Veron VIII

The oily black stone of the Seastone Chair was cold, and Veron could feel its chill despite the layers of clothing he now wore to ward off the frigid air. He had still not adjusted to holding court within the Great Keep's smoky hall since he had returned from Fair Isle. It was ever Dalton's seat, and my father's before him. It was not made for me, a second son, and my brother's loyal shadow at that. Veron took some solace in that it was not truly his; that if he ruled in his nephew's stead wisely that it might pass to Toron when he came of age. He did not crave rulership as other men did, and he knew that if he did it would mean violence within Pyke's halls. His distant cousins and closer kin would not accept Toron's displacement. In him they see more than a small, scared boy. They see the embers of the Old Way, waiting to be rekindled after the humiliations suffered at the hands of the Greenlanders.

Veron had grown used to the accusing stares of his kin, the disdain and hate they hid behind dark, smiling eyes. His father's brothers had been left to manage the Isles when he and Dalton had sailed to war, sparing them from the flames of the reunited Targaryens and the humbling terms forced upon the beaten and broken Ironmen. While outwardly they had accepted Veron's return, he knew in their hearts that they thought him a craven for not burning alongside his brother. What they do not realize is that I share that sentiment. If it had not been for his sisters and nephew, Veron would have forced the Greenlanders to slay him upon the shores of Fair Isle, in order to die alongside his Lord and kin, as was proper and holy in the annals of the Drowned God. Instead, I cling to the dregs of the Greyjoy legacy, pulling at torn threads and sundered rigging to our sinking ship.

While the defeat at Fair Isle had been crushing, the true extent of the Ironborn's defeat had not truly been clear until the Greenlander host had made landfall in the Isles. They had begun with Pyke, forcing Veron to make good on his oaths to surrender the castle bloodlessly with the threat of Valyrian hellfire at his back. From there they had made for Saltcliffe, forcing its Lord to surrender his castle with nary an arrow fired in its defense. Veron had been surprised to learn that Lord Dagmar had survived the burning of the Iron Fleet, as Lord Dagmar had been a firm supporter of his brother and had sworn an oath to follow him to the Drowned God's halls if he were to ask it of him. Instead, Lord Erwin Lannister's men had found him wandering upon the shores of Fair Isle, soaking wet and shivering so fiercely they expected him to die of a chill. He had spoken little and less since his capture, and Veron's attempts to contact him after he returned to Saltcliffe had been rebuffed with silence.

Lord Arthur Goodbrother had also been made to surrender Great Wyk, and Torgon had returned to ensure Blacktyde complied with the Greenlanders' demands not long after. In short order all of the islands had been brought low, even Old Wyk, held in such high esteem by the Drowned Priests. From what Veron had heard, Old Wyk's supposedly hallowed stones had been wetted with the blood of the Drumms, but not by Ser Hobert or Ser Erwin's men. Hilmar's kin had descended upon one another with the sort of savagery that was unique to the Ironborn; slaying each other with abandon in hopes of claiming the Isle for themselves. The kinslaying had been so fierce that the Greenlanders were still attempting to sort it out and restore order to the Isle. According to Torgon, they'd needed to post a garrison twice the size of that stationed upon Blacktyde upon Old Wyk in order to ensure that the violence did not continue, and were still in the process of weighing the claims of the survivors.

It was after their speedy and total victory that the Greenlanders had begun dividing the Isles amongst themselves to administer. While Veron and the other Ironborn lords had expected punishment, they were still stunned at the magnitude of the terms. All of the major houses lost lands, to be parceled out amongst Greenlander knights to govern and settle. Ser Hobert Hightower then received the missive he had long desired from King's Landing, granting him permission to rescind King Aenys' boon. The Faith had been quick to respond, with well over five hundred septons and septas arriving quickly to the Isles' shores, preaching of the Light of the Seven and bearing gifts of food and coin for the destitute. In his capacity as Lord Regent of the Iron Isles, Hobert granted them leave to begin the construction of septs and almshouses, and many of the native Ironborn lords were disturbed at how quickly local freemen joined to assist their efforts.

Even now, Veron watched ambivalently as a sept was constructed within sight of Pyke's walls, a sight not seen since the days of Harmund the Handsome. Dalton may have died to ensure his legacy, but his actions did not immortalize the Old Way. He may have dealt it a mortal wound. While Arthur Goodbrother and Dagmar Saltcliffe may have condemned the Greenlanders and their 'false gods and false promises' the people of the Isles, starving and understocked, were all too eager to accept the gifts of the Greenlanders. Without the guarantees of foodstuffs from mainland spoils, the Isles were due for a brutal winter.

With the Ironborn so thoroughly cowed, the Lady Baela Targaryen had departed at the behest of her grandfather, the fabled Seasnake, who served as the boy-King's Hand. Only the 'Constable of the Realm' remained, and Ser Maegor had proven a difficult man to read. He spent much of his time flying from Isle to Isle, ensuring that the old Hightower's writs were enforced, and advocating for a few of his own most fiercely. Surprisingly he had not proven to be bloodthirsty, preferring the use of words to dragonflame, but one only needed to look upon his eyes to know that he would brook no argument. It was the Constable himself that had persuaded the Lord Regent to enact the final and greatest of his reforms for after Ser Maegor had been exposed to the traditional practice of thralldom upon the Isles, he had become its implacable foe. He had argued that the practice be banned, and had insisted upon the matter so forcibly that Ser Hobert was finally persuaded to proclaim a dissolution of thralldom and immediate release of all peoples within its bondage. While the children of thralls had always been freed at birth, their parents had labored in backbreaking and thankless conditions for millenia. While the Isles prided itself in never adopting the Greenlander institution of serfdom, they made due instead with their thralls, forcing them to perform tasks that even the meanest of Greenlander serfs would balk at. The mines of the Isles in particular were known to be without pity, so brutal that even Iron Kings of old had attempted to reform their operation. Previously, any attempt to destroy the tradition had been met with absolute resistance, but for the first time, the Isles simply lacked the strength to resist the blow. Priests of the Drowned God decried the Lord Regent's command immediately, but their words fell on deaf ears. With dragonfire at his command, Ser Maegor had flown from isle to isle, ensuring that the thralls were released and apportioned lands seized from their former masters. Discontent simmered beneath the surface, but the shadow of dragon's wings stymied true rebellion.

It was this very dissolution of thralldom that had proven a headache for Veron, as he sat in court day after day hearing the claims of the newly freed against those of their former masters. Many of those that had once owned thralls were not farmers, woodsmen, or miners themselves. Ironborn captains had supported their landward holdings with thralldom for thousands of years, delivering captured persons year after year to their rock wives and sworn swords to be beaten into compliance and made to do work that the Ironborn found distasteful. The natural consequence of these traditions was that many freemen in the Isles who had once been captains or crewmembers possessed land and flocks in abundance, but had no real knowledge of how to work them. Their former thralls, once apportioned a percentage of these holdings, had little desire to assist their former masters, facilitating a crisis. Veron had been forced to intervene, using the men-at-arms that remained to him to break up violent disputes and command both parties to cooperate. Veron's solution had been to command the newly freed thralls to work the lands and tend the herds of their former masters, which they had thoroughly resisted until he made it known that they would be granted half of the gains they managed to produce. This, of course, enraged the Ironmen, who argued that they could not sustain themselves, as they had essentially been stripped of three-quarters of their holdings. Veron had attempted to hear out their complaints, but in the end he had been forced to direct the petitioners to the Lord Regent.

In these matters, at least, Ser Hobert Hightower had proven valuable to Veron. The discontent of the Ironmen could always be redirected at their occupiers, and while they did not possess the numbers to challenge their rule, they could always strive to be a headache to their captors. Veron smirked. We Ironborn have had more than our share of glories and failures, but we have always managed to plague the minds of the mighty, irregardless of our success. The Lord Regent rarely left his seat on Great Wyk, and his writ was conveyed by raven from Urrathon's Watch throughout the Isles. Hobert Hightower had confirmed what Veron had long expected; the Greyjoys had been summarily stripped of their rulership and Lord Paramountcy over the Iron Isles, with their former authority vested in the office of Lord Regent until new, more permanent leadership, could be decided upon by the Crown.

While half of Pyke remained to them, Veron knew that the situation of his House was dire. The Greyjoys had always been overmighty compared to their vassals; the Harlaws and Goodbrothers possessed far wealthier lands, and even the Botleys could count on the incomes of Lordsport to raise them high. The Greyjoys had long relied on the taxes and tolls that they collected in their capacity as Lords Paramount to ensure their power and status, and with the loss of their authority, they faced destitution and irrelevance. Even now, he faced his kin in the Great Hall, forced to pay heed to their 'counsel', which sounded suspiciously close to complaints and condemnations.

His grandsire had had five sons, and whilst the eldest two had long since passed, three remained, priding themselves each on martial ability and their adherence to the traditions of the Ironborn. Rodrick, Vickon, and Harrock all stood before the throne, under the watchful eyes of Veron's men-at-arms and newly freed servants.

"You cannot allow these injustices to continue, Veron! That dotard and his thug are laying waste to every tradition that has kept us strong! How will our men learn to bear a sword, or be called to the sea? If the Greenlanders have their way, we will be forced to till the barren fields of our Isles, to break our steel upon the rocks, as opposed to on the helms of our foes."

Veron scowled. "Such sweet words, nuncle. Have you ever been told that you ought to have been a bard? You might've found greater fortune there."

Rodrick spat in the rushes. "Mock my words all you wish, but none can deny that these burdens are too heavy to bear."

Veron stood with a rush. "We were defeated, Rodrick. Other foes might've mounted our heads upon spikes above Pyke's curtain wall, and seized my sisters for themselves. It is what we'd have done. The fact we draw breath is a mercy. We have no means of making any demands, so I fail to see what you'd have me do."

Vickon strode forth, his eyes gleaming dangerously. "We remain humbled so long the grey beast remains aloft. But if its master were to be given a red smile in the night, and the beast slain upon the ground, that would change. We've still men enough to bleed the Greenlanders, men enough to drive them from our shores. Even the Conqueror saw the sense in allowing us to rule ourselves."

Feeling the dull ache of a beginning headache, Veron retorted: "there yet remain dragons to be marshaled against us. The slaying of one rider would summon two more! We tried bringing their beasts down off of Fair Isle. It was futile, and mine own brother burned for it. I will not have the rest of my kin roast as Harren's did."

Harrock watched the proceedings with black eyes that betrayed no feelings. When there had been silence for a few moments, he spoke, eyeing Veron carefully. "Each of us are ready to die for you, for the family, my nephew. You need only say the words, and we will go forth to do your bidding. The weight you feel on your shoulders has been felt by many before you, for the Seastone chair is most cruel to its occupants. Greyirons, Hoares, and Greyjoys have all felt its burdens. But many men have found that such difficulties forged them into stronger men. We wish to assist you in those matters, to…"

Before his uncle could finish, the Great Hall's doors were thrown open, and several armored knights entered, bearing the triple spiral of House Massey. Ser Maric Massey strode imperiously into the hall, fingers drumming upon the hilt of his blade.

Veron returned to his seat, and met the gaze of his guest. "Ser Massey. How might we be of aid?"

Ser Maric's eyes never left his own as he partook hastily in the bread and salt offered to him. "I bring word from the Lord Regent, my Lord of Pyke. He has asked that each House make good on their promise to provide hostages to be kept at King's Landing. Should you continue to behave in good faith, your actions will be rewarded, when they come of age the Lord Regent has arranged for matches to be made for them, that the bonds of marriage be established between the mainland and the Isles. Should you act against him, or his men… I daresay you know full well the consequence."

His tongue suddenly dry, Veron took a moment to find his words. "And who, pray tell, does the Lord Regent ask be sent to ensure good behavior?"

The knight across him smiled faintly. "At my recommendation, Lord Hightower has commanded that your three sisters be sent forthwith to the capital. They will be shown every courtesy, and will be permitted to attend court, that they might be trained in proper etiquette alongside the ladies of the mainland."

A knot twisted within. For a moment, Veron considered rising, commanding his men to slay this foolish interloper. Any greenlander foolish enough to make demands of the Lord of Pyke ought to be reminded of why we are not to be trifled with. Let me whet my blade with Massey's blood, and raise it as a standard of rebellion. He could do it, he knew. His uncles and the Lords of the Isles would rally behind him, a final cry of the Old Way. Perhaps they, like the perfidious Dornish, could throw off the shackles of Valyria. The oily black stone of the Seastone Chair seemed to grow colder, and his blood rushed in his ears. Go forth… it seemed to whisper… bring ruin and slaughter to your foes, my honored son. We will welcome you with great honors in the Deep. Veron stood, his blood up. The eyes of the court were upon him, and he felt the battle-joy rise.

At that moment, the doors to the hall that led to the bridge towards the Guest Keep were opened, and his three sisters entered, eager to observe the court. I had invited them today, thought Veron dully. The onrush of his fury withdrew as determinedly as low tide.

"Ser Maric, you may convey my assent to the Lord Regent. I will ensure that they are prepared for departure within the next few days. Winter brings uncertain seas, and I wish to ensure safe transit."

His uncles eyed him coldly. They do not understand, or perhaps care. It is harder to not bare steel. He steadied himself. They will obey, or I will have them expelled. He could not allow them to bring about the final ruin of their line. Turning, he left the dais. Motioning for his sisters to follow him, he left the chamber, his uncles and sisters in tow. Pyke's ancient halls ran with moisture, a result of the winter chill seeping through the ancient stone and meeting the warmth of blazing torches. They followed the winding halls until they reached the first bridge to the Sea Tower, crossing it while paying little mind to the heights or the raging swells upon the rocks below. The winds blew so strongly that he feared for the final bridge, but decided that his inner council would be better held in the Lord's solar.

As the crossed the final bridge, it swung slightly in the wind, weighed down by icicles and its new occupants. Every groan and twisting protest sent Veron's nerves on edge; he had never favored the crossing to the Sea Tower; and preferred to keep his lodgings elsewhere. Finally reaching the other side, they entered, hearing the winter wind wail after them in the ancient rafters above. The Sea Tower lived up to its name, smelling of salt and ancient stone, built in times so distant there was no memory of its builders, at least amongst the Ironborn.

He glanced at those following him, but none had their eyes upon him. Reaching the damp and drafty Lord's Solar, he decided against waiting for a servant and lit the brazier himself, desperate to ward off the chill. Turning finally to his kin, he spoke, intending to plan for the most grievous blow that Dalton's defeat had dealt him.

Eyeing his three sisters, he knew that they were clever enough to know that this news would involve them. He could read the anxiety in their features with the ease that only a relative could.

"The Lord Regent has commanded that the three of you travel to King's Landing, as a guarantee of our house's good behavior. If you behave well-enough, matches may be made for you amongst the Greenlanders."

While Alannys and Asha nodded, likely having already expected the command, Morgana was immediately downcast. His heart ached for his youngest sister. All I do is to protect you. Whilst others advised war, I called for peace, if only to spare you the sword. Would that he could make that clear to her. Would that he could say such things without being condemned by his lordly peers. Others would see such sentiments as a weakness, a rot to be purged. Dalton would have. My uncles do.

"In the next few days I expect the three of you to gather what belongings you will need, along with those of your attendants that you wish to accompany you. We cannot tarry for too long, as the eyes of our overlords lay heavy upon us already."

Rodrick made to speak, but Veron continued, unwilling to hear yet another condemnation veiled in counsel. "In order to ensure your safety, and to ensure that you will be treated according to your proper stations, I will be sending Harrock with you." Veron met his uncle's disappointed gaze as he continued speaking: "I am certain that he will do all in his power to ensure you are cared for."

Rodrick and Vickon eyed Harrock with sympathy, whilst reserving antipathy for his dispatcher. Veron found that he cared little and less for their thoughts on the matter, only for their compliance. If it is my fate to be reviled for saving my family, I will gladly take on that burden.

Harrock, after some time, finally spoke. "I will see to the safety of each of your sisters, Veron. I only ask your leave to take thirty men with me, so as to guarantee them a proper guard and ensure that they are treated with the proper gravity."

Veron nodded. With that, he dismissed his kin with a wave, intending to pour himself some mulled wine from a nearby pitcher. It was only as he felt a grip on his arm that he turned, realizing that Morgana had not departed. In her dark eyes, he could see the hurt that had arisen from his perceived betrayal. He wasn't sure how to best break the silence, and was spared the effort by his sister speaking first.

"I spent over a years time fearing that you'd die! Now that you've finally returned to us, how can you now allow us to be sent away? Our place is at your side!"

Taking her hand, he gave it a squeeze. He thought of saying the easy response, but he knew it was not the answer his sister deserved. She has a right to know my true counsel. "I… do not believe you safe here, Morgana. The Lord Regent is not a hard man, but he is an old one. If and when he dies, there will be blood. Not all of his knights believe the Isles were deserving of mercy. They will act once one of their own is in command, even if it is without just cause."

"In that case, there is even more reason for us to stay! We can secure support for you, and take up axe or blade by your side, if need be! Pyke has broken Greenlander storms upon its walls in ages past, and will do so again." He could see her desperation growing.

Despite himself, a wry grin danced across his features. "I have no doubt that each of you would take up a weapon, and slay our foes alongside me." Growing more serious, his expression fell. "But I have seen war on the mainland. Real war. Our resistance is what they want. They would burn Pyke and watch as we cooked like beasts within these very walls. This is a battle we can only win by not fighting. At least, not fighting it with swords."

Morgana made a face as if to show disapproval. "That sounds nothing like the Old Way. That does not seem like what Dalton would have done."

Veron nodded, suddenly deathly serious. "You are absolutely correct, Morgana. Dalton would never have done such a thing. And that is why we must. By allowing you to be sent away, I can ensure your safety far more than I can within these walls. You can also show King's Landing that we are not distant savages, but people, like them. The King may be less likely to order our family's destruction if he sees you as companions, and as friends." His scowl deepened even further. "There is also the matter of our fellow Ironborn. I do not trust them, and I do not believe they trust me. The very fact that I live, whilst Dalton dines with the Drowned God is an affront to most of the other Lords. I am not certain if they intend to fight alongside us."

Morgana's eyes widened. "I have heard your stories of the war, and those told by your men. You were a hero. How could they betray you?"

Veron closed his eyes, but all he could hear were screams. Fair Castle. Lannisport. The Crag. A hero? A butcher, morelike. Johanna Westerling may have begged for clemency for his sake, but many more called for his head from the grave. He sighed. "I'm no hero, Morgana, despite what some may say. War is… slaughter. What I fear the most is that I do not loathe that truth. Some men fight because they must, but others fight because it pleases them. I am the latter… but to save this family, I must become the former. Even if it means betraying my brother's memory; even if it means sending those I treasure the most away."

Morgana's eyes widened. "I do not think I understand… but if I must go, then I must. But I promise you that I will do what I can to help, even if it is from the other side of Westeros."

Veron smiled. "I know, sister. Truly. For your loyalty I am most grateful. Would that the circumstances were different. Dalton and I chose this path, and I fear I must now atone for it, for the both of us."

Morgana nodded, showing a look of newfound resolve. She eyed the pitcher mischievously. "Might I have a cup of mulled wine then, that I be allowed to enjoy your company a while longer?"

Veron laughed. She has moved from Essosi dolls to wines. How she has changed, yet remains the same. "I suppose a cup would do no harm. But careful now: for drink can be a master most cruel."

Morgana's eyes narrowed. "I have every intention of arriving to the capital already a roaring drunkard. You have damned us all, granting me this cup."

Veron threw a hand across his face to simulate anguish. "Blast! I have ruined us all! I should have known you carried father's taste for wine."

Her only response was to giggle, and to toast his misfortune. They tarried a while longer, while the sea winds wailed and the brazier crackled.

Veron rode a black warhorse draped in Greyjoy heraldry to escort his uncle and sisters through Pyke's headland to the curtain wall beyond, that they might be together for a while longer. Harrock's thirty men followed on foot, grizzled and cold, but their loyalty to Veron unquestioned. He had fought and reaved with each of them at one point or another. He had ensured that Merrick was given command of the guards as Harrock's second. His sisters rode alongside him in a carriage that had likely not seen use since his mother lived, and had been painstakingly overhauled to his exacting standards. When they reached the gatehouse, Ser Maric Massey awaiting them with an escort of knights and men-at-arms drawn from the newly established Isles garrison within Lordsport. Unsurprisingly, for his enthusiastic service Ser Maric had been named the commander of that particular number.

Veron nodded to Ser Maric in acknowledgement, before dismounting. He knocked on the carriage, allowing for Alannys, Asha, and Morgana to dismount, and embraced them each closely in turn.

"I wish you a safe journey, and pleasant seas." He whispered, offering a small smile.

Alannys smiled, her cheeks red from the cold. "We thank you, brother. We will write of our travels and of our arrival."

Veron nodded. "I will await your word eagerly." With that, he motioned for Merrick to bring a parcel forward. Unwrapping the black leather wrapping, he pulled three black steel daggers from where they were nestled, admiring their gilt golden hilts that resembled tentacles grasping the blade. He presented a dagger to each sister, before stating: "Keep these close, lest the Greenlanders forget that you are Greyjoys. Feel free to give any randy knights a poke or two, and tell them I send my regards when you do."

Asha smiled, and Morgana laughed. "We can surely do so, Veron."

Climbing back into the wagon, the elder sisters gave him one final wave goodbye, before Morgana hugged for a final time, fiercely. "I expect that you will write back to us, when you have the opportunity. I will be most wroth if you fail to do so."

Veron nodded. "I promise to send all I can by raven. I will look forward to our correspondence."

With that, Morgana climbed back within the carriage as it trundled away. He mounted his stallion and gave them one last wave as they rolled along the dirt road towards Lordsport, escorted by his men. His uncle pulled up alongside him, eyeing him enigmatically.

"I will do all I can to protect them Veron, though I wish that the circumstances did not require us to cast them so far adrift from their home."

Veron sighed. "As do I. But their safety is paramount. For your service I am in your debt."

Harrock nodded, before spurring his horse forwards. "May the winter spare you its worst ills."

"And the same to you, uncle."

Veron found himself at the gatehouse alone after a few moments, save the guards that manned the post. After he was certain that none were watching, he pulled a small Tyroshi doll with a red wig from his saddle bag, and eyed it fondly. Returning it to its safe hiding place, he rode for home.