Chapter 47: Victarion III

The night of Euron's demise, Victarion had done two things.

The first was to pull the Reader aside.

"What is it, Victarion?" the Reader had asked as he was led out of earshot of the other captains, sinking deeper and deeper into their revelry. Some captains had already slumped over from the drink, whilst others seemed determined to turn the hall into a brothel. It seemed every girl in the entire keep, perhaps the entire island, was presently stripped bare, being raped bloody right before him.

"I intend to oppose Euron in his madness," Victarion said in a low voice. "Sailing to Essos! Making slavers of us!"

The Reader's eyes narrowed, too shrewd to be so easily fooled. "Certainly, that is welcome news. But I might also suggest that the claim that you advanced that the Arbor might be taken next is not all that much better."

"The Arbor might have its fleet, but what of the Mander?"

The Reader's brow climbed up his forehead in concern. "You want to launch a raid? Into the Reach? Without first disposing of the Redwyne fleet?"

"We are raiders, one and all," Victarion argued. "I see no reason we could not ravage the coasts and terrorise the cities and, having made off with the loot, return to the Iron Islands as rich men. Richer than Balon ever managed to make us."

"And when the Redwyne fleet returns for revenge?" the Reader asked. "When the Boy King's Tyrell bride asks for our blood? What then?"

"She likely already has. The Shields are as much a part of the Reach as any other."

"Then you would be better off pushing for peace terms now, whilst you can," the Reader said.

Victarion snorted. "You think the captains would wear it? Euron promised them gold, glory. I need to offer them both, else they will brand me craven."

"And when you lead them to their deaths?" the Reader asked. "We sail down the mouth of the Mander or the Honeywine without guarding our flank, we are doomed to be trapped in by whatever remains of the Redwyne Fleet at the Arbor. And even if we do manage it successfully, who's to say the Boy King won't take after his father and launch a war against us? That was Balon's mistake, thinking he could further divide the kingdoms by attacking them. Instead, he united the lords behind their new king."

"The Boy King is not his father," Victarion said with a wave of his hand. "The whelp is still wet behind the ears."

"It is not the king himself that concerns me," Harlaw said, "but rather his council. You think the Old Lion will show us any mercy?"

"Stannis has the Royal Fleet," Victarion said. "And the Tyrells are his old enemies. I think the Old Lion can be convinced of the usefulness of bringing the Iron Fleet under his banner."

"Perhaps. Though it is worth noting the Lannisters and Tyrells are more allies than enemies now. And even if such a peace could be struck, it would mean becoming a vassal again," the Reader warned. "The captains won't like that either."

Victarion felt his jaw clench. Have all those books cost the Reader his balls? Lord Harlaw was a clever man, certainly. But entirely too cautious for Victarion's tastes.

The Reader sighed in resignation. "Yet you're right. But now that Asha's gone, I expect it will be harder for us. In his letters, it seemed the Boy King had a certain fondness for her. I don't think he will be as generous with us. And no matter what, I doubt we'd be able to find a position of strength to negotiate from."

"Do you know where she is?"

The Reader shrugged. "I only advised her to run. I didn't tell her where to run to." Something in Harlaw's stance hinted at deceit, but that was the least of Victarion's concerns for the moment, so he let it rest.

"So we are agreed?" Victarion asked. "Your men will stand beside mine?"

The Reader nodded, grim-faced. "To oppose Euron, aye. I'll support you."

Once that was done, the second thing he did was to make it known that he was leaving, to make it clear that he could not be guilty. He left with his men in a huff, making a show of his dissatisfaction with his brother, making it seem as though Euron had still been alive at the time of their last meeting. And so it was with a grin that Victarion descended eagerly into the bowels of the Iron Victory and then the flesh of the dusky woman. He told her of the glories yet to await him as she laboured over him and, feeling generous, spared her the sharper edge to his affections.

He stayed into the night, allowing the dusky woman to share his bed as he slept for the first time, then lingered with her long into the next day, watching the rays of the sun drift lazily through the windows into his cabin as his hands wandered her supple flesh.

When Victarion finally returned to the keep, what greeted him was chaos.

Captain had already turned on captain, accusations were hurled, and Victarion found himself in the unenviable situation of having to settle the passions of his fellow ironmen. Naturally, he was one of the targets of their suspicions, being the heir to the Seastone Chair. But he had excuse enough to allay their suspicions. He had made a big show of storming away from his meeting with Euron. And besides, everyone could understand the desire to break in a salt-wife.

Yet still the unease persisted.

"The dragon horn is gone," the Reader noted. Victarion blinked in surprise. Upon sighting Euron's corpse, thought of the horn had not even crossed his mind. But its theft did not make for good tidings.

"Fuck the horn!" one man replied. "I - we - were promised the Mander! Gold! Girls! We don't need any horn for that."

A roar of agreement rang out. And though Victarion was sat in the centre of Lord Hewett's hall, it seemed few had noted his presence. For the moment, that was fine. Victarion was content to let Harlaw work his magic; the old man had a way with words far beyond Victarion.

"No," the Reader agreed, "we don't. But we do need a leader. Divided, even the flower knights of the Reach could defeat us. United, we stand far stronger. And thus, since Euron is dead, it seems we'll need to hold another Kingsmoot."

"A waste of time!" another captain complained. "Oldtown and Highgarden and the Arbor will be marshalling their defences as you prattle! Our king was killed in his bed, in the dark. His killer may well still be among us. I would wager it was a Reachlord - too craven to face us in battle. Every moment we waste is one we give to our enemy."

"Well," the Reader asked, "how else would you propose we resolve this?"

Eyes turned to Victarion. "We follow the line of succession, Lord Harlaw. Theon, I would guess, is well and truly dead. Asha is a woman, and too far gone to be of any use to us in any case. Of all Balon's heirs, only one is here."

Harlaw's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Victarion. Was this you? was the question in the old man's eyes.

Victarion did not deign to answer the Reader's look. Instead he lifted himself to his feet, clad in full plate, looking every bit an ironborn warrior. "I will lead you all to gold and glory. I will deliver to your feet the wealth of the Reach. I will secure our strength. I don't have any horn, nor any letter. I have naught but the strength of my arms, and the blessings of the Drowned God. And if you feel yourself stronger, then stand and test your might against the kraken!"

There was a long silence. None dared speak. Victarion wondered if someone might muster the courage, but nobody did. Eventually, he drew his axe and raised it defiantly in the air, "I offer you victory, ironmen! Are you with me?"

"Victory! Victory!" the discordant cries rang out, one after the other, deafening in the hall. The captains banged their fists in the tables, stamped their feet on the flagstones. The cries soon gained a life of their own, and before long all his fellow ironmen were chanting in unison, "Victarion! Victarion! King Victarion!"

It was a glorious moment; the realisation of all his hopes and dreams. Victarion could not help the grin that threatened to split his face. After all his struggles and stumbles, after watching his hopes sink like an iron lump with Euron's ascension, it was as though the Drowned God had rewarded him; had dropped the Driftwood Crown into his lap. Yet though he was now king, that did not mean his position was secure. Beyond the risk of assassination, he had yet to reign in Euron's wizards and mongrels, to form a true plan of attack for the Reach, to plan for a future beyond his own ascension to the throne.

That night, Victarion retreated again to his ship, fearing for his own life within the bowels of Lord Hewett's keep - not that he would ever admit to such fears. He was tempted to turn to the dusky woman for comfort, and though he allowed himself a moment's indulgence, he did not allow pleasure to become distraction. After he was done, he pushed the girl aside and set to work. Across a table in his cabin he laid a map of the western shores of Westeros, eyeing the approaches. The Arbor seemed the most tempting target for attack, separated from the mainland. Yet it was a good deal south, and required the fleet to sail past both Highgarden and Oldtown.

On the open oceans we hold the advantage, Victarion knew. But then our raids become battles, and our losses mount. The Redwyne fleet - even just half of it - was a formidable foe to make battle against, and it would almost certainly have the core of its strength hosted at the Arbor. In his experience, naval battles were rarely anything other than decisive. They might sweep the Redwyne fleet aside, and leave the entire western shore open. Or else they might themselves be swept aside.

On land we can cut and burn, reaving and raping as we please, but we cannot stay still in any place. If they opted to sail up the Mander, to make their presence known through the Old Way, to pay the iron price for their victories, then gold was almost certainly guaranteed. But that did not mean the Old Way was without risks. Even flower knights will fight fiercely for their homes.

It was a difficult decision to take, but a necessary one. Victarion knew his captains would not accept waiting much longer. The relatively bloodless taking of the Shields had emboldened them, made them eager for more. Yet without Euron's promised dragons, conquest was out of the question. One ironman may have been worth ten greenlanders, but the greenlanders outnumbered them by more than that.

And then there was the question of trickery. Euron had not died in battle, or by happenstance. He had been murdered. And though suspicion had been directed upon the greenlanders, Victarion knew it was just as likely that the Crow's Eye had died at the hands of one of his captains.

In any event, he decided, Euron's mongrels go first. Let their blood wash the greenlander blades.

The whole night, Victarion pondered his choices, nursing a cup of wine in his hands as he did so. Hidden dangers and plots seemed to obscure every path. Land or sea, peace or war. No room for error now.

By the time morning came, Victarion knew only one certainty. We cannot win. The Iron Throne has ships, soldiers, lands to spare. We don't. Victarion might try to undermine the Boy King's reign, but Harlaw was likely right. It wasn't going to work. The greenlander hatred for them was too strong. And though showing the Boy King to be a weakling might shame him, might sow doubt in the minds of vassals, any further conquest was still likely to provoke a strong reaction.

The Old Lion could not afford to allow his grandson's regime to look weak.

We need to make peace from a position of strength, he knew. To play on the Boy King's softness. To play on the worst fears of his Tyrell wife. And to do it all quickly, before the Boy King defeats his other foes and develops an appetite for conquest.

With that thought in his mind, he left the Iron Victory bright and early, trekking up the road to the keep with his plate gleaming with the light of dawn, marching like a king with his men at his flanks. Yet though he kept his back straight, and held his head up high, Victarion could not help but feel tired and small. Who knew the Seastone Chair was so much work? The Victarion of old had lived for conquest, for the thrills of blood and battle. But a new life seemed to threaten him, a life of fretting and worrying like a woman. A life bereft of thrills. Even as he pondered its inevitability, he knew he didn't like it.

And so it was in a sour mood that Victarion stalked up to Lord Hewett's castle, found and cornered the Reader in his rooms. Harlaw had abandoned the Sea Song the night he'd made landfall, opting to spend his time perusing Lord Hewett's meagre library. It was difficult to tell if the Reader's love of books had overcome his brains - forced him to stay in a place where a cutthroat might be lurking - or whether his balls weren't as shrunken as Victarion had first imagined.

Then again, Rodrick Harlaw was not exactly a young man. Who knew how much care he placed on his own life?

"Your Grace?" the old man asked as he looked up at Victarion. He seemed surprised - half dressed in a tunic that fell about his knees, thin grey hair rumpled from bed. Books were strewn across his chosen chambers, papers stacked high on a table in the corner. There was a wariness in his look, a deep suspicion. In all likelihood, Lord Rodrick was one of the few captains awake. Most of the others would still be nursing headaches from a night's heavy drinking, entertaining stolen women in stolen beds. In truth, Victarion had expected to find him with them, still asleep. "What brings you to my chamber at such an early hour?"

"We need to talk," Victarion declared.

"I see," Harlaw said. "Would you like a seat?"

"No," Victarion said. "I won't be long. I just have a few questions."

The Reader seemed almost impressed, brows climbing up his forehead. Both Balon and Euron had spurned the old man's council. "By all means."

"Asha."

Harlaw sighed. "I already told you, Your Grace, I don't know where she is."

"Perhaps, but I think you know well enough where she went, even if you don't know where she wound up. I can guess myself, but it'd help to get some assurances."

"I... I didn't ask too many questions of her. But from what I could surmise, Kings Landing was her aim. After that, I know nothing."

Victarion nodded. "Do you think, if you spoke to her, you could convince her to work with me? To try for peace?"

"If I could find her, perhaps."

"And if you couldn't find her, or convince her?" Victarion questioned. "Do you think you could speak to the Iron Throne on my behalf?"

"Aye," the Reader said, "I could speak to them. Whether they will listen..." He shrugged.

"Yet you say that I would do better to sue for peace than pursue this campaign."

"You would," the Reader insisted. "Though it might wound all our pride to admit it."

"I was not chosen by a Kingsmoot," Victarion pressed. "I cannot afford to look weak, not even for a moment. My power rests on my promises. Should I fail the captains will cast me aside."

The Reader gazed intently at Victarion a moment, then shook his head in agreement. "No, of course not."

"I promised the men gold and glory, Harlaw. Gold and glory. But I also need to ensure enough of us live to enjoy it. I was thinking... A raid on the Reach proper. Up the Mander, into the territories of Highgarden. Strip their fields bare. Scare the Boy King's little wife. Push them to make peace by threatening to do the same to Oldtown. I reckon the Old Lion's dislike of his old rivals to the south and the Tyrell weakness in the Reach should give us some room. All those Reachlords, eager for position, each waiting for their chance to rise and replace their overlords."

Harlaw frowned at that, brow furrowed deeply. "I can see why you might think that, but I don't agree."

Victarion snorted. "What would you say, then?"

"You're making the same mistake Balon made, all those years ago, when he attacked Lannisport. A raid on the Tyrell lands that does not touch Highgarden itself is more likely to enrage the Reachlords than scare them, to make them forget their squabbles. And Highgarden is almost as impenetrable as Casterly Rock, with its high walls and hedges. Sailing up the Mander leaves our fleet vulnerable to being cut off - never mind the ships the Tyrells are massing in the river itself. Trapped, outnumbered, surrounded by angry peasants and lords, we would be swiftly slaughtered. The Reach is not the North. House Tyrell can muster the numbers to protect itself - and quickly."

"So we do nothing? Sit on our hands and wait?"

The Reader shook his head. "I didn't say that. If our goal is to make peace from a place of strength, we need to keep the pressure up as we negotiate. A raid - if successful - might get us gold and girls, but it does little for our strength. What we need is not loot, but leverage. Something we might use to secure good terms from the Iron Throne. A conquest of some sort. On land, the Reachlords have an advantage, but on the open ocean we are the masters."

Victarion cocked his head in consideration, quietly incredulous. "You mean the Arbor? The place that hosts the Redwyne fleet?"

"Better the Redwyne fleet than the armies of the Reach," Harlaw said. "Besides, I have good reason to believe that much of the Redwyne fleet is away at Dragonstone, and that Lord Paxter is with it, serving as the Boy King's Master of Ships. A sizeable force might remain, and I don't doubt it will be a hard-fought battle, but whatever fleet remains at the Arbor is almost certainly far smaller than the strength which we might be able to bring to bear. A captain of your skill should be able to win that battle. Once that fleet is dealt with, and the smaller islands around the Arbor are secure in our possession, we will have an opening to ravage the coasts of the Reach with impunity, as King Qhored Hoare once did, thousands of years ago. And that will scare the Tyrells more than a few burning fields ever could. A mighty threat for us to wield in any negotiation."

It was that notion that was swimming around in Victarion's head the rest of morning as he wound his way through the keep to the quarters that Euron had so briefly laid claim. His body had already been taken away, though the bloodstained sheets were left on the bed. Euron's mongrels had wanted to spirit his corpse away somewhere secret to see to his last rites the day before, but Victarion had them stopped.

Euron had always spurned the Drowned God, always spat on the traditions of the Ironborn. Victarion would ensure his funeral would see him sent down to the Drowned God's watery halls. It was a grace Victarion was loathe to give, but he knew it would be necessary to win the favour of some of the more reluctant captains, and that Euron's welcome into the Drowned God's realm was likely to be a painful one, as he was forced to pay the price for his many heresies.

Victarion watched as the women worked, sewing Euron's body into sailcloth, ready for his watery grave.

The hours passed quickly, and before long the time for the funeral had come.

Victarion did not spare his brother many words, and part of him was tempted to go and piss on Euron's corpse. Nevertheless, he restrained himself, and watched as the little boat was pushed off the beach by a few ironmen, watched it bob in the water as it drifted away. He sounded the order, and watched as the flaming arrows arced overhead and struck their target, watched the barrow slowly catching fire. Watched as it slowly took on water, and the flames sank below the horizon.

He returned to Lord Hewett's hall in a circumspect mood, where the feasting had already begun. Any opportunity to drink, it seemed. But Victarion was of no mind to celebrate, eyeing his captains with a surly gaze as they made merry, celebrating the life and demise of the man he had hated with all his heart.

I won't simply be Euron's successor, he decided, midway through the feasting. I will be king in my own right, a king so great that no ironborn will remember the Crow's Eye in a generation's time. Men will sing my name as they sing of Qhored the Cruel and Ravos the Raper. Victarion took a bracing gulp of wine and rose to his feet. Few eyes saw him at first, but before long the tumult died and all the captains arrayed were gazing up at him, stood tall at the head of the hall.

"Ironborn! It was once said that ironmen could claim dominion wherever you could smell the salt of the water, hear the roar of the waves. But over the years the greenlanders have grown scornful of us, complacent in their safety. They have forgotten what it means to fear! Are we going to allow this?"

He paused for a moment, his gaze imperious, eyes burning like only a true reaver's could. A thunderous cacophony ensued, each captain declaring with all their heart that the greenlanders would soon learn the meaning of fear, banging their cups on the tables. Only Harlaw did not partake, watching with a curious eye.

Victarion went with the tumult of the crowd, roaring over the noise. "We are reavers! The descendants of men whose names still strike fear across all Westeros! The descendants of men who laid claim to all the shores - and then took them! We are reavers of the Iron Islands! We do not sow - we reap! We will remind the greenlanders the meaning of fear! The Drowned God demands it! So I ask you all to ready your ships, and sharpen your blades. For our next conquest is the Arbor!"

Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
P.P.S. After much thought, I've decided to retcon part of chapter 45. Probably be out within the next week.