Warning: This chapter contains brief depictions and mentions of sexual slavery.

Farwynd & Fire

By Spectre4hire

13: The Offer

He found the captain looking at one of his newly arrived gifts.

They were colorful tapestries that hung on screens. They were of beautiful, lissome mermaids with gleaming tails and shimmering scales who gave coquettish smiles in provocative poses, pleasuring themselves in some scenes and ironborn in others. Uninterested in them, Lonnel still waited to speak until he was addressed.

Dagon murmured something, before he turned away from the mermaid, who wore clamshells for modesty. His captain on the other hand was dressed mostly in black made from the most expensive fabrics found in Qarth. His cloak was as black as the night sky with a leviathan made of pearls and a kraken made of rubies sewn onto its back. The captain wore more wealth in garments and gems from the iron price than nobles of the green lands wore paying the gold. "Do you have it?"

"I do, Captain," Lonnie stepped forward to deliver what he presumed was a message.

Dagon took the offered scroll, placing it down on one of his gifted Qohorik tables, which was carved to resemble a turtle. He smoothed out the parchment. "Do you know what this is?"

Lonnie didn't and said as much.

"The future," Dagon beckoned him forward.

As he neared, he was able to see that it hadn't been a letter Lonnie had been sent to deliver to the captain, but a map. It wasn't quite complete. There were still colors to add for the waters and the lands. Many of the standards for the ironborn lords had been added, but some still needed to be colored. He noticed that the map didn't just include the Iron Islands, he saw a portion of the Westerlands were drawn and labeled. The lands from Fair Isle to Banefort, with the standards of all the families who lived on those lands.

"The Hoares were right to keep land on the mainland," Dagon knew where he was looking on the map, "But they lost sight of the sea. I won't."

"Why just this?" He pointed to the strip of the Westerlands his captain had marked for himself. "Why not ask for all the West?" He suspected his captain wanted nothing more than to place the Seastone Chair in Casterly Rock, and to rule a kingdom of iron and gold.

"Because" he said, "That's not how the game is played."

Plots within plots. It made him grateful that he was a lowly squire.

"We can already count on the Westerlings," Dagon tapped their standard, one of the few that had been colored. "They've earned more in my service than they ever will under the Lannisters."

The Westerlings had been one of the few non-ironborn houses to set off with him when he went on his first expedition to Qarth. The noble family had Lady Sybell Westerling, formerly of House Spicer, to thank for their great change in fortunes. Her family's merchant connections brought Lord Dagon to their attention. While their recent hardships and humbler origins through their Spicer marriage meant they were without the prejudices that had stopped many other houses, big and small from either wanting or willing to sail with an ironborn.

His attention moved to other spots on the map, representing lords he didn't think would be as welcoming to his captain as the Westerlings. The Hooded Kings of the Banefort had gone up against the ironborn countless times. While Fair Isle had once been ruled by the ironborn, they eventually pushed them back into the sea.

"Why would these proud families of the west kneel to an ironborn?"

Startled, he looked up to see the captain's enthralling gaze. His blue eyes bore into him as if Lonnie's thoughts were written on ink for him to read. He shuddered, shying away from the captain's stare. Tight unease collected in his chest.

"Not to worry, Lonnie," The captain seemed to continue to be able to read them. "I don't need my gift for that." His tone was reassuring. "Besides, if I was in your mind," He paused, "You'd know."

He stuttered, hoping he didn't insult his captain. His heart stumbled in his ribs. He shook his head when his words seemed too thick and clumsy in his throat.

"Peace," The Captain's hand was warm on Lonnie's shoulder. It was a calming presence that helped to ease the tightness in his chest. "Shall I fetch a healer?"

"No, Captain," Lonnie said quickly, embarrassed, expecting his cheeks to be a bit red from his fumblings. He gave himself a few seconds to rally before speaking again. "I know you wouldn't," He replied to the earlier remark. "I trust you, my lord." He didn't want him to think he thought ill or suspected him of such an act for even a moment.

"Good," He sounded pleased, as his eyes dropped back to the map. "You wondered why the west lords would kneel to me."

"Yes, captain."

"Because, if they don't, I'll make new lords," He answered simply. "Do you think these lords will receive any sympathy once King Viserys ascends the throne?" Lonnie shook his head, "His Grace has not forgotten what the Lannisters and their bannermen did to his family." He turned back to the map, "If it's new lords, well then I have a pair of younger brothers," he had one finger on Fair Castle. "Farwynd Isle, mayhaps?" He japed. "As well as countless second and third sons or brothers from a great many families, old and proud, and ambitious," he added, "but here is where the seeds must take."

Lonnie looked to where the captain moved his finger and frowned. "Castamere?"

He nodded. "It's important that we have a presence on our new lands." He explained, "This will be the sight of a new keep. The mines of Castamere may be filled with water, and its castle ruined, but a castle can be rebuilt, and mines reopened." He leaned forward with a half-smile. "The mines of the west will ensure my family's future long after I've entered His Watery Halls."

"Captain?" Ramsay had slipped into the room without his notice, but not the captain's. "The lords are here."

"Let them in," Dagon ordered while he rolled up the unfinished map. He walked over towards the fireplace and tossed it into the flames. He watched it burn before he turned to Lonnie, who understood at once.

You'll speak of this to no one. He nodded. "Should I leave, Captain?"

"Stay," Dagon ordered not unkindly. "I want you to take notes," he pointed to the parchment and quill on his desk.

It was not the first time his captain ordered him to record his meetings. The captain had seen to it that he learned, before taking him on. And Lonnie did, thanks to a patient maester. He took the parchment and quill, not daring to use the captain's own desk. He instead moved to a smaller Norvosi table. The legs were made of ivory and carved in the shape of dolphins in mid leap, their tails down to touch the floor while their noses were pointed upwards to make it look as if they were holding up the top. The chair was shaped like an open clam with soft cushions for the back and bottom. From here, he had a great view of the captain's impressive room. Like most of the captain's manse, this room was filled with splendid decorations from the captain's many travels. The pair of ironborn lords didn't even notice him when they walked in.

The Drumm was already considered an old man during the time of Robert's Rebellion, but he was well respected on the islands. The Drumm name was an old name and the family prided themselves on being the guardians of the holiest places on Old Wyk.

The Blacktyde was an ironborn lord who had been forced to foster at Oldtown after Greyjoy's failed rebellion. He held no love for the Greyjoys, but he had turned his back on the Drowned God. He had heard the captain once say of him: his time on the green lands hadn't made him soft, but shrewd.

Captain waited for them across the room, but both guests were slow to make the move to join him. He knew it wasn't out of protest or disrespect, but curiosity at all the splendor that filled the room. Lonnie made sure to note where each ironborn lord was and what had caught their interest.

Dunstan Drumm was looking at seahorse statues carved from pale stone. According to his captain, these statues once decorated High Tide in the time of the Sea Snake, but had been looted by Tyroshi soldiers when they had attacked Driftmark and sacked Spicetown along with Myrish men. Lonnie had never asked how the captain came to find them. Or how they fell into his possession, gold or iron, he knew no price was too great for the captain when it came to collecting something that once belonged to the famous Sea Snake. Meanwhile Baelor Blacktyde was taking in the towering terracotta warriors that the captain had brought back with him from Yi Ti.

The Drumm would be the first to speak. "You had a feast the other night, Farwynd."

"I did," Dagon answered, "But don't worry I still have several casks of that Norvosi black beer, you like so much."

The Drumm chuckled. He had moved past the seahorses, eying a pair of walrus statues that flanked a painted screen of a kraken pulling down a ship.

"And what of before the feast?" Blacktyde asked, "we heard you murdered a priest."

"It's not murder when you execute a criminal." Ramsay was off to the side. He watched the ironborn lords like they were the exhibits from the captain's travels.

Blacktyde glanced in his direction. "And what crime did the priest commit?"

"I didn't think you'd mourn a dead priest, Baelor," Dagon's eyes were on Blacktyde's silver seven-pointed star pin.

"The priest was a spy." Ramsay answered, "And no blood was shed." before adding, "But amidst his confession, he claimed to have a message for my captain."

"And what message was that?" Drumm asked. There was a touch of indignation at Ramsay's brazen admittance to killing a priest. The Drumm was quite familiar with many of the Drowned Priests with his lands overseeing several holy sites.

"It was a betrothal between me and Asha."

"And you refused?" Drumm's wrinkled mouth frowned. "If I were you, I would've accepted what was offered and made that alliance."

"So would I," Dagon said back, "If I were you."

"Asha is Balon's chosen heir," Drumm reminded a room filled with those who didn't need the reminder.

"The first mark against her," The captain's dislike for the Greyjoys ran deep.

Lonnie dipped his quill in the inkpot in the silence that followed. It was the Blacktyde who broke it, who had finally moved away from the terracotta warriors to where the captain was waiting for them.

"So, you marry a Targaryen?" His voice thick with disbelief while his eyes studied the captain with the same interest, they had the terracotta men. "The king will not let you within a hundred leagues of Westeros if you are to call her your wife."

"Not if," Dagon corrected politely. He looked between the two ironborn lords and chuckled. "I wasn't aware I was in the company of such leal men of the stag."

The jape only made Ramsay smile. Lonnie noticed neither Drumm nor Blacktyde appreciated what went unsaid in what the captain was referring to-the rebellion. One of which they all fought for Greyjoy over Baratheon.

"The Usurper should've killed Balon after his doomed rebellion."

"But he didn't," Blacktyde pointed out, "like it or not, Balon Greyjoy is Lord Reaper of Pyke," he said in a tone clearly conveying his opinion was the latter. "And his brother commands the Iron Fleet."

"Victarion?" The name brought neither respect nor fear out of his captain. "The ironborn who lost to a green lander on the open seas?" Dagon scoffed. "And he didn't even have the decency to die in the battle to spare us the humiliation that his constant presence brings us."

Drumm's old legs and tired bones made him finally seek out his seat. "And you could beat, Lord Stannis?" He sat in it with a contented sigh,

"With my eyes closed," Dagon played it off as a playful boast.

But his words weren't empty, Lonnie knew the truth of it. He had seen it. He had moved onto a new piece of parchment but had carefully moved the first so as to not smudge the ink.

"Lord Drumm," Ramsay had stayed in his spot on the far side of the room. "He wants something, captain."

He bristled. "Don't presume-"

"Speak freely," Dagon encouraged, "All words are safe here."

"I want to know why I should stay," Dunstan Drumm's hands were wrinkled, but his fingers remained strong. The Drumm still proudly carried and used the valyrian steel sword, Red Rain. Instead of his sword, they now gripped the armrests of his seat. "When I can just as easily go home, like so many others have."

The Drumm spoke true. After the captain announced his decision to pursue the princess, many ships quit his fleet. Those came from lords and men who had fought against the Targaryens in the Rebellion. Still, many stayed with the captain, some Lonnie noticed were from families who had fought for the dragon, while others, he imagined, stayed for profit over politics. The captain's expedition to Asshai was bound to be his most successful voyage, and given the riches that came first from Qarth, and then the Jade Sea, that was too alluring to ignore.

"If you wish to leave, Drumm, then leave," The captain wasn't one to beg.

"Even if we go to the capital?" That was Blacktyde.

The captain had remained coy, committing to nothing. If Drumm and Blacktyde were to set sail for Westeros tomorrow, what would they say? That the captain was set to marry the princess? That news has likely already reached the capital.

"And tell them what?"

"The Iron Throne for her brother," The Blacktyde said softly, "And the Seastone Chair for you."

"That's treason."

Dagon gave the Drumm a lazy smile. "We're all well-rehearsed in treason."

"And what it cost us," Blacktyde replied, with a bitter twist of his mouth.

He wears the loss of his father as closely as his seven-star pin, Lonnie believed, and then wrote it down.

" If," The word hung heavy between the three ironborn. "I was to take The Seastone Chair, would you truly object?"

"Balon's the Lord Reaper," Drumm's protest was weak, a limp sail on a windless day. "We've all sworn vows to that effect."

"Count the gold you've gotten from me and then compare it with what you've gotten in all your years following the Grejoys," Dagon leaned back in his seat. "I'll wait."

Drumm's expression shifted to show he didn't appreciate the cheek, but he mustered no response in refuting the captain's claim.

"And what would the Iron Islands look like under a new Lord Reaper?" Blacktyde stood behind his seat.

"Stronger and richer."

"And what of the Faith?" Blacktyde's fingers gripped the back of his chair.

"I'll not welcome them," Dagon denied him.

Blacktyde's disappointment marred his handsome features. "Then why should I join you?" he demanded. "I should just stay true to Greyjoy and take the gold I've gotten from you and sail home."

"Because I wish to make a better kingdom for our people," Dagon answered. "Can Greyjoy say that?" he challenged them, "Does he even want that?" He looked between them. "He wishes to build on shifting sands wet with blood, but I will build on stone."

"This is still war," Blacktyde had lost some of his firmness.

"It is." Dagon's voice was as soft as a whisper. "There was once an old ironborn king," he rose out of his seat, "and on his deathbed, his sons, his brothers, and his best captains all gathered around him." While talking the captain walked around some of his glittering displays, exotic trappings, expensive trophies, all pieces to show what he's accomplished. He made sure the ironborn lord's eyes were on them, that they too could see everything he earned, everything he took, and everything he offered.

"And they asked: Who was to succeed him?" Dagon continued reciting the old and popular legend. "And the king answered: the strongest." He stopped to turn to the two ironborn lords. "Is Balon Greyjoy worth your loyalty?" He asked them, "Your life?" He gestured to the door, "If you believe he is then declare your intentions. Leave my manse, my fleet, and return to him."

Neither of them moved.

Lonnie thought his captain's confidence wasn't misplaced, every ironborn who served under him lived a better life with him then they ever had under Balon Greyjoy. He truly was the strongest amongst the ironborn. Captain is the leader we need, he believed this with every fiber in him. The Seastone Chair should be his. He made sure to note how the ironborn took to his words. They knew it too; he saw them trade a look. They were his.

"The houses loyal to the dragon," Drumm muttered, "They serve the stag now."

"So did we until we didn't."

The Drumm understood. "There are others?"

"Yes." It was Ramsay who answered.

Plots within plots.

"What would you have of us?" The Blacktyde finally asked.

His captain told them.

"The Dothraki are forty thousand swords that I'll need to take my throne," The King blustered.

Her master took the king's blistering tone with a bland smile. He was lounging on a padded couch. They were in the magister's garden. He lay in the shade while the king paced angrily along the stone path.

Doreah was off to the side, quiet, but watching. She didn't look for herself. Her eyes didn't belong to her. They belonged to him. As did her ears and fingers, she listed my mouth, and she thought of what was to come, my cunt.

"You'll also need ships to bring them over, Your Grace."

"I have the ironborn for that," He waved a dismissive hand.

"Lord Dagon will not give you his ships or anymore of his gold, unless you give him what he wants," He tried his best to guide the king with his honeyed tone, "And that's your sister."

The king spun on his feet. "Who is he to make demands of his king?"

"In order to secure your rightful crown, Your Grace," He bowed his head, "you'll need to reward loyal men," her master was of those men. Doreah can only wonder what her master's reward would be. "And Lord Dagon is the only lord from Westeros, who has openly sought you out."

"I'll give him those shitty islands, and a position on my Small Council."

"That isn't what he wants, Your Grace."

The king purpled. "A dragon doesn't mate with a horse or a hound!" He argued petulantly, "You'd have me give up my sister? With her pure valyrian blood, her virgin cunt to him ?"

"Your Grace," her master's voice remained calm and soothing. "This is an offer that would be unwise to refuse. And it must include the princess."

"Then let him have the Usurper's daughter," the king offered. "He can have her after I kill her father and brothers," his fingers were on the borrowed sword.

"You can't give what you don't have, Your Grace," Dagon Farwynd approached them with a king's grace. He was dressed as richly as the king, but his clothes were not borrowed. "And if I want the Usurper's daughter then I'll have her," his eyes were eerie and ever changing. "But today, I'm here for the Targaryen princess."

Her master snapped his fat fingers and when the servant came. He ordered the reedy girl to fetch the princess. Her eyes moved to the king to notice he didn't dare rage at the ironborn like he had to her master. But it was still there with his taut face and angry twist of his mouth.

The chest was brought forward. This one was older and larger than any of the previous ones. Doreah thought you could fit two if not three of those earlier chests into this one. The men who carried it, put it down before the king, one opened it, to reveal the chest's golden, glimmering maw. She was close enough to see that the hinges appeared rusted. The wooden chest looked worn and rotting. The gold looked different too, she couldn't recognize it.

"With only today and tomorrow left of the courtship, Your Grace," Lord Dagon said, while his king didn't even look up from the gold. "I thought it important to show how my generosity only grows towards my friends and allies."

The king scooped up a handful of coins. His eyes flicked to the gold and then to his guest, a lord, who was willing to serve him, and to help him secure his long-desired crown. Still, the king's expression didn't shine with gratitude. "You ask for a lot, Farwynd, a kingdom and a princess, but what do you offer me?" He asked, ignoring the large chest of gold in front of him.

"A new name," Dagon replied, "Aegon was the Conqueror, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, and you, Your Grace," he said, "You will be Viserys the Restorer."

She saw the words take hold of him. She saw his lips move to repeat the name again and again. His expression shifted, dropping the coins back into the chest. He slowly smiled, which helped to compliment his handsome features.

" Ah , Princess," Her master greeted the princess before the king could speak.

Doreah remembered seeing her return to the manse last night. It had been a brief passing, but it was enough for her to see the princess had been glowing. The glow was still there, her face shining as she approached her betrothed.

"And such a beautiful dress," her master complimented her, as if surprised at its appearance, and acting as if he had never seen it before, even though it had been another one of his gifts he had presented to her.

The dress was black with billowing sleeves. It curved around the chest to give glimpses of her pale skin and the tops of her breasts. It glittered with black pearls and rubies that were sewn into the bodice and along the sleeves. She saw the king's eyes follow her, and she knew what that meant. My face in a pillow. Him behind her, saying his sister's name as he fucks me. She had endured worse humiliations, saying his sister's name when he spills his seed inside me. This was what was expected of her. This was her life. And then my name when I'm dismissed.

She had told her master of the king's obsession with his sister. "Mayhaps, I'll visit my sister if I let her marry this ironborn", he had said one night, "And give the couple a wedding gift," he had chuckled, "a kingly gift." It hadn't been drink that made his tongue wag, but desire. " Give my sister the royal seed before she's fucked by that sea savage."

Her master started to place guards at the princess' door at all times after Doreah had told him. She continued to watch mutely, serving as a decoration as Lord Dagon and the princess went away after parting words with her master, who had gotten himself to sit up. The king was barking orders at her master's servants to get his chest, and to bring it to his room. He then turned his eyes on her, and she meekly bowed her head.

"Doreah," Her master stirred her attention, shifting from the king to him. "I need to speak with you," he then sent an apologetic look towards the king. "She'll be with you soon, Your Grace."

The king gave a tight nod, not as if he was in a position to deny her master. I belong to him, not the king. She suspected the king would slate his lust on another one of the master's servants, while he waited.

"Master?" She asked when they were alone.

He had slowly risen out of his seat. "I wanted to commend you, Doreah." He lumbered around the table. "You've given me great service since I brought you to my home."

Bought you, she demurred, her lessons from Lys left sharp imprints. "Thank you, master." She said the words as sweetly as his favorite summer wine.

The rolls of fat on his forehead looked like slugs when they creased. "But I have decided that our time will be coming at an end."

I've been sold. An icy slick of fear wormed through her. "Master?"

His hand was sweaty and greasy when he placed it on her shoulder. "There, there, my girl," He comforted her, leaving behind sticky stains on her skin. "You're still mine for another day or more."

She thought of those street puppet shows the children loved so much. That's what I am. A puppet whose strings are for others to control. Never her. "Who?"

He was standing behind her. She could hear his labored breathing. "I'm to give you to the princess," His fat fingers roamed over her skin like slimy worms. "A wedding gift," she smelt his odious breath, but kept smiling. Still as a statue, she reminded herself, pretty and permanent as a portrait. One of his fingers was in her hair, his hot breath on her neck. "You are to help our sweet princess," His hands then moved to her breasts and he squeezed. "Do you understand?" He asked gently.

"Yes, master," she said softly, and she finished her answer with a moan. She was an instrument to be played, and sweet sounds were expected of her.

"Good," he panted in her ear. "If only I could see what lessons you teach her."

She gave him what he wanted with another moan, knowing she struck true at how he held her. He grunted as he gripped her, moving her like she was a piece of furniture.

Here? She cut the cold panic before it could bloom inside her. Before it could hurt her. Doreah didn't think of the garden they were standing in as she placed her hands on the couch. Didn't think of the watching guards as she presented herself to him. She didn't think of the bright sun and birdsong when he pulled up her dress.

I'm not here. She slipped away, not feeling him pressed up behind her. Nor his fat fingers bruising her skin. Where she was, she couldn't be touched. She couldn't feel any of it or him. She was away, and was waiting to return once it ended.

A/N:

Viserys is sadly no Aurelian. Not just an Aurelian reference in this chapter, but a pair for Alexander the Great too? I just can't help myself.

The days are winding down, but the politics are heating up.

Thanks to all those for the kind words about my take on Dany, they really mean a lot. It's really rewarding and reassuring to know you like how I'm writing her, b/c I struggle and go through doubts as I'm writing this story. So, your awesome reviews serve as a great way to keep me going and persevere.

If you like what you read don't forget to review. Your support means a lot to me. It'd be the perfect holiday gift. Hope everyone is having or will have a good holiday.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire