Veron VII
The sun had not yet risen, but Fair Isle was alight. Men shouted, and iron and steel murmured their protests as armor was fastened. Hundreds of torches moved eerily through the night, seemingly floating through mist and smoke, the hands that held them obscured by shadow. Veron watched as the last heroes of his people prepared for battle. How many will live to see the sunset? He knew it would be few.
Dalton had given the orders scarcely two hours before, when the night was still oily and black and there was no indication that the sunrise was imminent. They had received word that truly significant forces had massed across the strait, thousands of well-armed and armored men and hundreds of knights besides. The Lion banners no longer take pride of place, however. A red three-headed dragon coils about the largest banners, and the Hightower burns atop others. Westeros has come forth to break us beneath its steel-shod feet. With the great host had come dragons, the likes of which had inspired terror and wonder in the Ironborn. Hardly any from the Isles had seen a dragon; some of the most well traveled had glimpsed them when they had sold goods in King's Landing in years past, but their tales had not done justice to the reality. The new boy-king had dispatched two of his fire wyrms to feast upon the Red Kraken, one as pale and gray as morning mist and another a pale green with horns of pearl. Veron had seen them himself, darting amidst the clouds as their enemies had assembled on the rocky beaches across from Fair Isle. He had observed as they spun and frolicked in the sky, seemingly at play, but with a sharpness that spoke of a killing instinct at the ready. A harsh death, a bright death, lurks within their maws.
What unsettled Veron the most was to think that the dragons sent to oppose them were supposedly amongst the smallest at the King's command. Other larger beasts had been withheld. They doubt the true monsters to be necessary. Dalton had grown most wroth when Lord Sunderly had described the much larger beasts he had seen in his youth. Great drakes of bronze and silver ridden by the Great King and his shining wife. Such beasts had burned an entire Dornish fleet in an afternoon, if the stories were to be believed. Dalton had seen their absence as an insult, a final mockery of his reign. The Conqueror had laid waste to Harren the Black with the Black Dread itself! He knew that anything less would have been futile. Yet the boy king thought a few runts would suffice for the likes of us… Veron had watched his brother's men cheer, but they had still stank of fear. Rants did little to abate the fear one felt deep inside at the thought of House Targaryen's greatest weapon. Monsters of the ancient world: engines of victory and destruction and death.
Veron may have feared such creatures, but he still would not have hesitated to face them had his brother asked him to do so. Dalton had chosen his path, and I am ever his shadow. While Veron had privately and publicly cautioned his elder brother against the course he took, his loyalty never wavered to the man who had raised him from the depths of fear that he had known in the past. Yet now it seems I have another task before me. If Dalton fails, it will fall to me to avert House Greyjoy's total annihilation. If the bow and grappling hook cannot force the dragon to heel, perhaps a bended knee might still move it to a measure of clemency? Veron had his doubts. But he quietly felt that if his brother was to burn and he was to face the headsman's axe, it might be possible for his sisters and nephew to be spared. A pained chuckle escaped his lips, barely audible in the morning furor. How hilarious, that we butchers and captors find ourselves hoping for enemies so unlike ourselves. Unbidden, he thought of the many thralls and saltwives that lay shivering in servants quarters and alcoves all about them, hiding from masters they suspected would meet a dragon's ire in a few hours. They likely prayed for clemency as well. How little their Gods must care for their pleas. Frowning, he wondered whether the begging and exhortations of his own people could be heard in the halls of the Drowned God. The endless sea never ceases its song. Has Dalton ever had the Drowned God's ear? Or has he been lulled into a dreamless slumber by the unceasing rhythm of the waves above? He supposed an answer of sorts would be proffered this day.
Below, captains of the fleet called their men to them. Reavers began to hoist great bundles of arrows above their shoulders, and bows were distributed. Axes and blades remained at the sides of every reaver, but Veron knew that they would like as not remain there. He had seen to it that every man had trained incessantly with the bow, ensuring his own man Tommard had supervised the most promising men with the keenest of eyes. They had done their best. A few of the men were truly impressive shots, able to hit birds as they soared or field mice as they scampered in Fair Isle's fallow fields. Veron had ensured that these men were granted the best arms available, even going so far as to strip men of their plundered goods. Hunting bows crafted for Lords and heirs, gamemasters and guardsmen now were gripped firmly by the Isles' best, despite the grumbling of those that had pried them from the grasp of their former owners. A few Myrish crossbows had also been distributed to those who showed aptitude, and Veron privately hoped that they would prove the most effective. It would only take two arrows or bolts to lay two dragons low. Of the hundreds of arrows that would fly, only two needed to find the exposed eyes of the sky beasts. Veron prayed that they would.
Iron screeched as the gates of Faircastle's inner ward were drawn open, and the Ironborn began their march out of Faircastle and into the lands beyond. Veron watched them go. Below, the doors of Fair Castle were flung open, and his brother emerged, clad in oily black steel and wearing the helm that inspired such terror in his foes. Golden tentacles dangled from it, dripping rubies of blood. The gash Veron had placed upon it with a hand axe had given it a more fearsome, marred appearance. The kraken has taken grievous wounds, but has not yet abandoned the fight. Instinctively, Veron surveyed his own plate, suddenly self conscious about ensuring it looked as combat-ready as his elder brother's. Finding no cause for complaint, he descended from the battlements before kneeling before his brother and captain.
For a moment, Dalton regarded him, torches crackling and hissing all about. When he spoke, it was a low murmur, and Veron knew he would remember the words he spoke clearly for the rest of his days.
"The hour has come, brother. I leave this castle and a garrison for you. See to it that any landings upon Fair Isle are met with steel." Dalton paused, an odd look in his eyes. "I… I thank you Veron, for your leal service and wise words. A man could not have asked for a better comrade, nor brother. Whether or not the Drowned God favors me today, I will depart satisfied knowing that our House will not go unguarded."
Veron nodded, blinking back the waters that threatened to pour forth from his eyes. "I wish you good fortune, Dalton. Show our foes the strength of your arm and your faith in our God. May the Sea protect and keep you."
Dalton nodded. Placing one hand upon Veron's shoulder, he bid him to rise, and grasped his forearm. For a moment, the world was still. Without a word, he turned and departed. Veron balled his fists. In that moment, he knew he would regret letting his brother go forth alone forever.
The beaches of Fair Isle sported many rounded stones, carved and softened from the countless centuries of the Sunset Sea's rough embrace. They were composed of the same white-gray stone that its cliffs displayed, stone that almost glowed when the Sun's rays found it at the right angle. In the winter, however, such colors and beauty took on the muted appearance of ash. As the winter Sun's rays began to light the shores of the Farmans' isle, the remnants of the Iron Fleet took to the strait. Veron watched from the cliffs, Tommard to his left, clutching his bow tightly. Torgon stood to his right, a deep foreboding scowl cut across his visage. Dalton had left a garrison of some six hundred men upon the isle, split into three parties. Veron and Hilmar Drumm, both known to be cunning commanders, had been bid to hold the beaches against any possible landings, whilst Lord Benton Sunderly, given his age and wounds, had been given command of Faircastle's garrison. Veron knew well that such measures would be futile if their enemies actually were able to cross; he personally doubted that their numbers would even be sufficient to defeat an uprising of the isle's peasantry. The gambit would be decided at sea, as he always knew it would be.
The Iron fleet sailed out in a wide formation, leaving more than ample spacing between each longship for maneuvering. Dalton's huge Red Tide stayed towards the center of the formation, where the horns of its battle commands could be heard by most captains. The plan, if it could be called such, was to menace the anchored vessels needed for the crossing in order to draw the dragons forth, whereupon they could be laid low with storms of arrows. If they were successfully slain, the fleet would make for the north, intending to shatter the blockade of Redwyne vessels that strangled resupply from the Isles. Boarding was a priority; Dalton realized the need for proper war galleys in order to truly contest the strait. With the Redwyne fleet bloodied and two royal riders slain, the Iron Throne would ideally be forced to ask for terms. Veron and Dalton suspected the peace was tenuous, and that the throne could not afford to leave itself bereft of dragons when it had enemies far closer to home. All in all, we are crafting a strategy that relies on divine favor, luck, and an arseload of assumptions. Veron grimaced. Uncorking a wineskin with his teeth, he drank deeply to calm his nerves, but found no solace in the drink. He unscrewed a Myrish lens, casting his gaze upon the fleet as it entered the freezing waters of the strait. In the shifting fog, he saw a lone galley, too small to be a Redwyne warship, shadowing the fleet from afar. Probably manned by some of the accursed Shield Islanders. They make up for their warship's lack of size with a cunning most dangerous. As he watched it disappear into the winter mists, a light streaked forth from its deck. A flaming arrow. A signal! His stomach roiled. They suspected we would approach. It is a trap! As the winter sun continued unfolding, a hideous shriek sounded across the waves. Veron, following the sound, caught sight of green scales in the low hanging clouds. He wanted to shout, but knew none of consequence would hear. Death lurks above.
As if made of lightning, the grey dragon emerged from the sea mists with speeds that baffled the mind. It dove so fast that nary an arrow was out of a quiver when its flames burst forth. Veron instinctively shielded his eyes as a white hot lance of flame bathed a longship in the lead. Making its way to port along the Iron Fleet's flank, sending a blinding gust of flame against longship after longship. The demon was far more comfortable with the sea than he ever would've expected, skimming the waves and staying at water level, making it difficult for the majority of the ship's crew to target it. Occasionally an arrow was loosed or a spear thrown, but they struck only water, for the beast had long since outpaced their arc. Ship after ship was set alight, and while Veron could see the men burn, he could not hear their screams. Hundreds of bright white candles glowed in the distance, but Veron could only hear the pounding of the surf.
He was so transfixed by the slaughter that he barely registered the green dragon make its descent. Emerald fire danced forth from the small creature, catching men and ships alight with its sheer heat. The green dragon began to burn its way on the starboard flank of the fleet, and Veron suddenly knew with a sickening certainty that the enemy had outplayed them. They intend to create a ring of flame and death, hemming our ships ever inwards and granting them little and less room to maneuver. Veron drummed his fingers against the Myrish glass. There will be no battle today, not truly. Only a funeral pyre. Even now he could see the Iron Fleet becoming obscured with a haze of smoke and mist, brought on by the flames' intense heat. A sickening miasma overtook the Pride of the Isles, and within the fog of death one could only occasionally glimpse the glowing silhouette of a longship or a burst of sorcerous annihilation.
Feeling a hand upon his shoulder, he saw that Torgon had turned to him with a look of utmost sympathy. We will soon both know what it means to lose a brother, Veron thought with a resigned sense of finality. Even as he thought it, blood-red sails emerged from the grip of death. The Red Tide surged forth, its crew hard at the oars and bowmen nocking arrows. Veron fervently gripped the Myrish glass, watching Dalton do what he had always done best, leading his men into the jaws of death. The green dragon emerged from the smoke suddenly, a few hundred feet ahead of the longship. The world slowed around Veron, and the waves pounded in step with his heart. As the beast gracefully darted around to approach its new foe, Veron watched his brother draw Nightfall and shout a command. Fifty of the Isles' most skilled archers drew bows taut and waited. The dragon approached, its rider clad in garish black and red. Still the archers waited. As the dragon opened its maw, Veron saw the unnatural glow begin at the recesses of its jaws. Despite standing far away he swore he heard the snap of bowstrings. A dark cloud of death sailed at the dragon and its rider, and Veron prayed. But the only response was the grinding of the sea. As they soared towards their target, the beast let loose a gale of flame, setting the missiles alight. Rolling in flight, it punched through the barbed assault and continued its approach. Veron gripped his looking glass with the desperation of a drowning man. Turn aside, Dalton. Turn aside! A sharp enough turn could avoid the blast. In Veron's mind, he was no longer upon the muted cliffs of Fair Isle. Deep within the halls of Pyke, he grabbed once more at his brother. Don't go! He wept, scrambling after him. He knew their father lurked just around the corner with murderous intent. He lunged for Dalton, but his fingers passed through empty air.
Instead, his brother raised his sword, and one last wave of arrows soared forth. The green demon roared, and the Red Tide was set alight. Veron watched as the Old Way died, salty tears upon his cheeks.
The gates of Faircastle groaned forth before him, like the moans of a wounded giant. Veron's mind was racing. The Iron Fleet is gone, ashes on the water. If we hold the castle and the hostages, we may be able to bargain a surrender. His feet splashed through a red puddle, and he smelled iron. His eyes came to rest upon the corpses of several men whose corpses lay strewn about the inner ward. Lord Sunderly's eyes stared unseeing at him from where he lay, throat slit and propped against a barrel. Veron's eyes widened, and he barely raised his shield quickly enough to block the axe blow that nearly cracked his skull.
He drew his sword, raising it before his men. "Treason! We have been betrayed! To arms!"
Merrick had already drawn a hand axe, plunging it into the neck of a man who had rushed him from the flank. The courtyard began to sing with the song of steel and screams. Crossbow bolts thudded downwards from the battlements, and men around him dropped wordlessly, their shouts cut short. Veron battered aside another axe blow and cut his assailant's neck almost to the bone. The men fell backwards in a torrent of blood that rained upon Veron's helm. He roared, cutting another enemy's arm off at the elbow, shearing through boiled leather before biting flesh and bone. He took comfort in Torgon at his side, weaving a bloody arc through approaching foes. An arrow sang by his head, catching an above crossbowmen in the eye and sending him falling to the earth in a heavy thump. Tommard's work. Veron buried his blade in the belly of another man, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the boney hand of House Drumm upon his jerkin. Hilmar has turned, Storm God damn him. They were soon pressed from all sides, and numbers began to tell. Men bearing spears approached with shields locked, driving Veron's loyalists backwards. Shouting behind him prompted him to turn, realizing with grim acceptance that the portcullis was being lowered behind him, cutting him and the lead members of his party off from further reinforcement. Men outside the walls were in the process of being cut down by crossbow bolts and foes emerging from outbuildings alike. Grabbing a dead man's hand axe, he threw it with all his strength, grinning savagely as it buried itself in the skull of one of the advancing spearmen, who fell making an ugly gurgling noise.
The violence and ecstasy of battle soothed his grief, allowing him to put thoughts of Dalton's death temporarily to rest and give himself over to the joy of combat. Slowly but surely he and his surviving men were hemmed in on all sides by their foes, denied the freedom of movement necessary to wield their longswords effectively and falling prey to the stinging agony of crossbow bolts. Men who had fought by his side since they had left Pyke joined the growing mass of corpses upon the cobblestone courtyard, and it became hard to stand without slipping on the flowing blood. Veron caught a flying bolt with his shield before twisting his sword to knock a spear thrust askew, losing his feet in the process and falling to one knee. Suddenly Torgon was there, forcing his foes backwards and giving him time to stand. He fought bravely until the crossbow bolt caught him in his right shoulder.
Veron shouted, a noise strangled by rage. Forcing himself to his feet, he threw himself through the massed spears, knocking aside a foe's shield and burying his sword in their chest. The dead man wrenched it from Veron's grasp as he fell. Drawing a dirk, Veron fought to stay within the guards of the enemy spearman, stabbing in a whirlwind of death. The butt of a spear found the back of his knee, causing it to give out and him lose his footing. Falling to a knee once again, a foe tore his helm from his shoulders, whilst several others grabbed his arms, forcing the dirk from his fingertips. In his bloodlust, Veron continued to struggle, wrenching at the arms of his captors and screaming curses upon their lines and kin. The men laughed the false laugh of killers. He knew then he would not survive the day. Eventually, his body failed him, and he sagged in the their grasp, breathing heavily. He found the glassy eyes of Tommard a few feet from him, his blood pooling amidst the flagstones, bow still in his grasp. Behind him, he was oddly comforted to hear the shouts of Torgon and Merrick, also forced to their knees as the fighting within the courtyard ceased. At least they still live, for now.
The doors to Faircastle's hall were thrown open, and Hilmar Drumm stepped forth, a malevolent grin upon his face.
"Would that you had granted me the Crag, Lord Veron. Perhaps then this slaughter could have been avoided."
Veron spat blood. "You were always a craven cunt, Hilmar. You'd have sold the Crag back to the Lannisters the moment it was besieged by more than a thousand men."
Hilmar shrugged. "Life is sweeter than death. There is no point to winning if you find yourself a corpse." He drew Red Rain from the scabbard at his side. "Your head will be my offering to Erwin Lannister and the rest of the Greenlanders."
Veron chuckled low and mirthlessly. "I am sure the Greenlanders will respect a turncloak far more than most."
Hilmar crossed the courtyard wordlessly, his face darkening with rage and his murderous purpose. Veron's captors forced his head downwards, exposing the back of his neck to Red Rain. Drumm rested the edge of the blade against Veron's neck, and he felt the Valyrian steel bite through skin with barely a touch. Blood trickled down.
Hilmar spoke a query softly. "Any final words, Veron Greyjoy? Brother to a glorious fool?"
Veron sighed and closed his eyes. "I know that your sword will send me speedily to the Drowned God, Drumm. Do you believe your actions will find welcome in his halls?"
He waited for the dismissive retort, followed by the merciless bite of cold death. When it failed to come for a few seconds, he was surprised. He was even more surprised to hear Hilmar Drumm gasping for air. Shouts began all about, and one of the men holding him down screamed in pain, falling. Veron drew a dagger from a dead man and dragged his other captor to the courtyard, ending his struggles with thrust through his helm's eye opening. Raising his head, he watched as Hilmar Drumm clawed at a crossbow bolt in his throat, red tears falling slowly from his wound. With a rattling shudder, the traitor dropped to the courtyard, Red Rain slipping from his fingertips. Veron grabbed at the blade eagerly, feeling the lightness of it in his grasp. Standing, he slashed it in an eager arc, watching it split chainmail and oaken shield alike. Such a weapon is almost unjust, he thought with a grim smile. The smile upon his face only widened as he saw her standing upon the steps at the entrance of the keep. Elissa Farman wielded an exquisite Myrish crossbow, and was in the process of winding it in preparation for another shot. Hilmar Drumm's men were presently being butchered all about him, cut to pieces by weapons as diverse as carving knives to woodsman's axes.
It was as he had suspected. The men and women of Fair Isle had had enough. He sheathed his blade, and saw to his surviving men, urging them to stand down. Checking Torgon's wound, he laughed.
"You had all better hope that I gave my wife no cause for complaint, elsewise we may be facing her wroth next!"
Merrick guffawed, but never took his fingers from his axe handle. In time, the fighting subsided and the gatehouse portcullis was raised. Veron's men, recognizable by the golden krakens upon their breasts, entered slowly and cautiously, accompanied by townspeople. Veron grimaced as he saw how few were still alive. Of a host of ten thousand, a few dozen remain. Fair Isle's militia bid them drop their weapons, ordering them to face their commander before them. Lady Elissa Farman wore armor cobbled together from several sources, including an ornate family heirloom helm and mail clearly of Lordsport make. It was when he met her eyes that he realized the true folly of their war upon the Greenlanders. We struck them down, but they have risen again, harder and stronger. Our strongest have fallen, yet theirs have only just emerged. Veron nodded, a wry smile spreading upon his face, acknowledging a superior foe.
Drawing Red Rain once more, he presented it to the lady of Fair Isle. "It appears that you have command of the castle, my lady. I pray that my men and I will be in good hands."
Elissa Farman grinned for the first time since he had met her. "You are a fortunate man, Lord Greyjoy. A most fortunate man indeed. For I am a generous woman, not incapable of mercy. Your own mercies, however small and faltering at first, will be remembered. I plan to save your life as your captor, as you once saved mine."
Her eyes left him. Narrowing, she beckoned for a few bruised and wan women to come forth from Faircastle. The former saltwives walked amongst his surviving men, and as they passed former tormentors, simply pointed. The men were forced to their knees, their throats slit. Veron frowned, but said nothing.
Elissa Farman shouted to her men assembled below. "Take the survivors to the cells, and raise the banner of House Farman! Prepare to greet our allies!"
Veron sat in the darkness as a maester tended to Torgon in their cell. The maester's hands did not shake, but his wrists bore the discolorations of shackles recently removed. After he had finished applying a salve and bandages to the wound the crossbow bolt had left, he departed. As the cell door closed, darkness shrouded the men inside.
Leaning his head against the damp stone, Veron let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. I should not have left Lord Sunderly in command of the garrison. Too many of the captains were opposed to surrender; it would have been all too easy for Hilmar to persuade them to turn their blades on him. He frowned. Another death to be laid at my feet.
Despite the darkness, Torgon must have seen him scowl. He spoke quietly: "Peace, Veron. You are not to be blamed for the actions and decisions of others."
Veron nodded, but believing in such sentiments was more easily said than done. Realizing that he ought to respond, he nodded his head in thanks.
"Dalton was… determined to follow his path. I knew with some confidence that he would not return from battle today. But Lord Sunderly was a trusted ally. I ought to have seen the danger we were in. Hilmar's hate was not veiled in the slightest."
Torgon shrugged. "His hate was made plain. But as you yourself knew, Hilmar was a coward, prone to only picking fights he could win. It was just as likely that he would have fled Fair Isle."
Veron chuckled mirthlessly. "He might have, had he realized the very peasants were poised to give us a good plowing."
Torgon nodded. "I suppose we ought to thank the Drowned God that you never touched the Farman girl. It'd be difficult to argue for clemency with one's head mounted atop a spike."
Veron smiled. "Perhaps we ought to thank the Drowned God. Mayhaps he himself is a sword swallower. I've heard few tales of him welcoming women into his halls."
Torgon scoffed mockingly. "Blasphemy! For shame, my lord."
Veron shrugged. "I cannot hear the sea from this cell. Perhaps our God cannot hear us from within it either."
Torgon opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused as the cell door was opened once more. Two knights in heavy plate and red cloaks entered, grabbing Veron forcefully from where he sat and leading him outwards. They led (more accurately, dragged) him up the well-worn stairs of the dungeons and outwards into the yard beyond, now filled with armed men sporting a true plethora of lordly sigils, from trouts to dancing maidens to lighthouses. Golden Lions pranced proudly as well, and the looks he received from their wearers could've curdled milk. Veron kept his gaze low and tongue still, realizing the gravity of his situation. The doors of the main hall were thrown open before him, and he was brought before the Farmans' own table, which only a day before had played host to his own brother's bouts of feasting and drinking.
In Dalton's place a variety of individuals had arrayed themselves, almost mimicking the Greenlanders' Seven Gods in their appearances. An old man, sporting the Hightower sigil upon his breast, sat with a muted expression at the center, flanked by a flinty-eyed Lannister (his attire and looks were impossible to miss) and Lady Elissa, who had chosen to change into more lady-like attire. To Lady Elissa's right sat a girl with a branded face and a tall, broad-chested man in black plate. To the Lannister's left sat a smirking man in the raiment of House Costayne, who was eating a dried apple impaled on the tip of his knife. My judgment begins, thought Veron matter-of-factly.
Clearing his throat, the old Hightower rose unsteadily and proclaimed court to be in session. Turning to Veron, he eyed him with wary, tired eyes.
"In the name of King Aegon III Targaryen, we call Veron Greyjoy before this court to hear of his crimes and testimony, that judgment be justly passed. I, Hobert Hightower, appointed Crown Regent of the Isles, will preside, and I humbly invoke the Father's wisdom in order to ensure justice will be dispensed."
Gesturing to either side of him, the Hightower named his companions. "Also present are Ser Erwin Lannister, commander of the Rock's armies, recently named my second, Ser Leo Costayne, admiral in the King's service, Lady Elissa Farman, chief witness, attended by her father, Lord Quenten Farman, Lord Maegor of the Godsrill, Constable of the Realm, and Lady Baela Targaryen, sister to the King and Crown Representative."
Veron nodded. Mostly new faces. Only Ser Erwin and Lord Quenten have faced us before, and only one emerged victorious. His respect for the Lannister knight was keen. He butchered us at Crakehall and blunted Dalton's attack at Kayce. The man certainly can fight. He suspected that Ser Erwin would be most desirous of his head, a sentiment that Lord Quenten would undoubtedly share. Lord Farman has likely spent the better part of a year deep within the Rock, dreaming of vengeance. He would have to appeal to the others for clemency. He closed his eyes, dispensing with his pride. Whatever humiliations I bear, I do for my family. I must protect them now, in our most dire hour.
Hobert Hightower spoke once more, his voice quiet. "Lord Greyjoy, have you any words to speak in your own defense? Lady Elissa has given us much to ponder, but we would still grant you an opportunity to speak."
Veron raised his head in order to face each of those arrayed before him. "I followed my brother to war at the request of Rhaenyra Targaryen. I always endeavored to obey my brother in all things. I am only before you now because he commanded me to hold the castle in his stead."
The Targaryen girl raised an eyebrow. "You claim you obeyed your brother in all things, yet Lady Elissa claims that you mitigated the abuses of his men by claiming saltwives. She swears you committed no cruelties, no rape, against those under your protection."
Veron suppressed a wince. "I… was by no means partial to those particular cruelties, my Lady. I did, with Lady Elissa's encouragement, seek to shield as many as I could from such depredations." He sighed, his innards twisting at his betrayal of his fallen brother. "I always advocated tirelessly for peace… my brother refused to send delegates to King's Landing, believing we could win a more favorable settlement for ourselves. I did not concur with his reasoning."
Whispers flowed freely throughout the hall. Ser Erwin's eyes narrowed. "Whether he personally spoke in favor of peace or had carnal knowledge of his captives is irrelevant! This man is a lowly criminal! By his own admission he served his brother in all things. Dalton Greyjoy was a beast made flesh. This man before us aided and abetted that monster in sacking Lannisport beneath the very Rock itself! He took this island, slaughtering its defenders, and did the same at the Crag! Lady Johanna wishes to make an example of him, in memory of her kinfolk!"
Lord Farman frowned. He mislikes Ser Erwin so callously dismissing my treatment of his daughter. Perhaps they are not as united in purpose as I imagined.
Ser Leo Costayne nodded. "My Lady Elissa, you must have seen this man commit cruelties. Can you truly say that he does not deserve the headsman's ax? Do not fear speaking the truth in his presence, for we knights can now ensure no harm comes to you."
Elissa Farman's eyes narrowed. "Veron Greyjoy's hands are stained with the blood of many. But there are many who owe their very lives to his quiet betrayal of the Red Kraken. Is it not wiser to spare a man with a proven desire to change, than to kill all indiscriminately? The Isles are not yet conquered. Could he not be of great value as a hostage?"
Lord Farman finally spoke. "While this man is undoubtedly one of the most vile men I have had the displeasure to meet, he is worth more alive. Pyke has withstood sieges for years in the past. You will be forced to burn it to cinders to take it quickly."
The Constable leaned forward. "I would much prefer to take Pyke peaceably, if possible. To burn all inside would be to repeat the Red Kraken's actions at Lannisport. We have an opportunity to show ourselves to be better men than our foes."
At that, Hobert Hightower's eyes widened slightly. "The Seven-Pointed-Star does claim that mercy is amongst the greatest gifts that can be bestowed. Is our Faith not an opportunity to demonstrate that? The Red Kraken is dead, destroyed by our Lady Baela this very morn. Thousands of men have already paid for their transgressions today. Let us begin binding the wounds of our realm."
Veron felt the eyes of many upon him. Hatred, fear, loathing, ambivalence; they swirled about him like the dark eddying currents of the sea. He closed his eyes. What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. Change must come, that my people might survive. Dalton could not bear such change, and chose to sail into the maesters' histories. But my work is only just beginning. He knew it would be a bloody path, littered with the corpses of several Hoare Kings before him. He thought of Alannys, Asha and Morgana. He thought of Toron. They are worth it.
The council had finished its embittered arguing as he sat contemplating. The Lady Baela eyed him warily from the high table. "Are you capable of delivering Pyke to us without further bloodshed, Lord Greyjoy?"
Veron nodded, slowly. "They will heed my calls, aye. Those who remain behind its walls will follow me. It will not be the first time the Ironborn have bent the knee to dragons."
Lord Maegor watched him, eyes full of distrust. "I pray for their sake it will be the last time. Not all are as forgiving as those who stand before you." At his words, Erwin Lannister's face grew wine-dark with rage.
Ser Hobert Hightower nodded. "It is done, then. Ser Costayne, prepare the fleet for departure. We depart for the Isles in a fortnight." He then faced Ser Erwin. "My Lord of Lannister, I ask that you see to the retrieval and return of the West's looted property whilst we remain upon Fair Isle. The Reynes have asked that we return their ancestral blade posthaste, and I am certain Lady Johanna would like nothing more than to see her vassals' relatives and goods returned safely. I trust that you will see it done."
Ser Erwin nodded, Ser Hobert seemingly unaware of the wrath that distorted his features. When he spoke, his voice grated: "It will be done at once, my Lord Regent. I will ensure that justice is done."
Veron was led from the chambers, but his mind was already far away. I will do as I promised, Dalton. I will see to the survival of our House, one way or another.
A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this update. The Ironborn invasion of the Westerlands is over, and the King's Peace can begin in earnest. Thanks to all of our reviewers; I always appreciate those who take the time to leave their thoughts. It is a nice reward for all of the work that goes into writing and editing these chapters!