, ignoring Durin's mutter of 'Barrowmen, no imagination' and moving on. "There are few enough men in our— in your lands who know enough to sail a boat, let alone a warship. I doubt any of us are truly fit to captain one. But my experience wasn't a complete disaster, so it may as well be me."

Durin nodded.

"It's true. You're the best man for the job, cousin."

Father grunted in a way that meant he agreed, but was about to bring up some concerns anyway. He braced himself against it. "You are our most experienced captain, Roderick. With your victory over the Ironborn captain, men will follow you more readily. This is all well and good. But I would not leave your naval education up to the whims of trial and error. We need a man who knows these things to teach you."

"Who, then?" he asked, not liking either the amusement on his cousin's face or the deep frown on his father's. "Not some Westerman fop, truly?"

Father shook his head, and some of the tension left his posture.

Then Father jostled Durin into paying attention again, as his eyes had begun to wander. The boy flailed and wrapped his hands around Father's forehead. "I still don't approve of this nonsense," Father said, not able to glare directly at Durin and letting his distaste be heard instead of seen. "Yet I find myself overruled. I am not blind to the potential benefit of this strategy, but if any harm befalls my son, I will—"

"Peace, Grunkle Torrhen," Durin said airily, waving the concern away. Roderick blinked at the title, but his cousin had already moved past it. "If the old codger makes any trouble, you have my permission to gut him like a fish. Sound good, Admiral Roderick?"

Admiral?

That— he did quite like the sound of that.

Admiral Roderick Dustin. The man who led the infamous Barrow Fleet, who bested pirate captains in single combat before even mastering the art of sailing himself. Scourge of the Ironborn, master of the Sunset Sea, hero of the North, and the pride of his house…

He put aside the fantasy for the moment, raising an eyebrow. "It does indeed 'sound good', my lord… But who am I to gut like a fish?"

"At a guess that'd be me, lad."

Roderick turned, considered the man standing before him, and frowned.

He looked familiar.

He sounded familiar.

Long blond hair with streaks of grey, an eye patch, and his right leg missing below the knee— which was still bandaged up. He hobbled to a stop before them with the assistance of a wooden crutch, several wary-looking guards trailing behind him.

His memory of the last parts of the battle was dominated by the duel, but this man—

It came to him in a rush.

Before he had quite realized it, his sword was half out.

"Roderick," his father called out, his expression harsh. "Stay your blade. This man is our prisoner, and we do not cut such men down on a childish whim."

He felt a flush of shame creeping up his neck, but nodded and did as he was bid.

"Yes, Father," Roderick said, nodding to the old man but keeping him in his line of sight. He tried to keep the pain off his face, not sure if it worked. Hopefully, that hadn't torn any stitches. "Apologies, I was merely startled. It will not happen again."

"Unless I make any trouble. I heard the whelp," he said with a chuckle. "Greenlanders are even stranger than I remember, to beget such offspring. Where did the boy come from, the chaff of a campfire?"

Father turned his harsh expression on the man. "While it is true that we have need of your service, pirate, our need is not so dire that we will suffer disrespect from the likes of you. I will not suffer it. Take more care with your words, or we may yet find room for you among those of your crew being sent to the Wall."

The old man— Beony was his name, blanched and muttered something between a curse and an apology, doing his best bow in his current state.

"You tell him, Torrhen," Durin said, scratching at his chin. He pointed at the pirate. "What do you say, old man Bright-Eye? Turn over a new leaf, leave your piracy behind you, teach my cousin how to run a navy, and maybe sell out some of your old colleagues who still come this far north. In exchange you get a job, pay, lodging, and the opportunity to not freeze to death on the Wall." With a small smile to himself, he inspected his fingernails and added, "We may even see about a pardon, if fortune favors us in the wars to come."

Wars to come? That was a bit dramatic.

Beony also seemed confused, though for a different reason. "Apologies, I don't—" he looked between the amused Durin and the resigned Torrhen. He settled on Father and cleared his throat. "You are the lord of this land, aye? I mean no disrespect, but I had expected to treat with you in this matter, not your… Son?"

"He is my first cousin, twice removed."
"He's my grunkle."

Before the two of them could confuse the pirate any further, Roderick interrupted. "My father is Castellan of Barrow Hall. Durin Dustin is Lord of the Barrowlands, pirate. I suspect it is according to his wishes that you are hearing this offer now, and not already headed north."

"Of course, my mistake," he said, sounding no less confused, though no one could really blame him for that. He tried bowing again, winced, and instead settled for dipping his head low. "My thanks for your mercy, and your offer, Lord Dustin… Forgive my curiosity, but you seem to be very young to be handling matters of this nature."

Durin nodded imperiously. "Yes. Yes, I am."

The old pirate was clearly nonplussed, and Roderick took some joy in that. At least he wasn't the only one on the backfoot.

"I see," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes at Durin. He shook his head. "I'll admit to some surprise. When I surrendered, I expected nothing more than a slow death on that block of ice you call a wall. Instead, you're offering me a job… Strange."

"If you find the terms disagreeable…" Durin trailed off, even as Roderick and his father frowned at the man's hesitance.

Beony didn't immediately respond. He himself was frowning, though not at them. Looking around the docks, ignoring the workers rushing to and fro while making space around their group, his eyes honed in on one of their new longships. It took Roderick a moment to realize that it was the one Beony had sailed in on. His eyes were half resigned, half longing. 'The Delight', he'd called her. How long had he captained that ship? How many shores had he set ablaze with her sails at his back?

The old man sighed. "No, m'lord. Your terms are agreeable. I'll sail with your boy, show him how to run a ship and lead a fleet. Ain't sure about the rest."

"Soft spot for your fellow brigands?" Roderick asked harshly.

To his surprise, Beony laughed at that. It was a bitter sound, but he indulged his mirth for a long moment. "Hardly," he finally said, reaching up to wipe moisture from his eyes. "Every man I cared to sail with was on that ship. I'll raise a glass for the fallen and wave goodbye to those bound north. The rest? I'd sell them out for far less than you're offering."

Father hummed in realization. "You doubt the possibility of a pardon?"

"That would be it," he said with a nod. "I'm old, and I've been a wanted man for most my life. Old grudges, nicknames, bounties." At their worried expressions he grinned, showing off the gaps in his teeth. "Nothing big. I'd be long dead if my bounties were anything worth bothering with. There's a skill in that I've mastered, keeping out of the notice of men with deep pockets and long memories."

"But you do come with a certain amount of risk, of notoriety, until we can find an opportunity to get you a pardon," Durin said, and the man nodded again. He chewed his lip in thought. Eventually, he continued. "Would you be opposed to a haircut? A hat? Maybe even a new identity."

Roderick suppressed a snort.

Beony didn't bother. "I won't change my name, boy," he said, his earlier nervous deference slowly leaving him as he sneered. "Change my hair, dress me up like a greenlander, even take my beard and douse me in perfumes. But my name is mine. You've not offered nearly enough to take that much."

Durin didn't seem concerned. He waved off Beony's indignation. "Fine, fine. Keep it. The rest should be enough. Just keep your head down and don't draw too much attention to yourself. We have a deal, Beony?"

The old man didn't immediately agree, which was irritating.

Hadn't they offered enough? Roderick remembered who they were talking to, and grit his teeth. It was galling to even be speaking with one of his kind, especially after the raid. Negotiating felt wrong.

"I have one other condition," he said slowly, lowering his eyes to the ground. "A new life I can accept, but I cannot leave my old one behind. Not entirely."

This man…

"If you truly expect us to—" Roderick started hotly.

Durin held up a hand. "Peace, cousin," he said, and Roderick reluctantly fell silent.

"Thank you, m'lord… As I say, I cannot leave all behind. A wife, I have. Wife and a daughter. I would that you bring them here, else my old foes take them once I begin delivering them and their ships to your lordship."

That… Wasn't what Roderick had expected.

Beony shifted uncomfortably.

"You can take the bloody name," he spat, growing a little more desperate in the long silence that followed. "Just let me bring them to safety. I beg you, m'lord."

"Of course," Durin said softly, shaking his head and smiling as the old man sagged in relief. "No need to beg, or offer more than we've already agreed to. Retrieving them will be yours and Roderick's first mission once you've both recovered. You, your wife, and your daughter will be welcome in Barrow Hall, under my protection. My oath on it."

Well, that was that.

Unspoken but understood between them all— even Durin clearly knew what he was doing, was the implicit threat in that protection. They'd be hostages. Well treated, no doubt. But until Beony was better trusted, that axe would hang above his and his family's necks.

Roderick felt a little better at that assurance, and a little worse at the necessity of it.

He tried to tell himself they wouldn't be actually harmed, or that his wife and daughter played their own parts in his crimes and couldn't be trusted any more than Beony. But he wasn't very convincing.

Still, needs must.

With luck Father would never need to follow through on the threat…

But then, Beony was a reaver.

He and his family were Ironborn by blood.

Roderick tried to imagine the sorts of people that grew up and lived on the Iron Islands. What kind of woman would marry someone like this? What sort of daughter would she and a pirate raise? He shuddered. Maybe Father could go with Beony to fetch them. The thought of meeting and sailing with such people filled him with dread.

But then again…

He turned his head to frown as Durin babbled on about ships with some sort of copper coating on their hull—he had no idea how to make it but it would 'definitely be super worth it once they figured it out', while his father calmly tried to explain how expensive and time-consuming it would be to 'figure it out'. His cousin was undaunted. Beony seemed lost, looking to Roderick for some semblance of normalcy; something which in itself seemed completely ludicrous when he thought about it.

His first instinct was to glower at the man, so he did. Then he shrugged.

Perhaps he no longer had the right to sit in judgment on what sorts of things were good and normal.

He was a Dustin.

And his family seemed to grow stranger by the day.


AN: Aight, more biggerer timeskip after this. We're not jumping straight to GoT start, still plenty to do along the way, but no more 4 y/o Durin. Only took 37k words.