= Chapter 25 =
The city was unimpressive. Huge, snow-white arches, stucco that represented the figures of mating beauties and men, a huge port with hundreds of ships on the wharves, whose sails were distinguished by bright, motley colours - white, red or black.
The Great Palace, a monumental work of Valyrian architects, towered above the city and attracted the gaze of everyone who came to the island settlement.
Beautiful, lush and fragrant gardens, entertainment venues, or perhaps gambling houses? Fox could boast of many amusements, of all kinds and perversions. And its inhabitants, more than any other, were the blood of Ancient Valyria - most of the townsfolk Theon had met were silver-haired men and women.
But Greyjoy's city-bordello didn't make his eyes go wide with surprise, or anything of the sort that many travellers and foreigners suffer from. He had never been to Lys, but he had seen cities far more majestic than this one. A long time ago, and not in this life.
'Ten or fifteen years from now, I won't even remember my old face. A beautiful city to many, but in a thousand years the island will be swallowed up by the sea's haze. Why admire what is not eternal and fleeting?
- Mentor,' Quor smiled, tall and black-haired. Rich black velvet, high leather boots, and a thin hat with two blue-red feathers protecting him from the sun's rays.
The Evil Sword's hand came in contact with Greyjoy's, and Quor jumped in surprise when he felt the moisture on his palms.
The thin thread of lips on Greyjoy's cold face parted in a hard smile. Quor blinked. With each new encounter, his mentor began to frighten him more and more. And today was no exception.
- How did Master Moredo's venture go? - He asked his apprentice.
- Bloody and overnight. Now the Meigaris' men are everywhere in the city, and Lys himself has become his plaything, despite the false confidence of the Saans and Drahars.
- A tyrant, then. A tyrant of Lys,' Greyjoy said, as if to himself, 'or a dictator? A ruler?
They continued on their way. Quor showed off his new ship, a huge four-decked vessel, wrested from unknown Westerosi whose identity had not yet been determined.
- There's no need to guess whose warship it used to be,' Theon grinned, 'the Hightowers. They're your personal enemy now, apprentice. They won't forget something like that.
'Perhaps it's not even the theft of the ship that's at play here, but personal revenge. One of the Traitor's descendants could have been on such a ship.'
- Hightowers,' Quor muttered, 'I'll be afraid of them!
- They're rich, they can raise the largest army in the Expanse of ten to twelve thousand lances, and the city they rule is one of the centres of trade in the Sunset Sea, of faith in the Seven, and of scholarly peace. Are you not impressed?
- I can hear the mockery in your words.
Theon remained silent as they continued their march through the city streets of Lys. They were on their way to the Great Palace to negotiate with Moredo Maegaris. The Magister was eager to see the Sorcerer of Pyke in person, and Theon was eager to seal certain treaties and sail on to King's Landing.
- To a certain extent... it really is a mockery.
The wide streets of the city had long since been cleared of corpses and numerous stains with pools of blood. But there was an atmosphere hovering in Lyssa, heavy, thickened. Theon felt it with every fibre of his being. Fear and uncertainty. People were peering out of the narrow windows, looking out for strange foreigners with kraken crests. They were on foot.
-Where will you go next, after the Fox? - Greyjoy asked, surrounded by a couple of dozen Iron Guards.
- The Summer Isles. And then home, perhaps-' he said the next words with difficulty-'to the Lone Light.
- And what have you forgotten there, apprentice? - Lord Pyke asked a new question, having already guessed Quor's intention.
- A friend.
- A friend? - Theon squinted, 'You shouldn't be doing such foolish things. Even if Erich is dead, you won't find his remains in the Sunset Sea.
- He and I have been through a lot,' Quor said honestly, 'and even if my attempts are fruitless, I can't just let it go.
- No,' Theon said flatly, 'you will not sail to the far West. You belong with me. After the Summer Isles, sail for King's Landing. Perhaps you will take a place there as one of the captains in the King's service.
- Me?' said the Evil Sword, 'I'd make a royal captain like a sword out of wood. And when have pirates ever served kings?
Theon smiled at the naivety of this aspect of Quor. Service to the king and piracy often went side by side in his past world. This one is not much different.
- You'll make a good captain, but I'm not sure you'll last. The King's favour is a rare thing and too short-lived. Today he wants Greyjoy as Master of the Ships, tomorrow he wants Manderly or Redwyne.
Soon enough they reached the palace steps, where they were received by Master Maegaris's servants in long, silken dressing gowns and strange hairstyles. It was the first time Theon had ever seen such a thing. Apparently necessary for one's status and role.
Master Moredo, with whom Greyjoy had long correspondence and shared plans, was a fat man with faded silver hair and a cloudy, expressionless gaze. The face showed joy and complacency, but Theon saw right through this man.
They were of the same breed and essence.
- Lord Reaper Greyjoy,' the Magister greeted his ally and guest in high Valyrian, 'it is a pleasure to meet you for the first time! Today is a special day, don't you notice? The Red Priests have foretold me great fortune, and I see that fortune in you!
'The Red Priests...' - was an unpleasant thought. They were worth staying away from. Who knows what the servants of the Lord of Light will think when they see and know what Greyjoy is like?
- Thank you,' Greyjoy said dryly, sitting down at one of the small sofas. It was uncomfortable, too soft and relaxing. Well, the Magister knows how to welcome guests.
One of the Lethnian slave boys handed Theon a glass goblet filled with Dornish wine. Dorne wine was a favourite in Lys.
-Oh, no! You are my greatest benefactor on the other side of the South Sea! - exclaimed the Magister with false gratitude in his voice.
'And the only one.'
Their alliance was not based on dynastic marriage or kinship. It was based on profit, both commercially and politically. While the Lissenians were developing the Summer Isles and keeping the other two Sisters away from the Evergreen Archipelago, the Ironborn were confidently subjugating the Summer Islanders on the other side and helping Lys in case of clashes with other Free Cities.
And as long as both sides benefited from it, they were ready to kiss each other, not to sing praises. But it could all come to an end at any moment. One only needed to seize the moment in time... and find a new ally in case anything happened.
'How about Volantis? Or Tyrosh?'
-I see the city is still reeling from the punishment of... traitors? - Theon asked, wanting to change the subject.
Master Meigaris waved one hand languidly and lazily, 'There's nothing to worry about.
- The time would come and Lys would accept that night. She was essential to the prosperity of our city!
Confidence. How many tyrants and lords were sure of the rightness of their actions, slaughtering entire countries and peoples?
Theon didn't care about such things. He had no need for unnecessary moral turmoil. It was bad for his plans.
- What do you think of the city, my lord? - Moredo smiled obsequiously. Greyjoy had to stretch his lips. So far it had been poorly done, but by King's Landing, he would likely feel much better. The dreams didn't bother Greyjoy as much anymore...got used to it.
- Deserves his rank,' Theon smiled. And let Moredo wonder if it was the title of a boarding city or an island paradise.
The Magister huffed at the heavy gaze of his ally. From the very beginning of the meeting, the Lord of the Iron Islands had been itchy and apprehensive. The itch in his hands and feet always appeared at moments when Maegaris was in danger of death or other unpleasantness. The past as captain of a small mercenary campaign was telling.
Numerous letters, treaties and communication through envoys... Meigaris was once again convinced that written words cannot convey the true essence of a man. One must see and understand. And Moredo realised that before him sat... something terrible.
Was it even human? And why did it feel so slimy and cold sweat ran down his back.
- I'm glad to hear that,' the Master said, and I heard a note of uncertainty in his voice. He wanted to cringe, but Mored had been saved by years of ruling and backstabbing.
They had negotiated old treaties and made new ones. Ironborn merchants were now allowed to dock duty-free in Lissenian harbour and trade in the city's squares - but only those who carried the Greyjoy crests. Maegaris learned that Lord Pyke was travelling to King's Landing at the royal invitation and wished him all the luck in his role as Master of the Ships.
Lastly, the Master enjoyed his guest with a small feast in his honour. A host of dancers in translucent robes savoured the gaze of Maegaris and Greyjoy's men. Theon, with inner irritation, tried to find something spicy or salty to eat with his trident fork. Lord Pyke paid no attention to the girls.
- Are you indifferent to women's bodies and pleasures? - Meigaris wondered, having the audacity to ask. But it was too strange such apparent coldness to the beautiful Lissenian dancers. No one in his memory had ever looked at them with such pale, fish-like eyes.
- I am a married man,' Greyjoy reminded him, 'and I don't need concubines or whores.
The Magister sitting beside the Lord of the Isles flinched as he looked at him again. There was that feeling again, as if long tentacles were entangling you and tickling your nerves with slimy limbs...
Meigaris made a mental note not to give any new slave dancers. It was unknown what had happened to the previous gift, but it was doubtful that Lord Paika had used it for its intended purpose. It wasn't upsetting, but the magister wanted to give a gift that would be used.
The next day, Greyjoy was leaving Lys, having done all his business in that city. The Magister gave a gift of a dragon bone bow as a parting gift to commemorate Theon's first nickname.
Theon the Archer. How long had it been since he'd heard it from human lips? Sorcerer of Pyke, that's what Theon was now called. And more recently, he had a new nickname attached to him.
Wet Hands. Or Wet Hands.
He thanked the Master for the unusual and exotic gift. He had many bows made of many different materials - Pike's armoury held at least five hundred of them made of goldilocks. But he'd never held one made of dragon bone before.
Black, flexible and strong, a dragon bone bow was rumoured to hit farther than even a Summoner's bow made of goldilocks. There were plenty of dragon remains in the world, but bows weren't made from them as often as, say, common things. And what Theon held, he could safely sell somewhere in Pentos or Braavos for four hundred or even five hundred gold dragons. A fortune by the standards of this world. And a twentieth of the taxes on the sister island.
- You have a second ship left. 'The Raven's Abode, if I remember correctly. Have you decided to sell it here? - Theon asked his apprentice before leaving Lys.
No longer a boy, the man smiled.
- 'No, mentor. I think I'll hire some more men, appoint one of my loyal men to captain the ship. My XO, for instance. I've got enough money and no problems with weapons or raid targets.
- Your new ship is too big to raid. Anyone who wants it will spot it from afar, Quor. Better sell it and buy a second rook or a small galleyship,' Greyjoy advised. Theon had no intention of violating his right to a trophy, but maybe he could buy a four-decked ship. Greyjoy could use one, and the shipwrights would have plenty of time to explore.
Quor smiled again, but wryly, seeing Theon's intentions.
- No, Master, I will not give this giant to anyone! And as for raids... there's always the Raven's Abode. And maybe by the end of this year or the beginning of the next, I'll have a new order for Lordport's shipwrights.
Greyjoy answered nothing. So be it. Maybe in the future, Quor will gain enough power in his hands to become something more than a free captain in the service of the Greyjoy family.
Perhaps... a lord? Scabbard would be pleased with his offspring's success for sure.
-Don't forget my request,' Theon reminded him, 'I'm waiting for you in King's Landing.
Quor nodded, and without another word, Greyjoy strode down the gangway to the Iron Hammer. A few hours later, the domed outline of the city was out of sight, and they were on the open sea. Not for long.
Theon had seen ships without crests on several occasions, an obvious trait of the local pirates. But they were afraid to touch Greyjoy ships, especially the Iron Hammer.
They also encountered a Dornish naval patrol, which they crossed paths with quite closely. The captain of one of the Dornish galleys and commander of the patrol, a swarthy-skinned, swarthy Dornean named Arron Faded, jumped deftly onto the Ironborn vessel and greeted Theon with a short bow.
- My Lord Greyjoy! - Arron said respectfully, 'In the southern seas, the Dornish are always pleased to see friends of House Martell.
Greyjoy received his guest warmly in his quarters. After a brief conversation, Theon understood why the Dornish had chosen to stay with him.
- Prince Doran died a week ago, just the day before we set out on our patrol, my lord,' the Dornish captain said, 'died of gout. May the Seven bless him. It's a long time since our land was ruled by such a wise and patient ruler.
- Patience is considered a weakness by many,' Greyjoy said, sliding a plate of sliced oranges over to him.
- The nobles, yes, but the commoners, of which I am one, think the opposite. Many of the women and old men still praise Prince Doran for not going to war against Robert Baratheon after Queen Elia was killed.
The Captain bade him farewell, travelling north to the Steps. And Greyjoy himself changed course westwards, towards the Boardwalk City. The death of an old serpent was not an event that would pass without a trace.
Theon realised that the political situation in Dorne would change drastically, and he had to make sure that the old trade treaties would remain in force. And he also needed to get a better idea of the new ruler of Dorne, Arianna Martell.
'What bad timing. Doran Martell's death, the king's unexpected invitation to the post of Master of the Ships... the first brings problems, the second is not worth refusing at the moment. If the King is not offended, and at the moment it is not worth pissing off a dragon when a kraken is exploring the Summer Isles.'
The two ironborn ships arrived in the Boardwalk City two days after the meeting with Arron the Faded. The city hadn't changed a bit - still the same dozens of wharves and wooden bridges connecting the settlement on the water. Wooden shacks mixed with decent houses with elaborate carvings on doors and walls.
- M'lord,' said one of Theon's informants, a long-time resident of Boardwalk Town who had taken delicate ways to reach the tavern where Greyjoy was staying for half the day, 'Prince Doran died a week and a half ago, and his funeral has already taken place. There is word that immediately after Lord Martell's death, his son Quentin left Sunspear with his retinue and his wife, Lady Gwyneth Ironwood.
- Any word on where he's headed? - Theon asked in a quiet voice, leaning close to his ear. The Ironborn filling the ground floor of the inn were careful to pretend the spy did not exist. The man had hidden his face before entering the building with a deep hood and mask, despite the heat.
- Prince Quentin was seen moving across Greenblood, towards the west.
'Ironwood. He's heading for his wife's house. Is there really something going on in Dorne?'.
Greyjoy felt mildly irritated. There was no shortage of civil war in Dorne. The supply of lemons he needed would be lost, and he'd have to negotiate with the Volantians, taking them at triple the price. Not to mention the fact that the Boardwalk City will no longer be safe for the Ironborn.
It remains to be seen how the old serpent's eldest daughter feels about it.
A year ago, he ordered Lord Captain Sauron to begin planting lemon trees in Gotland. Surprisingly, there were no such trees in the Evergreen Archipelago. Lord Pyke had decided to remedy this deficiency, but sufficient fruit for the Iron Fleet would be supplied in at least ten to fifteen years. Perhaps eight.
They headed for Sunspear closer to evening, when it would be cooler. With the onset of Summer, Dorne was no hotter than Lys or the other southern Free Cities. By nightfall, or perhaps morning, they would arrive.
After buying back the camels, leaving half the crew in the Boardwalk Town, Theon set off for the castle. They stopped several times at oases, to water the exotic animals and quench their own thirst. Had they gone in the daytime, they would have died from the heat and the eternal sands.
Sitting on a camel was unusual. But Greyjoy managed it, though the animal occasionally stirred strangely.
'Afraid. Feels and understands who sits on it.'
They saw other caravans of men on camels or horses with many banners. The golden brush of the Allirions, lords of the God's Gift, the black vulture carrying away the infant Blackmoths, one of whose representatives was the legendary Vulture King, the scorpions of the Quargils, the shooting star of the Daines, and many, many others. All the nobles of Dorne were on their way to the Sunspear to honour the old prince and swear oaths to the new princess.
Greyjoy looked too foreign with his golden kraken on a black field.
The Sunspear had not changed. The Tower of the Sun, made of crystal and topped by a huge gilded dome, stood as it had almost ten years ago. Next door was the Tower of the Spear, the tallest, forty-five metres tall, ending in a spire in the shape of a steel spearhead.
High, sandstone-coloured walls and numerous round towers, within which arrowheads hid their stingers like spiders. Studying the fortification history of Westeros from Maester Elrys, Theon remembered that the Dornish had had at least five or six arrow throwers in their castles after the Targaryen invasions. At Sunspear, Theon counted fifteen, and improved ones at that.
Their squad walked through the Shadow City, which was adjacent to the fortress. The same lemon trees growing next to the houses, the same ugly layout, the same clay and straw buildings, the same noisy markets. And the people were the same, swarthy, black or blond, dressed in light, comfortable clothes, tight and closed.
- Nothing has changed,' Theon muttered. One of the commanders of the hundred Iron Guard, Thoron, looked at his lord strangely.
They had been welcomed - they had arrived just before morning, along with Ironwood's men, whom they had crossed paths with on the way. Prince Quentin was absent from the party, as was either his consort or his young son. Lady Arianna greeted them in the main hall of the castle, on a carved, stone throne the colour of sand. Two stone spears towered above, at the back of the throne, and between them stood a sun with branching rays.
- The High Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands, Theon Greyjoy, and Lord Anders Ironwood, Keeper of the Stone Way, Royal Blood! - Announced a tall, swarthy-skinned herald in a blue cotta to the entire hall. Lord Ironwood outlined a short bow, while Greyjoy simply bowed his head in greeting of an equal ruler. Despite their title as princes of Dorne, they were on the same level.
Wearing a black doublet, with gold threads stitched in the shape of a kraken, Greyjoy attracted the attention of all the courtiers in the castle.
Ironborn are very rare in Dorne. And not always a pleasant one. There were rare exceptions of ancient kings who preferred to plunder not the estuaries of Mandera or the endless rocky shores of the North, but the inhabitants of Greenblood. It was a long time ago, but the memory of men is a marvellous thing. The ability to long remember the evil done has come at the cost of the disadvantage of quickly forgetting the good.
- My Lords, I am glad you have visited my house at this difficult hour,' Arianna Martell said. Her husband, black-bearded and tall, followed suit and thanked them again.
Morlan Gargalen was a warrior from top to toe. Muscular, with calloused hands. A true steel blade hung from the man's belt. Six years ago, Prince Doran had arranged the marriage of Lord Gargalen's second son and his daughter and since then they had had two sons and one daughter. He was a co-ruler, but he had no real power, Theon had seen to that.
- It is our duty as loyal vassals,' Anders Ironwood said. Greyjoy had had time to talk to him a little in the past few hours. The most powerful of the Lords of Dorne, he dressed modestly, but he was proud, even cocky. And a clear dislike for the Martells, and the late Prince Oberyn in particular.
'Strange that he would even let one of them marry his own daughter.'
The intricacies of the relationship between the Martells and their vassals could be confusing. But Greyjoy was under the impression that the power of the princes of Dorne rested only on the favour of dragons or more lances, though that was not so.
- Prince Doran was a close friend of mine,' Greyjoy smiled as he looked at Arianna Martell in her light dress.
Slender, olive-skinned, with a mop of long, curly blue-black hair and short stature, she blinked in surprise. There was something strange in the gaze of the arriving lord from the Iron Islands. It wasn't lust, passion, or desire that lurked beneath the film of indifference.
Something unpleasant and slimy.
Theon Greyjoy gave a few more hints of a desire for delicate conversation, but Arianna Martell chose to ignore them and announced that as soon as the last expected guests arrived, there would be a feast at the Sunspear in honour of Prince Doran's memory. Lord Pyke and his retinue were settled in the donjon itself, in rooms pleasing to the eye and body. Myrian carpets, beds with soft featherbeds, and water... lots of water.
'If Arianna Martell is stalling for some reason... well, we'll wait. King's Landing will wait too. Perhaps the King and Queen will come to Dorne on their flying lizards to honour Prince Doran? The staunchest of allies should be honoured and respected, or they can turn into the most bitter of enemies.'
The Iron Islands came to mind. Greyjoy didn't really want to go to the Harbour, but he shouldn't refuse the king. Abandoning his pregnant wife was not something to be proud of, and leaving his fiefdoms in the care of other trusted men was not something he wanted to do. Theon would not give up power in the Archipelago to one man.
Rodrik Harlow was appointed High Steward of the Iron Islands, while Pike Greyjoy gave full power in his home island to the Lord Lord Lordport and the castle castellan.
Some titles giving the right to rule Pike's lands Theon gave to Gwyn as well. This could have created confusion, but Theon clearly outlined the duties to the people who would rule in his absence. Under the current circumstances, it was the best thing he could do.
'Not counting the Bailiffs, whom I introduced three years ago as the office of tax collector and judges.'
While previously in the Iron Islands people who had broken the law were usually tried by lords or castellans placed in their absence, the position of Bailiff of Westeros had now been extended there as well.
The expected guests had fully arrived by the fourth day of Greyjoy's stay in Sunspear. During this time he entertained himself with conversations with the local feudal lords, a closer study of Dorne, and attempts to have a delicate conversation with Arianna Martell. Certain arrangements needed to be discussed, for they were indeed delicate...
'Such as the Steps and the Summer Isles, for example.'
The Dornish were most tightly bound, with both the former and the latter. And could interfere, for Doran Martell had hinted at it. Some concessions had to be made and... a couple of secret treaties had to be made.
But Arianna Martell continued to avoid Greyjoy, which made him think of leaving the Sunspear. At times these avoidances were so ridiculous that Theon wanted to smile at first... and then squint dangerously.
'Either the Princess of Dorne has a new vision for the politics of her grand lordship, or Doran in his many, long-running intrigues has messed something up and forgotten to notify his daughter.'
Lord Pyke decided not to linger after the feast. It was worth honouring the old Dornian, if only out of respect, but nothing else would keep him in the southernmost of the kingdoms.
But something expected... but unlikely, happened.
Black wings, reaching almost twelve metres. Eyes burning with fire, fierce and unrelenting. Dorsal plates on which, unsaddled, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms sat and held tightly.
Since Drogon's last encounter, one of the dragons had clearly grown larger, more massive, and more fearsome. If ever a human wanted to see Balerion, Drogon was a copy of him... or a shadow of him. And if a few more decades passed, the dragon would grow to the level of the legendary lizard that had burned Harrenhal.
-Your Majesty,' Theon greeted her at the feast. Martell seated Greyjoy next to her husband and the queen beside her on the high platform. They dominated the table, drawing the attention of all the lords.
- I did not expect to see the new Master of the Ships in Dorne,' the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms said with a bent eyebrow, 'and I thought my husband would be the first to meet you. But that luck has fallen to me.
- I am honoured, my queen,' Theon replied with a slight parting of his lips, 'Prince Doran has been an old friend to me... and a partner in many things that concern us both.
Martell's face changed for a second, realising perfectly well where the disguised barb was directed. Daenerys Targaryen smiled.
- Well, it is sad that my husband cannot come here to honour his uncle. Royal concerns have taken over his mind completely, and he has long neglected such events.
- But you have not forgotten to honour my father,' Princess Arianna interjected, 'and Dorne will not forget your kindness and respect.
- I am only doing my kinsman's duty. The Martells and Targaryens have been bound by blood since the days of Daeron the Good and such things are not forgotten with a wave of the hand.
'I wonder.'
Perhaps the king really couldn't arrive because of royal business. But according to Daenerys, it feels as if her consort doesn't care about Dornean kinship and a strong alliance, which is doubtful. Greyjoy has made sure over the past ten years that Aegon is not the kind of fool to make such mistakes.
And if Daenerys is so openly trying to drag Dorne to herself and turn one High Lord (princess) against the King in front of the other...
Theon finally realised what a good portion of his time in the capital would be devoted to. Staying away from the two factions and their intrigues.
'Do I need all this?' - frowned the Lord of the Iron Islands.
In the back of his mind lurked the realisation that the Greyjoys would not be in the capital for long. Theon was certainly not going to take sides in the near future. At least, not until he understood all the cards in the political arena of Westeros, which was slowly but surely beginning to bubble up like a hot vat of faeces.
'And why is he so angry with Velaryon? Is it only because of the theft and the terrible state of the fleet? If so, either Aegon has no time to keep track of it, or he's only now thought to make an unscheduled inspection.'
Greyjoy was no fool and kept a close eye on the state of the Iron Fleet and the theft. There was some, but it was dealt with swiftly and harshly, for Victarion didn't like thieves either, and he wasn't going to cover for them.
The people were having a good time. Many of the ironborn who had arrived with Theon were seated at the table of squires or servants. Bards sang sad Dornish songs. 'Elia of Dornish' about the unhappy fate of Prince Doran's sister, "Ten Thousand Ships" telling of the Roinards' flight and new home, 'A Thousand Years of War' about the long-standing feud with Prostor and the Stormlands.
One of the bards, Nimena Bitter, who turned out to be a surprisingly ironborn woman, sang in a sweet and sad voice a new song she had personally invented - 'Prince Doran'.
- A touching song,' Daenerys said, 'Perhaps this woman would like to be in my retinue.
It was as if the last words were spoken into the air.
- A woman bard might not be so welcome in King's Landing,' Arianna's husband, Morlan Gargalen, said cautiously, 'as we know, women are treated differently north of the Red Mountains.
- And that saddens me more than even the death of dragons,' Daenerys replied, shooting her eyes at Arianna Martell, 'why can't a woman rule? Is it only because she lacks an outgrowth between her legs?
Greyjoy remained silent, unwilling to interfere in this strange conversation. He preferred to watch the movements of his men - who was talking to whom, whether they were drinking or just sitting around, relaxing. That way, in a relaxing environment, people often revealed themselves to their fullest potential.
- What do you think, Lord Greyjoy? Can a woman rule alone and justly, like the great kings of the past?
'Probing the ground?'
-The Iron Islands have enough female warriors, but the Ironborn have never had queens.
- I've heard your late sister was a famous raider, and even took castles by storm, commanding thousands of men,' the Princess of Dorne interjected in a husky, peaceful voice, 'or is that just a rumour?
- It is true,' Greyjoy said, 'but she is dead, and she died at the hands of her uncle.
The princess's tone displeased Theon. If she were lower in rank, Lord Pyke would have shut her up, but technically Arianna Martell was even above him in status.
- 'The massacre at Old Vic,' Martell continued, 'I heard about it ten years ago. They say the sea was red with the blood of brothers spilled, and the Drowned God himself cursed those who broke the law of Gaelon the White Staff.
The Queen was silent, listening to Martell's words. She was not yet very familiar with the history of Westeros, and some past events of the past were covered for her by a dark dome of gloom.
- Human ambition can sometimes lead to the most unexpected consequences... or offences. On the path to power, men can commit more heinous crimes than the murder of brethren of faith and lineage.
Arianna Martell wanted to continue to provoke. And what was behind these attempts was unknown even to her consort. But when she looked into Lord Pike's eyes, she ducked her cup filled with red Dornish as if scalded.
The queen raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise at this unexpected turn in the conversation. Or rather, the end of it.
- My lord, do you drink boiled water?
- Yes, Your Majesty.
- Does wine disgust you?
- Wine dulls not only the mind, but the liver as well. It corrupts it and turns it into a rotten, black lump that pulls the whole human body towards death.
With a silver tiara with a bright gem in the centre on her head, the Queen looked at Lord Greyjoy strangely. The new Master over the Ships promises to be an unusual figure in the capital.
The stirring noise in his ears made him irritable. Occasionally clenching his teeth, Theon touched the water in the bowl with the tip of his little finger and felt soothed. All around, everything was mottled with brightly coloured exotic sliced fruits and unusual dishes. Theon ate only crabs and snakes, surprising the Dornish with his unusual choice. They were just well stuffed and spicy enough for Greyjoy to feel anything on his tongue.
Conversations with the queen and princess went no further. Her husband struck up a conversation with Theon about the new threat from the east, the Jogos-Nhai hordes, and mentioned in passing in front of the queen that everyone in the Free Cities, from the last beggar to the richest of magisters, was praying for the Dragon King's help. Daenerys chose to ignore this and continued to glance over at Arianna Martell.
According to Theon's information, Essos was not sitting idly by. In Volantis, the Tiger Party, led by one Volakvo Maegyr, an old magister who had taken over the entire party of the ancient aristocracy. And is now actively making alliances with all neighbours with whom it can - Norvos, Quokhor, and the city-states of the Gulf of Slave Traders.
The Myrians and Tyroshians were actively supplying grain at a cheap price, while Braavos and Pentos were busy with each other and paid little attention to the rest of the world. Lorath, the ever silent of the Free Cities, was true to his policy of isolation.
In Essos, an unprecedented confrontation was looming between Western Essos and a new threat that accepted no gifts and brushed off ambassadors. Like a monolithic formation, they had already sacked the Lhazar Kingdom and Mierin, and now laid siege to Yunkai.
One of the wise lords of Yunkai, having gathered a considerable mercenary army of slave-soldiers from Astapor, Quartian and Volantian units, tried to give battle to the nomads after the fall of neighbouring Mierin.
Having lured them into the foothills, he could only watch in horror as the low but overly sturdy horses calmly accelerated through the uncomfortable terrain and destroyed the mercenaries. Jattar, the commander of this untold and invincible army of the nomadic people, ordered a huge funeral hill to be made of the dead and named Victory Hill by the Jogos-Nhaians.
The Yunkai people gave the place a sadder name, Shameful Hill. For half of the wise lords of the city perished there, buried with slaves and mercenaries.
And it was after this battle that the name of the Jattar warlord who plunged half the continent into chaos began to rumble through Essos.
Hbarak the Destroyer.
Another horde of Jogos-nhai invaded the lands of Qarth under the leadership of another Jattar. The Red Wasteland was no barrier to the hardy nomads who were prepared for long, tiring day-long treks across the deserts. Port Ichos fell, Quarkash and only to the approaches of Qarth Jogos-Nhai were stopped and the nomads had to retreat back, now not to the Dothraki plains, but to the Jogos-Nhai plains. Or the Bloodlands, as the Volantians had dubbed them.
The world was slowly but surely becoming one battlefield. And only Westeros, ruled by the will of the Dragon King, held on in shaky stability and peace.
The feast was over and the next day Greyjoy left the Sunspear, bidding farewell to the Queen. Theon now had no idea what to expect from hot and obscure Dorne with his new lordess.
'The Iron Hammer and the Tinybearer left the dock of Boardwalk City early in the morning, travelling towards the Steps, to the north.
The Steps, rocky islands, they sailed quickly. It was getting relatively cooler and the people breathed a sigh of relief. Heat was still a problem for the Ironborn, despite the experience of the Summer Isles.
Greyjoy visited Jade on the way, the castle of Estermont on the island of the same name. Rocky, but not lacking in vegetation in the form of tall and sturdy pines and oaks, sparsely populated but with a couple of ports, it had a pretty good position. However, Tarth had always taken the consequences of its favourable location for itself, which was why the locals were not particularly fond of the Sapphire Islanders.
Lord Andrew Estermont received the unexpected and unexpected guest with honour, as befits any grand lord. The current lord of Jade turned out to be a former supporter of Stannis, and thus... a foe of Lord Connigton.
Theon admitted that he had few informants and spies on the other side of Westeros, but it didn't take a fortune-teller to realise how many Storm Lords felt about their suzerain, the former exile.
'And about whom there are some very nasty rumours.'
They sailed across Angry Cape, the peninsula from which the Targaryen return began. Quite a few noble families in this land had ceased to exist fifteen years ago, and quite a few had had their beginnings. The King has repaid the Golden Swords largely at the expense of the peninsula - more than half of it is owned by former captains and lieutenants of the legendary mercenary company.
The Bay of Broken Ships proved to be an unpleasant place for the inhabitants of the Iron Islands. It was not uncommon to come across the rotted wrecks of ships that had crashed into rocks or small islands of land. The waters were calm, but a worried Cicero, who had returned, clearly told Theon that a storm was coming.
- M'lord, I'm afraid it's going to be rough here in a few hours,' Loric Three-Finger remarked to Lord Pyke, 'we should wait it out.
- What do you suggest? - Greyjoy asked.
- Storm's End, lord. There is a harbour not far from the castle where our ships can wait out the storm. It promises to be strong.
- I see it promises to be strong,' Greyjoy frowned.
The prospect of approaching the Storm's End was unpleasant to him. 'Do you think we can make it to Tarth in time?
Loric shook his head. Theon himself realised that they wouldn't. It would take at least half a day, and the frowning clouds were already visible to the naked eye.
He was painfully reluctant to be in a stronghold like Storm's End. My fingers began to prick, and the urge to jump overboard and into the cold but pleasant sea water could barely be stifled.
I was hungry. But it wasn't Theon's hunger. Nor Cicero's.
It was frightening to remember the unnatural hunger Greyjoy had felt immediately upon waking. Hundreds of thousands of years had passed, as if in the blink of an eye, and the monsters of the far west had realised that the word 'monster' was a stretch. - We're sailing for Storm's End. But we're not going to the castle. We'll wait out the storm in a small harbour village.
Loric shrugged, not understanding his lord's reluctance to wait out the night and the storm behind the strongest castle on the continent.
It took an hour and a half to reach the castle. The elements were already beginning their swirls and the ironborn hastily anchored their ships to the stone porticoes on the half-rotten wooden wharf.
- I didn't realise it was so bad here. But I think the stone will be stronger than the storm,' said the XO.
The houses, many of them derelict and empty, were covered with vegetative turf. The Storm's End loomed in the distance, grim, with one tall tower whose end seemed like a clenched fist. High, too high and wide walls of grey-white stone.
- A terrible fortress. I wouldn't advise anyone to storm it,' Greyjoy muttered.
Greyjoy's men had already found residents willing to take them in. Some had found a home under the roofs of a small tavern. Theon himself had already found a place in the headman's house, but riders with stag crests prevented him from settling in.
- My Lord Greyjoy,' the speaker was a man, stubbly and short. Lady Shireen invites you to Storm's End. It is not proper for a High Lord to wait out a dangerous night in this place.
Theon nodded gratefully, but shook his head negatively and gave his refusal. The knight, Ser Durr continued to insist, giving many arguments. Greyjoy noticed the looks on some of his men's faces-they didn't want to stay in the local hovels, and the knight promised to house Lord Pyke's entire retinue.
'The Baratheons aren't exactly strapped for cash, and this is luxury.'
For a moment he wanted to issue another refusal, but Theon abruptly changed his mind. If Lady Baratheon is so eager to have him as a guest of her own castle, so be it. Greyjoy will enter the abode of the descendants of the Wind Goddess.
His fingers tingled unpleasantly with irritation again.
Lord Pike and his men went to the castle, accompanied by Ser Durr. The knight himself chatted idly with Theon, while Greyjoy preferred to answer with a simple 'Yes' or 'No.'
-Have you heard recently that Lord Connigton's wife has given birth to a new son?
Greyjoy turned his head from his contemplation of the bleak cliffs and rocks to the ugly Ser.
- A new one? This is the second, if I'm not mistaken.
- Yes, it is, My Lord Greyjoy. And the Hand named him after Prince Rhaegar. How does a sodomised man like that ever get a thing for women? One of the Valyrian boys must be helping,' Ser Durr laughed. His laughter was so infectious that the ironborn behind him laughed.
Theon didn't laugh. Didn't even smile, which embarrassed the Ser.
'A surprising attitude for a High Lord. But given that Durr is a sworn knight of the Baratheons, and the Baratheons aren't exactly fond of the Hand, the king, or half of Westeros for that matter...'
Sitting on his master's shoulder, Cicero rambled on:
-"There's a grain of truth in every joke!
The knight shivered at the squeaky voice of the big parrot. At last they reached the Limit. It was even more enormous at close range. Greyjoy counted thirty metres in height and marvelled at the giant. Harrenhal seemed even smaller, winning more in scale than in the height and width of its walls.
The Ironborn were horseless, so they went straight to the donjon tower, which houses the feasting hall, barracks and granaries at the same time. That is if you don't count the many chambers for noble guests and the master of the stronghold himself. Or mistress.
From the moment he entered, Theon felt cut off from the outside world. The parrot croaked, disgruntled and furious, causing unnecessary attention from servants and warriors.
Durr led Lord Pyke and a couple of accompanying guardsmen into the throne room of the Prairie, a place of silence and emptiness. There was only a throne, carved in stone, with thick armrests and covered in warm hides, and coloured tapestries on the walls.
On the throne sat a short girl. She was not beautiful, but she was not ugly either. The mark left by the grey disease on her face was hidden by a strange half-mask.
Black and yellow velvet embroidered with a dozen deer. A strange tiara with small antlers.
The Lady of Storm's End liked to dress strange. Shireen Baratheon, daughter of Stannis Baratheon, had recently celebrated her twentieth year, another bleak one filled with constant trouble and general alienation.
- Theon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and High Lord of the Iron Islands! - announced the herald, a grey-haired old man in a faded black cottage, standing in the corner of the hall.
Greyjoy gave an implied nod. Had the Baratheons been in their former position, Theon would have bowed briefly, of course. After all, the house that had ruled an entire continent for fifteen years and a region for three centuries.
But now the Baratheons were just a petty house with nothing in the royal court for at least a few generations. Oil lamps burned, illuminating the dark hall. Shadows created a bizarre dance on Shireen Baratheon's face, peering at Greyjoy strangely. He tensed.
- 'Glad to have you here,' Greyjoy threw in. Standing next to Shireen Baratheon, a warrior wearing a simple doublet but girded, unnoticed by many but not Theon, brought the mistress of the Realm back to attention. The woman did not show her embarrassment in any way and replied in an even voice:
- All lords of Westeros are welcome in my castle, whether he be from the North or Dorne.
The short conversation yielded nothing. Greyjoy and his men were given shelter, decent enough. Then a few hours later, a terrible storm hit. The castle walls were too thick to be frightened by such a phenomenon, but the rumbling and howling of the wind kept them awake. The thunder rumbled and it was at times like this that he felt unprecedented irritation.
For the first time in years, he felt bloodlust again. His own thirst.
Worry for the ships came too. Would they be blown away by such a terrible storm? He didn't want to lose his own ship and have to travel to King's Landing on horseback.
He stepped out, wanting to catch a glimpse through one of the narrow windows towards the village. The tower Theon had taken up residence in was tall enough that everything could be seen from above.
'It's doubtful I'll see anything through the thick, loud rain and darkness, but it's worth a try. For my own peace of mind.'
There were no battlements or windows on the sea side. Good decision.
Theon walked down narrow corridors, empty and dark. No statues, assembled knights' sets of armour or tapestries. Just almost bare walls, with occasional carvings of stags and lightning bolts.
Everything here reeked of Storm. From the last pebble to the mistress of the castle.
- Looking for someone, my lord? - A hoarse voice asked from the darkness. Theon, oil lamp in hand, turned round. Standing before him was the same warrior wearing a simple doublet and girded. With cold realisation, Theon realised that he had not taken his blade.
- Looking for a view of a village not far from the castle. I love views like that. The knight smiled. Sincerely.
- This window is not far away, literally across a few corridors and the feasting hall. Allow me to escort you. - Before we go, tell me your name... sire.
- Stannis. Ser Stannis Seaworth,' said the knight, young but looking about thirty years old. His teeth were surprisingly clean, his face full of colour, and his eyes burned with the bright fire of youth. He looked at Theon with interest, tinged with an underlying apprehension. Everyone Lord Pyke had met lately was afraid of him... implicitly, but Greyjoy could see it.
'Nothing will ever be the same now.
- The Seaworths,' Theon said, as if tasting the surname, 'I'm vaguely familiar with the name. The story of the Onion Knight and the besieged Storm's Edge.
- My father always told us that story before he left us,' Stannis said, leading Theon through the corridors and the banqueting hall, 'but the last time I saw my father was when I was a small child of ten. It's been an eternity since then.
There was a hidden sadness in the Ser's voice. Greyjoy, who remembered his father, could not be sad. It was more like a long suppressed but still present irritation.
Ten minutes later, they were at the very window that overlooked the village from afar. Theon looked closely, but couldn't see anything. The wind was howling in his ears, and the rain was hailing down from the sky, making an ineffable noise.
- You needn't worry about your ships, Lord Greyjoy,' Stannis Seaworth said, trying to persuade him. 'Storms are commonplace in the Stormlands, which is why they build their ports and wharves differently.
- I believe so,' Lord Pyke replied dryly, 'but still. I didn't want to get to King's Landing on horseback.
There was no hiding the purpose of his journey. News of the new Master over the Ship had already travelled across Dorne, and what was known south of the Red Mountains was already familiar north.
- 'I wanted to let you know,' Stannis began awkwardly, as is typical of men young in front of older men and strangers, 'that Lady Shireen would be very pleased to see you at the morning meal.
Theon blinked. Thinking a little, stalling for time, he answered in agreement. He would leave Storm's Edge in the afternoon, but in the morning he could, and share a meal with the mistress of the castle.
The castle was still an unpleasant place for the Lord of the Iron Islands. Cicero, his pet remained in the room, disorientated by the unexpected belief of a connection to another creature. Magic lived in the Limit, ancient, alien to Theon, and hostile. He didn't fully understand what awaited him among the thick walls of this stronghold, but when he realised the full extent of it, he chastised himself for his curiosity.
The knight stomped off. Greyjoy stared at his back and pondered what role this young sire was playing. Lady Shireen, unmarried, like Seaworth. The Baratheons have few friends in the Stormlands and kinship with the Seaworths is not a bad move. Sleep was hard to come by, half the night Theon tried to get used to the absence of bad dreams or visions of the endless depths of the sea. The connection was felt, but subtle and somehow... disconnected? Perhaps he would leave the Limit just after the morning meal.
The morning was angry and freezing. The storm had passed, the worst in decades, and left behind a slushy courtyard, half demolished houses not far from the castle. The ships survived and were not swept away by the storm. Stannis Seaworth was not deceived.
- My lord, I see the night storm was unpleasant for you,' Shireen Baratheon said, picking up bread and a hen's egg spread with melted cheese. The former strangeness of the conversation was gone, and now the mistress of the castle looked at him indifferently, and ice reigned in her voice.
- I don't like night disasters. Especially such loud and violent ones.
- This storm was indeed strong,' said Ser Lambert Storm, one of the few sworn knights of the Baratheons, 'my father, Lord Arstan Selmy, used to say that the last great storm was seventy or seventy-seven years ago.
It wasn't just Theon and Lady Shireen sitting at the large, oak and varnished table. Three sworn knights, the maester, and a couple of other important servants. It was obvious that Baratheon did not feel disgusted sitting at the same table with the nobles and understood the importance of servants.
There were barely a dozen knights in the castle, barely a couple of dozen servants, and the garrison numbered less than two hundred warriors.
The table itself was decorated with poor viands - a thick soup of barley and venison, cabbage soup with minced meat, baked apples and the biggest dish - a roast goose covered with sweet and sour cabbage.
Remembering how Lord Estermont had pampered him, Theon wanted to shake his head. He didn't care about the price of the dishes or how exotic they were, but still, such poverty of the Baratheons caused dissonance in his mind.
The Baratheons had been kings of Westeros, and Theon remembered that well enough to have lived during that interval of the stag's reign.
- Are you Lord Selmy's bastard? - Theon asked Storm offhandedly. The latter answered without any embarrassment:
- That's right, Lord Arstan is my father, and my mother was a common servant girl. Barristan Selmy is my great-great-grandfather,' he finally informed everyone. People must have heard this saying many times and some of them couldn't hide their snide smiles.
- It's a shame Ser Barristan won't be able to see one of his descendants,' Theon remarked, 'They say the old man died on his bed, quiet and peaceful.
- They say the whole of King's Landing mourned his death. For days the bells in the Great Sept of Baelor rang out.
- And the King has announced a gathering of Westeros' finest knights in the capital to fill the void in the White Cloaks,' Shireen said, 'I think Ser Ser Serwyn Hastie, nephew of the late Ser Bonifer the Good. A renowned tournament fighter in the Stormlands.
- I hear Garlan Tyrell himself wanted to join the White Cloaks! - Lambert Storm interjected.
- 'Nonsense!' said Ser Stannis Seaworth, sitting next to the Lady of the Castle, 'Ser Garlan is married and has several children.
- Ser Garlan was last seen at the Bitterbridge Tournament a year ago with his eldest squire son. He is said to have beaten all the competitors and emerged victorious.
A conversation-dispute ensued between the knights about famous tournament fighters and recent tournaments in Westeros. A certain Cedric Storm, the Bastard of the Bronze Gate, Mattis Horpe the Pale-Headed, Will the Kolzenoser, one of the former mercenaries of the Golden Company were mentioned. The names were many, and they all belonged to the Stormlands. Of those famous knights who hailed from other kingdoms, Theon heard the same Garlan Tyrell, Herold Dane, Lord Walder the Black, who had made himself some high-profile victories in Sigard and Riverrun.
Lady Shireen occasionally inserted her own phrases, basking in the attention among her entourage. Theon himself listened to all this gathering of names and tournaments with the edge of his ear, lost in himself.
He was reminded of his current squires, Rickon and Dagon. Theon was in no hurry to take them with him to King's Landing. They shouldn't go into such a snake's nest. And Greyjoy didn't think he'd last more than a year. Theon would not take sides, preferring to stay out of the squabbles and political intrigue.
After the conversation about famous fighters and knights, the maester, young but with a grey streak in his hair, put in his weighty word. Which upset the mistress of the Prairie very much:
-My lady, in a few days we will have representatives from the Iron Bank of Braavos.
Baratheon's face became displeased and unpleasant, and the maester, realising his mistake, shrank and hunched imperceptibly. Theon asked nothing. It was no secret to him that King Aegon had hung some of the debts on the Usurper's house.
The bankers were forgotten as if they were unimportant. The knights chattered among themselves, and Lady Shireen hinted to Lord Greyjoy in vague phrases. What exactly Baratheon was trying to hint at, even Theon didn't understand. And were they hints? Lord Pyke preferred not to occupy himself with unnecessary worries. He wanted to leave the castle as soon as possible.
After the morning meal, Theon thanked his mistress loudly for the shelter and gave her a couple of bows made of goldilocks in return, and left the unpleasant stronghold together with his men.
What the daughter of the late Stannis Baratheon wanted, he did not know, nor did he want to know. Marriage? Theon was married, and his children were too young for her. And never would a Greyjoy sully his descendants with the blood of the wind goddess in their veins.
The ships weathered the storm in the best possible way. So the ironborn, driven by their lord, hurried to leave the local land as quickly as possible.
As soon as Theon left Storm's Edge, he felt better. The irritation that had been lingering inside him was gone, and a bouquet of sensations half-forgotten overnight hit his head. Sweet and pleasant. He wanted to plunge into a big tub of warm water to experience them in full.
Theon would never set foot in Storm's End again. And may the Drowned God be his witness. Commentary on Chapter 25 Here the piece has reached the 300 ficbook page mark. I promised earlier, a month ago, that I would start work on Harald the Long Sword as soon as I finished Iron Lord to a certain size. Promises are meant to be kept! I'll be honest, I need a break from the Theon fic. To think about further plot, to start slowly rewriting the first part. So, don't expect a follow-up in the next month. I'll probably start writing after the January holidays. In the meantime, I wish you all a Happy New Year! See you next year.
