A/N: Back again, and this time you didn't have to wait two months! Welcome to the first chapter of what we consider to be Act 3. At this point, I believe that all of you are familiar with the sort of content to expect from Veron chapters, but the same warning still applies. Enjoy the chapter, and make sure to comment your thoughts as always! Lastly, any follow/favorites are always appreciated and help the story to reach a wider audience.

P.S. After the difficulties with posting, it seems that this chapter has finally appeared for the wider audience. Enjoy!

Veron III

It had rained for three straight days. Their camp, situated in the hills above the shore, had become a sodden mess. The Sunset Sea whipped and raged about, its waves angrily pounding the shore. The Crag stood forlornly in front of them, its ancient spires lit by the occasional flash of lightning. Despite being a relatively small castle, it had proven incredibly difficult to take. When they had first put ashore, Veron had decided that they would opt for a siege, in order to avoid the loss of manpower that always accompanied storming a castle's walls. Dalton might lack the patience for a siege, Veron had thought to himself, but I have no such limitations.

A month and a handful of drenched days later, he was beginning to have second thoughts. The Crag's stubborn resistance unnerved him as well. If the hearsay and rumors were correct, its Lord, Roland Westerling, was not even present to oversee its defense. Supposedly he was safely ensconced within the Rock itself, helping his daughter to raise the future Lord Lannister. Some man he must be, to leave his distant kin to defend his own seat from the likes of us. A hacking cough interrupting his thoughts. A few paces to his left, one of his reavers had doubled over, his whole body shaking as he struggled to regain his breath.

The constant rain had proven detrimental to his men's health and morale. If this keeps up, we may have to storm the castle, heavy casualties or not. Turning his back on the Crag, he paced back into the large tent that housed his subordinate commanders. Captains Balon Wynch and Melwick Myre nodded as he entered, and Torgon Blacktyde's brown eyes followed him as he strode to the table that contained a crudely drawn map of the surrounding area. Tommard may be a shite artist, but he's a damn fine scout. He is just as at home within the wooded hills as he is aboard the Misery. Brushing his soaking black hair aside, Veron pointed a gauntleted fist at a crudely drawn hamlet that was about a day's march from their current location.

"Given that there is no end in sight for this siege, we are going to need to restock our stores of food. Balon, I want you and your men to accompany me there and help me take whatever we can get our hands on." Veron glanced at the other two. "Melwick and Torgon, I want you to keep up the pressure. No one gets out. If all goes according to plan, Hilmar Drumm and his men should be returning from their little excursion to reinforce you."

The three captains nodded their acquiescence. Taking his leave, he opened the flap of the tent to step out into the muddy thoroughfare that ran through the center of their camp. Moments later, he found himself outside his own tent, scraping the mud from his boots on a stump he kept outside for just that purpose. Entering inside, he grabbed his sword belt from where it hung from a chair, buckling it quickly. His less-than-loving saltwife lay on her side, facing the wall of the tent. He decided it would be best to leave her to whatever dream she had found herself in. Anywhere is probably better than here. Wrapping his cloak tightly about his armored frame, he strode out from the slightly warmer confines of his abode into the storm.

A column had formed in the center of the camp, awaiting his signal for departure. Waving them forward, the men began to march in a thin line out of the camp and into the woods beyond. As they walked deeper under the boughs, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and he allowed the ever-eager Merrick to take the lead. The rhythmic clinking of a chain drew Veron's attention to a golden bauble hanging from the neck of one of Balon's reavers. It looks similar to the one Alannys had made for the day Dalton and I left. He frowned as he thought of the words Dalton had parted with. That had not be the first time he had hurt their sisters.

It had been a rainy day much like the one he was currently mired in when they had returned from their last reaving. It had been on that trip that Dalton had claimed Nightfall off of a dead corsair, avenging their fallen uncle in the process. Veron had contented himself with simpler winnings, including some new coins for his collection. Their sisters had awaited them before the Seastone Chair. News of their father's death had roused Dalton's ambitions, and he barely noticed their kin as he strode to take his seat on the vaunted throne. While he barked orders to prepare for his ensconcement as Lord Reaper, Veron had beckoned his sisters to follow him. In one of Pyke's damp alcoves, he opened his satchel, revealing the gifts he had brought each of them from abroad. For Alannys, it was a jade brooch from the seas beyond Qarth. For Asha, it was a small golden elephant made by Volantene artisans. For Morgana, it was a small Tyroshi doll that had come with different colored wigs that could be pinned on and removed based upon the whims of its owner. Veron had hidden these spoils from the other men, knowing they'd never approve, but his sisters' smiles were well worth the efforts. While the others had quickly given him a kiss on the cheek before retreating to their quarters, Morgana had stayed behind, wrapping him into a tight hug.

"What did I do to receive such a boon?" He had asked, chuckling. "It isn't as though I am the first brother to return with a doll for their sister."

Morgana had cast a glance at the great hall before speaking. "Not true Veron. Only the best ones do that."

Veron realised he had been smiling to himself as he recalled how sincere his sister's tone had been. It was the little things that he missed the most. He'd not seen the gray shores of Pyke for nearly an entire year. In that time, he had killed and looted more than all of his previous reaving expeditions put together. Whilst the sagas and songs had promised that his conquests would make him a legend, he had yet to feel like one. Instead, he found himself wondering what it was all for. When he was in command, fighting a truly challenging foe, he felt alive. But outside of combat, Dalton's campaign hadn't proven to be as rewarding as he might have hoped. Most of his enemies were men who'd never held anything other than a plow or a pitchfork in their hands. Their villages held no riches, and their women, well… the women were never my priority to begin with. Even after he'd been presented with the Farman girl he found no fires stirring within him. After the first few nights, he had given up even trying to will them into existence. Her cold eyes, full of venom, do nothing to stoke my ardor either. That wasn't to say that he didn't attempt to keep up appearances. He hoped the show he'd put on at Fair Isle had dispelled any potential suspicions, but one could never be too careful.

They spent the entire day marching through wooded hills and vales. The rain itself never stopped, quietly pattering all around them as they traveled. The air itself formed a moist and chilling shroud, soaking through their cloaks and the armor beneath. As the daylight faded and they began to make camp, it was nearly impossible to light any fires. Merrick, ever energetic, simply refused to stop trying. He let out a shout of pure joy the moment he was able to get a small, pathetic flame sputtering. It had taken two hours. Shivering, Veron wrapped himself within the folds of his cloak as tightly as was possible before falling into a fitful sleep.

As the first lights of the morning glinted through the dew and low hanging branches, their party woke, miserably going about their preparations for the raid. Balon Wynch returned, having run reconnaissance in the predawn hours. He guided them out of the woods, stopping at the edge of the trees. Beyond them lay muddy fields, recently harvested for their wheat and barley. The smell of woodsmoke hung thick in the morning air as the peasants cooked their breakfasts. Veron gathered the men around in order to give them their orders.

"Remember- we are here for the food stores. Extra salt wives or thralls are simply extra mouths to feed at this point! I won't tolerate such luxuries on campaign. Get what we need, and do it quickly."

Some grumbled under their breaths, but the men did as they were told and crossed the muddy fields as silently as possible, quietly drawing their blades or lifting axes from their took the lead, watching for sentries, but it appeared that none had been posted. They are like lambs who've never had to fear wolves. The raiding party split into smaller groups, filtering out between the various cottages and hovels in order to canvas the entire village. It was only after they had thoroughly infiltrated the hamlet that they began to toss recently lit torches onto the thatch roofs in order to drive their targets from their homes. It did not take long for shouts and screams of surprise to echo through the morning air.

. Following the main path, he found himself facing a crude building with several rooms that he surmised was this hamlet's attempt at an inn. As flames began to lick about the roofs of the hovels all around him, a portly man in boiled leather and a pot helm staggered out of the building. Brandishing a rusting shortsword, he yelled, spittle spewing from a mouth full of yellowed teeth. He charged Veron, hefting a scarred and dented shield that no longer held any recognizable sigil. Veron waited for him in the muck, waiting until the last moment to knock his sword from his hand with a well placed strike. Before the older man could recover, he drove his own sword through what little armor he had. The hedge knight fell to his knees in the mud, wheezing, his breath misting in the cool morning air.

Veron kicked him over and turned to face his next enemy, but the fight was already over. Several bodies (all townspeople) laid about in the mud. His men were already going door to door, seizing any foodstuffs that they could find and piling it onto a cart they had commandeered. He could barely make out the forms of townspeople fleeing into the surrounding hills, lit by the firelight of their own hovels. Absentmindedly, he tore a piece of cloth off of the fallen hedge knight to clean his blade with and turned to leave the way he came.

He was making his way towards the edge of the village when he saw her. The girl had fallen face-down in the mud, a spear shoved between her shoulders. She wore a tattered excuse for a nightgown. Despite a growing sense of dread, he walked closer. When he was but a few paces away, he retched. The bile wasn't the only thing that brought bitter tears to his cheeks. Half-trodden in the mud, still clutched in the girl's hand, was a crudely knit doll.

Despite his interrogations, none had come forward to admit killing the girl. They likely suspected I'd cut them in twain, and they were probably right. Their march home had been quiet, only periodically interrupted by the creaks and groans of the wooden cart as it had been pulled through the forests. Despite his violent rage subsiding, Veron simply could not distance his mind from the sight. What frustrated him was that it was not the first time he had encountered such sights. Despite that, he found himself increasingly fixated on the memory. It must have been the doll. His men had noticed that something was amiss as well. None had confronted him, but he could feel their eyes watching him when his back was turned. Focusing on other thoughts was no use; it seemed that whenever the image had finally been pushed from his head some errant thought or memory would cause it to come rushing back. He desperately wished for a drink. Even more reason to take The Crag, he thought to himself, amused. Their stores of ale should be full for the winter.

Their arrival back at the camp was greeted with as much enthusiasm as the sodden camp could muster. Whilst they had been unable to take the harvested grain (they had no way to process it) they had been able to seize flour and bread, along with a meagre amount of livestock (a few chickens and two pigs). To complete the haul they'd looted a good deal of salted meat, recently smoked to prepare it for conservation over the winter. While Veron was exhausted from the march and combating his mind, he quickly ascertained that any rest would have to wait. Standing at the entrance to his command tent was none other than Hilmar Drumm, looking decidedly pleased with himself. Melwick Myre and Torgon Blacktyde were waiting as well, but they did not seem to be sharing in Hilmar's glee. Without a word, he brushed past the three of them into the tent. He considered resting against one of the wooden pillars propping the whole construction up, but decided against it. It is never wise to show signs of weakness amongst subordinate captains. Especially ones who are eager to usurp command. As the others entered, he noticed an extremely well-crafted sword belted about Hilmar's waist. I'll be drowned. That blade is Valyrian Steel. The golden handle shown dimly in the torchlight, and the pommel was carved to resemble a red lion roaring, its eyes rubies.

"I suppose you've been dying to tell us where you obtained that blade, Hilmar."

Hilmar's eyes gleamed darkly in the torchlight. "After you sent me and mine to watch the southern approaches, we received word from our advance scouts that a group o' lads were coming up the seaside road to pay us a visit."

He paused, clearly wishing for someone to pry for more. When no such encouragement was forthcoming, he continued, despite disappointment registering on his features.

"There were forty or so of them, none older than twenty-five name days. We fell upon them in the night. The leader of their band was but a cub, with no business wielding a blade so fine. I cracked his head with nothing but a wooden cudgel. We didn't leave any of those young fools to tell the tale of their defeat."

Veron stroked his chin, its stubble pricking his fingertips. "It would appear that House Reyne sent whatever it could spare to relieve The Crag. If they could only spare 40 green boys, their situation is grim indeed. It appears Lord Jason truly did cripple the West's military capabilities."

Hilmar snorted. "When the Lion Lord went to go play at war, he got more than he bargained for. Now he and his lords are naught but food for maggots. All of the West is ours to take."

Veron eyed him darkly. "That may be so, but I'd settle for The Crag for the nonce. Let us not put the cart before the horse. We still have a castle to take."

He ran his hand along the edge of the map that Tommard had sketched days before.

"The Crag is not a large castle, but its defences are formidable. It stands with its back to the sea, limiting our avenues of approach. As each of you know, our probing attacks have been subjected to fairly intense arrow-fire from the battlements, meaning that any attempt to take it by storm will likely result in significant casualties."

Torgon Blacktyde gripped the hilt of his sword as he spoke. "Veron, we are your leal men. If you order us to take those walls, consider them taken. Your plans have not failed us yet."

Despite his exhaustion, he appreciated the support. "Torgon, none need remind you that you lost your elder brother during a similar attempt to take the walls by force. I admire your confidence, but we Ironborn do not have the numbers to fight a war of attrition with our enemies, even as depleted as they are. We must needs make use of our cunning nature."

Tapping the map, an inkling of an idea began to take shape in his addled mind. Pouring more effort into the errant thought, he began to smile. Glancing up, he was pleased to see his captains watching him with interest.

"He's got an idea, lads." Grunted Hilmar, with the corners of his mouth twitching.

"The Westerlings built their seat along the coast to limit their foes to a single approach, allowing them to concentrate their men and resources along one front. But what is advantageous against Greenlanders is a detriment against us men of Iron."

He paused, wondering if any had caught on to his plan. Several pairs of eyes glinted darkly.

"Hilmar, I want your men to begin constructing a ram. It need not work, but make sure it provides as much protection as possible. Cover the top with any animal skins you've available. In combination with the rain, they should render any boiling oil ineffective."

Turning to Torgon and Melwick, he grinned. "We are going to need a longship, some rope, and a couple lads with no fear of heights."

They strayed as near to the rocky cliffside as they dared, fighting the waves that threatened to dash their longships against the wickedly sharp rocks that poked from beneath the seas and out from the cliffs. The rain had begun again in earnest. The Storm God is surely against us with weather like this. On the deck in front of him, several men were tying the ends of thick ropes into loops. In teams, they began to toss them upwards, attempting to loop them around a sturdy outcropping that hung out from the sheer cliffside about twenty feet above them. It took several tries, but eventually they were able to land the shot. They waited to cheer until thunder split the sky. The men turned to him expectantly.

Looking into each of their faces, he began to speak: "I have no intentions of wasting any time. But know this: the Drowned God will smile upon your bravery today. We are Ironborn, and we conquer with both our might and our minds. Now LET'S TAKE THIS ACCURSED CASTLE!"

As thunder once more rumbled above, his men cheered. Veron took a deep breath, pulling on coarse leather gloves that he hoped would give him purchase. He had chosen to wear his plate for the climb, despite knowing that it would guarantee his death by drowning if he fell. An Ironborn should harbor no fears of drowning. What is dead may never die, but will rise again, harder and stronger. Gripping the thick rope in his hand, he began to pull himself upwards, pulling himself upwards from the deck of the Misery and towards the outcropping.

To his relief, the outcropping held firm, and the rope showed no signs of fraying. His progress was slow, and the rain poured unrelentingly against his face, blurring his vision. He concentrated on each movement upwards, his grip on the rope a strangling vice. After what seemed like an eternity, his hand collided with stone as he moved it upwards. Gripping the rope tightly with his left hand, he felt for anywhere to grip, wedging his hand into a mossy fissure in the outcropping and using it to pull himself upwards onto the stone ledge. He offered a silent thanks to the Drowned God as the stone supported his weight. Below him, his men cheered at his accomplishment.

Pulling a loop of rope from where it had hung from his shoulder, it took him a couple of tosses to hook it around a battlement that was perhaps fifteen feet above him. He gave it a sharp pull, tightening the knot. Then, he gingerly jumped on it, testing to make sure it'd support his full body weight. After he was certain that it was not going to snap and send him careening to his watery grave, he waited, holding his hand above his eyes to block out the rain. Now the most important part. Is the distraction working? If the Westerlings had still posted guards along the seawall, they had already likely noticed the rope. He waited for what seemed like an eternity (but what was more likely to have only been a few minutes). When no concerned faces appeared to look over the battlements, he knew it was time.

Fortuitously, it was at this moment that Merrick, ever eager, crested the outcropping. Veron took his hand, heaving him upwards. He was quite sure that none could pull off the look of pure elation that was etched across Merrick's features as he slapped Veron of the back, his axe clutched between his teeth. Without a word, Merrick took the next rope and began his climb. A few moments later, it was Torgon Blacktyde's turn to pull himself to the outcropping. As he gripped a mossy edge, the moss tore, his arm flying free. Veron lunged, grabbing his flailing arm before his grip on the rope gave out. Pulling him upwards with a great exertion of effort, they were both left panting on the mossy ledge. Torgon, his face pale from the experience, smiled.

"Thank you, Veron. I know that we Ironborn should not fear drowning, but I had little desire to meet our soaking deity quite yet."

Veron chuckled. "And I had no desire to lose my most vocal supporter. Think nothing of it."

Torgon nodded. "Whatever your reasons, I am grateful. Alas, despite this impressive view, I really should be going. I cannot allow Merrick all the glory."

Standing, he gripped the next line of rope, pulling himself upward. When he had clamored over the battlements, Veron sent Tommard up next, the bowman wordlessly nodding his assent. After a few more handpicked reavers had gone, Veron grasped the rope, motioning for the Misery to depart. If everything goes as planned, I will see you soon, my sweet lady.

His next climb was even more nerve wracking, if that was possible. On the first climb he had been able to convince himself that his men would fish him out of the water if he fell. He had no such luxuries for the next, however. Any fall at this point would inevitably be fatal. His muscles, especially in his shoulders and back, had become liquid fire from the strain. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to push onwards focusing only on each upward movement individually. To his satisfaction, he reached the battlements in one piece; his men eagerly pulling him upwards once he was in reach.

Once atop the battlements, he scanned the area. The yard beneath them was bereft of any sentries, living or otherwise. A large keep sat across from them, lights glowing within. It was impossible to see if they were being watched from within its lancets and windows; the rain had rendered the glass opaque. If they had been aware of our progress, they'd have sent men to address it. The sounds of battle and shouts echoed across the cobblestones. It seems the distraction has gone as planned.

Drawing his blade, he beckoned for his men to follow him around the battlements. Pulling his visor to cover his face, he strapped his shield to his arm from where it had been slung around his back. Their group stalked silently around the curtain wall until the gatehouse came into view. Around forty or so guards and household knights had gathered on the walls facing the landward approach. Many were firing arrows and throwing stones. Others jeered from behind the safety of the battlements, clutching their spears tightly. A grizzled knight, dressed in a light yellow tabard that sported six seashells appeared to be supervising the lot. Veron motioned for his men to gather around him.

"Remember lads, the gatehouse is our top priority. If we can force open the gates, the castle is as good as ours. It appears we need only lift the bar from the gates to open them. A portcullis would have been far more difficult. If we approach from the ground, we can avoid the guardsmen's attention for as long as possible."

The men nodded in understanding, hefting their weapons as rain dripped from their features. Taking the nearest stairwell into the yard, their approach was masked by the din of the Ironborn outside. They had made it to within twenty feet of the gate when the knight atop the walls spotted their approach. The old man must have a sixth sense, Veron thought, feeling a begrudging respect for his enemy.

His eyes widening, the knight shouted, calling for his men to attend to this new threat. Donning his helm over his closely cropped grey hair, the knight of House Westerling quickly drew his sword and descended the stairs to the yard. Over half of the guardsmen joined him, filing downward and forming a hedge of spears guarding the gate. He held up a hand for his men to halt.

"You need not die here." Veron called out across the yard. "Lay down your arms and surrender the castle. I will guarantee your safety."

"Promises from an Ironborn are worth less than the breath used to make them." Huffed the Westerling knight. "Besides you're outnumbered. This will hardly be an even fight."

Veron grinned darkly beneath his helmet. And like that, I feel truly alive again. "You are quite right about one thing, Ser. This will not be an even fight."

With that he leveled his sword at the knight and his men sprang into action. Tommard let an arrow fly, striking one of the guardsmen in their eye. The man dropped wordlessly. The other Ironborn rushed the defenders, screaming bloody murder. Veron hefted his sword and crossed the distance between the knight and himself quickly. The older man turned aside his initial probing strikes quickly, causing Veron to raise an eyebrow beneath his helmet. This old man has talent, I'll give him that. They circled one another, oblivious to the fight around them, as they tested each other's defenses. After his successive attacks were equally unsuccessful, Veron shifted to a defensive stance. The knight let fly a couple of feints, before lunging for Veron's visor. Blocking the strike with his shield, he brought his own blade to bear in a savage upward strike. To his surprise, his opponent sidestepped the attack.

He is too skilled to fall for such a basic maneuver. His eyes narrowing beneath his helm, he thought to himself. Perhaps I should give him an 'opening'; he'll be skilled enough to see it. Veron raised his blade, as if preparing for a downward cut, but exposed his lightly defended underarm to attack. Quick as lightning, the older knight moved to exploit the gap. I've got you. With the knight's blade committed to its strike, Veron launched forward with his shield, catching the older man in the chest and knocking him backwards. As his opponent staggered, Veron ended his cut prematurely, whirling around and driving his blade into the stomach of his foe. The knight wheezed sharply beneath his helm, falling to one knee as Veron withdrew his blade.

The knight looked upwards, shakily regarding him through his helm. Through the slit in the visor, Veron could see his eyes regarding him with a cold loathing.

"Damn you to the Seven Hells, Ironborn sc-"

A swift cut across the man's throat ended his curse. He fell wordlessly, his blood darkening the rainy puddle into which he had fallen. All around him, Veron's men were in the process of finishing off the defenders. Two men were already in the process of lifting the bar from the gate. Once they had completed the task, they pulled the massive wooden doors inward, allowing men to pour in from the outside. Leading the charge was none other than Hilmar Drumm, brandishing his Valyrian steel blade and roaring a challenge to any who might be "man enough to face him."

Any men who may have taken him up on that challenge were already in the process of dying, however. In the span of a few minutes, the courtyard was secured. Many of its defenders had thrown down their arms, begging for their lives. Veron directed his men to grant them their requests, herding them into a corner of the yard after having deprived them of their weapons. I am not my brother. Spilling blood just for the sake of it is a waste. These prisoners can be put to work on something useful, I am sure of it.

He tasked Hilmar Drumm and Melwick Myre with forcing the doors of the keep open. Using the bar from the outer gate as a ram, they went about pounding the doors down, reducing them to splintered ruins relatively quickly. The few guards that remained quickly cast down their weapons, wanting no part of a lost cause. One pointed them in the direction of the Great Hall. Pushing the doors inward, Veron was taken aback by its beauty. Pillars of seastone stood along its length, with shells and sea creatures ensconced within them. Taken in conjunction with the tapestries along the halls, it gave the impression that they were entering into a court at the bottom of the sea. Perhaps the Drowned God's own hall resembles this, he thought to himself. Although I would expect it features less art of dancing maidens.

Scanning the hall, it appeared that those present within were largely composed of smallfolk and castle servants, as none rose to contest their entry. Cowering behind the high table were three children, two boys who looked to have less than ten name-days between them and a girl who might have counted thirteen. Each of their garments featured the same six seashell design that the knight had sported on his tabard. Before them stood a knight with the same design on his chest and a bushy white beard who drew his sword with a shaky grasp that betrayed his advanced age. To his left stood a man in armor of shoddier craftsmanship, more boiled leather and rusted mail than plate. A hedge knight. The man's shield sported a snake coiled about a man's arm, its fangs sunk into the flesh. Veron readied his blade, and to his left, Hilmar Drumm readied his Valyrian steel blade, still dripping blood. As the seashell knight took his first step to engage, the hedge knight lunged, driving his blade through the older man's unprotected neck.

The old man's eyes widened in surprise, and he attempted to draw in a gasp, but failed, gurgling up his lifesblood instead. The children behind the table screamed. The ironborn halted in stunned silence.

Wiping the blood from his blade, the hedge knight adopted a neutral posture. "There's no need for further blood to be spilt lads. The old man had resolved to die fighting, so I granted him his wish. I had no such desires. I only ask that you grant me my life in return for taking your side."

Veron scowled. "We men of Iron face our foes from the front. Unlike you Greenlanders, there is no honor in stabbing an old man in the back." Turning to his men, he made a quick gesture, and Tommard put an arrow through the hedge knight's chest before he could raise his shield. The man's face tensed, and he crumpled to the floor clutching the shaft sprouting from his core. Veron sighed.

To his left, a raucous laughter began. "That was a fine speech, Veron." Turning to the men still streaming into the keep, Hilmar raised his blade in the air. "The keep is OURS!"

The shouting was deafening, and the louder it got, the more those huddled across the hall shrunk and cowered. One young woman was attempting to hide herself behind a tapestry.

A firm hand grasped his shoulder. "I think it is well past time we divided the spoils of this conquest. Given that your brother will expect you to return to his side, I would be happy to stay behind in order to hold this place in your name."

Turning to face Hilmar, he couldn't help but observe his dark eyes gleaming. I am certain he wouldn't be opposed to gaining a keep and a blade of Valyrian steel in the span of a few days. He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. Instead, he turned to Melwick Myre. Best to grant this place to a man of proven loyalty.

"Melwick, this keep occupies a strategic location along the coast, and is dear to the heart of the Lady of the Rock, a former Westerling. You have served under me since Lannisport. It is only fitting that I grant you this seat."

His words were met with a smile and a scowl. Melwick Myre, smiling, was lifted upwards by his crew and carried off as they looked for something to drink in celebration. Hilmar Drumm, on the other hand, had turned to ice.

"I handled the storming of the keep, Veron. That decision was ill-advised."

"You handled the storming of the keep in conjunction with Melwick Myre. And I would advise you to hold your tongue, lest I decide that you must needs be parted from it."

A war of emotions fought itself behind Drumm's eyes, but he managed to stay his tongue. His grip upon his blade remained white-knuckled, however. The silence remained deafening until Merrick spoke up.

"Lord Reaver, what say you regarding the prisoners? What are your orders?"

Veron surveyed the crowd assembled before him. Over one hundred pairs of eyes, all terrified, seemed to bore into him. Behind him, he felt the eyes of his men eagerly set upon him as well. A few of the captains, both Drumm and Wynch among them, were eyeing the Westerling girl with interest. They wish to know if she has flowered. That would mean the difference between a valuable prisoner and a prestigious salt wife.

He ordered the children to be brought forward. Several men led them forward. The boys wept, and to Veron's disgust he saw that one had made water beneath his garments. As the girl was forced to her feet, he saw that she was clutching a doll fiercely to her chest. Bile rose in his throat, and his hand quivered. He gazed at the men assembled around him, their eyes akin to those of wolves. Turning his head back to the children, he felt a cold chill run down his spine.

"Find somewhere to put those mewling babes. Dalton wanted them delivered in chains, and so he shall have them." He swallowed, clenching his fist tightly in an attempt to keep it from shaking. "The girl is mine."

Merrick, seemingly unaware of his captain's turmoil, spoke again. "And the others?"

"Do with them what you will. Remember, however, that they are now the subjects of Melwick Myre. Mistreat them and you will answer to him and his men."

With that, he strode from the Great Hall, intending to find his way to the Lord's chamber, or at least a chamber that would suit his needs for the night. I need a few stiff drinks to shake whatever this is that plagues my mind, he thought to himself. Following the stairs of the keep upwards, he called for a barrel of ale or several wineskins, whichever could be found more quickly. All around him were Melwick Myre's men, eagerly ransacking the keep for anything of value. One passed him two full wineskins, and he wasted no time in uncorking one and taking a deep draught. Crashing into a bedchamber with a view of the sea, he continued to drink, guzzling the wine like a thirsty man would water. Why does that girl haunt me so? He knew the answer, but it brought him no solace. Another gulp of wine brought an image of a girl face down in mud, a spearpoint through her back. But this new image was different. The girl wore a dress of black, a golden kraken stitched into the bodice. A Tyroshi doll was still clutched tightly in one hand. His hands began to shake again.

He was so lost in the image that he did not hear the man enter behind him. Veron only became aware of his approach once he joined him at the window that looked out over the stormy sea.

"Many would not have understood what you did today."

Turning to Torgon, he grimaced as the man began to look concerned. He can see that something is wrong with me.

Torgon frowned. "I can see that you're under a great deal of strain, Veron. But I wanted you to know that I saw what you did for what it truly was: an act of kindness. Our ways have fashioned many a cruel man out of an eager boy. I was pleased to see that you had not been lost as well."

Despite his best efforts, a tear ran down his cheek. He attempted to mask it by taking another deep swig of wine. "That girl slain in the village still haunts me. I cannot get her out of my mind. She must have been the same age as Morgana."

Torgon nodded in understanding. Veron's hand, still tightly clenched, began to shudder again. As it did, another hand placed itself atop of it. Surprised, Veron looked up.

Torgon's look was one of empathy. "Just know that you're not alone, Veron. I understand and I want to help."

He… is like me? Veron was stunned. Before he could act on whatever he was feeling, a small cough interrupted the moment. They both flew around to face whoever it was who had seen them. Standing in the doorway were his two salt wives. The elder one stood behind the younger, her hands on her shoulders. A look of recognition flitted across her features before they returned to their normal unassuming and disinterested state.

Flustered, Torgon began to leave the room. "I will have the ships ready for an early departure tomorrow, my lord. If the winds are favorable it should be a swift journey to Fair Isle."

Veron blinked. "Thank you, Torgon. Let us hope the Drowned God favors us."

After he had left the room was silent. Eventually, the Farman girl closed the door behind her. Veron found a chair and collapsed in it, slowly untying the leather knots that fastened his plate about him. He tried avoiding eye contact, but could feel the eyes of both upon him. Finally he spoke.

"Whatever you both saw, I assure you that…"

"Veron, peace. There was nothing to see."

He was surprised to hear the Farman girl's voice. She rarely spoke to him. Meeting her eyes, he whispered, "thank you."

She met his gaze for the first time in a long while. "My name is Elissa. And this is Eleyna. She had something she wanted to say to you as well."

The Westerling girl blinked. Clutching her dress, she raised her eyes to meet his, before whispering. "Lady Elissa explained that you're keeping us away from the bad men."

Veron was speechless. But he also felt some of his internal anguish grow quiet. "I'm… trying, Eleyna." Turning to face Elissa, a slight, wan smile danced on his lips. "It is nice to meet you both."