"O, it is excellent to have a giant's strength, but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant." - William Shakespeare's 'Measure for Measure.'
Farwynd & Fire
By Spectre4hire
11: The Binding
When Ramsay stepped onto The Maiden's Despair, he smiled.
The ship was quiet, and the crew was everywhere.
It did this. The deck was soaked with blood. The sails were torn and stained with more splashes of gore and blood. It's been very busy. He hadn't been there when the captain unveiled his newest companion. Taking in the bodies all around him, Ramsay couldn't wait to meet it, but first he needed to look around. It would be rude not to admire its work.
He didn't have to look long to find the first body. It was beside him, one of its legs had been gnawed off into a bloody stump. Ahead of him, he spotted a pool of congealed blood, but there was no body, just a crimson smear that kept going.
His eyes followed the bloody path until they landed on another one of the dead sellsails. The man's face etched in a permanent display of fear. Those were his favorite. The ones that caught the true terror of not just their death, but the pain and suffering that came before it. Wanting to see how the sellsail was killed, he looked down. It didn't disappoint. It had torn open the man's chest, in his own stiff hands was the sellsail's futile attempt to keep his innards from spilling out. He failed miserably. When Ramsay was close enough, he dipped a finger in the blood. It wasn't warm. Pity.
Such sweet sights my captain gives me.
He walked through puddles of blood, nudging bodies or limbs, a severed leg torn off like one would a chicken's leg. An arm with a dagger still gripped in its hand. He passed a body that was laying on its side. When he stepped over it, he saw the deep gashes that the claws made. He saw where the strips of flesh had been peeled off by its teeth.
Leaning against the deck rail, was another corpse, its head lulled to the side like a doll. The body tilted beneath the waves which was when Ramsay saw the lean piece of muscle, a string of flesh staining to keep the sellsail's head from rolling away.
"Toss the body over," He ordered to his two thralls who were the first to accompany him over, Mickon and Richards. We shouldn't waste good meat. If she wasn't already here, the blood would bring her to them. He didn't intend to toss all the bodies over, only a couple. He will claim the rest.
His thralls moved without complaint. They were good men.
Not like these sellsails.
These sellsails were the pawns and spies of a Tyroshi slaver, who lost a handful of his slave ships to the captain. The slaves were valuable cargo, and the ships were destroyed all but ruining him. The sellsails had been his last, feeble grasp to strike back at the captain. Pitiful. He stepped over an arm. There was no body attached to it. What the Tyroshi thought was a secret Ramsay had learned before the sellsails even reached Pentos looking for work.
He regretted not being able to witness their horror as they realized their folly. They had anchored their ship off the shore of the captain's manse, who feasted them. The drunken sellsails returned to their ship only to discover his captain had returned the cargo. The creature did the rest.
Two more of his thralls, Ronnel and Bryen, had come aboard. "Help yourself to whatever you find on the bodies." It's not like they'll be needing them. He saw them trade smiles as they began moving about the deck, pilfering the corpses.
He had been told to recover the gold, and whatever other riches these sellsails had, and retrieve the creature, putting it all onto his ship. Afterwards, they were to take the sellsail ship out into deeper waters. They would rise from the depths to claim the ship. In one swift, crushing motion, all traces of the sellsails and their ship would be wiped away.
A tumbling noise drew his attention after a particular swell passed under the ship. It was a head rolling all on its own. Before the head could hit his boots, he plucked it off the deck. Its face and hair were covered in blood from all its rolling. He held it up by its hair. With his other hand, he moved his fingers towards its mouth, prying the lips open. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
It didn't answer.
"Are you sure?" He brought the head closer, as if it was urging him that it had a secret to tell him, to whisper to him.
"You're sorry?" Ramsay moved the head so he could meet its unfocused gaze. He tilted the head up and down, to make it nod.
"Apology accepted," Ramsay told the head right before tossing it over the ship. He laughed when he heard the splash it made. It's time, he realized, giving the bloody splendor one last look of admiration. He moved to go below deck knowing that's where it was. I shouldn't keep it waiting.
Earlier that same day…
Dagon woke to bright agony.
There was a tightness around his throat and chest. Invisible hands cold and hard squeezing him. His first few breaths were ragged. The haze of them lingered in his mind, bleeding into his vision. His senses remained tangled in the frantic heartbeats that followed. Sounds and smells clashing against each other like unrelenting waves. Morning sunlight burned against his closed eyes. The pain didn't fade until those that dwelled in the dark receded from his mind. When the doors finally closed within his mind's eye, he dispelled his first painless breath.
The mornings were always the hardest.
Dagon warily blinked in his surroundings. Beams of sunlight intruded his chambers from where the black curtains had been pushed back. It was the suddenness of the light that hurt more than the light itself. They knew the light, but they rose to it, slowly, wading through what slipped into the sea like bright fingers. His hand fumbled to the side where the drink was. To be in the deepest, coldest darkness where no light could penetrate in one heartbeat and then thrust into the light. He shivered and drank from his goblet greedily.
The drift dreams, that was what his ancestors called it. When the mind couldn't properly rest, it ventured aimlessly into those of their companion's. Long ago, a potion had been concocted to remedy it by one of his most accomplished ancestors. It dulled the connection, helping the mind to settle inside its own body and to sleep. Dagon took it sometimes, but not often, too much of it would strain the tether, weakening it. He had gone further than any of his ancestors. Not even six will stop me, he had to use his gift to the fullest.
The Drowned God has blessed me. He finished the drink with a second sip. Its tangy taste lingered in his mouth. And what sort of believer would I be if I doubted Him?
It was their eyes that got him to open his.
It took barely a second to center himself, slipping out of the sky and back to himself, the door inside his mind, one of six, closing behind him. It came to him as easy and as quickly as breathing. Ahead of him, he could see the splash of red in the bay, scavenging gulls looking and diving for morsels of whatever flesh she didn't eat. It was an expected sacrifice. A needed one for what was to come. Afterwards, he had washed himself in the blood and brine and then had been cleansed by the sea.
Now, he knelt on the sands, expecting his brother's imminent arrival. He cupped his hands, reciting the old words before splashing his face with the water. Blessed, he was ready for the binding.
The skies and seas belonged to him, but if there was going to be war then he would need something else. Something to unleash on the battlefield, to hunt and kill their enemies, to strike fear into their hearts, to make them choose surrender over resistance. And I found it, he rose to his feet, a nother herald worthy of me.
Dagon turned just as his brother came into view. Gyles Farwynd was what you'd want in an heir. He was a strong seaman and a respected captain. Dutiful and hardworking, unlike those lords on the green lands, ironborn lords were expected to do more than just sit on silk cushions, gorging themselves. Lonely Light would pass to him, and he'd be a good lord for their people. To Gyles, it was enough. When they were young men, he and Gyles reaved around the Stepstones, but his brother had left when just enough had been done. What was expected of him. Dagon had stayed and very soon made a name for himself, one that has stayed with him.
"Was Sam watching over me?" Gyles pointed a finger upwards towards the sky.
"Aye," he answered, "Mary's watching the cargo's progress." It's very slow progress. It was being taken by a wagon that he had specifically commissioned to hold the weight and size. That was why he had aurochs pulling it.
Gyles like Dagon had inherited the traditional traits of their family: dark hair, color changing eyes, strong jaw. His brother had a faded crescent shaped scar below his left eye, a wound from when they were boys. The mustache was new, he noted, suspecting his brother grew it out while at sea.
"Where's Cole?"
"He went back to my ship," Gyles joined him. "Your men were already there, loading up on the cargo for the return voyage."
He already knew that, and he suspected his brother did too. "How were the sellsails?" They had been Ramsay's idea, but Dagon trusted his spymaster. He sent his brother along with them, because he needed someone he could trust for the task.
Gyles shrugged. "I hope ya didn't pay much for them."
He had paid them well, but the coin wasn't lost to him. "What did you feed it?" The keeper who managed the Sealord of Braavos' menagerie had given him all the information he knew about the creature.
"Goat, pig, beef," Gyles raised a finger with each answer he listed. "Some of the crew complained it ate better than they did," he said, "until I suggested we let it out, so it can have its first choice."
The idea and the image that followed made him smile.
"I don't understand you," Gyles's attention had shifted to Dagon's manse. "I leave for your errand, with your plan to try again with the Dornish princess, but when I return, I learn you're set to marry the Targaryen princess."
His brother spoke true, when Dagon sent him away, he was planning on returning to Sunspear. To reunite with the princess, he had first met after his triumphant expedition to Qarth. Then, he had thought the Princess Arianne Martell was the best match he could ever hope to make. I'd bring my newfound wealth and growing fleet to the marriage. Intending to do more expeditions to bolster the kingdom's trade, treasury, and fleet. I'd bring them more riches than they could've imagined.
She had been the one who received him when he arrived. She quickly saw the advantages of a marriage between them. She needed little convincing; he fondly recalled his fortnight stay at Sunspear. Those days together, he thought the marriage was certain and their future was bright. Until the rider came from the Water Gardens. They brought a message from her father. They were written in the flowery words of a prince, but the message was clear: There would be no match between him and Arianne, and that he should leave.
I'll return, that was what he told himself when he left. He set off for the Jade Sea and returned with riches that made his Qarth venture look like a pittance. But before he could follow through with that vow to return, Illyrio approached him with an offer that changed everything. To be the Prince Consort of Dorne or to be the Lord of the Iron Islands? He weighed the advantages, his chances, but he saw the true messenger behind the magister's offer. It's from Him. And it was one he could not refuse.
"Nothing has been agreed to," From the corner of his vision, he could see his brother relax until his next words, "But I will marry her."
"I don't know why you'd want her."
"That's the difference between you and me, brother."
Gyles considered his words before a small smile broke through his pensive expression. "That it is."
"Do you wish to meet her?" Dagon asked, "She'll be arriving after I handle the cargo."
"No, I need to go home," he declined, "and I'll be stopping at ports throughout the kingdoms. I can't let it be known that-"
"You're part of my plots?" He laughed, his brother was many things, but a cunning schemer he was not.
"It's not that funny," he mumbled, but his tone took on a wry tinge.
"Oh, yes, it is," Dagon chuckled, slowly sobering when he added, "But if you're afraid of news slipping, I can assure you no whispers will reach the court. The Spider sees to that." He realized his mistake a second too late. His brother may not have been ambitious, but he wasn't a fool.
"Varys," Understanding slowly spread across his brother's face. His eyes widened at the implications it entailed. "Brother," he breathed the single word out in total disbelief. "You're risking a civil war," Gyles hissed, "No, not risking, you're causing it!" He jabbed a finger at him. "All for your ambitions."
"It was my ambition that made our family the richest house in the Iron Islands," anger flared in his chest. "You never needed to be ambitious, brother. Your life, your future was always certain," He growled, "Your brothers weren't so fortunate. We've had to take risks, make sacrifices to make our futures."
"You can still put this treason behind you," Gyles argued, "go-"
"No," The word settled between them as immovable as a boulder.
"Broth-"
"You should return to your ship," Dagon cut in sharply. "Like you said, you have ports to visit, a home to go back to."
"I have no love for the Usurper, Dagon," They had both fought in Greyjoy's war.
"I know," Dagon understood what his brother did not say. Despite their disagreement, they were still kin. Your secret is my secret. "Fair winds, and following seas, brother."
There was a book at Lonely Light that every Farwynd was supposed to write in. Lords, and heirs, second or third sons, daughters, any Farwynd who had and used the gift were obligated to add what they learned onto the pages to help those that would come after them. When that book was filled, a new one was used, and again and again over the centuries. Some only wrote a few lines while others wrote pages of what they learned while bound with their companions. The topics varied, from migrating patterns and nesting areas to a seal's diet or the hunting habits of eels. It was all there in dried ink from those that came before him.
There was more knowledge of the sea in those books than all the pages at the Citadel. Dagon's first binding had been with her. He had learned much from her. Now, as he prepared for his seventh binding, he wondered what he would learn from this creature.
The noise of the rumbling cargo got him to see the large box slide awkwardly down the ramp onto the ground and off the cart. The box shook, angry hisses could be heard from within, causing the thralls to back away. "That's good."
"But m'lord," Muldoon, a thrall, stepped forward, "We haven't got it at the enclosure."
"We don't need to," Dagon had the enclosure built based on the Sealord's own design. He had also been the one who helped him connect with those who had secured one for his menagerie. He knew the thralls were exchanging looks without taking his eyes off the box.
"M'lord, then where should we go?" Muldoon asked.
"You're safe," Dagon said over the box which furiously rumbled, the creature hitting it, growling, and clawing at its confinement. He closed his eyes, but he could see. He reached out, sensing the creature. The box stilled, and the thralls were mumbling to one another, but they were ignored. It was only him and the creature. A him, Dagon realized, the binding was both slow and fast, as it wove the tether between the two of them. As it did, he could see the seventh door in his mind's eye forming.
Remarkable, he thought of the creature's senses. Even in the darkness of its box, it detected those around it with great precision. Then the creature felt him, the intrusion, hissing as if he was a rival, it could scare off, or a prey it could kill. Thoughts and instincts that no man could put to words passed through his mind, with angry flashes, and violent spasms as the creature fought against him, but Dagon's grip was too strong. No, he scolded it as if it was an unruly hound. Together, he insisted upon it, but the creature was scared, not understanding. Deeper, he went, as the roots sunk in. The creature was able to feel him, Dagon's thoughts, senses. Curiosity made it quiet, still, as if concerned that any movement by it would make it all disappear.
Yes, he said it in a language only they could speak and understand. The world had narrowed to just the two of them, their bond, this binding. He felt the tremble of its heartbeat. Dagon's own was frantic and pounding. His breaths were haggard, feeling the pressure constrain around his chest and inside his mind as the binding's final threads entwined together. He winced at the pain behind his eyes, feeling the creature's presence. Its eyes were using his. He urged it back, back through the newly formed door, inside his mind's eye. The seventh slotted into place, completing the binding.
We are one. They breathed, becoming familiar with each other. He slipped out of it after a few passing heartbeats, giving him its freedom, but the door remained. It would remain until the end, either his or the creature's. He gave thanks to Him. For His continued blessings and for the gift itself. However, he knew it wasn't just words or prayers the Drowned God needed, deserved, and Dagon planned for those as well. "Let him out."
"Him?" Irwyn asked.
"Out?" Muldoon gaped.
"Yes," Dagon answered both their questions.
It took a pair of thralls to pry loose the crate. It was hard work that was made slower since they stopped each time the creature slashed against it. "Back," he ordered, knowing the creature's thoughts. They obeyed, hurrying backwards just as the creature broke through. It let out a deep, triumphant caw before taking off, not even glancing at any of them. It was faster than he realized. Bursting free as quickly as a loosened arrow. It sprinted, for the first time in weeks, it was free to move, to run, and Dagon let it. His tether to it was endless, his hold unbreakable.
"Magnificent," Irwyn clapped his hands. "What do you think?" He asked, "seven, eight feet when he stood straight?"
Dagon nodded, half listening, as he was both with Irwyn and with the creature. A mesh of sounds passing through him. He let the creature know his presence with a gentle tug, guiding him back towards them. Its resistance was a chitter of protest before it heeded him, understanding the importance of them. The great animal loped towards them and as it came closer, those around him began to panic, whispering nervously and squirming.
Irwyn had been right. He was seven feet tall, maybe more when he raised his head. It was lowered now, bobbing it, taking them in with the same curiosity they viewed it. From snout to tail, Dagon guessed, he had to be eight feet, maybe more. It let loose a hiss as it neared, showing off a mouthful of sharp teeth. A warning caw followed when one of the thralls stumbled backwards.
Dagon's control remained, bringing it forward as if it had been cinched with rope.
He noticed a jagged scar just above its right hind leg. A wound, he knew, but not by what, but Dagon would learn of it and everything soon enough. "He's hungry," He told Muldoon, "Bring him a goat." He then turned to Irwyn, "There was a broken valyrian word for it, wasn't there?"
It still needed a name. He needed a name. On thinking of his heroes, he thought of one of his favorites. It passed between them in the blink of an eye. Their bond made him understand the importance of one, and he accepted his new name-Alyn.
"Ahem, yes, yes there was," Irwyn cleared his throat after taking in the creature's sickle-shaped claws on its feet. "From one of the scrolls dating back to one of the Valryian colonies on Sothoryos." It was close enough for them to touch, towering over them. "They called it-raptor."
Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:
Ramsay's thralls are references to several members of the Rolling Stones. Mickon= Mick Jagger, Richards= Keith Richards, Ronnel= Ronnie Wood, Bryen=Brian Jones.
The thrall Muldoon is in honor of the Jurassic Park character Robert Muldoon, the park's warden.
The walking lizard/raptor is named Alyn after Sam Neil's character in the Jurassic Park series, Dr. Alan Grant. (In verse Dagon named him Alyn, after Alyn Oakenfist one of his idols.)
A/N: Did I just give Dagon a dinosaur? Yes, yes, I did. This story is way past jumping the shark. I snuck in the raptor term and gave a bs reason for it, because I wasn't gonna call it 'a walking lizard' for the whole story. I made it larger too because this is Planetos where everything is bigger. In regard to its name, it was too amusing for me not to use. Perhaps, too meta, but such is life.
This was supposed to be just a Dagon's chapter, but the Ramsay scene popped into my head. I thought it would make a fun preview/intro before we got to the reveal, to hopefully build some mystery/intrigue at what had done it. The scene is plainly inspired by Dracula and Jurassic Park: The Lost World. So shout out to Bram Stoker, Steven Spielberg, Micheal Crichton.
The whole binding concept with the scene between him and the raptor was my poor attempt at trying to write/add some dynamic/elements into skinchanging. Totally AU, with no base in the lore, but thought it would be fun to see some new wrinkles for it.
I apologize for the clumsy exposition in this chapter. Dagon's past with Dorne was always intended and planned. It was just hard to find a place to introduce it since we're mostly in Dany's head and she's completely ignorant of it. I already had to push it back once or twice already. And that was probably my mistake, but like I've said before I'm writing/tackling this story differently.
Anything that looks wrong or is wrong is likely done on purpose. Or things that just seem odd, like anything to do with the raptor on boats or in boxes. There's no need to bring it up. This isn't that kind of story.
Thanks for the support,
-Spectre4hire