A/N: Hello all! Veron returns to Fair Isle in this chapter, having granted his brother's request to take the Crag. I wanted to take this opportunity to answer a couple of questions. To dire213: Viserys' dragon was present with him during the coup. Its whereabouts now are unknown, but he would certainly have been separated from it. As for Larys; he did recognise the dragons of the Black seeds (he says so in Hobert V) but was uncertain of what that meant exactly given that he was operating under the assumption that Unwin's letter was factual. Either way, he had already taken decisive action and thus had to hope that either he was mistaken or that the seeds would not immediately attack (which they chose not to do after an impromptu meeting outside the walls). As for Zbyu847, your review is correct; only Syrax was killed during the riot and coup. Quite a few dragons remain available, though many are very young. Currently, based on F&B, I estimate the largest living dragons to be The Cannibal/Dreamfyre (similar ages), Silverwing (wounded at the Second Field of Fire), Seasmoke/Sunfyre, The Grey Ghost, Tyraxes/ Moondancer, Shrykos/Morghul, Terrax (Viserys' hatchling- named for a favorite story of his), Morning (Rhaena's hatchling- many do not yet know of its existence). On paper, the Greens have some formidable dragons remaining; the reality is more sobering. As for Raimon, wait and see! Thanks to all of the commenters who enjoyed Hobert! I urge you to leave your thoughts and reactions to Veron below!
Veron IV
The rains that had persisted for so long outside of the Crag had mercifully desisted in their pestering the moment that Veron and his crew had put to sea. It had felt good to be on the waves once more, back into the watery grasp of the Drowned God. Their journey had only taken a few days, as the seas had calmed and offered little resistance to their small fleet's passage. It was early in the morn as their longships gracefully cut their course through the sheltered harbor of Fair Isle. In the distance, Faircastle's spires could be seen, its proud towers illuminated by the first rays of the sun rising to their backs.
The Misery docked quickly, with several of its crew members jumping from its deck to the dock in order to finish the last tasks necessary to bring their journey to an end. Veron himself climbed gingerly onto the wooden pier, taking his first steps on land cautiously so as to allow himself time to adjust. Turning, he offered his hand to Eleyna, then Elissa, allowing them to join him on solid ground. Whilst he regretted leaving the wild joy of the open sea, it was clear that they were glad to be rid of it. Longships were designed to be sleek and mobile, but they offered little in the way of total shelter from the elements. Matters had been worsened when Eleyna had been struck by a violent bout of seasickness. Elissa had comforted her as she had spent the majority of the journey clutching the sides of the ship, occasionally leaning over to empty her stomach of what little she had forced down. Her brothers, seated nearby, had remained silent, obviously terrified. Veron had only ordered them shackled as they came into port. The cold salt spray of the sea was punishment and humiliation enough for our defeated foes. They need only suffer the iron bonds on land.
He suspected that Eleyna and her brothers were the niece and nephews of the Lady of the Rock. If that were true, the boys would make for valuable hostages given their familial proximity to the Lannister line. As for Eleyna… she will have to remain under the auspices of my… guardianship as it were. Once the crew had fully disembarked (many of them carrying looted goods), they began to make their way through Fair Isle's dockside district, which was unusually subdued for a seaport. Many of its denizens cast sullen, hateful glances at them as they passed. Even though they appear to have been humbled by our conquest, they still outnumber us by a considerable margin. Our ways of Iron have only stoked the flames. The lack of longships about the Isle was troublesome as well. It appeared that Dalton had given his captains leave to begin reaving independently. While that would have undoubtedly been a popular decision, it left them exposed to an enemy attack. Our fleet could be reaving as far south as the Shields for all I know, he thought to himself grimly. To cast our net so widely will leave openings. While their ships may have been burned in harbor, the reach of the West is long, and its purse nearly bottomless. We should not be overly confident whilst our enemies still have opportunities for retaliation. If we spread ourselves too thin, it may not even be a Lannister blade that fells us. He cast another glance at the townspeople milling about around them. We could very well be brought low by the pitchfork, or the filleting knife.
He resolved to speak with Dalton as quickly as possible about these matters. Turning to the docks below, he watched as other longships were brought in, their crews discharging and following his own through the town. Hilmar Drumm's men followed closely, as did Torgon's crew. Torgon… the very name brought excitement and apprehension in equal parts. While it had been an incredible weight lifted from his shoulders, the ramifications and potential of these new feelings did little to calm him. We must needs watch our every step… and keep one eye looking over our shoulders. Before their shared moment, Veron hadn't ever completely come to terms with his own desires and feelings. He still was unsure how to process them. It isn't as though any of our songs or shanties provide instruction in these matters. He doubted that many Ironborn would even consider it possible for a man to desire another man, let alone desire a connection beyond brotherly love or comradery. He had resolved to take matters slowly. I have no illusions regarding the danger. Dalton would order my head struck off, even if he only heard rumors. The Red Kraken would suffer no sword swallower to besmirch his growing legend, and the threat of being labeled a kinslayer would give him no pause. The thought of Dalton's reaction to such damaging information being brought forward did bring a slight smile to his lips. In some ways, it is nearly perfect. Every bit of his story matches those of the Driftwood Kings of old… almost every bit of it. A firm hand upon his shoulder tore him away from his ruminations. The hand, gnarled and three-fingered, belonged to Robett, his helmsman.
"Pardon, Lord Veron. We've received summons from your Lord brother. He demands you attend him within Faircastle. He is supposedly eager to hear of your exploits."
While there was little to suggest disbelief in his voice, Veron could detect subtle signs of Robett's unease. It was an unease felt by many of his crew in the presence of his brother. Robett had served his family for years, filling the role of trusted helmsman to Veron's father, the previous Lord Greyjoy. His decision to serve aboard Veron's Misery had been the cause of one of the few rows between the two brothers previously. Dalton had taken it as a slight that his father's trusted right hand would not serve the eldest son. Ever since, Robett had remained fiercely loyal to Veron, and skeptical of his brother's intentions. While the years had wreaked havoc on his body, his wits remained sharp. And those very wits seemed to anticipate trouble.
Patting the aging reaver on the shoulder, Veron attempted to disabuse him of the notion. Privately however, he harbored thoughts that the old man might indeed be correct. Dalton and I did not part on the best of terms. He has never been one to suffer rivals to his grandeur. Even if that is not my intent, my very existence, and success, is unwelcome. Dalton always appreciated having a stalwart shadow, but will he enjoy a successful brother? Steeling himself, he gave orders for his men to continue their march to Faircastle.
The great hall of Faircastle had come to resemble an armory. Implements of war were held in racks, barrels, and displayed on tables throughout. Additionally, spoils of war were heaped high, including tapestries, bolts of cloth, golden and silver goblets, jewelry, and more. He found Dalton where he knew he would, sitting upon the seat which had been the seat of various Farmans for centuries. He was toying with an exquisitely crafted ship model which possessed four masts, a deep hull, and a broader beam than would be found upon most vessels. Hearing Veron's approach, his brother carefully set his prize aside, a wicked grin spreading across his features. His deep black eyes smiled along with him, yet held little warmth.
"Veron, my only brother, I welcome you into my hall. I have heard much of your exploits, but I could not countenance hearing any more of them from my captains. I needed to hear of your great triumph in your own words."
Veron paused. "I doubt that I could provide you with any further details than you have already heard, brother. The Crag is ours, as you commanded. I left it in the possession of Captain Melwick Myre, with instructions to hold it as a base for further expansion along the coasts."
Dalton's grin did not fade, but instead became wider. "Dear brother, you do yourself no credit. Your actions were a good deal more impressive than that! Taking the Crag was just the beginning. I have been told that throughout the entire campaign you lost no more than thirty reavers, most due to illness brought about by the uncompromising deluge. Furthermore, I know of Captain Myre. As I recall, he has served you most steadfastly in the past. Lastly, and most importantly, I hear you have taken a daughter of House Westerling into your bed. Oh! But how the Lady of the Rock must hate you for that!" A cold, rasping laugh escaped from Dalton's lips. "When I sent you to subdue that seat, I had no idea that you would do so exceedingly well. You're well on your way to building a formidable reputation of your own. A man that formidable would be a most terrifying foe for our enemies, I would think. A man like that could lead the Iron Fleet."
With that, he rose from his seat, his armored footfalls sounding throughout the hall as he approached. It was only then Veron began to heed the various captains throughout the chamber. Many were clearly eyeing the situation with great interest. He refrained from allowing his eyes to narrow in suspicion. Dalton's men… the whole lot of them. He considered his brother's words, but found he had little patience for the challenge that they all too clearly represented.
"Dear brother, the Iron Fleet already possesses a most formidable commander. I live to serve him, as my Lord and as my brother. I vanquished the Westerlings in your name, but they proved less formidable than I had hoped. Lord Jason Lannister has already crippled his lands by exhausting their reserves of fighting men. All that remain are old men, leading green boys. They were no threat to men of Iron."
His brother studied him for a moment, onyx eyes steady, boring deeply into his own. Veron did not falter, he would not allow Dalton to humble him so publicly. Maybe once, but no longer. I tire of this. My loyalty has never been in question. The silence became icy, but only briefly, for after a moment his brother's grin returned.
"Truly, Veron, you are a different man. A brother I am most proud to claim! Your return is most favorably timed, as it were. We must needs decide on our next course of action."
With a black gauntleted hand, Dalton gestured towards a table near the center of the hall, upon which a great map had been rolled out. The map's edges had yellowed with age, but it bore the seal of King Loren I Lannister. Upon it the vast demesne of the Kingdom of the Rock was depicted, with its southern marches stretching to the Reach, and its eastern marches menaced by the now defunct Kingdom of the Isles and Rivers. Dalton, seeing him studying the map, sighed for effect.
"Before the arrival of the dragons, our power extended anywhere the waves crashed or the rivers flowed. The Hoares had subjugated an entire Kingdom, and had cowed their rivals into submission. None wished to face our kind in battle." Pausing, he scoffed. "But Aegon changed the rules of engagement. Great castles and stout warriors meant naught to him. In ridding us of the Hoares, he taught us a valuable lesson. Harren had bound himself to the Greenlands. By constructing his great seat, he forgot what made us truly strong, what made us truly different. By burning him and his sons, Aegon freed us once more. We were not meant to be land-bound lords of the Greenlanders, we were meant to subjugate them, to demand tribute, and most importantly, to rule the Sunset Seas. Our longships, and our ability to attack anywhere, at any time, is our greatest strength."
Men throughout the chamber nodded in accordance with his brother's words.
"I am sure many of you do not wish for me to subject you to the histories of our people. That task is for the Maesters. Such things are of import. Harren's greed and his stupidity destroyed his line root and stem. I do not mean for mine to face the same fate. Instead, we will use this war between dragons as an opportunity to bring about a return of the ways of our forefathers. We will once more subject the Sunset Sea to our domination and all who hear its tides will pay us tribute." Smiling sharply, he added: "and the most fortuitous part of this entire arrangement is that the Dragon Princess has begged us to do so. So long as we whet our blades with the blood of Westermen and Reachmen, we act according to her bidding." Pointing to Fair Isle, he concluded: "in order to fully restore the Old Way, we will need bases. We have Fair Isle, and whilst my brother seized the Crag, I conquered Kayce." Chuckling, he pointed to a torn and bloody banner draped across another table. Orange and black, it featured the sunbursts of House Kenning of Kayce. "I slew the Knight of Kayce and took his wife for my own. House Kenning would do well to remember its origins. I reminded them. If they still prove resistant, I will sire a new Lord for them, harder and stronger than those before, and free of Greenlander weakness."
Once more, he traced the shoreline of the Westerlands. "Fair Isle, the Crag, Kayce, all command the Sunset Sea. I mean to demand them as payment for our support. In time, the Shields will be returned to their rightful owners. With the right men under my command, even the Arbor itself will be made to bend the knee. These things and more I promise you, my Lords and Captains."
From the looks around the room, Veron could see that his brother had more than persuaded most of them. There is merit to my brother's plan. But while we may have the strength to wrest these isles from the Greenlanders, I doubt we would keep them for long. Once the dragons stop tearing themselves to pieces, we will no longer be in a position to make demands. Aegon taught us that as well.
"Conquering the isles and the coasts is one thing brother. Winning the peace is another. What news have we of the Queen and her brother?"
Dalton's glance held a dangerous edge to it. He did not like to be challenged, and certainly resented that Veron had spoken in front of the assembled captains.
"We have received little and less word of the Queen or her brothers. From the mouths of captured merchants, we've heard whispers that there was a great battle in the Northern Reach. Supposedly the fight was between riders in service to both the sister and the brother. Some say the sister's men proved superior, and others claim it was the brothers. We have, however, received word that Oldtown has put out a call for more swords. Most interestingly, they also are offering a great deal of coin to those skilled with the bow." A faint but hard smile danced upon his lips. "If I were a betting man, I'd wager that the Hightowers would have little need for bowmen of such skill if their king still ruled the skies."
Veron nodded. That is fortunate news indeed. If the Queen's riders were indeed victorious, we would have little reason to fear that the Lady of the West might obtain the support of a dragonrider.
"It seems that the Drowned God has smiled upon us then, brother. If the Queen commands the skies, then we have little reason to cast our gaze amidst the clouds for enemies." He paused, knowing his brother would not be pleased with his next words. "What of our forces? How many swords do you still command?"
Dalton gripped the edges of the table. Had he not been wearing gauntlets, Veron suspected that his brother's knuckles would have grown white.
"So many questions, brother. I must have misremembered you whilst you were away. I could have sworn you were always the quieter of the two of us." Some of the men assembled snickered. Veron did not miss a sharp grin emanating from beneath Hilmar Drumm's scraggly beard. His eyes held no mirth, however. They were dark and promised vengeance. Veron spent little time meeting them.
"Since you are concerned with our numbers, allow me to remind you. We sailed from Pyke with ten thousand swords. In our conquests, I would wager that we've lost less than five hundred men. Disease has taken some, as is its wont. I estimate that we can still count on nearly nine thousand swords. More than enough to seize what we need to reassert our rule."
Veron resisted the urge to shake his head in annoyance. "I am pleased we still have adequate numbers for our conquests." He decided against raising the issue of the behavior of Fair Isle's smallfolk that he had seen earlier. His brother would likely dismiss them even if he raised the issue.
"Forgive my wordiness, brother, but one matter still must needs be addressed. Time. I fear we may not have enough time to seize all you propose before we are commanded to cease our assault. Even if the Queen does prevail, it seems unlikely that she will suffer our reaving once she sits securely atop her throne. In order to win the peace, we must already have everything we wish to keep in our possession. I fear that the war may be drawing to a close too quickly for that to be possible."
Dalton seemed almost surprised he had spoken up yet again. To his brother's credit, he offered no rebuke. While he didn't suffer challenges to his authority lightly, his mind was still sharp, sharp enough to recognize the veracity of Veron's concerns. His eyes narrowed, becoming keen slits of onyx. The Lord Reaper of Pyke was silent for a moment as he studied the map. Finally, he spoke.
"What would you propose, brother? I would hear your counsel."
The room grew quiet. Veron stepped forward, and he had to keep his hand from reflexively reaching for his sword hilt. He studied the map, as the eyes of the room studied him.
"As you've said, we have already established a commanding presence along the coasts of the West. So far, our enemies have proven utterly incapable of challenging our hold on what we've taken. As it stands, we still possess the strength to keep what we have seized. If we still hold it by the end of the war, I think it likely that we could demand Fair Isle and Kayce as rewards for our… support. I doubt that the Crag would be something the Lady of the Rock would be willing to part with."
Dalton sneered. "What that woman wants is of no concern to us men of Iron. She skulks in her cave for fear of us. She has no right to demand anything from us."
Veron nodded. "She may have no right to demand something of us, but her prospective liege will. If the Princess is victorious, she will want to rule a united realm. The Lannisters will need to be brought back into the fold for that to be possible. Frankly, if we demand too much, we will invite the dragon's wroth upon ourselves and undo all we've striven to gain. The key is demanding enough that we can reassert our power over the Sunset Sea, but not too much that the Princess decides we are too much trouble to parley with."
Dalton frowned. "I mislike entering into negotiations at all. It belies weakness. But your words carry a truth unto them, even if such truths are difficult to accept. But what of the Reach?"
Veron paused. "I do not believe that the Shields are within our grasp. If the Queen's forces have won a great victory in the Reach as you say, the war may be drawing to a close within a matter of weeks. If we haven't seized the islands by the time the Greenlanders agree to a peace, we will have overextended and bled ourselves for naught."
Dalton waited for him to finish before turning to the assembled captains. "My lords and captains, you have heard each of our words. But in the Iron Isles, it is said that every man who possesses a ship is a king unto himself. Far be it from me to rob you of your counsel or your rights as kings of the Sunset Sea. I ask you now to cast lots for each plan. The plan that receives greater endorsement will be the plan that is implemented. Firstly, my own. I promise you the Shields and the Arbor, and with them, dominion over the entire Sunset Sea! My brother promises you a negotiated settlement, free from the fear of the dragon's wroth. Let those who support my proposal now say aye."
As a chorus of 'ayes' sounded across the room, Veron felt his heart sink. He planned this. He suspected that I would oppose him, and wished to see me discredited in front of the fleet captains. Despite his frustration, he was willing to admit it was a good plan. He also made sure to allow most of the more reserved captains an opportunity to reave, in order to have his most fervent supporters present.
When Dalton asked for the 'ayes' for Verons plan, a sporadic response sounded. In the midst of the crowd, Veron was grateful to see that Torgon had thrown his support behind his proposal. These men consider themselves men of iron, after all. That thought brought a frown to his face. Given enough heat, however, iron will melt.
Looking most pleased with himself, Dalton had invited Veron to spar at the conclusion of the meeting of the captains. Despite some misgivings, he had agreed. A few moments later, he had found himself in the courtyard of Faircastle across from his brother. The rain had transitioned into a light misting, chilling the air and causing their breaths to emanate fog-like from beneath their helms. Dalton had chosen to wear his best plate, and moisture dripped from his helm's golden tentacles. He looked as though he had just walked out from the depths of the sea. In his hand, he clutched Nightfall, its dark rippling valyrian steel blade bespeckled with small rivulets of rainwater that dripped gently to the cobblestones. Its moonstone pommel seemed to be an eye of its own, staring unblinkingly at him.
Veron drew his own blade, its length of castle-forged steel rasping as it exited its scabbard. This must be the second part of his plan to discredit me. A victory at the meeting and a victory in the yard. At that point none will question his superiority. He grimaced. As if he needed to prove it. I was content in his shadow. His attempts to keep me there have only driven me further from its shade. His hands tightened about his blade's hilt. He had refused a shield, knowing his brother's blade would have rendered it useless after a strike or two. While dangerous, he hoped that he could force a conclusion to the fight before any blood was drawn. Facing an opponent wielding Valyrian steel required a greater degree of aggression than was normally advisable, given that opting for the defensive was nearly completely ineffective unless possessed of a blade of Valyrian steel as well. Dalton taught me that. I learned from him as he slew Nightfall's former owner. As he adopted his stance, he promised himself that he would not lose this contest as well. Dalton will not have the satisfaction of two victories today.
The scarred and grizzled master at arms motioned for them to begin, rainwater dripping from his long grey beard. They circled each other in the yard for a few moments, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Veron watched his brother, waiting for any tells that he planned to strike. When they were younger, his brother had always inhaled sharply before launching his attacks. Veron felt a twinge of emotion at the thought. He was different, then. Still Dalton, but less grim. Less prone to suspecting a challenge from every leal man. Less drunk on his own legend. I miss that brother.
While he did not inhale sharply, a slight change in his footwork betrayed his oncoming attack. Within a split second, his brother exploded with motion, crossing the distance between them and opting for a downward strike. Veron's instincts, honed from years of confrontation, recognized the futility of meeting such a strike with his own blade. His brother need only strike his blade a few times to snap it with his own blade. Instead, Veron quickly sidestepped, allowing his brother's momentum to carry him forward an extra halfpace, his blade sparking as it cut a slight gash into the cobblestone. Nightfall possessed a long reach, and its slender blade concealed a wicked striking power, thanks to its composition.
Recovering within the blink of an eye, Dalton whirled from where he stood, letting his momentum carry his blade overhead into another downward slash. He guided it more carefully this time, however, and Veron was nearly caught upon the shoulder by its cold kiss. The third cut saw him forced to intercept it, with his own blade, and he grimaced beneath his helm as Nightfall bit into his own blade slightly. Enough. He seeks to keep me on the backfoot until he destroys my weapon. He twisted his sword within his grasp, wrenching it free, before bringing it in an upwards cut towards his brother's helm. He knew Dalton's instincts would be too honed to prompt him to fall back, but he did force him to take a half step back in order to avoid the swing. Veron had no intention of allowing him to resume the offensive, however. He pressed the attack, bringing his blade about for another savage strike, this time aimed at his brother's blindspot on the side of his helm. Nightfall rose to intercept, but Veron was able to redirect his sword just enough that the attack was diverted. While that forced his strike to miss, it did keep Dalton from launching an attack of his own while Veron opted for his most aggressive strategy. He smiled as he took two paces back, wrenching an axe from where it sat upon a table in the yard.
Dalton, realising he'd allowed for his brother to gain the initiative, pressed Veron hard. While he was able to sidestep his brother's first attack, he knew he needed to confront his second head on. He caught his brother's second powerful strike on his blade, wincing as Nightfall bit deeply into the steel. The next time that they connect, I will be left with half a blade. He had to act quickly. As Dalton opted for a lunging attack, Veron redirected it slightly, the Valyrian steel screeching as it passed along his steel edge. It was at that moment his axe came down in a savage arc. It struck his brother's helm with a screech. While the black steel was easily able to resist such a strike, the soft gold was not. The force of its blow sheared off one of the hanging tentacles, the rubies set within it glinting as it clattered to the cobblestones. His brother's eyes narrowed beneath their helm. His strike brought about a ferocious assault. While Veron considered himself talented, it would've taken the speed and reflexes of the Drowned God himself to fully dodge his brother's next assault.
Accepting the inevitable, Veron caught one of the strikes with his sword, and winced as he heard the steel snap. Left with a jagged blade that ended only a few inches above the hilt, he knew his time was up. When Dalton came at him again, he met the attack head-on, his pulse ringing loudly within the confines of his helm. The rain had increased, and Nightfall cut a glistening arc through the deluge. Veron caught the strike with the oak handle of his axe, slowing it enough that when it struck his shoulder it bit through steel, but not flesh and bone. His brother's eyes smiled coldly for a moment, relishing his victory. The joy drained quickly when he felt the jagged point of a broken blade poking his neck from where it had navigated between helm and gorget. For a moment, the only sound that Veron could hear was the rain as it struck his helm. Those who had gathered about the yard were silent, evidently waiting to see the reactions of both brothers. Veron met his brother's gaze with that of his own, and felt a chill run down his spine that had little to do with the cold of the rain. For under the helm of black steel and bloody gold, Dalton returned his gaze with a hatred that did not burn, but icily crept its way through his visor. Veron refused to look away, and they remained locked in a cold, deadly embrace until the impromptu master of arms stood alongside them. He made his presence known by placing a heavily muscled arm upon each of their shoulders, his hairy grey arms slick with rainwater.
"T'was a fine fight m'lords. On the field o' battle, you'd each have been the last thing the other'd have seen." Chortling somewhat nervously, he added: "luckily, the Drowned God saw fit to make you brothers, and not enemies."
Dalton, removing his helm, chuckled mirthlessly. "Tis most fortunate indeed, Ott." Turning his eyes to Veron, he added: "well-met, brother."
"Well met, Dalton."
Finally tearing his eyes away from his brother's, Veron stood as his opponent withdrew Nightfall. Casting a glance upon his shoulder, he was unsurprised to see that his brother's blade had cut cleanly through the steel, and that the mail beneath had nearly been severed as well.
By the time Dalton turned to the crowd of onlookers, the rain had washed away any evidence of his hate. His smile returning, he called for any and all to attend him as "he felt terribly in need of a strong drink."
As the crowd exited the courtyard, Veron stood alone. He still clutched the broken sword handle in his grasp, and he noticed that his strike had drawn blood. As the rain flowed from the jagged edges, it dripped a slight crimson upon the cobblestones. If only Ott's words rang more true, he thought to himself. If only Dalton could see beyond the challenge I represent to his authority, and his legend. He likely wished that I would die at the Crag. Another chill ran down his spine.
Once within his quarters, he had sent word that he would be in need of a new sword. As Merrick left to see the order fulfilled, he gazed out the thick glass of the tower's window, watching the rain run down the panes and the sea rise and fall. Uncorking a wineskin, he sat back in his chair. I should have requested that the smith attempt to repair my armor as well. Taking a deep swig of his wine, he decided to do so in the morn. He wondered briefly as to the whereabouts of Eleyna and Elissa, but decided against sending for them. Let them have their time to themselves. They shall be safe, Tommard promised to keep an eye on them at all times. After Codd, it is unlikely that any would trouble them anyways. The Codds were a truly lamentable House, that much was certain. The door screeched as it was pushed open, and Veron was shocked to see that Torgon stood in the entryway.
"Might I enquire as to my Lord-Captain's health?" He asked, a grin flickering across his features.
Veron smiled. "You might, but then again, if you are hoping for any new impressive wounds you would be sorely disappointed."
Torgon feigned disappointment. "I had entertained hopes that the Maesters might have had to amputate your arm. Veron One-Arm sounds like someone out of a saga, does it not?
He nodded, unable to deny that it indeed could have been the name of a character of the tales of old.
"While true, I rather enjoy having the use of both of my arms." He said with a wry grin.
"Certainly. An arm for each salt wife."
Veron nodded gravely. "They entice me so, as you well know"
Torgon closed the door behind him. "Be that as it may, we need to discuss the realities of how we intend to proceed."
Veron nodded. He had dreaded having to have this conversation. In preparation, he took a deep swig of wine. Standing, he took both of Torgon's hands.
"I hope you know that what I feel for you is no laughing matter. To no longer feel quite so alone is a powerful respite from the world. I hope that I can bring you the same comfort." Pausing, he considered his next words carefully. "Torgon, there are no sagas or ballads for men like us. At least none that I've ever heard. I've never met another. I've heard whispers that in the Free Cities a man may live as one chooses, at least if he has the coin to afford pillow houses that accommodate his tastes. But our people harbor no such kindness. We are men of Iron, and despise weakness. For a long while, I thought myself sick. I hated myself for it." He laughed, bitterly. "To some degree, I still question whether we might both be suffering from some insidious affliction." He placed a hand upon Torgon's cheek. "I… I see no way that we could ever live any more freely than we do now unless we were to flee."
There was a warm understanding in Torgon's eyes. "I've… I've thought as much myself. But we cannot flee. We do not suffer from an insidious affliction. We are men of Iron. We do not run from a fight… Besides, I could not ask you to abandon your sisters, or your friends, or crew. So what is there to do?"
Veron smiled. "We can enjoy these moments. To know that I have someone to care about, someone who understands me, and I him, is enough for now. Perhaps with time things will change for the better. But with a war afoot, we are surrounded by many who are permanently alert. We must be careful."
The hand he held tightened. "Is there not a way that we might be protected by your brother's reach? He is nearly a living legend amongst our people. If he could be made to understand, we could live much more freely. None would accuse the honored brother of the Red Kraken of anything. Even if they did, you could strike them down without fear of retaliation."
A chill ran down Veron's spine. Dalton… Dalton must never know. The Red Kraken's entire legend is built around the unassailable image of a reaver of old. I am uncertain of my safety even now. To even allow him to suspect my true nature would be to ensure our deaths. The Kraken's reach is long, and its grasp waits just below the waves, waiting to drag me into the depths the moment I show weakness. He shook his head.
"My brother must never know of us. It would mean both of our deaths. He will do anything to protect his growing legend. He would never understand. If anything, mere rumors of our nature would be enough for him to act. The Drowned God damns kinslayers, but there are many who would be willing to bear the blade in his stead should he give the order. I fear we do not yet have enough allies to call upon. We must needs find friends without my brother's shadow. Men whose loyalty to us will remain even if my brother calls for my head."
Before he could speak any further, Torgon planted a firm kiss upon his lips.
A grin forced its way out, despite his resistance.
"I have been waiting to do that." His expression hardened. "But I understand your words. I will begin testing the waters. While Dalton is regarded by some to be a son of the Drowned God himself, some are not so taken by his reputation or actions. Once word gets out of your dissent at the Council, we may find that there are other captains who have a more realistic outlook and do not wish to see themselves, their ships, and their prizes of war consumed by dragonflame. Dalton cannot expect them to remain out reaving forever."
Veron nodded. "Let us proceed in that fashion." He gave Torgon's hand a squeeze. "Now go. We must needs be careful about these visits."
As Torgon wrenched the door open, a serving boy fell, knocked backwards by its outward swing. The firewood he had been carrying scattered about the hall. His eyes widened with terror as Torgon's form stood over him. He flinched when the Ironborn moved, but a shy smile returned to his face as his potential punisher offered him a piece of firewood from the floor.
"The Farmans may have been somewhat forgiving of clumsiness, but we men of Iron have no such proclivities."
With a wink, Torgon departed, having helped the boy gather his fallen burden.
"Would 'ee like some firewood, m'lord?" The boy asked, smiling cautiously.
Nodding, Veron held out his hand, taking two pieces, before sending the lad on his way. Laying them atop the already burning pile, he smiled. We might just make this work.
An hour later, his wives found him holding an empty wineskin in his grasp, warming his feet by the fire. Tommard, true to his word, begged his leave once they had been safely delivered to his chamber.
Eleyna entered first, clutching her doll tightly. Clearly exhausted from what must have been a trying day, Veron nodded to acknowledge her presence and allowed Elissa to help her change to a nightgown and be put straight to sleep.
Once the Westerling girl had appeared to finally drift away, Elissa moved a seat next to the fire, sitting next to him. She poured herself a cup of mulled wine and sat silently, sipping at it as she watched the flames dance and consume their prey. He was content to sit silently.
"Your… brother has tired of my sisters. The other men are afraid to lay hands upon them, for fear that Dalton will change his mind, but I fear that it is only a matter of time until their lust outpaces their fear."
Veron stared into the flames. In his mind's eye, he could still see his brother's look of freezing hatred. He thinks me a rival, a potential usurper. He missed the days when they fought with swords of wood upon the beaches of Pyke. If I am already damned in his eyes, I see no reason to cower like a beaten dog.
He drew in his breath and turned to face her. "Where are they confined?"
"He sent them back to their quarters."
Standing, he grabbed a dirk from amongst his possessions. "Let us go and claim them. Let the men say I lust after my brother's leavings."
Elissa met his gaze with one of her own. While he had accepted that he'd never receive a look that ever resembled gratitude, he wagered that the one she gave him was damn close.