Talron Greyjoy - Pyke
Talron had been staring at the map for so long that his eyes were beginning to ache. He was deep into the moonlight hours, straining his eyes through the flicker of a lonely candle. The castle slept, sunken into silence apart from the waves hurling themselves against the rocks. The cries of the wind were surprisingly absent. The fireplace was empty, the embers long dead and the coals burnt down to ash. Yet Talron still stood, leaning over the table and staring down at the image of Westeros before him.
The Iron Islands faced quite the challenge, it seemed. There were so many pieces of the puzzle, each hanging on another. Bear Island was just the start. Once Valorion had crushed House Mormont's men, he would be relying on hostages. It would not be pleasant. Any servants of the House, daughters or a wife that Lord Mormont may have, would be raped. The men would likely be butchered. Once Valorion had done his bloody work, Nalara would have more propaganda. The Starks let their Lords suffer, while their attackers enjoy impunity. Cape Kraken would quickly fall into Nalara's hands, and Talron had big plans for Cape Kraken.
A Kingdom away, Jakkon would be facing off against Lord Tallhart. Jakkon would slaughter them, he suspected. His brother had never been one for failure. Yet, it was not enough. Where two Lords fall, two more would rise. Torrhen's Square would need to be razed, or it would merely become a seat of power for another House. Should Bear Island come under siege, Talron expected that Valorion would raze the old wooden fort and make for the waves.
Yet the Greyjoys would not win this war alone. It was not possible; the North was too vast for such a small army to conquer, and the North would have allies no doubt. The obvious solution seemed to be to seek out allies of their own. Yet who would side with the King of the Iron Islands? He ha pillaged every Kingdom along the West Coast, excluding the Riverlands. They could be a useful ally against the North. Dorne was a world away, of no use to the Greyjoys. The Vale, perhaps. Yet, there was one who was stronger. Daenys Targaryen.
Talron grabbed his quill and ink. His withered hands worked at the parchments. Two letters. Talron read back over the words. The ink had run in places, so he wrote both out again, refining the wording. At last they were ready. The old King read the words aloud to himself, alone in his solar.
Talron folded the letters up and poured dark grey wax onto the front, before roughly stamping his sigil into it. His strategy was risky, of that he was certain. The risk was with supporting the claim of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her cousin Daenys had no support in the Seven Kingdoms, not even the backing of House Targaryen. Rhaenyra however was next in line after Daenys, and still had control over the Northern Crownlands, as well as the backing of numerous Houses accross Westeros. Supporting the Targaryen Princesses seemed a way to ensure some sort of support from the mainland.
Talron called for his thrall. It was a few minutes until the small dark-haired boy appeared, rubbing his eyes with his arm and rubbing his dirty face. His bare feet patted along the stone floor as he approached Talron. "Take these letters to the rookery. I want them sent at first light, understand?" The boy nodded and took the letters in both hands, staring at them curiously. He had a soft face, with long messy hair and dark brown eyes. He couldn't have been older than ten years. "Good. Thank you. When you're done head back to sleep. I won't be needing you again tonight." He smiled and nodded, turning and running off towards the rookery.
Talron stood from his chair and headed for his bed chamber. His body ached as he scaled the stony steps. They were uneven, and difficult to summit when he had to rely on a walking stick. Eventually, however, he reached the top, and entered the warmth of his chamber. Talron made a mental note to thank his thralls in the morning; a roaring fire crackled in the corner of the room, and the glorious warmth licked at his withered skin as he stripped and slid under the sheets.
Talron was exhausted. He had not slept well since becoming a King. As he lay in his bed, the room quiet and the castle asleep, his head was alive with thought. Was he doing the right thing here? The Targaryens had a history of being crazy. But the Iron Islands would not be able to stand alone should the Kingdoms unite against him. The Greyjoys would be brought to their knees. They needed allies. Unfortunately they had been raiding almost every Kingdom for the last fifty years, and they had few friends. All of these things would need to be considered for the Greyjoys to survive the coming war. As Talron lay in bed, trying to work everything out, however, he quickly found himself wrapped in the welcoming embrace of sleep.
Valorion Greyjoy - Bear Island
Valorion Greyjoy stood at the bow of the Dark Valor, looking out accross the Murky water towards Bear Island. The shine of the moon reflected off the waves and illuminated both the ship decks and the miserable little landmass ahead. It was mostly hilly and forested. There was a small town near the coast, but the main attraction was Mormont Keep. It was a small wooden motte-and-bailey castle, stood near the northern shore. The wooden palisade looked half rotten, worn away by the humid sea air, and less than a dozen torches dotted the ramparts.
Valorion moved to the back of the mighty longship. It was a mighty vessel, boasting 100 oars and an enormous sail. The black material was adorned by the golden Kraken of House Greyjoy. The ship was symmetrical, like all Iron Island vessels, so that they were easily sailed both backwards and forwards. The hull consisted of several layers of overlapping wood, coated with a thick layer of tar, allowing the ship to maintain incredible maneuverability while also being strong enough to stand up in a fight against most Westerosi galleys. The prow of the ship was actually not of a Kraken; Valorion's brother Jakkon had sized that one for his ship, the Windbreaker. Valorion's ship instead boasted the maw of a mighty leviathan, lined with vicious fangs.
Valorion stood at the other end of his ship, looking out at his fleet. Near 80 longships had formed a crescent blockade around the Island, blocking the approach of any ship from the mainland. It was an incredible sight. The men of the Iron Islands sailed under their Lords' banner, and if they didn't belong to a Lord, then they had their own. Every Lord of the Iron Islands had at least a single ship representing them in the Iron Fleet. Just to look at it made Valorion swell with pride at his position as its captain. He saw the scythe of House Harlaw upon the sails of the Crestrunner, the warhorn of House Goodbrother on the sails of the Greydon's Glory and the bone hand of House Drumm on the sails of the Jade Vendetta. The tree of House Stonetree, the drowned man of House Sunderly, the leviathan of House Volmark and the lightning bolts of House Kenning. Yet there were some ships present that weren't of Ironborn origin. The Iron Islands had a reasonable number of captured Westerosi war galleys, as well as several Lyseni and Myrish galleys. Present was the Grim Whisper, a gargantuan Myrish galley under the captaincy of Darrias Harlaw, heir to House Harlaw. It was his father, Lord Meryn Harlaw, that had captured the ship and passed it on to his son. It was a formidable fleet, to be sure.
"Captain. Our men await your command." Valorion's first mate, one of Lord Drumm's sons named Harrik, had slipped up beside him while he was admiring his fleet. He was a young man, a little under twenty years, with wispy blonde hair and hazel eyes. He hadn't been with Valorion long but the veteran captain had quickly taken a shine to him. He turned to face the younger Ironborn, stood in his boiled leather with a sword at his hip.
"Very good. Ready the rowboats. I want the crew of this ship with me, and no one else. Once we take the keep, then the Island shall fall. But for now I only want thirty good men." Harrik nodded and scampered off along the deck, barking his captain's orders. The Ironborn made ready for the coming battle, giving their weapons a final sharpen and helping each other into their armor. Some painted their faces, others prayed to the Drowned God. Each had his own way of readying himself to kill. Valorion made his way to the middle of the ship, and his men gathered around. Silence quickly befell the ship as the Ironborn waited for their captain's words.
"So, here we are. Bear Island. Home of House Mormont." Valorion spat on the deck, producing chuckles from a few of the men. "The Northmen look down on us. They always have, and they always will. Well tonight, brothers, we show them the error of their ways." A wicked grin flashed accross his face. "The plan is simple. We row ashore, as quiet as possible. We kill the guards, and make for Lord Gregor's chambers. Once we have their Lord, we'll light a signal fire, and the rest of the fleet will come ashore." Valorion brandished his axe and pointed it at the keep. "I want every last one of these men dead. Can you do this, brothers?" A loud cheer went up. "When the sun rises, the North shall bathe in the blood of its people and every one of you will be father to another bastard. Now come on. We've got work to do."
The Ironborn cheered one last time and followed as Valorion led them to the rowboats. The sea wind roared back at them and the waves battered the hull of their small wooden boats. They were separated into four boats as they made for the shoreline, with only the light of the moon to aid them. They worked well, like a well oiled machine, as they glided over the waves. They made land under the cover of a small cliff, and hopped into the shallows. Together, the Ironborn hauled the boats up the shore to the base of the cliff, hiding them from sight. Valorion assigned five of his thirty men to watch the rowboats and create a signal fire, and led the others up the sand bank towards the castle.
They grouped up on the rear side of the castle, hidden in the shadows of the night. Using a grappling hook and rope, Valorion and three others scaled the walls and swept around the ramparts. Valorion killed three of the guards. He opened one man's throat with his own knife, and drove his axe into the skull of two more. With all twenty-five men on the ramparts, it would be difficult to be discrete. Valorion called for six men to man the wall by the front gate and ensure no one entered or left the castle. With nineteen more men at his disposal, Valorion assigned one in the place of the eight slaughtered guards, leaving him with eleven. The group split in two; Valorion would lead four men to Lord Gregor's quarters, while the other six would sweep the castle and clear it of guards.
Valorion led his men down the ramparts and around the back of the small castle on the hill. He had successfully separated the castle from the bailey bellow by capturing the gatehouse. For now, no one seemed to suspect a thing, and Valorion intended to keep it that way. He used the hooks again to scale the walls and enter through an entrance on the roof of the castle. There were no guards stationed up there, but from the looks of things there should have been. The Ironborn crept down the hall, until they saw what must have been Lord Gregor's quarters. Four armed guards stood outside, but they seemed relaxed and unaware - for this, Valorion was thankful.
He crept down the length of the narrow corridor towards the dozing guards, and they didn't spot him until he got about ten metres away. "Halt!" Valorion kept walking. "I said halt!" The guard moved his hand to his sword hilt, but it was too late. Valorion brandished an axe and savagely hacked at the guard's throat, ripping it open and spraying blood all over the Lord Captain's armor. The other three guards looked stunned and couldn't react quickly enough; Valorion buried his axe in one man's shoulder, and used his other hand to put his other axe several inches deep in another's face. The fourth guard dropped his weapon and begged mercy, but Valorion quickly silenced him with a swing for the man's face. He turned to face the large wooden doors. No doubt Gregor would have heard that.
As Valorion's iron boot smashed through the lock and flung the doors open, Gregor was just hauling himself from his bed. Two of Valorion's men charged forward and tackled him to the ground, each taking an arm and forcing him to his knees, while the other yanked his screaming wife from the bed by her hair. "Lord Gregor Mormont. I have to say, I'm disappointed." He was short and thin, with the scraggly beard and thin graying hair. "I expected the Lord of Bear Island to look a little more... fearsome." Valorion smiled evilly at the man on his knees before him. His wife was sniveling next to him. Valorion knelt down and put his face close to hers, running a hand along the side of her face.
"Hush now, my lady. You have nothing to fear from us. In fact, you should be grateful we came. I'm sure this old goat hasn't been keeping you satisfied... well, my men will fuck you good and proper, I promise you. If you've been bedding that for the last few years," he gestured at Lord Gregor, "you may even find that you enjoy it." He rose back to his feet. Gregor's wife was many years younger than him, with long flowing black hair and pretty blue eyes. Valorion concluded that she would be pregnant by sunrise. "Bind him," Valorion said, "and take him out to the gates. The Drowned God will be pleased with this sacrifice." Gregor's eyes filled with panic, but he remained silent as the Ironborn men bound his hand and feet, and dragged him harshly outside, while Valorion followed.
The small group made it out with no interference. Outside he found the six other men, with Lord Gregor's three children, cleaning their blades. As they stood atop the hill, Valorion looked down on the bailey below. Hundreds of row boats were reaching the shallows, and a tide of Ironborn raiders was cutting a swathe up the shore towards the castle bailey. They would tear it to the ground, Valorion knew, but he did not care. He had no intention of staying. Pyke was his home. He would raze the castle on the morrow and make sail for the Iron Islands, with an abundance of riches, thralls and salt wives. He could smell the salty sea air of home already.
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Valorion stood on the beach where his men had made the shore the night before. The sea air was tainted by the stench of smoke and burned wood. Atop its small hill, the seat of House Mormont was ablaze. He had twenty-three of his men, as well as Lord Gregor Mormont and two others. The two others appeared to be rangers of a sort. They were experienced soldiers, of that Valorion could be certain. One was ugly, with a nose that looked like it had broken times beyond counting, and a gruesome burn scar marking the left side of his face. His brown hair was dirty and his facial hair was patchy. The other looked a veteran, his bald head marked with numerous small scars. One of his eyes was hazel, while the other was an ugly milky white. He had no beard, but a thin mustache sat on his upper lip.
Valorion stared at the two soldiers before him. There had been six of them, these Northmen. They had ambushed many of the Ironborn parties throughout the night and had eventually attempted to sneak in and rescue Lord Gregor. They had killed seven men before they realized what was happening, and four were killed. The other two now knelt before Valorion, staring blankly into his eyes. Valorion didn't want to question these men, for he knew they would tell him nothing. They were well-trained and efficient. No doubt there were more like them in the North.
"Take these two first. I'll handle Lord Gregor myself." Two Ironborn stepped forward and hauled the men to their feet. They dragged them into the shallows, up to just above waist height. Valorion walked in between the two. "Do it." The Ironborn grabbed both men by the hair and forced their faces to the water. They squirmed violently, kicking and writhing as the salty sea filled their lungs in place of the air. They thrashed around for a minute or so. The bald one went limp first, and the ugly one followed suit a few seconds later. The two drowned men were then hauled ashore. Their skin was pasty and their eyes were empty. The Drowned God had claimed their souls. Valorion trudged through the rolling waves to the shore and grabbed Lord Gregor. He dragged the small man to the water and removed his gag. "Lord Gregor Mormont. On this day, you will feel the wrath of the Drowned God. If you have any last words, now is the time."
"Fuck you, Greyjoy! When Lord Stark hears of this he'll mount your head on a spike outside Winterfell, mark my words! You won't get away with this!"
"Now, that's more like what I expected from the Lord of Bear Island. A bit more aggression. Too little, too late, I'm afraid." Valorion grabbed the man's grey hair and plunged his head into the sea. He thrashed and writhed all the same as the watery tendrils of the Drowned God slithered down his throat and wrapped around his lungs. Soon enough he stopped kicking and his lifeless body began floating. Valorion left it there in the sea as he clambered back into the row boat and headed for the deck of the Dark Valor. Once aboard, he made his way to the ship's bow and looked out again at his fleet. The ships were overflowing with new thralls. Many of the men had taken at least one new salt wife, and they had looted the castle for all the gold and, more importantly, weapons that they could find. They had new hauls of food and resources, and Valorion had set several crews the task of felling the forest on the island to help with the lack of wood they had. Some ships would stay and finish off the looting. But not Valorion's. For Valorion, the day was one, his task completed, and it was time to return home.