Chapter 40: Victarion II

The Iron Victory swept forwards, her ram cutting clean through the choppy green waters. Oars slapped the sea. Salt sprayed his face.

And ahead, the horizon lay clear.

Victarion felt his fist clench around the handle of his axe. The Drowned God had not fashioned him for fighting with words at Kingsmoots; nor had he fashioned Victarion for hunting furtive foes who'd disappear into reeds and bogs after the first strike. They had fashioned him for war, for the true battle between men. To cross blades with great warriors like the Kingslayer; that was his destiny.

And then the Drowned God denies me that destiny, Victarion thought.

To either side of him, the sea was seething with ships. The Iron Fleet in its fullest glory. Between the hulls the water was white, frothing like a bubbling stew. In the distance, though, was nothing. Have the roses wilted? he wondered. Or do they merely mean to hide their thorns?

Victarion growled in frustration. They had spent months organising their forces, gathering enough ships for a raid on the Shields. Part of him was pleased by the quiet, he could not deny. If they took the isles without a fight Euron's fallibility would be exposed. Euron's wizards aren't quite what he claimed.

Yet part of him knew better. Plunder is plunder, he thought scornfully. Most reavers would choose gold before glory. A bloodless victory might prove worse for Euron, undermining his authority, but it could just as easily serve his ends even better, cementing the loyalty of the Ironborn to the Crow's Eye. They might actually begin to believe his lunatic lies about dragons. Obedience came naturally to Victarion, as it did to most of them. He'd grown up knowing it was all he could do to serve Balon dutifully in everything. And later he'd come to accept that one day he would be forced to kneel before one of Balon's spawn.

But the Crow's Eye... Kneeling before him brought bile bubbling up from the base of his throat. The wind was raging in his ears, his loins stirring, and the bitter taste of resentment on his tongue refused to abate. Absent a battle, Victarion surrendered his place at the prow of the Iron Victory to Nute to clamber belowdecks. He needed a drink to wash his mouth of the taste. In his cramped cabin he found Euron's gift to him wet and ready; the dusky girl was always naked for him.

Victarion unbuckled his belt and pulled off his gauntlet, letting the armour clatter on the wooden floor. He slapped the girl, once, twice, then grasped her by the throat as he plunged roughly into her. The girl let out a choked, tongueless moan - all Euron's pets had had their tongues pulled out once aboard the Silence. Her breasts shook as he fucked her, small dark nipples bobbing back and forth on rolling hills of tan flesh. He had her once, filling her, then again, pulling out to paint her.

The bed creaked beneath them. Victarion handled the girl roughly, though never enough to damage her beauty. No need to be nice to Euron's leavings, he told himself. He had never liked having to share his things. His thoughts turned briefly to his old wife, his salt wife, who'd shared her bed with Euron. "She came to me wet and willing," Euron had said, though she had claimed rape. I beat her to death with mine own hands, even as she begged and pleaded for mercy, Victarion thought. But I didn't kill her. The Crow's Eye killed her when he shoved himself inside her. I had no choice.

But whilst he had contemplated doing the same to the girl beside him now, he had ultimately decided against it. She was ever so pretty. No more than twenty by the look of her, pliant and obedient to a fault. Euron said he had stolen her from the Lyseni, who had kept and trained her in their pillow-houses when she was just a young slave-girl. It showed. She was skilled in love, ever willing, never refusing him anything. And when Euron had told him that if he did not take her off his hands she would be killed, he knew he could not let his pride stop him from getting such a delicious prize. I took her from him, he told himself, though the thought rang hollow.

He pushed her off him. "Wine!" he bellowed. Obediently, silently, the girl stood, still dripping with his seed, and fetched him his skin. Victarion gulped the sour liquid down, sweating. He pulled the girl into his lap and kissed her, pushing some wine into her mouth with his tongue. She swallowed, some dribbling down her chin, and then he pushed her head down to his groin. Tongueless, she could not help her ineptitude, though he could not deny that she still put in a valiant effort with her lips alone, gagging and slobbering on his cock, taking it all the way down her throat. Victarion pulled her head off him and dragged her by her hair, throwing her back on the bed before plunging back into her for a third time, his fingers sinking into her breasts.

But even buried in her flesh, he could not distract himself from thoughts of what lay ahead. Euron had sent a dozen longships up the Mander to lure out the patrols into open waters, where the Iron Fleet could do proper battle. Those ships had yet to return. No word had come. Hell, for all Victarion knew, they may well have vanished. Yet Euron had still ordered the main force to sail ahead to the Shields, convinced they would still be able to conquer the isles. He had not been wrong. The wind was at their backs, billowing their sails, as it had been all the way from Old Wyk.

Euron and his wizards again, Victarion thought. Men whispered when they thought he was not around. Victarion was no fool. He knew what they thought. Euron had ordered the fleet to sail straight south instead of hugging coasts as was custom, and it had worked. The men had been awed by it. It was thought that the Crow's Eye had somehow curried favour with the Storm Gods as well as the Drowned God, offering up sacrifices to somehow appease them both.

The entire venture had been a stunning success. Greenshield, Greyshield, Oakenshield, and Southshield had all fallen with only a handful of losses. The keeps had either been surrendered by cowering septons or else been found entirely deserted. He had received no reports of slain knights or ravaged ladies. No reports of ships sunk or damaged in battle. There was something unsettling about that. Something vaguely sinister. It felt like a trap, like the Tyrells were using the Shields as bait.

But if this is a trap, Victarion asked himself, then who am I to stop the Crow's Eye from wandering in? He had contemplated killing his older brother after the Kingsmoot, after all. If I do not strike him myself, am I still accursed in the eyes of the Drowned God? Victarion feared the wrath of no man, but the gods... He had considered sending a killer after the Crow's Eye, but again he was struck in terror of the Drowned God. But this... was this indirect enough?

And yet, if Victarion suspected a trap, Euron likely already knew. It was his plan, after all. No, Victarion could not rely on the roses to dispose of his problems for him. He would have to find some other way. "Euron's blasphemies will bring down the Drowned God's wrath on us all," Aeron had told him, back on Old Wyk. Victarion remembered Lord Blacktyde's words. "Balon was mad, Aeron is madder, and Euron is maddest of them all."

Lord Blacktyde had tried to sail home after the Kingsmoot, refusing to respect Euron's claim. Victarion, with his damned habit for obedience, had cut off his exit with the Iron Fleet at Euron's orders, and the young lord's ship was seized, even as he was dragged naked before Euron and his mongrels and cut into seven parts. That was the service that had won Victarion the dusky woman as his thrall. The killing of his fellow Ironborn. The killing of his fellow captain.

Victarion finished with a grunt, pulling out at the last second, hauling her off his bed and pushing her to her knees on the floor, spraying the inside of the dusky woman's mouth with his seed, taking another gulp from his wineskin and spitting it into her mouth immediately after. She tried to get the doubtless vile mixture down, but a substantial amount of the murky liquid spilled out again onto the floor, staining her breasts and stomach. Victarion forced her head down, vengeful. "Lap it up," he ordered. "Not a drop of my seed is to go to waste." The girl obeyed, lips sucking and teeth scraping at the dirty floor, trying to lick without a tongue. For a moment Victarion imagined her humiliation as Euron's, imagined his elder brother on his knees, begging before him, kissing the earth he trod on. The image made his heart sing.

Victarion buckled his belt, lowering himself down to his haunches beside her. "I could kill him," he told her as she fruitlessly rubbed her face on the floor. His hand came down hard on her behind, leaving the beginnings of a deep bruise on her supple flesh. "I could kill your former master. Though to an Ironborn it is a great sin to kill your king, and a greater one to kill your brother. I could kill him with these very hands." He spanked her again, hard. She let out a little yelp of pain, eyes prickling with unshed tears.

Asha should have supported me when I'd asked, Victarion suddenly thought. With her voice behind him, he would be the one wearing the driftwood crown, not Euron. What had she been thinking? Even though she was Balon's spawn, and even though she had the Boy King's seal of peace, she must have known a woman stood no chance of sitting the Seastone Chair. Mercifully, she had at least had the good sense to flee after the Kingsmoot, slipping away with her meagre group of ships. Victarion shuddered to think what Euron would have ordered his mongrels to do to her had she stayed. The Crow's Eye spits on the gods, Victarion thought, just as I spit on his gift. He would think nothing of raping his own niece. Nothing of having her ripped apart like young Lord Blacktyde.

"Up!" Victarion commanded. The girl jumped to her feet. "You will clean yourself," he said, his hand grasping her roughly by the cunt and pulling her close. "I'll have you again as soon as I'm back," he told her, his other hand grabbing her face and making her gaze meet his. She nodded sharply, eyes wide with fear, and Victarion grinned and stroked her hair soothingly, almost lovingly, before letting her go. He snatched himself up a second skin of wine, then turned sharp on his heel, departed his cabin and clambered up the steps back onto his deck.

"Where are we?" he asked Nute, spying land in the distance.

"Lord Hewett's Town, Lord Captain," Nute answered. The castle loomed in the distance, scores of longships already moored in the harbour. At a quay were three great cogs and a handful of smaller ones for transporting back the plunder and storing provisions for the rest of the fleet.

"Drop anchor and get a boat ready," Victarion commanded. The men worked quickly and before he knew it he was ashore, the Iron Victory standing still in the sea behind him, rocking gently side to side, waiting patiently for his return like a leal wife. Ahead was Lord Hewett's Town, oddly still and silent. Smoke trailed up from some burning buildings, but most of the place looked unchanged. Doors had been broken down, to be sure, and the occasional corpse dotted the streets, but far less than Victarion would have expected from a settlement of this size.

Again, his gut twisted in anticipation. Victarion took another swig of wine to calm his nerves.

Lord Hewett's castle sat atop a small hill, the crest of the island, with thick walls and heavy oaken gates. Atop the towers the kraken of House Greyjoy flew, banners cracking against the stone as the wind flapped them. On the ramparts wandered ironborn with spear in hand, in the yard sparred ironborn with spears, axes, and swords. A feast was well underway by the time Victarion got to the hall.

Ironborn filled the tables, drinking and shouting and japing with each other. They boasted of the prizes they had won, seemingly so easily, and loudly wondered as to what conquests the future would hold for them. Every man was bedecked in stolen plunder. Long necklaces of pearls, tapestries torn off the walls and worn as cloaks, rings, armour, and all the like. They ate off plates of solid silver; glorious platters bedecked with only the finest that Lord Hewett's larders had to offer. Only the Reader sat unadorned, unmoved by the revelry, quiet in his corner with his little circle of followers.

I shall have to keep an eye on him, Victarion resolved. If he cannot be swayed by the Euron's conquests then he might well be willing to help me overthrow the Crow's Eye.

Women served the food, wandering from place to place with platters in their arms. They wore the clothes of servants, one and all; not a single highborn maiden to be seen. Many were red in the face. The rowdy ironmen had little regard for their modesty, no matter the age. Women as old as forty and girls as young as ten got the same treatment. Bottoms were pinched and groped and spanked, dresses pulled down to reveal ample bosom. One man was bold enough to cut away a girl's dress completely with his blade, leaving her bare. The men laughed and jeered as she was forced to stand and take it, squirming, eager hands wandering wantonly over her flesh, pulling and twisting and kneading.

Euron sat at the head of the hall, a cup of wine held loosely in one hand. He sat alone, without hostage. Lord Hewett, it seemed, was absent. He lifted himself from his seat as Victarion arrived, commanding silence as he rose. "I swore to give you Westeros," he said to the assembled captains, "and here is your first taste. Oh, a morsel for now, nothing more, but with much to come! What the kraken grasps it does not let go... These isles were once ours, long ago, and now they are again. The whole of the Reach lies before us! Yet we must not be sure to get ahead of ourselves. To hold our current conquests we will need strong men," Euron shot Victarion a look. "Men like Andrik the Unsmiling, Harras Harlaw, and... Nute the Barber!"

Nute's eyes grew wide as he balked. "Me...? A lord?" he asked, as though it was a cruel jape.

Victarion stood stunned. He had expected the Crow's Eye to give these isles over to his own creatures, but as he thought on it the horrible reality became clear. Andrik was the right arm of Dunstan Drumm. Harras the chosen heir to Harlaw. And Nute was - had been - Victarion's best man. His most trustworthy. Euron was consolidating his power.

A round of cheers went up for the newly appointed lords, cups banged on the table surface. When the tumult died, Euron spoke again. "We will sail again on the morrow, our fleet newly-laden with every scrap of provision we can strip from this land, and we will head east to win our dragons, leaving behind only those needed to hold these isles and secure our conquests. When we return, Westeros will be ours!"

"And when exactly is that, Your Grace?" the Reader asked, his tone cutting. He eyed his prospective heir balefully. "Your dragons are a world away, and autumn is already upon us, and winter not too long after that. The Redwyne fleet still guards the Reach coasts from the Arbor, the Dornish coasts are high and barren and lacking in many suitable landing sites and even less places where we might quickly plunder and take succour to replenish ourselves. And then sit the Stepstones, and the Free Cities, who are no friends to us. If a thousand ships set sail, no more than three-hundred might make it that far, and that will leave us dangerously weak. And that's just from depletion. What if we are struck by a storm, or run across an unfriendly fleet along the way?"

Euron smiled a thin smile, blue lips stretching disconcertingly wide. "I have taken the Silence on far longer voyages than this, and ones more dangerous. Or have you forgotten that I have sailed to Valyria, to the Smoking Sea?"

"Have you?" the Reader questioned, and the hall fell still at his gall.

"You would do well to keep your nose in your books, Lord Harlaw," Euron retorted, his tone dangerous at the insult. "As for the journey, you will note the women who walk between the tables in this hall. The price of flesh is rising, on account of Daenerys Targaryen's conquests in Slaver's Bay. Lys lies on our way, and the Lyseni are always willing to trade for slaves. From there we could replenish the holds of our ships. After thoroughly tasting the women we mean to trade, of course." His words were accompanied with a lecherous grin that was returned by many of the captains in the hall.

"So we are slavers now?" Victarion interjected. They took thralls, of course, but thralls were not slaves. They could not be bought or sold, only stolen. And the children of thralls were born as ironmen, free men. The ironborn were not slavers.

"Highgarden's close," one man suddenly said, half-drunk. "Slaver's Bay is far. Seems to me if we want gold we should go there."

"And Oldtown is richer, the Arbor richer still," another man chimed in. "With more beautiful girls than here."

"And better defended, too," Euron pointed out. "Much better defended. Already, ships mass in the Mander. It would be a foolish fight to pick, less quick conquest and more grinding siege. A fight more taxing on our fleet than any voyage east."

"A fight well worth it for the ripest fruit in all of Westeros!" one man bellowed. "If not Oldtown or Highgarden than at least the Arbor! We want the Arbor! The Arbor!" The other captains took up his call. "The Arbor! We want the Arbor! The Arbor!"

Victarion could not help the smile that came to his face at seeing Euron so thoroughly rebuffed. Almost every man seemed to agree with the sentiment that the Reach lay open to more raids. Victarion did not know if he was with them - Euron was likely right about the rest of the Reach itself being far better defended than the Shields, and the Shields themselves had been suspiciously poorly defended - but he wasn't about to gainsay them. The Crow's Eye let the cries wash over him, teeth clenched. Then he shook his head, arose from his seat, his smiling eye more black than blue, and departed the hall in a huff.

Victarion joined the feast with a grin, suddenly eager to sup with his fellow captains. They might have placed him on the Seastone Chair, he thought, but they will not follow him to Slaver's Bay. He shared a cup with Nute, showing that he did not begrudge the man his lordship, even though he had been improperly elevated above his captain. Victarion drank and drank, making merry with his fellow ironmen, harassing the girls. None of them compared in beauty or skill to the dusky woman waiting in his cabin aboard the Iron Victory, of course, but teats were teats.

Even as he sank into his cups, Victarion regarded the Reader with a close eye. Aye, he decided, a good ally indeed. Lord Harlaw had utterly humiliated the Crow's Eye with just a few softly spoken words. And whilst he was now old, and quickly becoming frail, the Reader's strengths matched perfectly with Victarion's weaknesses. The Drowned God may not have fashioned me for fighting with words, but perhaps he didn't need to.

But before Victarion could think on it any further, he was broken from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. It was one of Euron's bastard mongrels, with skin the colour of mud. "My father wants words with you."

Victarion rose reluctantly from his seat. He followed the boy warily through the halls and up stone steps, the sounds of rape and revelry diminishing behind him. The chamber Euron had chosen likely belonged to Lord Hewett, at least judging by the elegant designs on the door. Victarion dismissed the boy, pressed his hand up against the patterned oak and pushed.

What greeted him on the other side of the door was unsightly, to say the least. Euron lay in bed, slouched against the headboard, insensate, bathed in moonlight that streamed in from the open window. There were two crossbow bolts lodged deep in his eyes, one going straight through his eyepatch, blood trailing down both his cheeks like tears and matting his beard.

Victarion took a tentative step forwards, a strange mix of dread and delight roiling his stomach, looming over his elder brother and reaching out to touch him, to confirm what he already knew.

The Crow's Eye is dead, Victarion thought.

And the Seastone Chair is mine for the taking.

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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future