Veron IX
The very stones of Old Wyk seemed to echo with the reverberations of the sea. House Drumm's seat loomed large in the foreground, sporting three curtain walls that were each higher than the previous. Situated in the midst of the fortifications was the lord's high hall, its great roof (meant to resemble an overturned longship) sat, looking akin to a helpless beached whale.
Laying siege to the Drumm's seat required the largest concentration of forces yet assembled in the Isles by their new Regent, and Ser Hobert had demanded that his new erstwhile vassals each provide a contingent of levied smallfolk to both build siege lines and man them. As many of the lords of the Isles were under ten name days, many of the former leading houses were represented by distant male relatives of their rulers, forming a host that was thoroughly unfamiliar to Veron. I do not recognize the faces of these men. These are new hosts, and new faces. Too few remain of those that sailed under my brother. These men are those who were too old, or too young, to reave when we left. They have suffered two humiliations: they had no chance to prove themselves under the Red Kraken, and having now come of age they serve at the Lord Regent's pleasure.
The siege lines that had been thrown up were minimalist in nature, as there was no expectation of a protracted siege. The primary motivation for their construction had been to pin the remaining Drumm forces in place while the Lady Constable finished arranging the capitulation of the Stonehouses and the Goodbrothers of Shatterstone. Per the Lord Regent's word, the Stonehouses had surrendered without issue, having begged for the life of their current lord, a boy of three. His mother had offered to take a greenlander as husband and regent for her son and accept a garrison of knights as insurance of her capitulation.
The Goodbrothers of Shatterstone had puffed their chests and sworn that they would die ablaze; swords in hand and prayers to the Drowned God on their lips. Their lord had indeed supposedly fulfilled this promise, dying upon the ramparts with his bravest men as they fired whatever projectiles they could at the great brown monstrosity that descended upon them. The rest of his line must have realized shortly thereafter that a glorious death by burning was not all it was promised to be, however, as when the roof of the lord's castle caught alight the bells were rung in surrender.
Whispers in the camp were that Ser Hobert was being pressured to strip the Shatterstone line of their seat and grant it to one of his greenlander commanders for their leal service, and Veron suspected that he would agree to do so. Several houses who had resolved to resist had their fates hanging in the balance; Lady Harlaw of Harlaw Hall, a girl of eighteen name days, was the talk of the camp currently, as her father and brother had burned off of Fair Isle, leaving her the most desirable heiress in the Isles. It had recently been announced that the son of Ser Erwin Lannister would be taking her to wife, and that House Harlaw's lands and incomes would thereafter be granted to a cadet branch of lions that would spring from their marriage. Such developments had of course inflamed resentments amongst the proudest of the Ironborn; Veron had been forced to endure many a family dinner with his uncles in which treasonous words flowed like wine.
In his own mind, Veron was rather surprised that the punishment had not been harsher. When they last spoke, Torgon had been convinced that the Lord Regent was loathe to strip too many houses of their patrimonies, for fear that the occupation would lose any local support it may have garnered. Regardless, Veron was certain that the Lords of the West would surely have put every man over ten to the sword if they had been given command of the occupation. In the end, the number of Ironborn houses actually toppled in favor of the Greenlanders remained low. Only the Harlaws and the Merlyns (who had had their male line extinguished in the twin disasters of Crakehall and Fair Isle) had actually been supplanted, by Lannisters and Costayne respectively. Ser Leo Costayne ruled the eastern portion of Great Wyk with an iron fist, and was reported to be extremely zealous in his freeing of former thralls, earning him their adulation.
Sitting amongst his men, Veron was startled out of his ruminations by a deep rumbling that sounded across the hills of Old Wyk, echoing off of the walls of the Drumm seat and amongst the trench lines. Sheepstealer burst from the clouds, sounding a roar that resembled a flurry of drums and the scraping of rock on rock. From its maw poured forth a long gout of flame, lighting the rainy evening skies with unholy light. The great beast circled the seat of the Drumms. Veron could hear the shouting and screaming from within, and his eyes narrowed, watching the gatehouse towers that possessed great bells normally utilized to herald the coming and going of important visitors. Sheepstealer circled, once, twice and finally thrice. No sound. Veron closed his eyes, knowing what was to come next. The great beast roared once more, urged on by its rider, descending in ever narrowing circles towards the great keep. The trenches grew silent as several thousand men gathered to watch the death of an ancient house. Then the bells began to ring. As the great beast descended like a hellish bird of prey, gatehouse after gatehouse joined the frantic ringing, begging for the lives of those within the walls. Soon after, the gates themselves were thrown open. The Sheepstealer ended its deathly descent at the final moment, gliding over the assembled men in the fields beyond to land.
—
Mud squelched underfoot as Veron and Merrick led his men towards the first of the gatehouses. The Bone Hand of the Drumms, its blood red background still visible, lay before them, thrown from the battlements above haphazardly. Men had gathered just inside the opening from the Drumm garrison, and were already stacking their spears and blades in ever-growing piles. One spear remained apart from the rest, sporting a newly severed head, its bulging eyes seemingly widened in surprise even after the Drowned God had claimed its owner. Veron palmed his pommel absentmindedly as they strode into the first ring of fortifications, eyeing the various stables and forges that dotted the yard.
"Lord Drumm, I presume?" The words flowed forth in a wry tone.
The bearer of Lord Drumm's head spit sourleaf into the muck. "Aye. It were. But he wanted to burn, and we didn't."
Undoing the straps of his helm, Veron pulled the tentacled mass of steel from his head. "The last that I heard, Old Wyk was running with the blood of every Drumm who sought to win the succession. Was this the victor of that bloodfest?"
The former guardsman eyed his deceased liege with a healthy amount of spite. "Yes, m'lord. He put several cousins and one brother to the axe to succeed the old lord Hilmar." Hacking up a phlegmy cough, he added: "in the end it didn't do him no good."
Veron crossed the distance between them, gesturing for the spear. The guardsman offered it, and Veron gingerly plucked the former lord Drumm's head from the spearpoint, cradling it in his armored arms. Turning to Merrick, he spoke.
"See to it that the garrison is fully disarmed and that all resistance is handled, if any remains."
His men nodded and began to disperse, herding Drumm guardsmen into a nearby stable until a verdict could be reached on their fate. Blacktyde and Saltcliffe men entered next, led by a grim-faced Lord Saltcliffe.
Veron eyed him. "Lord Dagmar, may I entrust the seizure of the keep to you? I plan to take Lord Drumm to pay obeisance to the Lord Regent."
Lord Dagmar, seemingly called from his ruminations by Veron's words, nodded. "Aye, Veron. I can see to that."
Retracing his steps out of the fortifications, Veron crossed the trampled grass fields that stretched between the curtain walls and the siege lines. Greenlander mercenaries and men-at-arms had already begun cracking open long-held casks of ale and wine (depending on their station) and were toasting the fall of the final house in rebellion against the Crown. Still cradling Lord Drumm, Veron accepted a mug of frothing ale from a man-at-arms who sported the Hightower upon his breast. Sipping at it slowly, he supposed that the day's events had been a momentous sort. From the moment that the Princess Rhaenyra's missives reached my brother and I, until this moment now, the Dragon's realm has been torn asunder. Whilst the Greenlanders set aside their swords moons ago, the Isles may finally be allowed to sheathe their own. Our shame and humiliation at the hands of the dragons is a heavy, but acceptable price to pay for our lives and our kin. Veron was relieved that his nephew Toron had a seat remaining to him, and while his patrimony paled in comparison to that of his forebears, the Greyjoys had survived far worse in the ancient past, always rising again, harder and stronger. If we could outlive the Greyirons and the Hoares, as bloodsoaked and as unstoppable as they once were, we can survive the dragons.
The siege lines gave way to tents and pavilions, with wooden planks between them to serve as basic roadways in the midst of the ever-present muck. Making his way through each, Veron eventually found his way to the grandest pavilion of all, a great grey and pearl structure that sported sewn lighthouses upon its entry flaps. The guards at the entrance permitted him entry, eyeing the former Lord Drumm with a mixture of disgust and derision.
Within, a gathering of the Regency's commanders had already begun. Ser Hobert, attended by servants and knights in Hightower livery, sat at the head of the long table, with his second Ser Erwin Lannister to his right. Ser Erwin still wore his blood-red plate, its pauldrons sporting roaring lions crafted from gold. Ser Maric Massey sat to Ser Hobert's left, eyeing a map of Old Wyk. The spirals of his house danced in a bright array upon his doublet. Other lords, including Lord Mallister and the brothers Tully had also arranged themselves around the table, with their number completed by Lords of the Westerlands. As Veron entered, the assembly's eyes fell on him. The suspicion, ambivalence, and hostility was palpable in equal measures. Veron knew better than to ask for a seat at the table, so he instead found an empty brazier to place Lord Drumm's head within.
"My Lord Regent, Lord Drumm was slain by his own garrison after refusing to yield his seat. I have brought his mortal remains as proof of his death. Even now, the Ironborn already sworn to your service are securing the keep and environs. I charged Lord Dagmar Saltcliffe with overseeing the process."
Ser Hobert remained quiet for a moment, casting his tired eyes towards the head of Lord Drumm with a barely concealed revulsion.
"Master Veron, we thank you for your service, and your report. I plan to dispatch Ser Maric and his men to secure the seat in the aftermath of its fall; it is far too strong a redoubt to be allowed to remain unoccupied, even if for a short while."
Raising a wooden cup of mint water to his lips, the Hightower knight shifted his form, clearly feeling the conversation was at an end.
Ser Erwin Lannister was unwilling to countenance such a prospect, however. "My Lord Regent, the matter of the garrison remains. We know from multiple sources that its number is composed of men not only sworn to Lord Drumm, but those who traveled from across the Isles in search of Lords still willing to raise the banner of rebellion. Killing their liege in cold blood does not absolve them of their own treasons. I would strongly suggest that we have them put to the sword, or otherwise hang them from the walls. There may be as many as a thousand men who were under arms within the Drumm's seat."
Ser Hobert plaintively cast his eyes about the tent, but clearly did not find the dissent that he hoped to see.
"Peace, Ser Erwin. The King has charged us to bring his peace to this corner of the Realm. I do not believe the hangman's noose or the headsman's ax will compel them any further towards obeisance. We have shown them the Warrior's ire, can we not now show them the Father's stern mercy?"
To Veron's mind, Ser Erwin had adopted a visage of calculated neutrality the moment Hobert had begun to speak. Veron knew the look well from his own past, as he had been forced to adopt it on many occasions when counseling his brother. Ser Erwin glanced firmly at the aged Lord Westerling, who coughed in acknowledgement and emptied his glass of wine before speaking.
"My Lord Regent, the realities of the Father's mercy, as you so beautifully described it, are what concern me. Showing these men mercy would mean allowing them to take the Black, and I am not certain that we can trust them to not seize the ships that would carry them there to resume their reaving the moment that they are free of our grasp."
Ser Hobert sipped at his cup, his eyes widening at the prospect. "My Lords, I will need to give this matter more thought before I can offer a final verdict. The lives of these men, criminal or otherwise, cannot be so callously judged. Please see to it that they are placed in the constructed stockade until tomorrow morn."
With his final words, Ser Hobert rose, calling an end to the council. Each of his attending Lords and knights rose in response, bowing in assent to his words, though Veron could not help but notice that Ser Erwin did so with narrowed eyes and reddened brow.
As Ser Hobert strode from the tent, he gripped Veron's shoulder with a light grasp that betrayed his age. "Master Veron, I would ask your counsel on these matters. I feel that as Regent I must pay some heed to the voices of the Isles themselves. Please attend me."
Outside the tent, the Lord Regent mounted a splendid white palfrey with the aid of an attendant Hightower knight. Following a gesture in his direction, Veron mounted another that had been provided (though it was of a less stunning hue) and prepared to ride alongside him and his knights. Veron
As they rode through the camp, men parted to allow them to pass, eyeing them with barely concealed curiosity. It was no common sight to witness the Red Kraken's kin accompanying the Lord Regent anywhere. Veron found himself wishing Torgon was riding alongside him, for his company and glib tongue would have done much to ameliorate the awkward silence with which he and the Lord Regent had found themselves in. I suppose I miss much more than his pleasantries. The campaign has felt cold and lonely in his absence.
Riding onwards, they reached the outskirts of camp, where the great mount of the Lady Constable was feasting upon newly slaughtered sheep. The Lady herself sat near its great maw, a hand upon its scaled jaw, watching it eat in silent repose. Around her stood an odd assemblage of men of various ages. Newly armed and armored, they watched their charge with the kind of reverence typically reserved for holy men. Veron had heard from his men during a night of drinking that the men attending the Lady Nettles were Mountain Clansmen, hailing from the most remote reaches of the Vale of Arryn. Descended from the original First Men that called the mountains home, their peoples had never surrendered to the Andals and their ways, choosing a life of herding and raiding from hidden fortresses in the high peaks and passes. He could not help but feel an odd kinship with such men, though their lives could not be more different or their interests more divergent.
Some of the Ironborn, upon initially seeing them, thought it an affront that these savages carry themselves with such aloofness amongst them, and fights had broken out. The clansmen still wore the ears of the Ironborn foolish enough to bare steel around their necks. A remarkable and effective way of discouraging further violence.
Ser Hobert raised his hand, signaling a halt to their small procession. The horses whickered nervously, their eyes bulging in terror at being made to halt so near the dragon. Uttering some soft words of assurance, Ser Hobert stood slowing in his stirrups and called out.
"My Lady?"
The Lady Constable paid no heed, though Veron suspected it was not out of an effort to intentionally ignore the Lord Regent.
"My Lady!" Ser Hobert cried with greater force.
The girl shifted, eyeing the Lord Regent as though just becoming aware of his presence. Staring at him guardedly from under her helm and dark brown curls, she stood, laying a calming hand on one of her larger clansmen attendants.
"How might I be of service, m'lord?" She called back.
Ser Hobert offered a small, welcoming smile. "Master Greyjoy has agreed to accompany me for a ride to discuss some matters of import. I would very much like to hear your counsel as well, if you can be spared? I would not interrupt the feeding of your mount if it is necessary for you to personally oversee it."
The Lady Nettles cast her eyes about, and Veron had to suppress a wry grin at how obviously uncomfortable she seemed, having been immersed in this unexpected exchange of lordly pleasantries. Speaking a guttural word to her attendants and motioning towards the remaining butchered sheep, she quickly strode to join their party, still wearing her black mail and riding leathers.
Ser Hobert turned to a knight on his right, and spoke a quiet question: "Ser Humbert, would you be so kind?"
The younger knight nodded, and extended a gauntleted hand to the Lady Constable before him. Taking his hand, she mounted his charger. Veron was privately amused to see that she made no effort to ride side-saddle. His own sisters were mightily opposed to the habit, as he recalled. Now fully assembled, their small party spurred their horses onwards, riding across the fields of Old Wyk, past weathered stones and ancient stone sheep pens with their bleating occupants. The soil of Old Wyk had always been sparse, and sandy, necessitating the herding of animals and the growth of fisheries as its primary sources of sustenance. While most famous for Nagga's Bones and its ancient Kingsmoots, Old Wyk was locally just as famous for its well-loved mutton and salted herring.
After riding for what felt near an hour, they paused at a small hamlet, its homes built into the hillside for protection from the brutal sea winds. While the stone of the abodes was weathered and ancient, the stone used to craft the village's newest building was clearly fresh cut, likely imported from Great Wyk. A roughly hewn seven-pointed star was perched atop the structure, and a few candles glowed within. Veron watched as Ser Hobert, a warm smile on his face, dismounted. The Lord Regent offered his hand to the Lady Nettles, assisting the short woman with clamoring off of Ser Humbert's warhorse. Various knights in the party also dismounted, leading the horses to a nearby enclosure where they could be kept and fed.
Ser Hobert turned to the two of them, and motioned for them to follow him and two knights in attendance to the sept. Inside, the smell of candles and freshly cut pine was abundant. Six amateurly crafted icons were positioned in various alcoves of the chapel, each clearly meant to resemble the Greenlander aspects of the faith. A seventh alcove, for the Stranger, featured no carven idol, but still held lit candles. From a darkened side chamber, a man emerged who from his garments was likely the resident man of faith. Ser Hobert spoke a few quiet words with the man, and afterwards he retreated back to his personal chambers. The Lord Regent then knelt before a carven idol of an older man, his hands raised as though speaking a firm command. Making a motion upon his own chest that resembled the drawing of a seven-pointed star, Ser Hobert invited Veron and the Lady Constable to kneel with him as his knights stood guard.
Veron awkwardly knelt next to the much older man, waiting for him to begin speaking, whilst the Lady Nettles did the same, on the opposite side of the Lord Regent. For a few moments, Ser Hobert said little, and simply mouthed wordless prayers to the carven figure before him. Veron could not help but eye the figure, curious as to what power he might feel resonating within the crude creation. It smelt of the forest, and he suspected that it could not be more than a few days old. As he gazed upon it, he removed his helm, placing it before him. The statue was a curious thing, and Veron was not entirely sure why it drew so many to its worship. The Drowned God and his priests forbade artists' attempts at creating his image, so amongst the Ironborn his appearance was a matter of some dispute. But his power could be felt all around them, in the sea, in the air, in the salt on the wind. His worship came easily to Veron, for only fools and the spiteful could reject his offers of aid when the Storm God threatened to sink their ship, sending them to the early embrace of their God. It was said that no man could remain godless when the sea itself unveiled its wrath whilst you sailed upon it, and even the bravest men could be reduced to terror. Knowing that their god welcomed them beneath the raging depths was a comfort.
Veron knew little of the Greenlander gods, but to him they seemed to be simple imitations of their followers. Warriors, smiths, lords and ladies; all could be found throughout the Greenlands. What could possibly make them worthy of worship?
Ser Hobert finally drew a shaky breath, signaling an end to his prayers. "Master Veron, you were privy to the conversation between my commanders and I earlier. What I am eager to hear from you is what you make of their words? Do you believe that these men would slay their captors and return to the crimes that they once perpetrated, if they sensed the opportunity? Or do you believe that they would hold true to their vows to join the Watch, if given the chance to do so?"
Veron brought his hands upwards to rest upon the dais the statue stood upon. "My Lord Regent, I cannot say for certain. I have known men in my life who would take such vows most seriously, and men who would sooner spit upon them. I cannot give you my word that the entirety of these men would follow one course or the other."
An odd look crossed Hobert's face. "Your words carry truth, Veron. I have known men of both varieties as well." He paused, searching the statue for answers that it seemed reluctant to give. "I had a kinsman, not so long ago, that believed that men were immutable. He felt that once a man's true heart and intentions were revealed, there was no hope to change them. He believed that treasonous minds would always remain treasonous. That support for the Pretender would always lurk within them, long after they had bent the knee to the rightful king. He oft said that such men should be put to the sword, that they should not be allowed to trouble us any longer." He then turned to the Lady Constable. "Yet if Lord Ormund was correct, then I have chosen to surround myself with those very sorts." A wan smile spread across his face. "Or perhaps, the two of you find yourselves in traitorous company instead."
The Lady Nettles glanced at the Lord Regent, eyeing him with a queer expression. "Mayhaps those men will be the sorts to turn their cloaks, m'lord. But mayhaps they won't. We won't ever know what sorts they are if we hang the lot of them." She bit her lip, clearly wishing to say more. "I'm…" The woman blinked beneath her mane of curls. "I'm tired of killing, m'lord. I've been burning men since the Prince Jacaerys, rest his soul, called me to his side." Rubbing vigorously across her eyes, she ended with a whisper: "T'werent many a night this moon that I haven't woken with the smell o'smoke in my nose and the sound o' screams in my ears. I'm not a praying woman, but I prayed I wouldn't have to burn those men today."
Veron had listened intently as the Lady Nettles spoke, and he watched as the shoulders of the Lord Regent sagged at her words. The old man reached gingerly for her hands, taking them into his own with the most gentle of grasps. "It seems that the Seven granted your request, my Lady. They have granted a few of my own these past few moons, mercies small and large. I have thanked them for each and every prayer answered." Ser Hobert coughed, a ragged sound. "I know well of the sins of killing. I think… I think I would be so bold as to say we all know those sins far too intimately."
Veron felt his chest constrict, and his ears pulsed with rushing blood. When he closed his eyes, the sightless eyes of the dead watched him, as they always did when he lacked the drink to banish them. "Aye, my Lord. I know that sin well. I know a darker one still. I know the joy of killing, the power it makes me feel, the way it makes the world seem simpler." He sighed, allowing the panic to subside. "But I am trying, trying very hard, to not drink of that cup any longer. My brother's son needs me, and you were kind enough to spare me. I'd lay my blade aside for the rest of my days if it meant my sisters and nephew would be spared the cruelties I once wrought with mine own hands." His hand had begun its tremors, and he clenched his fist to force them to subside. He wasn't sure why these two strangers made him feel he could speak freely, but he felt he could nonetheless. "I think something within me is broken, my Lord. I think something in my brother was broken as well. But when I look at my nephew, I pray that I can keep whatever it is that is broken in me whole in him." Veron stood, eyeing them both. The candle smoke was making his eyes water, and he desperately needed the sea breeze on his face. "My Lord, don't kill those men. Afford them the same chance I was granted, for I can say with certainty that I have done more ill than all of their number combined."
As Veron left the sept, he felt them watch him all of the way.
—
Pyke's curtain wall rose before him as he and his men marched up the hill towards the gate house. The castle itself loomed even larger behind it, like daggers thrust towards the sky. As the gates were opened for them, he gave his weary men the opportunity to disperse amongst the various barracks along the muddy path towards the Great Keep. Crossing the stone bridge to the Great Keep a few moments later, the guards open the doors for him, allowing him passage through the various antechambers until he finally reached the Great Hall. Though it was largely deserted, Veron smiled as he saw Toron sitting upon the Seastone Chair, a serving woman spooning him bites of honeyed porridge. His favorite. His mood improved, Veron wondered how Torgon's pacification of Blacktyde fared. I must send a raven to inquire.
"What news from Old Wyk, nephew?" His uncle Vickon spoke from the stairs as he descended with his brother Rodrick.
"Houses Drumm, Stonehouse, and Goodbrother of Shatterstone have all capitulated. The Lord Regent has allowed the Drumm garrison an opportunity to take the Black. Only a handful chose the headsman's ax instead. The knight of House Massey has been granted the Drumm's seat to garrison as its new lordling is a boy of six months."
Vickon nodded gravely. "It is over, then. The capitulation of the Isles is complete. Praise be to the Drowned God that your honored brother did not live to see this moment."
Veron bit back a retort. "It is well that Dalton did not. But he feasts with the Drowned God in his Halls as we speak. He concerns himself with the world of the living no longer."
Stepping onto the dais of the Seastone Chair, Veron picked Toron up and took him into his lap. Motioning for the serving woman to follow, he took a seat at the nearest great feasting table and began to feed his giggling nephew himself, his back to his uncles.
As he fed the child, he spoke. "Uncles, you must forgive me, as I grow weary from campaigning and seek the solace only the Lord Reaper of Pyke can provide with his infectious love of porridge. If there is nothing else?"
Vickon crossed the hall, sitting across from him at the great table. "I would not begrudge you your nephew, nephew. But we few that remain must soon turn to the fate of the Isles themselves. I fear that we stand upon a great precipice; a knife's edge that upon which our people dance. We cannot afford to let our honored dead and Great God go unheeded for much longer."
Veron frowned. Placing his nephew next to him, and the bowel of porridge before him, he turned to Vickon, exasperated words beginning to hiss from his lips. They were not given the opportunity to fully form, however, as a great weight struck him across the back of his head, sending him sprawling face first into the table. Launching himself upwards to retaliate, massive hands shoved him back down, as another blow fell upon his head. He blinked almost lazily as a third blow fell, this time going nearly unfelt. His vision began to grow red. I am bleeding, he thought, detached.
Vickon watched him with pitiless eyes of onyx, whilst Toron shrieked in only the way a terrified child could. His words rang as though they were spoken from very far away. "It is a bitter shame that you refused to be a savior of our people, Veron. You have betrayed your family, your name, and your brother with this most shameful of capitulations. Our House will do well to forget your cowardice."
His uncle's eyes turned to those who must have stood behind him. "Cast him from the final bridge of the Sea Tower, and make certain to tie an empty wine flagon from his wrist. Let the fishermen find what remains of him in tomorrow's catch."
A final blow fell upon Veron's head with a sickening crack, but he was already far away.
Torgon…