A/N: Hello everyone. For the last Veron chapter, I felt the need to add an author's note in order to warn the reader's of its dark implications. Some of you responded, saying it wasn't anything too dark, so I suppose for this one just know that it will have dark implications and situations as well. This wasn't an easy chapter to write, but I think to be true to Martin's world we must accept that human suffering is an integral part the interactions between its many peoples and places. Without further ado: Veron!

Veron II

Dalton was mightily displeased, that much was certain. The veins of his neck bulged out dangerously as he cursed the Farmans for their truculence, and his own lords for their failures.

"Would that I had sailed from the Isles with real men, instead of mewling babes and shrieking maidens! Faircastle is nothing to us. It should have been taken during the first storm, let alone the second." His brother's dark eyes surveyed the room, looking for any sign of resistance or insubordination.

The room remained quiet, and the Red Kraken's lords appeared suitably chastised for their failures. Veron had personally overseen the second storming of Faircastle's battlements, and although he had slain one of the knights of its household garrison, the attack had faltered not long after the young Joron Blacktyde had taken a bolt to the neck. The defenders had taken heart and subsequently forced Veron's men from the walls. He had had to personally drag Merrick to the ladders after their position had been rendered untenable, the crazed lad screaming spittle laden curses the entire way.

Joron's brother still hasn't forgiven Dalton for the loss of his elder brother. Torgon idolised him. Veron sighed internally. Old Way or not, we cannot afford to keep throwing the lives of our reavers away so callously.

As he considered what to do, he watched as Dalton dismissed the assembled lords. Normally on an evening when he was filled with such rage, he would seek out one of his many salt wives, but the majority had been left on the Isles. As for the four lionesses, they had proven "too weepy" for his brother's tastes. He had distributed them amongst his captains after growing tired of their "lack of claws".

As the last of the lords had left the great black tent, Dalton quickly poured himself a deep drought of ale, and quaffed it down eagerly. Turning to his brother, he slammed his fist into the table he had been standing behind.

"Ah Veron, my stalwart sword, if I only had twenty men as true as you. We'd have taken this pathetic seat immediately. True men are hard to find these days, even amongst those who still follow the Old Way."

Veron resisted the urge to smile bitterly. Be careful what you wish for brother. Such 'true men' may not be exactly as you imagine them. Removing his helmet from where it rested in the crook of his arm, he set it down upon the table.

"I have an idea, brother, if I may?" He asked nonchalantly.

Dalton's eyes narrowed. They seemed to be weighing the benefits of accepting his brother's council. Veron was certain that his brother wished to order another storming the next day, but he hoped that his inner pragmatist would allow him to at least consider Veron's proposal.

"Speak, brother. Let me hear this idea of yours."

Veron inhaled, and began to speak. As he did, the rage slowly ebbed from his brother's face, replaced with a wicked grin. His black eyes gleamed like chipped onyx in the torchlight. Ah, good. He thought to himself. I have him.

It had taken until long after nightfall for the other captains to be informed of the plan, and although some were displeased at its unconventional nature, many were eager to take part in such a scheme. The Ironborn host was divided into two sections, and after they had been split, Veron led his host to the shore, where the boats and the stores of looted goods they had reached the shoreline, the men began to rummage through the piles of loot, finding pothelms, spears, shortswords, mail, and other accoutrements necessary for the scheme. Most importantly, they donned blood-red cloaks, some sewn with the badges of golden lions. Veron himself had already removed his prized black and gold plate. Instead, he silently thanked the Lannister knight he had slain weeks earlier in Lannisport for his generosity. If only he could have lived to see his garish plate put to such good use, Veron thought with a wicked grin. After an hour had passed, he walked to the shore to examine himself, and had to suppress a chortle at his ridiculous appearance.

His reflection stared back at him with an evidently pleased smile, as he examined the suit of crimson plate he now found himself in. He found that it fit fairly well, which was lucky. His long black hair that flowed from the back of the helm certainly did not fit the image, but as the 'saviors' of Fair Isle would be attacking under the cover of darkness, he thought that it was unlikely to matter.

Turning to the thousands of men assembled on the beach, he began to speak in his best mimicry of a Westerlands accent: "Dear men, this night we assemble on these fair shores to drive these foul and filthy scum from our lands. They certainly have no idea that we are coming, and I can assure you, neither does Faircastle! For the Warrior, the Maiden, and… ah… I'll be damned. Charge!"

A massive cackling roar went up amongst the men as he led them over the dunes, holding torches aloft and screaming bloody murder. Holding his blade aloft, he led this mass of grizzled killers in bloodstained red cloaks towards the Red Kraken's encampment beneath the walls of the enemy keep.

The enemy host of Ironborn, mostly 'asleep' was completely 'shocked' and soon calls to arms could be heard through, in panicked, hoarse voices. Men began to scream and fall as they were 'cut down' by those who they'd fought alongside the day before, and soon, several tents were aflame and a great 'slaughter' had begun. Veron himself 'cut down' Melwick Myre, who cursed hatefully as he fell, his wheezing laughter lost in the storm of battle. A few feet from him, Tommard 'knifed' a lad pleading for mercy. The most puissant men of the Westerlands had taken Dalton's host by complete surprise, and resistance quickly collapsed as the enemy army, exhausted from a day of battle, was slowly forced back from the field, before finally shattering and fleeing for the hills and the hinterland of the isle. The entire 'bloody' affair had lasted forty-five minutes or so.

Only a few moments later, the stunned occupants upon the walls of Faircastle found a proud 'lion' beneath their gate.

Veron, grinning beneath the helmet's visor, addressed them: "Good people of Fair Isle, your salvation is here. As soon as Lady Johanna heard of your plight, she sent all she could muster to relieve you, wishing to give aid to the most honorable Lord Farman and his people."

He almost couldn't believe his ears as he began to hear sobs of relief echo from the battlements, and calls were raised internally to "open the gates". After a few moments of silence, the great gatehouse of Faircastle began to creak and groan as the gate swung slowly open, revealing a bedraggled older man in a doublet that depicted three white ships. At his sides were what must have been two grizzled household knights. Veron strode forward, his chest puffed out, in his best imitation of a proud knight. As he passed through the gatehouse, his men close behind, many cries of "seven bless yee" and "thankee, m'lord" rang out from the smallfolk gathered within the courtyard.

The older man stepped forward. He looked exhausted, but his face was etched with clear relief as he greeted his 'savior'.

"Prithee, good ser, what might be thy name? I do so wish to honor such a bold knight who came during our hour of need, so that I might thank him properly."

As more and more of the host of the 'Westerlands' filed in, Veron knew the battle was over before it had even begun. Smiling, he raised his visor so that all could see. Their faces registered a delicious confusion as he did so, as they perceived his eyes to be dark, and his hair black, instead of the emeralds and beaten gold that they surely expected.

"Lord Farman, the pleasure is all mine, I assure you. My name is Veron Greyjoy."

Before any could react, he drew his sword in a diagonal slashing arc, cutting across the face of one of the Lord's attendant knights, sending him careening backwards, his screams all too real this time. Whirling to face the other, he sent an armored elbow into the side of the Lord's head, sending him staggering to his knees. The other knight, to his credit, had only allowed the shock to immobilize him for a few seconds, after which he had quickly drawn his sword. Veron caught the man's first strike, a savage downward slash, on his shield, which cut a gash in the proud roaring lion. He initially gave some ground, allowing for the older man to tire himself as he hacked furiously away at Veron's defences. He waited patiently for his opportunity, and as the knight overextended himself, he quickly used his shield to catch the strike and knock his sword arm back, rotating his own body to deliver a powerful lunge, sending his blade into the man's exposed neck. In his haste to greet their saviors, he fastened his gorget improperly, Veron observed.

Falling to his knees, blood flowed freely from the savage wound, staining his opponent's doublet, which depicted a flock of gulls taking flight from a silver cliff. Veron forcefully withdrew his blade, allowing the man to fall face first into the courtyard, his lifesblood running a deep crimson amongst the flagstones. He turned, preparing himself for his next opponent, but the fight was already dying down. His men had flooded so quickly into the gates that they were able to force their way into the gatehouse and prevent them from being closed. That had sealed the doom of the garrison and the occupants, as many of them had either already been cut down or had fallen to their knees, pleading for succor. Merrick had already grabbed the frame of a guardsman's cot from within a barracks and was using it as a makeshift ram, hammering away with several other men at the keep's wooden doors. Judging by how much they shivered with each blow, they would not last much longer.

Pleased, he took a knee, using the corner of his fallen opponent's doublet to clean the length of his blade. Lord Farman struggled to rise a few feet away, but collapsed as Torgon Blacktyde's boot forced him once more to the ground. Torgon looked questioningly at Veron, but he shook his head.

"Leave the old man alive. He's not going to be a threat to anyone, and he'll be worth something as a hostage."

The men hammering at the entrance to the keep were finally able to batter down its doors, and judging by the shouting and screams that emanated from within, they were able to fairly quickly subjugate the occupants in the great hall. Rising, Veron went to supervise the final stages of the occupation.

When the smoke had begun to clear, the survivors of the sack had been gathered into the yard. The vast majority of them were small folk, women and children mostly. The garrison of the castle had been put to the sword, along with the attendant knights. Lord Farman and his family had been captured alive, with his five daughters and two sons brought into the courtyard to join their father. Ironborn reavers milled about the yard, either looking for loot amongst the corpses, eyeing the crowd for potential salt wives, or simply just enjoying their victory. Veron waited stoically for his brother's arrival in the main yard.

He did not have to wait long, as once word had arrived that the castle had been taken, the 'shattered remnants' of the Ironborn host had begun to filter back from their positions behind the hills to join their recently resurrected brethren who had previously littered the field. The Red Kraken himself entered the courtyard on foot, grinning from ear to ear, admiring its beautiful tall white towers that had recently been blackened with soot and smoke. Removing his helm, Dalton surveyed the assembled prisoners before beginning to speak.

"Let this memory remain well etched into the minds of all those present here today. I promise you, there will be no glory, no honor, and no hope in resisting my conquest. No one will sing songs of your valor, or remain to bury your husbands and sons. I will break each and every Lord of this land, as my forefathers did before me. For too long, the Sunset Sea has lacked the strong hand of my people. I will not rest until you all know what it means to be thralls once again." Stopping his pacing in front of the Farmans, he turned to Veron. "Did this lot give you much trouble, brother?"

Veron shook his head. "The Lord is an old man, and his sons are too young and feeble to fight. I am told the daughters put up more of a fight than any of the men." Balon Wynch had informed him earlier that the eldest one had knocked a tooth from one of his men when they had broken down her door. She herself bore the scars of such folly, her face already heavily bruised, with one eye swollen shut.

Dalton paused. "Perhaps the women have maintained a modicum of strength even as their menfolk have failed them." He took the chin of one of the daughters in his gauntleted hand, turning her face this way and that to consider her. Turning to their father, he smiled. "You've certainly got some comely girls, my lord. I will give you that much. If the Drowned God wills it, they will provide me with strong sons to continue my line." Reaching the battered and bruised daughter, he looked her up and down. "As for you my dear, your wounds have rendered you rather homely. I have little interest in such ill-used goods, but I know just the man for you."

Veron felt a chill run down his spine. Curses Dalton. Not her, not now. At least grant me the right to choose one on my own terms. His wish would prove to be in vain, however, as he found his brother's eyes locking with his and guffaws and chuckles rang out from amidst the Ironborn.

"You, my dear, will have the honor of laying with my own brother. Perhaps you can convince him of the value of a warm bed, and a willing woman. I promise he won't disappoint you too much, for he is my close kin, after all."

The girl didn't even bother to look at his brother. She instead raised her eyes to meet Veron, and he was quite certain he'd never been the recipient of a stare so cold. She held his gaze for a few moments, before spitting at his feet, which only caused the men assembled to laugh harder. He clenched his fist, but withheld it. She's already proven she harbors no fear of a man's hands.

Veron cleared his throat. "I thank you, brother, for your gift. I do suppose it is long past time for me to claim a salt wife of my own."

"Long past time indeed, Veron. The Old Way can be unforgiving, even to its most ardent practitioners. It would behoove you to get her with child as soon as possible. You'll need strong sons to carry on your legacy." He turned back to the Lord. "As the new Lord of Faircastle, I don't suppose I need you or your sons skulking about." He tapped his chin a few moments. "Lord Harlaw, send a raven to the Rock. Inform the Lady Lannister we hold the Farman male line hostage. Tell her we will ransom them for their weight in silver to her."

The Lord Reaper nodded. "It will be done, my Lord."

Dalton smirked. "Until then, throw them in their own cells. I see no reason for them to join us at tonight's victory feast. Veron, see to it they are provided with a cell befitting of their lordly station."

Several of Dalton's men grabbed the lord and his young sons, leading them further into the keep. Veron followed them down a cool stone staircase that winded deep into the earth. At its base, they found a row of iron-gated cells, in which they shoved their prisoners. Veron felt confident that the gaoler could be trusted not to free his liege, seeing as his corpse was already splayed out across the floor. As he turned to leave, the old man spoke up.

"How can you live with yourself, you animal. No true man would exploit the trust of the innocent."

Veron smirked, but he knew the smile didn't reach his eyes. Instead of responding, he left them there, silent in the darkness. The old man is correct about one thing. I am no true man.

The stores and larders of Faircastle had been thrown open by the time he had made his way up the stairs and were in the process of being completely emptied. A host of this size would need all that had been stored in order to throw a proper feast. Tis fortunate for us that winter approaches, he thought, otherwise they'd be unlikely to have put this much away. His brother was already seated in the lord's seat within the Great Hall, and many of the Lords Reaper had gathered about him, seated amongst the tables below. They were already drinking their fill of ale and wine, as great impromptu spits had been set up within the center of the hall to roast several hogs that had been butchered for the occasion. Entire loafs of bread, wheels of cheese, and cuts of smoked meat lay piled over the tables, and in the courtyard and the fields beyond the great Ironborn host was already deeply engaged in its revelry.

Dalton was attended by his four new salt wives, each of whom had been stripped bare. I'm sure he enjoys his ability to allow his lords to look upon - but not touch- his newest wives. He wasn't sure if it was the cold or the fear, but the youngest stood shivering, as she served his brother his ale. She must have done something to displease him, for as quick as a whip he snatched her up over his shoulders and carried her up a set of stairs leading to what must have been the lord's chambers. The Lords Reaper raised their tankards in a hearty cheer, spouting ribald toasts. The other sisters seemed distraught, and had no idea what to do. They quickly made farmanthemselves scarce as soon as they realized that their new husband was no longer present to ward off other potential 'suitors'.

As he poured himself a tankard of ale, and subsequently drained it, he felt a firm hand on his arm. Turning, he found himself face to face with a grinning Hilmar Drumm, who told him "his blushing bride awaited him in her chambers in the Southern Tower."

Veron forced a smile, and quickly guzzled another tankard. Grabbing a small barrel of ale, and making sure its spigot was still sealed, he made his way towards the South Tower. Behind him came several Lords Reaper and his crew, drunkenly singing the 'Bear and the Maiden Fair'. There is no avoiding this now, he thought to himself, miserable. As he made his way, the men unclasped and undid his armor, in the absence of women to do the task. Climbing the stairs, he eventually reached the door that they assured him was her quarters. Throwing it open, they pushed him inside and slammed it behind him.

The girl sat at her window, gazing out to sea. Veron quickly found a luxuriously upholstered chair to sit in, and began pouring himself a new tankard. He desperately found himself willing himself to feel some sort of spark, some sort of arousal, but when he looked at her in her torn dress, he felt nothing. He drowned his disappointment with a deep gulp of ale.

Standing, he approached her from behind, stopping less than an arms length behind her. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him, and received a stinging slap as a reward. He staggered, and she ran past him for the door, only to find that it was locked. He ran after her, grabbing her arm and throwing her backwards onto the bed. As he loomed over her, he met her eyes once again, and their hate once more stabbed through him. He began to undo his trousers, fumbling from the drunkenness, only to shout and slam his fist against the wall. Staggering backwards, he collapsed into the chair. Topping off his tankard, he took another deep gulp, before speaking softly, so as to not alert those who were definitely listening in from the outside.

"I can assure you, I want nothing to do with you." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was beginning to feel incredibly drunk at this point, with it becoming increasingly hard to focus on any given object. "For appearances sake, would you mind tearing your dress a tad?"

By this point, the woman had crawled to the edge of her bed, and was staring at him with a mixture of wariness and disbelief.

Veron laughed, which sounded like a bitter, wheezing old man to his ears. "I am completely sheerious." Taking another deep sip, he groaned loudly, imitating the sounds of pleasure he had heard other men make as they laid with women. Outside, a round of cheers and guffaws could be heard through the door, gradually subsiding as the audience tramped down the stairs. He turned back to face the woman, who was sitting on the edge of the bed still, her knees tucked under her chin. Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes, feeling as though the world was spinning.

"Jussht try to ignore me." He whispered. He fell asleep to the sounds of quiet crying.

With the morning, his consciousness returned, and with it, the pain that always awaited him after a night of heavy drinking. Veron kept his eyes shut initially, hoping to fall back asleep, but his head felt as though several reavers had taken axes to it. The rhythmic pounding was brutal enough to keep him awake, and he gradually opened his eyes in order to take in his surroundings. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow stone slit that served as a window, and he quickly averted his eyes from that source of additional pain. His tankard lay on the floor next to the chair he woke in, and he felt a profound sense of revulsion the longer he looked at it. It was only when he heard the girl stir that he remembered that he was, in fact, not alone.

He watched her toss and turn, her sleep evidently fitful and fraught with what appeared to be a nightmare. Strangely, he felt pity. It is a cruel world that awaits her outside her dreams. To return to a waking world that is more terrifying than your nightmares is a harsh fate. He could sympathize with her plight, as he was aware of the solace retreating to one's dreams could provide. It appears that her gods could not even grant her that boon. Eventually, she twisted so violently in her sleep that she must have woken herself, as her eyes opened, wide-eyed and terrified. When the reality of her surroundings and present situation registered, he saw her eyes dim. It was then that she turned to face him, her bruises from the previous day an even uglier color.

He smiled at her bitterly. "It seems we have been wed. You have the honor of being the first salt wife to the brother of the Red Kraken himself."

She sat, her hair a disheveled mess, and regarded him with a mixture of barely concealed loathing, and something that might have been a guarded curiosity. She finally opened her mouth to speak, and winced, her jaw having apparently protested at the sudden movement.

"Is this all some sort of cruel jape? I thought Ironborn took great pleasure in the rape of their captives, and the pillaging of their homes."

Veron frowned. He sincerely hoped that she would not become a liability. It had dawned on him that there might be some benefit to having a salt wife, instead of continuing with his aloofness towards the fairer sex.

He sighed. "Would you have preferred that I did?" He spat out.

She paled slightly, considering his words. Before she could speak again, he decided to make his point even clearer.

"Bruises or not, you're a pretty enough lass. There are many men in that hall below that would like nothing better than to have their way with you. If you would prefer it otherwise, speak now. Otherwise, I'll hear no more of it."

Studying him, she remained silent. His head continued to pound, but despite how his pain distracted him he could see the unmistakable look of calculation etched across her features. She began to tie her hair into a braid, as she evidently considered her circumstances. He headed for the door, but paused before exiting.

"It is customary for salt wives to serve their masters at their meals. It would be amiss if you did not. Given that that is the case, I will expect you to accompany me."

A scowl split her face, but after a moment, she rose wordlessly. As she took her place behind him, he grabbed the bodice of her dress, tearing it apart to reveal her breasts. She winced in shock, but didn't move to hit him as she had before.

He scowled. "We wouldn't want the men to think I'd gone too easy on you now, would we?"

Wrenching the door open with a metallic screech that was murder on his already sensitive senses, he and his new companion took the winding steps back down to the hall, retracing his steps from the previous evening. She followed him along gingerly, covering herself with the vestiges of her dress, whose blue, yellow, and red Farman colors still shone brightly despite some soot and ash from the night previous. Reaching the Great Hall, he found his brother holding an impromptu court, surrounded by many of his captains. Below, many reavers were breaking their fast. The other daughters of Lord Farman were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he finally let them clothe themselves and rest, he thought, Dalton is always ever so merciful.

As he approached, Dalton's face broke into a sadistic, gleeful grin, his eyes sparkling like the ocean in starlight. Somehow, in this form, the sight was not the least bit calming.

"Brother! The men tell me you had quite the evening. Did you break the new salt wife in? She was quite the spirited lass, from what I hear."

Veron shrugged nonchalantly. "She is a fighter. But I've been fighting all my life. She was nothing I could not handle."

His response earned him chuckles and praises from throughout the chamber. While Dalton returned to his lords, he sat at an open space at one of the long tables. He ordered some wine to help ease his head, and some bread to soak up the remaining ale in his stomach. He also asked his new wife for some of whatever was roasting on the fire. He sat in silence as she scurried off to fetch his requests, propping his head up against his hand on the table. He allowed himself to drift off in his mind, imagining his family's favorite beach on Pyke, its smooth black-pebbled shore just a short ride from Pyke castle. He could almost hear the waves lapping gently alongside the laughter of his sisters. I wonder if the Farmans have any such beaches, he thought to himself. That errant thought troubled him, but he couldn't exactly put his finger on why.

He was shaken out of his stupor by a guffaw, the sound of a slap, and a shout. Turning, he saw Harrick Codd holding his wife's wrist tightly, an angry red mark on his face where she had evidently made her displeasure known. Rising from his seat, he approached, plucking a carving knife from where it had been embedded in one of the slabs of cooked meat upon the tables. As he approached, Harrick let go of the Farman girl, and turned to face him, grinning stupidly.

"Deepest apologies, Lord Veron. I was just trying to get a look at the merchandise, as it were, and your wife, well… she just wasn't being very accommodating. The lads and I were mighty curious what kind of goods she might've been packing after your brother…"

Whatever words would have left his lips were cut short as Veron drew an angry red line across Codd's neck. Not a moment later, his blood began to pulse out, wetting the stones of the hall's floor. Veron knelt, wiping his knife delicately on the gurgling Harrick's shirt, before returning to his seat at the table. He motioned for his wife to join him, and they sat in silence as he began to eat. As he offered her a bit of bread, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Looking up, his eyes met those of Dalton's. He wasn't exactly surprised to find his brother smiling.

"Veron, I must say it pleases me to see you finally know what it feels like to be a jealous lover. I'm sure you're well aware I'd have done the same in your shoes, or boots, as it were."

He nodded, returning to his food. He wasn't particularly interested in his brother's jests at the moment. He felt a small measure of satisfaction as he felt him tense in annoyance at his lack of attention. Nonetheless, Dalton continued to speak.

"Yesterday you won me great acclaim and renown as your liege, brother. Your plan was undeniably an important step in seizing this castle, especially after its garrison had been exhausted by our repeated assaults. In light of your accomplishments, I think it only fair that I reward you adequately. I charge you with leading our first assault on the mainland since the storming of Lannisport. As you will recall, the Lady of the Rock, Johanna Lannister, was formerly of House Westerling. I'm sure you'll also recall that House's seat is the Crag, an eminently defensible coastal fortress. I charge you with seizing that fortress, for the glory of House Greyjoy and the Old Way. Bring me Lady Lannister's family in chains, so that we may show her the Rock cannot protect everything she holds dear."

Veron continued chewing his meal in silence for a few moments, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes upon him. Taking a swig of wine, he raised his head to once more meet Dalton's eyes.

"It will be done, brother."