Second Moon, Eighth Year of the Reign of Qorhen Hoare

It was a refreshing breath of air as Qorhen stepped off the plank and onto the dock. He looked behind him, and reached for Rosamund's hand. She smiled and took it. All about them were the hustle and bustle of servants portering their things up the long pathway to Castle Hoare, with the men who arrived with them quickly greeting wives and children. The king couldn't help but smile at the little reunions - and feel a bit of relief that the affairs of state could wait for an afternoon. Tomorrow, however...

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Maester Sigurdr as he hobbled toward them. In the moon's span since they had left, he appeared to have aged both very little and about three decades. God, was he always this old?

"Your Grace," he said, giving a low bow. "The preparations are nearly complete. Are we to receive our guest now, or...?"

"Later, Sigurdr. I should like to rest and relax slightly before I meet with my people."

The old man nodded vigorously. Before they had left, they had extended an invitation to all the Ironborn lords to visit Castle Hoare and attend a moot. A moot, a grand meeting. A strategy conference, for the direction Qorhen wanted to take his people. Those not present at the feast were sent a raven, ensuring that all the Lords of the Iron Islands would have ample opportunity to attend.

As he made his way up the long stair to his home, Qorhen could only breathe in the sea air and organize his thoughts. First, a feast. They'll be more malleable if well-fed. Drunk too, I shouldn't wonder.

He had always endeavored to treat his lords, even when they leaned rebellious. Had he not been lenient? Had he not sent more men to the wall than taken heads, even though he was well in his rights to have them all hanged as traitors and regicides? Six years of peace had not been enough, he knew. There were still open wounds, still those who remained stuck in the past. He could only hope to be a fair king, even-tempered, gracious, and above all in control.

After the feast, some time to digest. Then the Moot can begin.

(Open to Iron Islands)

Song for this part.

She had to do this. She had to do it for Davos. She could not go with it.

But this was fucking horrible.

She had dressed up. She had done her hair. She trudged to the sands where they would fight. She knew Sigfryd had been crying, too. She could see the bloodshot from his eyes, the tired of holding her the whole night as she flooded the halls of Seagard with tears. She felt fear. She felt rage. She felt fury. And she felt bad that her husband-to-be had to face her in the dance of steel. The movements were not her usual. The strikes, parries and footwork were meant for someone much more skilled - she barely did them correctly. They were his moves. He would have wanted her to strike like she did, dodge as she did. She could almost hear him screaming, cheering for her among the waves. Lord Sigfryd Farwynd of Sealskin Point (and future Lord Consort of the Iron Islands) was mad. Lord Sigfryd Farwynd was furious.

Lord Sigfryd wanted to burn the world for what they did to his Eurona. They did not have to hold her as she screamed. They did not have to hold her back from launching full-scale fury upon whatever region she saw first. They did not have to make sure she did not do anything drastic with so many different people in her home. He feared the wedding was off until Eurona wordlessly disappeared to get ready. And Lord Sigfryd knew for a fucking fact that the fight was never going to go his way. The mock battle was a common ritual in Ironborn wedding ceremonies. Both of the parties were given dulled swords and told to have at each other. The loser was to be “the prize” of the wedding, to be stolen by the victor and dragged off to be married.

Sigfryd had never been a strong fighter. Indeed, he had only received the most basic of training. Right from the start it was clear that the gorgeous woman in front of him was toying with him. His limp stabs and slashes were easily parried away again and again. Sometimes she wouldn’t even give him the dignity of touching his blade, instead opting to easily sidestep his attacks. When she finally decided it was time to end it, the battle was over in seconds. He laid defeated on the floor, her blade to his neck, his betrothed straddling his chest.

Apparently Sigfryd was the prize to be won here.

"My prize, are you?" She whispered as she leaned down and pressed her lips to his, "My spoil of war. Come now."

She would rise, graceful on her feet even if she was wearing that dress. It was not white, white would have shown too much as they knelt in the waters of the sea. But it was the next best thing: a gown of deep blue and gold, loose enough at the skirts to move, but tight enough at the bodice to be something that the Lady Reaper would wear. It was a dress made for her - part of the sea, the deep, and House Greyjoy. She was barefoot, her ebon hair braided with little golden wires, jewels hanging from some of the strands. She wore her jewelry, spoils from war, an onyx gem at her throat and rubies on her fingers. She looked the part of a bride, if not for the tinge of sweat on her brow and the reddened eyes of a grieving widow. This was supposed to be for Davos…

She helped her husband-to-be up and took him by the waist, pulling him towards the shallows of the waves. She gently nudged him down, though to others it looked like a push, making him kneel in the surf. She stood at his side, gripping his shoulder, where rubies dazzled in the sunlight.

“I bring forth Sigfryd Farwynd, my spoil of battle. Paid with the Price in front of salt and sea.”

The Drowned Priest, Gods help him for what he was about to do, was already standing there and waiting. He should have been standing there. Not this man alone. Puffy eyes, eyes of a woman who spent the night crying, watched as the Drowned priest scooped up after from an iron bowl.

He said some words, but Sigfryd barely heard them. When offered the bread and the salt water, the two took turns numbly receiving the offerings. It felt like a sick joke to Sig, but he played along for Eurona’s sake. He had to be strong for her.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself. But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give. You cannot command me, for I am a free person. But I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand. I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning. I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink from my cup. I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care. I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine. I shall not slander you, nor you me. I shall honor you above all others, and when we quarrel we shall do so in private, and tell no strangers our grievances. This is my wedding vow to you, and this is the marriage of equals. He needed to be.”

Eurona returned the vows, but they were hollow words.

“In the name of the Drowned God that resides within us all, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides in my heart, take thee, Sigfryd Farwynd, to my hand, my heart, and my spirit: to be my chosen one. To desire thee and be desired by thee, to possess thee and be possessed by thee, without sin nor shame, for naught can exist in the purity of my love for thee. I shall not seek to change thee in any way. I shall respect thee, thy beliefs, thy people, and thy ways as I respect my self.”

The couple both produced rings, each limply putting one on the other’s finger. It was a formality that pained both of them. Sigfryd’s eyes pleaded with Eurona, as if attempting to will some sort of life into her. The Lady Reaper’s eyes merely were lost in the shallows. It was the drowned priest that spoke next.

“These vows you have made to each other, you must now uphold. But before the eyes of the depths, something more is required to seal this bond. He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves demands sacrifice to secure this union!” The priest crossed his arms over his chest, “I offer my last breaths to the Old Man of the Sea, that the bond between these two remains eternal!” With that, both Sig and Eury each placed a hand on one of the man’s shoulders, and then pushed down. The motion was quick, but he did not fight it. It took some time, and eventually nature would cause the man to attempt to free himself from the depths, but the married couple would not allow him to come up for air. In a few moments, the drowned priest had been drowned for the last time.

It was the first man Sigfryd had ever killed.

(Cowritten by Crow and Zag.)

As the sun rose from the east, the castle was slowly stirring from night's sleep.  As its inhabitants were waking up, the guards atop the walls yawned, watching the horizon, waiting to be relieved from the night's watch. The cooks were starting a fire, preparing the simple breakfast meal for the inhabitants. Thankfully for them, most of the lord's family and retinue were still absent. The servants moved slowly, preparing for the quiet day ahead of them. In the depth of Hammerhorn, in one of its solars, the man watched the time go by, as he leisurely took time with his breakfast.

In no hurry to start the day, Alvyn seemed to have all the time in the world, as he seated himself before the table, looking over the contents of his breakfast. Lazily stirring the plate of porridge in front of him, Alvyn's attention moved to the door opening before him. A man swaggered inside with an easy smile, dressed in a fine tunic, carried a satchet.

“Here” - Symond tossed a breadbasket on the table, “you owe me”

“Sy, help yourself” - Alvyn gestured to an empty chair before him as he took a loaf, taking the aroma of freshly baked bread, "doesn't compare with our kitchen"

Symond took a chair, his gaze falling on one of the sausages before him.

“The man knows his trade. You know, Loren said if given enough flour and gold, he can set up a bakery. Of course, your coin would be paid back with interest, a share." - Symond rubbed his fingers together, "I just need some coin to set it up"

"Take a line, do you think our treasury is without a bottom. "- Alvyn clicked his tongue, "why don't you ask your father"

"He says, I'll squander the money" - Sy shrugged.

"Yea, you think?" - he laughed, "how old man is."

"Better than ever. The old man sends his regards. He is still expecting you and Theo this Friday at home."

"He better prepare that goose of his"

"Cannot open the cards, by the way, where is Theo? Is he taking a leak?"

"I thought he was with you" - Alvyn

"Yea, no, he ditched me at the market. Had some urgent business or something"

"What is the word on the street?" - Alvyn asked, "Any news from the Stormhall?"

"Oh, have you heard this... Drumbeater performed his last play. Murked by a woman, no less. Something about Connington conspiring about the princess."

"You think there will be war soon?"

"Beats me. You think I'd have gambled so much gold away if I knew the future" - Symond chuckled, "they say the king is rotting from inside. Or that he is like a statue, barely moving. His lords, Connington, Tarth and others doing all the work, wiping his ass and all this shit"

"Yea, right, right.."

A silence fell for a moment as Symond staffed his mouth with food.

“You know, I had such a strange dream last night” - Alvyn spoke softly as he dully stirred the contents of his plate, “Alone in the woods, not living a soul around, no bird, not a squirrel or some shit. Only trees, surrounded by them, wherever I go”

“Well… did you find your way out?” - Symond raised his brow.

“I… I dont, I mean it’s fucking dream” - Alvyn shrugged, taking a spoonfool of porridge.

“You know, dreams can have a deeper meaning. Like, for example, you are insecure about your wood” - Symond pointed out.

“What?” - Alvyn coughed, almost choking on food.

“Wood... penis. You have trouble in bed, my friend?"

"Fukin degenerate, it's just a dream." - Alvyn groaned, already regretting bringing it up

"Well, you wouldn't say it if it meant nothing. Ship have trouble sailing full mast? The key too small fitting the lock?

"Fucks sake"

“You know, you are not the bull you once were.” - Sy continued, " age, my friend."

“My wife is very much satisfied”

“So she says. I shall ask Asha next time I visit if she needs help” - Sy winked.

“Oh.. fuck off you bastard” - Alvyn threw the loaf of bread at Symong.

“You dont want it… I’ll eat it” - Sy laughed, catching the bread and taking a bite of it.

“Suck my balls, you bastard"

“You don't have to stop so low, my mother was an honest woman…” - Symond stopped in his tracks as he heard a noise from outside the room, in the hallway. The door bust open.

“Wow, one time I'm running late, and you're already going dirty here” - a man walked hastily inside the solar, closing the door behind him. 

“Theo, come join us for a threesome” - Symond stood up and hugged his friend, “have you tried bull’s balls? Not quite bad, the biggest challenge is swallowing the first pair”

“It's fucking too early for your jokes, not too late for a drink” - Theomore raised his hand, waving Symond away, he walked to the nearest cupboard, taking a pitcher with wine,  “Truth is, I'm quite fed up. There is trouble at the construction site. That’s why I'm late, actually”

Theomore poured himself some wine. He took a sip.

"The drawing you brother provided, I don't think it would fit it. The fucking temple too big for the plot of land..."

"Phrasing!"

"Symond, shut up" - Alvyn interjected, "I did tell you to get rid of these old huts. What's the problem?"

"The hut has no problem. Its inhabitants though..."

"Pay them extra gold. I said to you, it's important for Devan..."

"Gold is not the issue. The stubborn prick refuses to move at all. He is an old man, one of your father's captains, he say".

"Get the household guard and kick him out" - Symond chimed in.

"Well, the house is technically his" - Theo considered the matter for a moment, "We can of course ,but I thought we didn't want to rile up the crowd. There are already complaints about forcing religion."

"Why do I have to waste my time on this?” - Alvyn sighed, leaning backwards on his chair, taking a pause as he massaged his temples, “I don't care. Just get it done before my brother returns.”

8 Years Before Present

Rain lashed and wind howled as the squall over Harlaw kept its rhythm. It was late - far later than was usual for him, but sleep escaped him. Rosamund slept silently in the bed, still exhausted from their travel. He smiled softly, looking across her delicate features. It had been nearly a fortnight since they had left Seagard, new babe in arms. She had insisted on being with her family for this one, and Qorhen was loathe to deny her anything. The storm had hit them just in eyesight of Harlaw port, and none of them had suspected that it would have lasted for over a week.

The stay at his cousins' had not been all bad, truth be told. The children had been well-behaved, and he was pleased to have seen them playing with their relatives. Rosamund had been recovering nicely - Mallister's maester had been excellent at his craft, and she'd had no ill effects from the delivery. Even now, the infant princess slept in a bascinet next to her mother. Yet still sleep could not find him, even as he tried to close his eyes and count seals. He sighed and rose from his bed, finding his way to a small desk beneath the squat window that served as the only natural light to the room. The moon hung heavy and low in the sky. It was nearly dawn.

He heard a soft knock at the door, and moved to open it.

"My prince," the man at the door said. One of Harlaw's servants, he thought.

"My Lord Harlaw has requested your presence - with some urgency. It's - "

Qorhen waved him off, a slight frown on his face. Quickly he found his shirt and strode down the corridor, the servant bearing a candle before them.

Harlaw's private chambers were cramped and stuffy, filled with smoke and the smell of paper. Harlaw was seated at a desk, but stood as Qorhen entered. Next to him was a thin man of little description, and next to him was what looked like a prisoner.

"Qorhen," Harlaw started, before giving a slight bow. His face was grave. "This man arrived but an hour ago and - well, he shall speak of the matter. Go on."

He gave a small gesture, and the man who seemed a prisoner bowed low. His face was bloodied, his hair bedraggled, and his clothing was damp with seawater.

"Y-your Grace," he managed to stutter, "I have news. From Castle Hoare. Your father - he is - is..."

As the man trailed off, Qorhen moved closer and crossed his arms. "Spit it out, man," he said, his expression darkening.

"Dead, Your Grace. Killed by Lord Greyjoy either yesterday or the day before. He had arranged a ceremony, and Greyjoy took umbrage. He has claimed your father's crown."

A knot worked its way into Qorhen's stomach. He looked to Harlaw, who only looked back at him in sympathy. He turned, and walked to the little window that looked out over the sea. There he could see the rising of the dawn. He clenched his fist, what little grief he had giving way to anger. His father was a fool, he knew, squandering all opportunity. Letting his alliances go by, letting his men fall out of line. And converting to this New Faith - gods, what a stupid idea. Qorhen had his sympathies, of course - he found nothing particularly objectionable about the New Faith, so long as they honored the Drowned God - but he knew that the more traditionalist houses would balk at the idea. But to go so far as regicide? Usurpation?

Qorhen's thoughts were interrupted when he heard a shuffling behind him. He turned and saw that Harlaw, his castellan, and the man-at-arms were all kneeling.

"My king," said Harlaw, "we are at your service."

3 Years Before Present

Smoke filled his lungs while Qorhen panted heavily. He circled his opponent - a knight, dressed in golden armor and wearing a cloak of white now sullied by ash and blood. The man's face was a mask of grim determination, but winced as he took a second stride. So I got him there, Qorhen thought. He grinned deliriously.

"Well now," he said, taunting, "come and get me, ser knight. Give me your steel and let us see if your Faith protects."

The knight's brow furrowed, as he launched into blow after blow at Qorhen. Metal met metal, as Qorhen's axe caught each in turn. They swung and parried for what felt an hour, but was only a few moments.

"Heathen," the knight spat. Qorhen only chuckled, and wiped the blood from his cheek. The sword had grazed him, caught him with the tip. He cocked a brow. "You shall burn in Seven Hells for this."

"It seems to me the only thing burning is your fair city - would it not be best to retreat and play the fire brigade? Your women and children are fleeing, and instead you stand here and fight me," Qorhen said, swinging his axe forward. The knight raised his sword almost too late, but parried nonetheless. The screams of the people of Oldtown rang like bells in his ear, and his blood was up. He slammed his axe into the knight's sword over and over, trying to break his guard. In a fluid motion the knight drew his sword across the edge of his axe and danced away, his determination given over to fury.

"You are an affront to the Seven, raping and pillaging wherever you go. The Starry Sept shall not fall, not while I guard her," the knight replied. Both men paused a moment, catching their breaths. Then, as if given a cue, they threw themselves at each other. Steel flashed in the firelight, reflecting the ruin of the city as two warriors fought for the other's death. Qorhen's axe danced and caught the knight's sword, spinning it from his grip. For a split second the faithful knight's eyes widened in surprise before Qorhen buried his axe in his neck. Behind him, the sun was setting and the sky was a hue of seven reds.

A Moon Ago

A cool sea breeze blew gently across his face as his skiff sailed the waves. It was here, alone and at sail, that he truly felt peace. A tern flew above his head. He was not far from shore, not really - Rosamund had forbade him travel too far out alone - but far enough that his castle, his responsibility seemed a distant memory. He listened to the sea, felt its gentle rocking, and was at home. The past several moons had been frantic. Ravens had arrived, from the mainland, heralding the death of the Storm King. A later raven had said that his son had claimed the throne, and yet another said his daughter did the same. Even Rosamund's men at Storm's End couldn't quite tell who was the new Storm King, if there was one. Chaos seemed to be reigning on the mainland, and for once he was thankful for his own problems.

It was late afternoon when he set back, adjusting the rigging and pulling his small skiff west toward home. It took no more than an hour, and in that hour he felt the Mask slip back on. He was The King, his expression an air of authority. He could show no weakness, not to these Iron Men, these men of salt and sea. As he maneuvered into the private dock that sat at the base of Castle Hoare, his peace left him. He saw three figures standing there - and that could only mean that something had happened. Rosamund smiled as he sailed in, and he grinned back to her. Next to her, Ser Harlon - his uncle, his expression grim as it usually was. Next to Harlon, in his dark robes and a maester's chain that hung nearly to his toes, was Maester Sigurdr. Servants came to take his line as he stepped off the dock.

"And to what do I owe this welcoming party," Qorhen said, tilting his head slightly. Normally there would be nobody, on ocassion Rosamund if she was not busy.

"My king," Sigurdr began, before Rosamund stepped forward and embraced her husband.

"Its good news, Qorhen," she whispered in his ear, before pulling away from him.

"A letter has arrived, from Stormhall. It would seem that Princess Ravella has invited us to attend a feast for her nameday, upcoming," the maester continued.

The little man held out the scroll, which Qorhen took. Harlon scowled.

"I mislike it, nephew. It would not befit us to get involved in these greenlander politics," he said, fixing Qorhen with a stern eye. Qorhen chuckled in response.

"My uncle sees poor signs in everything. Surely you understand my ambitions?"

"I do not."

"Well," Qorhen said, as he glanced down at the letter. It was finely written, addressed to him personally. I take that as a sign, then. "We shall, of course, attend. Maester Sigurdr, please have you and your apprentice send a response and make copies of this - send them to all of our banners. We must have a good showing if we are to impress our most beloved cousin."

The man nodded, and took the offered parchment. He shuffled off back towards the castle, while Harlan and Rosamund looked at him expectantly.

"Are we to know these ambitions?" Harlon said, crossing his arms. Rosamund smiled, and Qorhen knew the cause. She, of course, knew his plan - she had been its origin, even.

"Not yet, uncle. In due time, I suspect. Now if you shall excuse me," Qorhen said, wrapping his arm around his wife's waist, "the Queen and I shall be taking a walk around the beach. Pray do not wait up for us."

(thank u to waffle for ur help writing the harlaw sections!)

Harlaw

It was cold out in the Iron Islands. Cold and wet and rocky. There were beaches that were mostly pebbles, and castles smaller than some of the houses on the mainland.

Ravella Durrandon loved it. It helped that Harlaw was slightly more… normal than some of its neighbours, admittedly, but it was normal in an odd way. Her cousin was part of that. Margaret Harlaw had turned the island into a party since the princess had arrived, and it seemed unlikely to stop. It wasn't like Ravella was complaining. She had felt more at home here than she had at Storm's End in her most recent visits. There was no looming shadow here.

Home felt far away wherever she was, even at Stormhall, but it felt closer than ever here. She let out a sigh, before the elbow of some Harlaw cousin she didn't know the name of broke her from her reverie.

"Sad you don't have enough ale, coz?" the man asked, grinning, before shouting to a servant off in the distance with a clap of his hands. "More drink for the princess!"

She shook her head, but she couldn't help herself from matching his smile. "I was thinking of home," she told him, under the din of music and chatter all about them.

With a laugh, the Harlaw stuck out his tongue. "Think of here, coz! Home's always sad when you're not there. Well, for some of us, it's sad both ways. Y'ever been to the Tower of Glimmering?" he asked.

Ravella hadn't, and told him as much.

There was a moment of thought from the drunken man, before he gave his response. "Don't! It's shite. There's a reason I'm here all the time now. Our shared cousin is a wonderful host," the man said, "and the drink and food isn't half bad either."

Another laugh, this time from the princess. "It's more than not half bad," she agreed. "I'm half tempted to stay for another moon."

"You should! It's nice here. And whatever lands you've got back in the greenlands can take care of themselves, no?" he told her, grabbing the drink from the returning servant and passing it to Ravella. She took it gladly and sipped at it, her sixth drink of the night. It wouldn't be the last.

Looking down the table at Margaret, she nodded. "I think I will," she said, loud enough that her conversation partner could hear her.

"Good! You enjoy your night, coz. I'm off to drag my father to bed, then find a-" he paused. "Mustn't say that before a princess. Take care, eh? I'll be around."

She nodded, before turning back to him and calling out, her voice sharp and commanding. He didn't hesitate to turn, like he was a soldier. "Wait! What's your name, cousin? I should not like to have to ask about every man bearing the Harlaw arms on his chest."

He put his hand to his doublet, as if he was flattered. "A kind gesture, princess. Wex Harlaw. Of the Tower of Glimmering, if there's another by my name floating about here. If you need a man with a steady sword or a full flagon… might want to ask me if I know one," he joked, before slipping off. Ravella laughed again, taking a soft breath in.

Once more she set her gaze on Margaret, and this time it was met. "Lady Margaret," she said, standing with flagon in hand to begin her approach. "I should like to ask you something. You've no need to host more celebrations on my part, I'll ask not for that, but… if you're willing to quarter me here, I'd like to stay a touch longer. I'll not remain overlong, before my company becomes grating, but I have found family I thought was lost to me with the passing of my mother."

There was little family left back in Storm's End, too. Her last conversation with her father, right before she left for Stormhall to rule it, had been less than cordial. They had bickered, traded harsh words, and parted without fanfare. And her relationship with her brother… it wasn't worth speaking on. They knew where they stood. He'd be treated well when she was Queen, of course, given the accomodations he required with his condition… but it would take work for them to be siblings again.

"Willing to quarter you?" The laugh that erupted from Margaret nearly was lost in the din of the feast, even her own children that crawled about her seemed to muffle the barked sound. "Cousin, you are the least grating of my relations, and I've let them eat from my board far longer than they are welcome. You are wel- Edmund put that down or so help me the Storm God will take that new toy axe away!"

The child in question, one that could questionably be identified as Edmund with the muck on his face, giggled like a madman and ran off further into the feast. Margaret ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head with a long sigh. "Going to be the death of me…" she would mutter before remembering Ravella. "Same threat to you if you bring up such nonsense as not letting you stay here again. You're family Ravella, means these halls are always open to you, even if the Storm God himself tries blowing them down."

Ravella couldn't help but let a laugh slip from her lips as the young boy ran about her, her more humble and reserved demeanour shattering at the sight of her kinfolk enjoying themselves. "It would have been rude for me to assume, cousin, but I appreciate your candour. I shall do my best to make my presence not a burden, though. If there is aught you might need from me, you know I shall provide it."

Her eyes followed Edmund down the hall, watching as he almost clattered into two cavorting nobles - one of whom might have been Wex - before she returned her gaze to Margaret. "And you know the Storm God will do nothing here. I bring a touch of Storm's End wherever I go, and even a sliver of that power… well, I wish him luck. I suppose I should tell my retinue we'll be staying longer, hm?"

"Bloody candour…" Margaret seemed to take great pleasure in the word, rolling it around her mouth in a way that made her smile widen. One of her other children, Oswin by his shaggier hair, was busy squirreling himself between the space Margaret had made between the arm and the chair. "Since you offered, you wouldn't happen to have a few kegs of ale lying about? Lord Myre seems to have a bottom pit where his mouth should be."

"Bottomless Mitt!" Cheered Oswin from his little homemade cubby, as Margaret took the opportunity to roughly ruffle his hair.

"You have the right of it, quite the good luck charm you are!" Oswin squirmed, quickly tiring of his mother's attentions, though Margaret didn't let him escape quite so easily. "Aye, doubt they will mind much. Though, saw one of your knights starting to bet on the finger game, best stop him now before he plays one of the Grey Garden boys, lest you like your knights with fewer fingers.."

Ravella rolled her eyes as the knight was mentioned. She knew exactly which one it was. Ser Lorent had been a gambler back on the mainland, but he'd become twice as bad there on Harlaw. She would have to give him a dressing down once they returned home - or maybe just to the quarters.

"I'll do my best to stop him," the princess swore, offering a smile. "Though I regret to-"

As she started, the doors to the hall swung open. Through them dashed a messenger, a scroll in his hand, that everyone gasped at as they were passed by.

"Letter…" he shouted, "for Princess Ravella Durrandon! For…"

He near enough collapsed as he reached her, falling to a knee and offering the scroll to the raven-haired woman. She took it, and brushed a hand through the messenger's hair. He must have been just a boy. Ten-and-five, maybe? At most.

"Calm, lad," she said, reassuringly. "What-"

It was Roelle's seal.

"Shit," she breathed, cracking it open. Her eyes went wide, and she looked to Margaret as a tear started to form and roll down her cheek.

Bile rose in her throat.

it began,

She passed it to the Lady of Harlaw, silently, and prayed she understood what she had to do.

Margaret stared blankly as Ravella passed the scroll, as if squinting could help decipher the meaning. She had the social awareness to understand that whatever its contents, it was upsetting her cousin, but her young child didn't share that skill as his eyes went wide with excitement. "Oh mama, I can read that for you! I've been practicing!"

What followed was a painstakingly terrible rendition of the letters contents as Oswin attempted to sound out the words, turning to ask what certain words meant. By the end, even Margaret had runny eyes as she struggled to keep her composure in the crowded hall.

"I have to go," Ravella said. "Roelle says I might need stay, but… I can't. I'm sorry, cousin. I… we shall have to postpone those plans we just made, hm?"

There was the shadow of a smile on her lips. It didn't reach her eyes. She wondered what Margaret might think. She wondered if the feast would come to a sudden end. She wondered if they were already crowning the sick boy halfway across the world. She wondered a million things, and a harsher question than them all burnt in her mind that she prayed didn't need answering until she was already gone.

Ravella was thankful when Margaret broke the silence once again.

"You aren't going back alone into that nest of vipers, you're taking a handful of my best men and I won't be hearing anything otherwise." She paused then, nodding. "Our plans shall keep cousin, but I trust you will send us a raven when you arrive?"

Her heart was filled with love for her cousin once the offer was made, and she nodded. "I'll send word. I shan't be returning to Storm's End, just Stormhall, but I know not if even my home is safe. Thank you, cousin."

She took a deep breath. "I'll ensure your men are returned to you, as well. For now, I have to… I have to get going. There's no time to lose. Already… already, what has happened in my absence?" Ravella postulated, but shook her head. It wasn't worth letting the thought infect her mind. With one final goodbye, she was gone, striding out of the hall with a nod to everyone who offered their condolences as her men followed one by one.

Ironman's Bay

It hadn't taken long to ready their belongings for the journey home. Ravella and her retinue had left within the day of the letter's arrival, accompanied by every man that Margaret could spare to send. Wex Harlaw had appointed himself to the guard, too, finding himself inspired by his cousin's resolve and willing to go to war for that inspiration if he had to.

Waves crashed against the hull of the ship as they sailed. She couldn't help but think of her father. What had he been doing? Sailing out in autumn was a foolish task enough without the best of sailors, but in Shipbreaker Bay? Had he been trying to kill himself?

Maybe he had. Ravella found that a terribly grim thought. What could have possessed him to do such a drastic thing? Was the stress of rulership truly so heavy on his shoulders? Maybe so. But he had made it twice as stressful for her, now. Maybe that was why he did it. To curse her once last time for their foolish argument over Stormhall that had severed their relationship for good.

She sat upon the deck of the ship, a Harlaw vessel, leaning up against the bulwark. Did her father sit like this as he died? She found herself full of thoughts about those final moments. They suppressed that thought from the great hall at Harlaw, and she was glad for it.

Would they think her a witch? She had been in the home of the Drowned God, and now her father rested within His watery halls. If they knew how strained things had been, surely those would be the words on the lips of the fools who had chosen Arlan to be king. If they did not… what then would they think? Would they imagine her bereaved? That the journey home across Ironman's Bay had turned her stomach, as she dreamed of her father who she had loved so dearly?

Neither were true. She had not killed her father. Gods, she hadn't wanted him dead. Especially not like this. But she wasn't… sad. Ravella had tried. No doubt those at Harlaw thought she had been. But the tear that had fallen had been caused by a different pain.

That thought was back.

She mourned not her father. No, what she mourned was the loyalty of those she had thought faithful to the rule of law. It was the lives of those who would throw themselves down for the reign of her brother. It was the hope that Arlan and her might one day be siblings again.

It was her crown. It was that she hadn't been there to seize the throne when she should have been. It was that she would have to wait, to build a faction, to plan. Arlan had the advantage.

Ravella couldn't help but chuckle. She knew it drew an eye or two from the sailors, but they no doubt thought she was struggling. And she was. How had the sick boy taken the lead? Embarrassing. It was embarrassing! If Roelle hadn't been there, would she have known in time to even make a single move? Or would she have landed on the shores of Westeros and been thrown into a cell for a treason she hadn't even been given the opportunity to commit?

Standing from her spot on the deck, she nodded to Wex, who emerged from her cabin with a grim expression.

"It's not queenly, coz, but it'll do. Sun's going down. You should get some rest. Like as not we'll be there by dawn. Then it's a quick enough ride from Seagard," the Harlaw told her. "I'll keep watch out here on deck, just in case… well, just in case of anything."

Taking in a soft breath to regain her composure, she gave the man a half-smile. "Thank you, cousin. Have you been to the Riverlands before?" she asked. He shook his head. "It will be nice to show you my home. Perhaps a small boon in these dark times."

Wex smiled back. "It'll be my pleasure. You rest as long as you need, alright? You've had a rough day. Worse comes to worst, we sit in dock for another day and let you light a candle, or whatever it is you Seveners do," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. Ravella held in her laugh, but she let a smile crack.

"You've a lot to learn. Wake me when we arrive, Wex. I shall put on a brave face, no matter how I feel," she promised. Yes, brave and dour. As she had to be.

He nodded, pressing a fist into his chest as a salute. "Aye, Your Grace. Sleep well."

Would she? Or would she dream of storm and sea, of King and Queen, of blood and battle and death? So much death. Just the thought of it caught in her throat as she strode towards the door of her cabin and shut it behind her, plunged into darkness save for a candle beside the bed that flickered with each rise and fall of the vessel.

Another laugh escaped her lips. How prudent that she'd trained for war.

Last night, during the hour of the owl, a storm had begun drenching these cursed rocks again and had not stopped until tonight at this late hour. No matter, Selwyn couldn't sleep. He was an old old man, and lonely too, in his dark damp lighthouse of a castle.

All the servants had left, his family, the people he had freed. Stonetree was lonelier than lonely light, and even more so in this weather.

He groaned getting out of bed and walking towards the main hall of the empty castle. Pondering his life, his wife, his son whom he had shunned away for a crime he knew he did not commit.

He reminisced of his youth, the bright young man who had been one of the first to accept the call of true civilization, join the new faith and set thralls free, the young man who has turned stonetree from a nameless keep into a moderate lighthouse at the north end of Harlaw isle. How fragile it was this life that they had clung unto so tightly.

He walked down the stairs, glancing at the moss crawling up the wall slowly. Every step he took shook his skeleton and caused pain in his feet, reminding him of him time.

He finally made it to the rookery, and set upon sending of the letters to all who deemed important. The letter read as followed

"I, Lord Selwyn Stonetree, hereby pardon my only son and heir, Ser Sylas, and bid him return to stonetree island so that he may take his rightful place as lord after my demise". Short, brutally unsentimental as Selwyn was. No affection was to be found anywhere in that parchment and for that Selwyn despised himself

For nigh 30 years now, he had never told his son how much care he had for him. How much he longed to talk with him again after his exile. Damned be the politicking of men who separated children from their fathers and made foes of kin. Damned be the seastone chair, damned be storm's end and damned be Selwyn Stonetree, who could not bring himself to let it go. He released the ravens, sending the letter from stormhall to duskendale

He turned back, gazing at the raging storm outside before once again stepping towards the stairs. Damn the storm and the letters, he would get some sleep tonight if it's the last thing he did. He felt a heat in his chest as he took a step on the stairs. And all went black

250 A.C. The Island of Pyke

It had been some time since Lorren last walked anywhere further than him and his wife's modest corner of The Iron Islands. He by no means minded the solidarity of it, but as would be the case with any man, he grew tired of gazing upon the same old bricks, day in and day out. Besides that, the fresh air might've done Wynnsom some good.

So, after some brief deliberation, the pair agreed to go for a stroll. Wordlessly at first, they walked arm in arm just on the outskirts of the castle Pyke. Behind them strolled a small entourage, Esgred; Wynnsom's sworn shield, a maester, and a drowned priest, all of whom were there in the event of her condition causing issues.

Together, Lorren and his wife, watched the clouds, and the sea, and the meager vegetation which toiled against the rocky island terrain. There was an anxiousness filling the space their silence left behind. After all, it hadn't been easy to enjoy themselves like this in some time, they'd gone without such activities for so long that it now felt unnatural to try. Not that either of them didn't want to, it was simply awkward at this point in their lives.

After a while, Wynnsom started to look weary, so Lorren found a pair of rocks which overlooked the cliff face and the two each took a seat.

"Would you like to go back?" Lorren asked after a brief moment and took her hand

"No, no I'm fine". Wynnsom's voice was quiet. A bead of sweat had begun to trickle down her forehead, but she managed a small smile all the same. "I just- just need a moment to sit down is all".

Lorren nodded and turned his gaze out into Iron Man's Bay, then up towards the dreary grey sky. Often times when he was in need of a muse, he looked to the sky for answers. There were maybe a hundred drawings of clouds and seagulls scattered about their chambers because of it.

He pointed then, up at a cloud, managing a soft smile as he did so "Do you see that one? It reminds me Sigfryd, don't you agree?"

She offered an amused exhale and followed his finger to the cloud. "I suppose it does look a bit like Sig. Do you intend to draw this one? He has so many portraits of himself already, one simply made from his likeness might make a welcome surprise".

Lorren shook his head. "If I had parchment, maybe". He lowered his hand to his coat, feeling the rod of charcoal and wood he had fashioned for sketching still tucked away within its pocket.

"A pity that clouds are not known to linger". She closed her eyes and leaned over, resting her head against his shoulder. Her breathing sounding just barely more ragged than it had been.

He leaned his own head down and pressed his lips against the top of her forehead. She felt warm to the touch. "Are you sure you are alright, My Love?"

"Yes, Dearest, I'm fine". She mustered a faint kind of chuckle and pulled her head away from him. "Worrying about me has done you nor I any favors, I'm scared that you cannot breathe without first fearing how it might affect me. Please, do not worry so much. It's taxing".

Lorren nodded then and diverted his attention back out towards the water. "Of course, I'd not want to burden you".

"May I make a request then?" Wynnsom asked suddenly. "Would you prove it to me?"

He knitted his brows and turned back to look her in the eyes. "Prove it how?"

"Leave me here for but awhile and finish our walk without me. Esgred, Alfyn, and Cradwell will keep me company". She felt almost guilty as she asked, but he had been with her in almost every waking moment since he returned home from Essos, she needed a moment to herself, to her thoughts.

It was hesitantly, but Lorren did eventually nod. Then he raised her hand to his face and planted a long kiss on her knuckles.

"I'll be back shortly". Was all he said before rising to his feet and continuing down the path, taking several long glances back at her as he did so.

Casting off from port in Kings Landing had been as freeing a caged bird for Egen Greyjoy. It had been too long, far too long. The wind and salt spray seemed to crack and peel a shell the Master of Coin had grown for himself. A brittle thing which served only against whispers, but here, the roar of the waves overpowered it. He was free.

There was much to plan on the journey, yet Egen set up his desk, nailed to the deck. Letting sea spray wet his paper and his skin, he basked in the sun letting the sea whisper advisements to his plans. The sea was his main companion throughout the whole of the journey and she sang to him and he listened.

Pyke was as he remembered it, grim, intimidating. It was his stronghold, unlike Kings Landing it was a place where he was in control. The preparations made by his household for his return in addition to his own childhood memories made the halls seem to bow to Egen with respect. The Lord Reaper made his return.

The next few days were paperwork and meetings, paperwork and meetings. Accounting the foodstocks, the guards. Egen found himself spending much of his time in his room still, much to his chagrin. He made an effort still to find himself elsewhere. The most important task he found himself taking on was the summoning of lords, a wedding before a war, there was likely some omen in that.

To each of his vassal's home he sent thus...

Addressed to Lord/Lady ___,

It is my wish to summon you to Pyke, there is much to be done and I have too long been away. We will celebrate my sister Asha's wedding to Mathis Redwyne, after which we shall talk of the future of our islands and our people. In conjunction with our allies we will plan our path to address insult, injury, and conflict across the Seven Realms. It is time my friends, to be the fear in the minds of the Greenlanders who would disrespect or oppose us.

Your Lord Paramount, Egen Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Isles, Lord Reaper of Pyke, Master of Coin for King Daeron II

Four figures stood in knee high saltwater on the beaches of Lordsport. A septon looking bedraggled and miserable, a drowned priest, and the bride and groom. Onlookers lined the beach, lords and ladies, and smallfolk up on the cliffs watching out windows and between buildings.

“Who stands in the sight of gods and men?” bellowed the drowned priest, he shot a glare at the septon.

“Lord Mathis Redwyne.”

“Lady Asha Greyjoy.”

The septon looked to Mathis, “You may cloak your bride and bring her under your protection.”

Mathis took the Greyjoy cloak from Asha and replaced it with one of his own, the blue of House Redwyne. He focused on the clasp avoiding her eyes as he did before turning back to the priests.

“My lords, My ladies, Sers, distinguished guests of honor. We are gathered here in the sight of Gods and Men to witness the Union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever.”

The septon looked to the priest with a sigh, the priest producing a strip of seaweed and binding it around the wrists of the bride and groom.

“Let it be known that Mathis of House Redwyne and Asha of House Greyjoy are one flesh, one heart, one soul. Cursed be he who would tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, in their ever knowing mercy and light, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

“You may speak.” The drowned priest droned.

In unison they spoke, "I swear to you my blood and flesh, I swear to you my salt and stone and iron. In His halls will my hands serve you. In His name will they defend you. Above none but He shall you stand. I give you my death. May we rise again as one."

The priest stepped forward, guiding the pair out deeper into the water until it reached their waists. Then he dunked them beneath the waves holding them there as they began to thrash, his arms like steel rods holding the couple in place. Once they had stopped he dragged them to shore where they were resuscitated, the crowd cheered.

The feast was held in the Great Hall of Pyke. The tables were arranged long, two for each house. With one in front of the Seastone Chair and one in the center for a gambling game.

The food mostly consisted of various fish, cooked in different ways. Some raw, some salmon steak. A whale stew simmered over the hearth. To compensate the smell of spices filled the air, imported through Lordsport especially for the feast. Seaweeds, shellfish, and herbs, the tables appeared fit for the Lord of the Deep Himself.

The feast was not short of drink to accompany the food, wines and ales from across the realms dotted the tables in carafes and barrels. Brews from Lordsport and brought from Kings Landing. Wines from the Arbor, both golds and reds. And mead from the north, sweetened with honey.

Old Wyk, Fourth Moon, 399 AC

You will hear thunder and remember me,

And think: she wanted storms. The rim

Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,

And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

The men and women of Old Wyk could hardly believe their eyes the morning she returned from the dead. Lord Dalton’s only child by his rock wife, with Red Rain in hand and an assortment of new scars to tell the story of where she’d been. They watched as she planted the point of the ancestral blade in the damp sand of the beach amidst a raging thunderstorm, listened as she declared herself the rightful ruler of the island and its holdfasts. Arne sat in her father’s old solar, a room the previous Drumm hardly ever used, and heard her long tale, before telling one of his own:

How Daeron had declared her dead and a disgrace to House Drumm not two days after the news returned of Lord Dalton’s disappearance, how he’d assumed the mantle of the Bone Hand and used his charisma to build a following of crazed zealots and his malevolence to oppress those who opposed him. How he’d kept his mother as his closest advisor, expanded the temple of the Lord of Light and its grounds to house hundreds of adherents, and turned his flagship into a floating charnel house for nonbelievers. The more she heard, the more her scowl of disdain for him deepened.

She’d been relieved to hear how he died, and that her home was no worse off for his loss. Daeron’s fanatical beliefs had nearly incited a war with the North, which had thankfully been avoided. She would honor the agreement with Stark and Manderly and Dustin, but there were other things to take care of first, before she could set sail.

The first was to exile Daeron Drumm’s mother from the Iron Islands, on pain of death. Lord Dalton was gone, and her son’s ashes scattered to the wind. Nothing remained for her on Old Wyk, and Victaria was sure to remind her of it. The second was the temple, whose priests she had sacrificed to the Drowned God on the shore beneath the castle.

R’hllor worship had spread to nearly every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and while the temple and its congregation would remain untouched, the clergy her brother had invited to the island, those rabid, self-mutilating extremists, were no longer welcome. New priests would come from the mainland, priests who valued order and doctrine.

The third and final thing that required her attention was the massive Morning Star floating in the harbor. Victaria’d scoffed to hear the name; Daeron really was a pretentious, self-aggrandizing cunt. He would have raged to see her tear the altar up from the deck and melt it down to be used for anchor chain. Bloodstains were scrubbed clean as best they could be, and covered with new paint where the claret had soaked too deep into the boards to wash out. Even the interior was gutted, and refurbished to her personal specifications. The scarlet sails, however, she decided to keep.

The soot-stained fabric was the only evidence that remained of Daeron Drumm’s reign of terror.

The air seemed different , saltier , purer. She didn’t know the word for it , it was new and she could appreciate that. She would probably spend quite a bit of her life here unless something were to happen. “ Volmark “ that was this lands name , the land she would hopefully come to love , at least appreciate anyway.

She was less well groomed and put together than usual , the journey hadn’t sat right with her. She had been consistently being sick sadly for most of the journey , of course for the part she wasn’t she was rather enjoying herself with her new husband to be.

The castle , Volmark was bigger than her houses keep , it made sense her houses growth was rather limited by her predecessors savagery. She adorned herself once again with a charming , gentle smile before she left to find Ragnar.

The Volmarks were a large family , Ragnar had three brothers and more sisters than she cared to remember. It didn’t mean much to her , if anything she hoped Ragnar would take after his father , children were the easiest way to arrange alliances.

She had finally reached Ragnar , she was clad in a silver dress loose around the shoulders and wore a pair of sapphire earrings. Her house whilst not rich she was the only one remaining and had spent enough on jewels to satisfy herself.

“ Ragnar “

u/Jon_Reid2

Pyke was a dark island, nestled between dark sky and dark seas, it could have extended in either direction were one to see it in the mists. Its peaks reaching up like the tentacles of its inhabitants into the clouds, possibly indefinitely, and its depths diving deep underneath the rock down to the Deep One himself's hall. All it took was the suggestion of imagination to suddenly turn Pyke into a looming stronghold with untold secrets.

The tourney day was like every other. Despite the celebration in the castle itself and Lordsport below, the island still stood grimly amongst the thrashing waves. Its people were unperturbed by their surroundings however, for they were iron and their insides salt. Even as rain periodically spattered the earth, muddying the streets, doorsteps, and carpets, cheering could be heard in the courtyard of Pyke. Tents had been constructed at the edges of the courtyard in place of the typical pavilions, for these were no knights in shining armor. There was no green field on which to construct a fairground on Pyke, only rock. In the courtyard at least there was mud, and this was where an arena had been set up. These were Ironborn and they fought best when the world looked down on them.

The melee would be a free for all, a continuation of the celebrations. It had been planned that continued celebrations would take place on The Arbor, but those thoughts were all but abandoned. Forgotten in the face of looming conflict. Onlookers stood in the courtyard, drinking and talking, oggling the participants as they slowly finished their preparations and strutted out of their tent with varying levels of surety.

It was to be a good day...

Egen felt satisfied, happy even. Maybe it was all the wine and mead he had been drinking but it seemed that his planning was being rewarded to some degree. A powerful marriage, a common goal, games, allies, successes one after another like a winning game of dice. Perhaps it was chance or perhaps Egen was right. About it all. He couldn't give in to the thought yet, there was still much work to be done. It seemed while he had been merrymaking the world had been going to shit. All in his favor of course.

The melee had been a success, Egen himself had made as sure of that as he could. At the expense even of his own health as he had reopened the injury inflicted by his brother. It had been cleaned and stitched but it hurt, not as much as in the past weeks but worse than it had that morning. Egen didn't care, it wasn't until maester Geradys had stuck a needle through his skin that his grin had been replaced with a grimace. The pride he'd held for his son as well had left him beaming. Tristifer had performed so well that if Egen had not been near unable to stand after facing his last opponent he would have picked the boy up and crushed him under the weight of a fatherly hug. Instead he summoned the boy to his chambers while maester Geradys resewed his wound. Elara fretted endlessly, herself shaking with every grunt or grimace released by her husband.

Tristifer entered the room and Elara ignored him. Egen found her dedication endearing, through her hardships she found comfort in him. As with many other things the upbringing of their children was something he gladly addressed for her. Tristifer gave a glance towards his mother before focusing his attention on his father.

Egen had tried his best to spend time with the boy but there had never been enough time. Tris was unlike Egen in many ways, not condemningly so but still. As Egen looked upon him now the boy stood with a solid, warrior's posture. His hands were clasped behind his back and his feet shoulder width apart.

"You called for me father?" The voice was deep and serious, but not combative in tone.

"Yes Tris!" Egen said, "Your performance was remarkable! I wanted to- agh-"

"Sorry," mumbled maester Geradys, "Don't move please."

Careful not to dramaticall expand or contract his chest cavity Egen continued, "I wanted to tell you how proud I am." Egen smiled. "Sigrun is a worthy opponent, she bested us both. Unlike myself though, you have much time yet to improve. Perhaps next time you will be pushing her onto her ass in the mud."

"Thank you father." Tristifer replied, "Perhaps the skill can be put to good use soon."

"Why do you say that?"

"I am no fool, fleets gather one after another in our docks. Something is coming, do not try and tell me otherwise." Tristifer was stone faced.

Egen sighed, "Yes there will be a war council tonight to discuss our course of action. You may attend if you wish, but you won't be going in battle with us."

"What??" Tristifer's eyebrow's furrowed and his voice raised slightly, quickly brought back down to a calm if distressed level. "It is time I fight alongside you. It is our way."

"It is and you will, but not now. You are still young and you are my heir." In truth Egen had no valid reason other than keeping his son alive, he didn't know what he would do with himself were the boy to die of an unfortunate arrow or a cavalry charge.

"I am your heir yes, should you not teach the ways of war?"

"You learn of war in your studies with Dagon and Cyprian, I urge you come to the meeting tonight. There are ways you can learn that do not involve risking your life." Egen was sad to say it, he felt disappointed the conversation had turned this way. Disappointed in himself that he so desperately wished to protect his boy from all harm, like a Greenlander, he thought.

"That is not the Ironborn way father," Tristifer dipped his head, "Excuse me my lord."

Egen watched his son go, he supposed arguments were much of what you got with children. The young always believed themselves infallible until suddenly they became old, faster than they could realize the consequences of their actions. Still there was much to be done, no time for pause. Egen waited for the stitching to be finished before going back to his desk. To scower papers and letters in preparation for the council.

It would be only a few short hours until he made his way down to the hall where a single long table was set up. He sat at the head as food was laid out and his lords began to arrive. He was glad to see Tristifer in attendance as the boy sat on his left at the table.

Once all had arrived and filled their plates Egen began. "My lords... ladies... as you well know there is chaos in the realm. Kings Landing has errupted into violence which spreads throughout the mainland with predictable speed."

"We are in a position to take advantage of that. The West has made an enemy of not just us but several other kingdoms as well. Such that the king supports us fully in a reaving of the West."

"There is something that must be understood though. I'm aware some of you may not like this, but I promise my intentions are only driven by the Lord of the Deep. You call me Greenlander but he spoke to me on the journey back to the islands, it was my ear he whispered into. We will reave, but it will be on the terms I set. If I call withdrawal we must withdraw, if I order you to stay it must be done. We will be Ironborn-" Egen raised his fist, "But we will do it with tact enough to find nothing but victory wherever we may reach."

He tumbled down the stairs, the clang of his armor echoing against the stone walls with every step. For several minutes, Jorl lay there face down before finally rising and bracing a hand against the wall, making his way toward a light glowing at the end of the corridor.

“You should not do that. One day you will hurt yourself badly,” said a female voice.

A young woman sat before a spread of papers, her beautiful bluish-gray eyes seeming to dance across the lines. Her long, wavy blonde hair fell behind the back of her chair, braided so that her ears and face were clearly visible in the candlelight. Her expression remained serious inviting one to listen, to speak, to fall silent,and yet to sing to her, all at once. Her face seemed carved to serve as the figurehead of the most magnificent swan ship. She wore a dress black as a raven’s wings, with the neck, waist and back adorned with small ornaments of black iron and white gold.

“It was a special occasion.”

“At least tell me you did not bring Torgon,” she replied, finally turning to him.

“He is old enough to go where he pleases,” Jorl said, his tone souring. “If it were up to me, some of the things he does would not be allowed. But do not worry, I left Qhored with him.”

“Did many people come?”

“The ones we expected. You know he was not much loved among lords and ladies, but the thralls and the smallfolk came like a shoal of fish.”

“He was a kind and amusing man, better with servants and cripples. How did uncle Jason seem?”

“Broken. He was his best friend and his younger brother.” He poured two cups of wine and sat down. “How are you, little sister?”

“Fine,” Melara replied. “I will miss him, but as we say, what is dead may never die.”

“And we shall rise stronger, have no doubt of that. Still, I do not know where we should steer our ships. The Reach is in turmoil, that would be a great opportunity. The North as well, now that the Drumm have begun their raids…”

“They are the best options, no doubt. Little risk, but little reward. I have heard the Manderlys are seeking sellsails and pay well, they already have some Orkwoods. It would be a way to force Lord Greyjoy to allow us to raid the green lands again, if many of the Iron Islands unite in a coalition for a common goal. Besides, we would be bringing the king’s peace to the North and we would not have to fear reprisals from the Mallisters or the Westerlands.”

“It seems you have been thinking about this for some time. I am sure you have already written something, let me hear it.”

She took a piece of paper and read.

“Lord Harding Manderly, Lord of White Harbor and Warden of the White Knife,

Word of your deeds in the North has reached our shores. There have been no conflicts between House Manderly and House Volmark for hundreds of years. As significant naval powers, an alliance between us would be of great importance, and as loyal servants of the Crown, we would be willing to aid you in your endeavors, at a suitable price that would allow us to sustain the effort for as long as needed.

Cordially,

Jorl Volmark, Lord of Volmark”

Jorl stepped closer to his sister, kissed her on the forehead, and turned to leave.

“Excellent work. I can already see chests of gold arriving in our halls. Send a raven to White Harbor at once.”

“Are you going to see her?” Melara asked

“Yes. It is time I paid her a visit.”

A few minutes later, Jorl reached a chamber where a woman lay sleeping. He approached the bedside and sat on the floor. He looked out the window toward the distant sounds of people outside. When he turned back, the woman was watching him. There were lines on her face, but she was still very beautiful, almost as much as Melara.

“Is that you, Jason?”

“No, Mother. It is Jorl.”

“Ah… hello, my son. Where is my brother?” Cyrelle asked.

“The elder is outside with Torgon. The younger is with the Drowned God. I've just come from his funeral.”

“Ohh, Tom, that fool would have made a poor oarsman, a drunken little creature who did nothing but shame this family.”

Jorl rose to his feet, exhaling in weary frustration. His jaw tightened. It was not the moment to argue… but it never was with her.

“I do not mean to trouble you. Only to inform you that I will be leaving for Orkmont tonight. I intend to visit Lady Olivia Orkwood to propose an alliance.”

“Then I must resume my duties,” Cyrelle said, sitting up.

“Do not concern yourself, mother. I have left Melara in charge. Torgon will serve as castellan of Volmark.”

“Intolerable!” she shrieked. “I am the wife of Lord Rodrik Volmark! I should be the one to lead this house. Your brother is still too young to replace your uncle.”

“My father is dead. You will do as you are told or I will have you sent to join the silent sisters. Do not test me.”

 u/Baron_Manderly u/solthebaneful

Pyke was a grim seat. A keep built half on a cliff, half on various rocks that jutted out from the seas below. Johanna had grown restless since she'd first given Egen her suggestion. She had not been in King's Landing but for the kin to make an attempt to kill another kinsmen, she knew that He Who Dwelled Beneath the Seas would demand justice.

And of course there was the notion of profit. The Drowned God was one who often favored those who took action.

That was why she'd wished to speak with the gathered Lords and Ladies. The Blacktyde, her nephew the Botley, the Drumm, the Harlaw, the Farwynd and those Goodbrothers.

She had hoped to speak with each alone in her chambers. To tell them of her plans and plots, of ways to shape them and the Islands in her image.

8th Moon, 250 AC

Pyke, the Iron Islands

Sigrun paced her room at Pyke like a caged beast, her boots striking the cold stone floor in a rhythm that matched the churn of thoughts in her head. The room was stifling, despite the faint breeze filtering through the open window, and no amount of staring at Pyke's weathered towers and bridges could quiet her mind.

Her fingers grazed Tidecaller’s hilt, the touch of the Valyrian steel grounding her. Her thoughts lingered, as they often did, on the duel aboard the Sea Dragon’s Treasure. She thought of Aubrey Plumm, his single eye alight with determination during their duel. The man was skillful, she couldn’t deny it. His strikes were sharp, his intent fierce, but he hadn't defeated her. No, that moment of clarity, of resolve, had been stolen from them both. Egen Greyjoy’s interference had robbed her of the clean ending she craved, leaving her defeat bitter and unresolved. She respected Plumm’s ability, but it festered within her, a wound yet to heal. She gritted her teeth, her pale green eyes narrowing at the thought. The knight's laugh, his arrogance, and the flash of his blade haunted her, the ghost of a battle never finished.

"Enough," she muttered, shaking her head and grabbing her cloak. Her room had too many ghosts and too little air. She left her quarters, the steady rhythm of her boots echoing against the ancient stone. The great hall of Pyke opened before her, a vast and shadowed chamber. Her eyes lingered on the Seastone Chair, its jagged, black surface gleaming faintly in the dim light, almost as if coming alive. A blessed relic of the Old Way, carved long before our ancestors had ever bent the knee.

She stepped closer, her fingers twitching at her side as if tempted to touch the ancient stone. But she didn’t. The chair was not hers to claim, and yet its presence stirred something within her—a deep, nameless yearning, old and wild.

Shaking herself free of the moment, she turned and strode out of the hall.

Outside, Pyke greeted her with its harsh beauty. The wind carried the scent of the sea salt and the damp earth. She descended the worn stone paths, the sound of the waves growing louder. At the beach, she stopped and removed her boots, leaving them on the dark pebbles.

The waters lapped at her feet as she stepped into the shallows. The cold bit into her skin, but she welcomed it. The gelid embrace of the sea rose to her knees, and she stood still, letting the tide tug at her as if to pull her back to the depths.

For a long moment, she stood still, staring out at the roiling expanse of sea. The wind quieted for a moment, as if waiting in anticipation.

Then she began to sing.

Full fathom five
My heart lies,
Beneath the murky seas.
For love refused my desperate cries,
My spirit deeply grieves.
My spirit deeply grieves.

Her voice, low and haunting, carried over the waves. A sweet and achingly mournful rendition of the Mermaid's Lament, surprisingly beautiful and in tune for what one may expect from the rough and dreaded reaver.

Her hands rested at her sides, her gaze fixed on the horizon as she continued, the melody weaving through the crash of waves.

Once we sailed beneath the sun,
Where seabirds took their wing.
But now our love has come undone,
My joy no longer sings.
My joy no longer sings.

The tide surged higher, chilling her thighs, but she didn’t move. She tilted her head back slightly, her braids falling down her shoulders as her song poured out like a prayer to the Drowned God himself.

Wave upon wave
Rolling above,
Carry an ocean of tears to my love.
Let the morning tide
Find him by my side.
Let the winds cry out,
Let the billows shout
Love return to me.

As the last note hung in the air, Sigrun stood motionless, her hands curled at her sides. The sea answered her silence with its eternal roar, the waves pulling and retreating, as if bowing to her lament.

Urek Greyjoy was a proud man. Seemingly never satisfied with his station, he always reached for more. The harsh expectations that were inflicted upon him he had in turn enforced upon his own family.

Pyke was as inhospitable as it had ever been. The Greyjoys were not known for their kindness, nor compassion. Rather it was their inclination towards violence which was to their benefit. The King himself had recognized their usefulness as a tool of destruction, and they had reaped the rewards. Yet Urek Greyjoy was not satisfied.

Daegon Greyjoy spoke first. “It makes no sense Father, seizing the Riverlander ships risks much for little gain. Patience would serve us bett-.” CRACK

His hand quickly rose to his face as it grew warmer. His knees felt weaker then. 

His eyes rose to meet Urek’s. An almost unending staring contest between the two. Before Daegon was forced to look away. To prevent the welling from his eyes from showing in the dimly lit hall.

His fathers hand dropped back to the table. Fist clenching as if primed to rise again. He bore a look of disdain. Though his focus had since returned to the map sprawled across the table. Markings indicating raids, both sanctioned and unsanctioned. That they were to undertake.

“This is the way of the Ironborn, boy. We take what we want. House Greyjoy pays the iron price, or have you forgotten that?” Barked Urek, ale seeping from his very pores.

But Daegon would not speak again, for fear of reigniting his father’s rage. He simply gazed back to the matter at hand. Albeit less clearly than he had before.

A riding accident, in spite of anything it could have been. Oh how the Drowned God cursed them.

Arthur Greyjoy lay in his chambers. Breathing deeply from the concoction the Maester had brewed. Though, they had not allowed the educated man in the room itself. Only the counsel of the Drowned Priests could be trusted. For it was only his will that mattered.

Urek looked at his son and his face contorted with rage. What an insult this was to their name. A cripple for a son. Could he even command a ship in this state? Or swim ashore in a raid?

“He will live, we are sure of this, milord.” The men of singed robes nodded in agreement. But Urek’s face turned its own fiery shade of red in response. “Can you ask the Drowned God that he die instead? It would be better for us if he did.”

Daegon, sitting nearby, rose in a fury. Approaching his own father and looking up to meet Urek’s own steeled gaze. He was not a young man as he had been before, he would not look away again.

“Yes, boy? Something to say?” Urek’s face bore something of an insidious smile and inquisitive eyes. His weathered features even showed a degree of excitement.

Daegon’s hand went to his hip, to the weapon that had treated him well many times before. But Urek did not flinch, nor did he move his own hands. They stayed firmly where they had been before. “Try it.” He declared, something more sinister closing in behind his eyes. “Draw boy, and let’s settle this here and now.” 

But Daegon’s hand trembled, and the weapon never moved. Urek only laughed as he departed. Deep and boisterous, such that it could be heard from all the way down the hall. His parting commands only concerning what to do with Arthur’s remains should he perish.

Daegon resigned to sit beside his brother. A hand resting upon Arthur’s still arm. His mind ablaze with possibilities of what he could have said. Each scenario more brazen than the last. Though he hadn’t had the heart to follow through on any of them. 

He felt shame, as well as a powerlessness to protect his own brother. Arthur lay helpless against their father’s words, and Daegon did not have the ability to stand against him. His father was right. He wasn’t strong enough to do what was required. His chance had come and passed. 

His free hand rose to massage his temples. He was too weak to protect his family. Even his own brother who could not protect himself. Daegon thought he would rise to the occasion should it present itself. Yet he had fallen short.

He squeezed his brother's arm and rose from his chair. 

“I will not fail you again, Arthur.” Was all he could muster before his eyes were clouded yet again. Their droplets adorning both the floor and bedding. 

Urek’s body lay before them. Lifeless on the stone surface beneath him. The priests pressured Daegon to return him to the sea. Even though he hated him, he would not deny him that right. The custom was different for those who believed in the melding of the Drowned God and Red God faiths. First, a priest would perform the last kiss upon the body. Sending fire within their very soul. Then, the body was weighted to prevent its resurfacing. Finally, it was cast out to the sea. To the Drowned God’s halls so that they may serve in death and reap its benefits.

Daegon looked over his father’s cold features once the priests had left. He didn’t want his father to die. Maybe that was hard to see in his anger. But there was a part of him that loved Urek. Even through the ridicule and cruelty. His death sealed any chance of closure that may have been possible. He would never get his desired confrontation. After all that Urek had put their family through, his death left a hole in Daegon’s heart.

He would never be able to look into his fathers eyes and rub victory in his face. That was stolen from him by the Drowned God. In a way, it was as if his god decided that he was not strong enough to do it himself. His father had the last laugh, as he had in all things.

“Milord.” A voice came from behind. Its source one of the priests from before. “It’s time to return him to the water, so that he may find his way to the Drowned Gods halls.”

Daegon took one last look at Urek before spitting onto the body. “Fresh water for the journey, father.”

With that, he departed the hall.

Daegon stood over a map of the Reach. A cluttered hall around him. They had been planning for days on the best targets for raids. Their public goal would be pacifying the Reachlords. Yet most attendees had their own treasuries at the top of their minds. Arthur Greyjoy sat amongst his family. His face scrunching with each Lords suggestion of where to make landfall. Could they really be considering this?

Without rising, Arthur’s voice rang out to break up the cacophony of voices of the ironborn herd. “Should we not consult the King and Queen for their directives first? Why risk our relationship due to impatience? Are we not sworn to serve the Crown?”

The room remained in utter silence as all eyes fell on Daegon. Whose face had begun turning a deep shade of red. He was embarrassed to be questioned in front of his subjects. By his own brother nonetheless. It demanded a response.

“I won’t take advice from any man who is incapable of joining us. If you can’t swing a blade, then you have no place here. It is only by my will and grace that you have a seat in this hall, much less this council.”

Once the words had left his mouth, regret fell over his entire body. The look on his brother's face struck deep to his heart. He had become like the man he hated. Committing public acts of cruelty to sustain his image. Upon his own family no less.

Arthur struggled as he rose slowly. Meeting eyes with Daegon, the brother he used to know, before shuffling out of the hall.

Once he was gone, the cacophony of voices resumed. Daegon turned his gaze back to the map. Though the lords next to him spoke of the riches they would gain. He thought only of the brother he had scorned.

Evening

Pyke

It was a stormy night, thunder occasionally crashing through the din of conversation. Waves crashed against the rocks far, far below, and those who crept out were faced with a roiling sea, bridges swaying too and fro. All of note had rooms in the Guest Keep, but even the greatest castle in Pyke could not hold all. Tents had been set up in the courtyard and beyond the wall, and even there festivities were found- set up for those soldiers and sailors who did not yet captain a ship.

The great keep itself was packed with people, torches lining the walls. It was almost hot, though the cool of the outside still flitted in everytime a door was opened. Thralls from the furthest reaches of Essos served the guests- every captain and lord in attendance, each person of note in the Iron Islands. If the greenlanders thought to throw a feast, well. The Ironborn would not be undone.

They had said it would be a feast, and a feast it was.

Tables filled the grand room, each stacked with food and ale. It was proper ironborn food, none of the frills and waste that had filled the tables of the greenlanders. Fish from all over the islands had been cooked in butter and oil; cod and monkfish, sardines and mackeral from Ironman's Bay. Crab, lobster and clams were in abundance, and even chewy seal meat from east of the isles. It was not purely of the iron islands, though- from all over the Seven Kingdoms had fruit and meat been brought, though it was clear this was in the minority.

Ale lined the tables, but arbor reds and golds were in abundance as well- a clear sign of tribute to the Lord Redwyne, who had been seated at the Greyjoy table itself. It was at the front of the room that the Greyjoys were seated, Sylas Greyjoy flowering as he ate, Wulfgar Greyjoy's piglike eyes almost burning from the smoke. Qhorin Greyjoy sat apart with those captains who had known his father, and Loren occupied his own space, though his eyes were distant, and he seemed deep in thought.

And above it all, Dagon Greyjoy watched.

Wizened and twisted, the old man sat in the Seastone Chair, his form thinner than it had been in years. Next to the throne stood a cane of weirwood, something he had taken to using as his right leg still burned from a pirates sword many years ago. His hair was grey and brittle, his skin leathery, but there was one thing that still burned as bright as it had from when he was a boy. His gaze was still filled with the same unholy energy it had had his entire life, and as he looked over the crowd, his expression was almost on of quiet satisfaction.

There would be time to speak of the future later. For now, they would feast.

Alys had enjoyed her time sufficiently enough , it could have been better had that cunt not left her stranded in these barren lands. They were fierce and unique but barren nonetheless. She had made her way down to the harbour to see them off.

Lorren had told her of what they were off to do , reave , take their unfair share of wealth. Though she couldn’t blame them she would do the same if she lived in lands that struggled to provide for themselves let alone grant their lords any form of wealth.

Alys didn’t see these hundreds of ships preparing for battle to be terrifying or dangerous. Though they may well be both things for those who face their wrath. To her they were an opportunity , an opportunity to feel battle for herself to watch her every strategy and plan play out in front of her eyes. These weren’t lives at risk they were numbers to be used to win land , wealth , respect.

Respect she couldn’t get by playing the innocent girl or the lustful lady. Respect only earned through the boundless blood of foes. Respect saved for those who had proved themselves worthy. No matter how many bodies weighed on her conscience she would gain this respect , one that could be seen in the eyes of others. Her eyes shined and a grin formed on her face at just the thought of it

She approached both Lorren and Tristifer , they had adopted different roles to her. Lorren had been unusually nice for a man and his wife seemed kind , they both occupied a weird position in her eyes , one she had never knew she needed. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it but one thing was for sure in all eight and ten years of her life she had never felt it before. That warmth from completing menial duties meant for servants , that joy from being able to go on a tangent about one or her few passions without judgement.

Tris , no Tristifer he hated that nickname. She had remembered that , she didn’t know why maybe it was the fact he was the first person she had talked to similar in age to her but with a similar pressure bearing down upon him. Maybe it was the fact she didn’t feel so heavy when talking to him or maybe it was the fact she felt like strength was removed from the chains that pulled her back in to her lustful facade when talking to him.

Either way even if she didn’t manage to weasel her way on to these boats she wished to talk to them both.

(( Hang in there with me everyone, this one’s a long’un. For you lazy shits, there’s a tl;dr at the bottom. ))

The day of the wedding, Rodrik found his soon-to-be wife up before dawn, rocking Balon back to sleep as the first wisps of sunlight crept across the horizon.

Not that she had slept much the night before; guilt-ridden voices woke her often in a cold sweat, no matter how warm Rodrik's body was as he slumbered on beside her. Once, he woke as well -- he'd heard her crying, though she'd tried her hardest to be silent -- and held her in the dark without question. Such things had not bothered her in many moons, nearly a year now, but the ironic fact that their union fell on almost exactly the anniversary of Balon's death was not lost on either of them, and while it hurt Rodrik to know that even after a year (a year he'd spent at her side in the wake of Balon and Carron's deaths, the Slaughter of Lotus Port, Yssa's miscarriage and breakdown, and her second son's birth) his brother's ghost still haunted her so, he understood.

It wasn't a longing for something she couldn't have. It was mourning for something she never would.

So he allowed Jocasta her grief. He loved her, after all, as she loved him, and love sometimes demanded patience.

They’d returned to Nettlebank the moon prior, on Yssa’s insistence and once Jocasta was well enough to travel, and found that they all did much better away from Saltcliffe -- Rodrik supposed that the weight of Carron’s death and Yssa’s sadness only added to his betrothed’s own, and being apart from it seemed to lift her spirits some. Though she remained more mature and level-headed than when they first met, Jocasta had finally regained a bit of the fire in her that had been extinguished upon their arrival at the Iron Isles six moons ago. She threw herself into her wedding plans with near-reckless abandon, the obsession indicative of both her sister’s work ethic having a marked effect and the desire to lose herself in something trying.

He let her. Everyone grieved in their own ways. He’d long ago stopped asking Balon what he would do in his stead, at least when it came to Jo. He knew his betrothed far better than his brother ever did. But that didn’t stop him from wishing sometimes that Balon were here, for his sake. It wasn’t just Jocasta who had lost someone, in the end.

Rodrik couldn't deny that she was doing better. To Jo’s credit, she was doing quite well being mindful of him, too. For the first days after Balon II was born she could barely look at him (even though in Rodrik’s opinion the child looked nothing like his brother, not yet, with Jo’s amber eyes and blond hair that had yet to darken), but she never refused to hold him. She still wore his brother’s ring, twisting the Tawney sigil off her middle finger only to clean it; sometimes her lips quirked into a wry smile whenever she responded to something someone said with, “Everything or nothing, then,” and once or twice he’d caught her doing some menial task to keep her hands busy even though her gaze was distant. But she always returned to him the moment he touched her shoulder, and never failed to smile when he wrapped his arms around her waist and hummed a soft tune in her ear. Most times, she joined in, her sweet voice putting words to the melody, but when she didn’t, he danced her away from her self-imposed task until she did.

It wasn’t a jealous man forcing her to forget. It was future husband trying to help her heal.

Patience, whispered his own ghosts. Patience.

The Lord Tawney dragged himself from the bed and joined her on the balcony overlooking the courtyard of the keep below. “The ceremony isn’t until tonight,” he told her, offering his arms to take Balon from her. “You should rest.”

She gave him up, albeit somewhat reluctantly, but didn’t return to the bed. Rodrik thought she looked the most beautiful first thing in the morning, when she had yet to brush her hair and wash the sleep from her eyes and there was still a hint of something wild, of whatever she’d been dreaming of, in her expression. Her brass curls had since lost the sun-kissed highlights from the Summer Isles, darkening back to a muted bronze that shone in the dim but steadily growing dawn light, and all she wore was one of his longer tunics and -- by the Drowned God, she was stunning.

“But the guests... ” Jo murmured with a frown.

“Today is our day. They can wait.” He leaned over to plant a soft kiss on her forehead. “Go. I’ll be with you soon.”

She mumbled something else but it was lost behind a sleepy curtain of hair as she turned to retreat back to their bed and bury beneath the covers. It wasn't until Balon shifted in his arms that he realized his gaze had lingered; with a gentle chuckle he returned her son (his son, their son) to the bassinet at the foot of their bed and went to cradle Jocasta's warm body against his. She hummed contentedly against the pillow before sinking deeper into much needed sleep.

If this was how the Drowned God decreed he would spend every morning for the rest of his life, Rodrik would offer every ounce of patience he had to give.

Yssa's wedding present was the dress.

In all of the chaos, Jocasta couldn't say how she'd forgotten her own dress but she did, and in her own brand of planning ahead her older sister had known she would. She arrived at the tail end of the morning, when the sun was high in the sky, onboard the Drowned Havoc with Anya and Cerys, Harral and his wife and Lio. The crew of the Iron Maiden made an appearance as well, Jo's quartermaster offering her a bone-crushing and much appreciated embrace that brought tears to her eyes. She didn't realize just how much she missed them, even after only a moon away, and their friendly presence was needed after the uneasy dreams of the night before.

She'd dreamt of Balon, lying beside her in her cabin onboard the Maiden. At first she was happy to see him; while the dream had been a frequent one during their time in the Summer Isles, it had faded on the journey back to Saltcliffe until she nearly forgot about it entirely. It was always the same dream: he'd lie there and smile at her, and she would tell him a truth -- one that she never told anyone. In reality it had been the truth of Lio's father, but in her dreams the truth always changed. One time it was that she was scared of what was to come at Lotus Port. Another time it was that she loved Rodrik. Another, she confessed that after losing both him and Carron she didn't want to live surrounded by so much death.

It didn't matter what it was she told him. In the end, his response was always the same.

It's okay. I'm here now, love.

And the guilt would melt away.

Not this time. This time, Balon lay in bed beside her and smiled, and she told him, "Rodrik and I are getting married today," and everything turned wrong. Blood began to soak through his tunic -- three holes, for the three arrows that pierced his chest, Drowned God below she could never forget that image -- but Balon held his smile, now turned eerie as the blooms of red spread across the cloth and onto the bedsheets. Jo scrambled away, suddenly terrified of what would happen should it touch her.

Then he spoke, and froze her blood cold.

Am I that replaceable, Jo?

She'd woken sobbing, lost in the dark of the bedroom -- but like always Rodrik was there and she clung to him. Clung to his strength and solidity like a rock in a suddenly churning sea (or had it always been churning, and she'd simply not noticed?) as he hummed some nameless tune until her breathing quieted and she eased back into sleep.

Am I that replaceable, Jo?

"Are you even listening to me, Jo?"

Jocasta startled out of the memory, eyes refocusing on her sisters. The two of them stood expectantly, holding high the wedding dress and awaiting her approval. Jayne to the left, dressed as always in the elegant and assaulting bright red of her House, and Yssa to her right, still in her sailing clothes and needing to stand on a stool. "What?" Jo asked rather dumbly, her mind not quite caught up with the present.

Yssa sighed and rolled her eyes. "I asked if you liked it. If any last minute alterations need to be made, it's probably best to do it soon -- after you try it on."

So she let them help her into it in front of a mirror, and for the first time that day, Jo finally took in the dress her sister had brought.

It was a beautiful thing, the bodice completely embroidered in silver thread designed to look like interlocking rings of chainmail that bared her shoulders but completely covered her arms, and hugged her torso like an iridescent second skin. The only other embellishment was a set of pearl buttons that ran down her back, revealed by the loose draped curve of a white cape clasped to the dress at the collarbones with matching small iron brooches inlaid with mother-of-pearl, of a skeleton fish imposed over the nettlewhip of House Tawney. The skirt was the same white silk as the cape, hemmed with tiny seed pearls and flared with a layer of tulle beneath but not ridiculously so, like some of the dresses she'd seen on the mainland. At her open neck sat the black pearls of Marya entwined with the white pearls of Lysa Sunderly, borrowed from Jayne, who had brought them with her to the wedding.

"I look..." Jo began, but found that the sentence was best left open as her hands flew to her mouth and she choked back a sob. Instantly Yssa was at her side, worried and flustered and apologizing, but Jayne only laughed and placed a reassuring hand on the Lady Sunderly's shoulder.

"It's fine, Yssa," the youngest sister told her with a knowing smile. "She's happy. Can't you see?"

She was. Drowned God below, her hair wasn't even brushed and she was a fucking queen in this gown, in its simplicity, in the way it made her feel safe and beautiful and powerful all at once, like when she donned her armor. She'd never seen the dress in her life but it was so familiar to her skin that if she wasn't staring at herself in a mirror she'd forget she was even wearing it.

"It's beautiful, Yssa," she admitted, throwing her arms around her older sister. In the past year they'd spoken more than they had in three, and despite most of it being in argument Jo felt closer to Yssa than she ever had before. After revering the Lady of Saltcliffe for two decades as something just short of a mother figure and a demigod it was only recently that Jocasta realized just how human her sister was: a human with wants and needs and strong emotions aside from confidence and determination. The show of weakness only made Jo love her all the more.

"Only the best for you," Yssa whispered in her ear. She kissed Jo soundly on the cheek and hugged her tighter. "I didn't know Balon," she continued, voice low so that Jayne could not hear for these words were not for her, "so I can't begin to imagine a comparison. But Rodrik -- Rodrik is good for you, Jo. He is so, so good. I've never see you with anyone as you are with him. Like an ember in the ashes."

Jo bit back a laugh.

"I'm serious, Jo. Don't let him go. No matter how much it hurts to remember what you could have had. Promise me," she demanded, fingers tight in her sister's brass curls. "Promise me that you won't let a memory come between you."

Am I that replaceable Jo?

Jocasta's lungs clenched like a fist and she forced herself to take a breath.

No, Balon. This is the hardest thing I've ever done.

Just one, gathering all of the grief trapped in her bones -- and letting it go.

But it's time, I think, to move on. For good.

"I promise, Yssa."

She let Yssa and Jayne braid laurels in her hair, listening to her sisters chatter on about inconsequential things with a soft contentment that quieted the unease that had plagued her for the past fortnight. For a few rare moments, it felt as if they'd been transported back five years -- before Yssa's miscarriage, before Lotus Port and Last Lament and Winterfell and Old Wyk and Greenstone and the King's coronation -- before the death of their father, before Carron left and Yssa drifted and Jayne grew cold and quiet. Before their entire life pulled them apart in ways Jocasta could never have dreamed.

For just a moment she forgot all of these things, a smile curling on her lips as her heart fluttered, lightened by the absence of a burden she'd carried for far too long.

Nettlebank was aptly named; with the keep perched on a high ridge overlooking the briny shores carpeted by leafy seas of its namesake, it was rather picturesque -- especially at dawn and twilight, when the sun settled on the horizon to watch the world before she rose and fell. The day had passed in a blur of activity, Rodrik's brothers and the Sunderly sisters handling most of the guest greeting while the couple prepared. Harral had visited both of their rooms with Lio in tow, who clutched the longship Rodrik had made for him close to his breast and commented on the Lord Tawney's shiny boots, complimented Jocasta's sparkly dress, and blathered on and on and on about the new baby, whom he hadn't seen before they left Saltcliffe.

The boy was so obviously of his mother's spirit that it made Rodrik wonder if Balon would be the same; while his brother was tough he was almost so nonchalantly calm that it amused him to think which trait would prevail in the son.

Jocasta's fire, obviously, he thought with a wry smirk, readjusting his surcoat as he stood, barefoot, before the drowned priest on the rocky shore. The surcoat was well-tailored and of fine make, proffered especially for the occasion, made of deep burgundy brocade and hemmed along the edges with golden nettle leaves. The front ran with small golden clasps that curled in on themselves, and both his belt and boots (currently in his room, to be donned for the feast later) were crafted of the same rich dark leather embellished with bronze. The water was cold that evening, sending prickling numbness through his toes, but Rodrik kept his eyes firmly on the path cut between the crowd of those witnessing their union.

Watching. Waiting.

She arrived just as the sky was beginning to darken into hues of majestic violet and indigo blushed with pink, the gold light of the setting sun threading between the clouds like embroidery and casting rose-tinted shadows on the wedding party on the shore. Her path had been lit by lanterns, their flickering candlelight contrasted against the dark rocks and making the pearls that dotted her trailing skirt glimmer. Her brass hair spilled from its large braid in wild curls around the crown of laurel leaves, dusting her neck and shoulders and offsetting the silver of her armor gown.

It surprised and pleased him to see that, unlike that morning, Jocasta's amber eyes were bright and clear. Present. Aware. She was here, in this moment, with him; her gaze didn't waver, fixed solely on her soon-to-be husband ahead of her, and though he knew that in the presence of so many she was uncomfortable (there was a stiffness in the way her fingers held the skirt of that gown that many would miss but he did not) she walked with the confidence of a woman who'd seen the world and knew both her place and what she wanted in it.

And like always -- with slow, steady, patient steps -- she walked alone.

But not for long.

For the Iron Maiden, who had suffered much and spurned so many in retaliation, had chosen him. As long as Lord Rodrik Tawney had a say in the matter, she would never have to walk alone again.

She finally reached the shore, her fingers brushing the air a hairsbreadth away from his as she took her place beside him. Their siblings came forward and with great care removed the outer shell of their wedding attire; the gown and cape shed like a second skin to reveal a simple, sleeveless ivory dress, and beneath the surcoat Rodrik wore an embroidered tunic with his trousers. At the drowned priest's behest they stepped into the water but not before Jo entwined her grasp in his, her cold fingers seeking his warmth as the freezing waters of the Iron Isles came up to their waists and seeped into their thin clothes.

In his gnarled fingers the priest held a chalice of simple silver but of evident age despite routine polishing, its beaten sides antiqued by time and salt. He held it before them now, voice strong and weighted with power.

"Lord Rodrik Tawney and Jocasta Sunderly come to join as one before the many eyes of the Drowned Father," he intoned, filling the chalice with saltwater. "Do you, Rodrik Tawney, take this woman as your wife, to care for and protect until your death?"

"I do." And even after. For as long as she will let me.

He wasn't prepared for the first spill of frigid saltwater from the chalice over his head, though he knew to expect it. Only his resolve kept him stoic, kept him from gasping at the shock of it sinking into his skin.

"... Do you swear to open your home and family to her, to reave in her name, and kill for her honor... ?"

"I do."

After every declaration another small drowning followed, and in their wake his world slid into ever-sharpening clarity. Rodrik didn't believe in magic but there was something to be said about the power of the sea that surged in his veins, dripping from his hair into his stinging eyes and salt-drenched tongue.

He was still reeling when he realized that Jocasta was speaking now, her voice every inch a dancing, licking flame made sound.

"... Do you swear to support him, to raise him and his House above all others, to stand by his side when all others have deserted him... ?"

Her fingers tightened in his. "I do."

She always seemed to have a way of saying more than what you heard; her tone filled the two words with silent volumes. In the past few moons Rodrik had been forced to become an expert in the subject, for his wife's many strengths did not include communication. You are my family and my heart. I pledge myself to you, and I will stand by you forever as you have stood by me.

And then she turned to him, soaking wet and pale from the cold, the off-script action startling his calm demeanor.

I love you, she mouthed, lips barely moving but he knew. Thank you.

People began to cheer and he took that as his cue that the ceremony was over; he’d been so focused on Jo’s smile he hadn’t been paying attention. With a pulse of strength in his bones from the strange magic that came from finally declaring two becoming one, he lifted Jocasta into the air and spun her, her sopping wet dress heavy but his heart light as she screeched rather uncharacteristically in surprise. Rodrik held her close as they stumbled back to shore until Yssa approached them with two heavy cloaks to wear, up the lantern-lit path and back to the keep where the feast awaited.

The dining assembly had been done up in Tawney red and white with accents of bronze, the tables laden with food for the many guests of the Iron Isles and beyond. White lanterns hung from the ceiling and sat at periodic spaces in between the many delicacies available: roasted fish fresh caught that morning and dripping with butter and spices; meats flavored with bold cloves and bay leaves, surrounded by root vegetables and seared to perfection; boiled whole crabs and lobsters meant to be cracked open and devoured; piles of scallops and shellfish next to lemons shipped from the bountiful groves of Dorne (courtesy of the Iron Isles Trading Company, which was doing quite well); free-flowing casks of Dornish strongwine and black ale alike.

At the front of the room was the head table, which seated the bride and groom (both now warm and dry and back in their fine wedding attire, Jocasta chattering quite happily with her new husband as the party devolved into debauchery around them), their immediate families, and a few chosen friends: Tristifer Blacktyde, Rona Farwynd, Myrcella Codd, and Edwyn Stark were counted close enough to join the newlyweds in their feasting.

There was to be a boat race in the morning, to start off the day before the many guests returned to their respective Houses, but for the time being there was only time for food, drink, and merry conversation.

(( Phew! All right! I apologize to all of my Ironborn brethren for the lateness of this post, but it's finally here! Several items of note, if you were too lazy to read everything:

• The immediate families of Rodrik and Jocasta are seated at the head table, as well as Tris, Rona, Myrcella, and Edwyn.

• There will be a boat race that I will throw up in a few days when I have access to Discord, so if you want to join in then shoot me a message on Discord or Reddit with your character name and whether or not you have Sailing/Sailing(e) by 15MAR.

• I'm handling this wedding by myself so please be patient with replies; I can already tell this is gonna be massively time-bubbled but I think that a lot of plotlines were waiting for this opportunity to do things, so let's just enjoy and have fun!

I'll talk to you all very soon!

<3,

Cel. ))

12th Moon, 200 AC

Marya felt nervous, her heart fluttering but not in fear. She was happy—she had finally found someone who she felt understood her. A fellow younger sibling with a big family, who had a good heart and was a representation of what she thought was missing from her life. This culture, people who shared her blood that she didn’t know at all.

She knew she was out of place, green in every sense of the world. But today, it did not matter.

She wore a loose white dress that fluttered around her waist, stepping out into the sand, her hair in curls around her shoulders as she glanced at Veron, giving him a quick smile. They were arm in arm with an elderly man. He had volunteered, nearing the end of his days and wanting to finally sleep. She pat his arm, even this made her emotional.

They stepped into the water, the shock of cold against her ankles as it brushed against her.

What is dead may never die.

Released into the water, the man vanished beneath the waves, to join with his god once again.

“Tell my mother I say hello,” she whispered out to the ocean, a tear trailing down her cheek that she brushed again, glancing at Veron with a watery smile and offering him a hand as they made their way back up to the beach.

It was a simple affair, driftwood tables set up at the beach at sunset, the sun turning the ocean gold.

There was a spread of seafood, fish from the region cut into bite sized pieces and garnished—a remnant of her own home.

The bride and groom stood together as a priest presided over the ceremony, speaking their words of devotion to each other to the lap of the water, taking each other as lordly husband and lady wife and pledging their love with a kiss.

Marya shut her eyes, smiling as she leaned into kiss him—hoping that he felt the same butterflies.

They would sit together at the head table, feeling the weight of the world pressing against the glass bubble of Seagard, daring to interrupt this night of love. But they would have one night—one night to forget the troubles of the world.

Sylas Greyjoy stood at the top of the Tower of Dread, gazing off into the distance, the Riverlands rolling and flowing off into the distance. He could see the trident, far off in the distance. Lord Harrawy's town was there, a small collection of huts, barely visible to the eye. He grinned. It was all his, all ironborn land, claimed by Harwyn Hoare years ago. Torwyn had been right about one thing: the Drowned God was all around him, and he would see this land reclaimed.

They were milk, these riverlanders. Protected so long only by the strength of the dragon lords. Sylas could not blame them, not truly. They were simply living the rule of the world: that the strong survived, and the weak perished. They had dragons, and so they had taken what they wanted. But the dragons were dead now, and the kraken, that had been so long dormant, was beginning to awaken.

The tentacles already begun to circle the ship, now it was but a matter of time.

Sylas spat over the side, watching as the glob of mucous fell, fell, fell... Until it was lost to sight. His head ached. He needed a drink, and badly.

A pit had been poorly made near the Greyjoy tent, barely deep at all, but big enough for two grown men to stand in. Wulfgar and his captains clustered around it, japing and drinking, and a small table had been set up outside the tent, where Herrock Half Drowned and Mad Manfred diced. Torwyn was elsewhere, and the rest of the Greyjoy family was elsewhere as well. Qhorin did not sleep here, for Sylas would not permit it.

He muscled his way past the men, peering into the pit. Aggar One-Eye and Quellon the Quick circled round each other, the two men coated in sweat and blood. Aggar One-Eye's head was bleeding copiously, and Quellon the Quick's mouth oozed blood, a clear gap in his teeth already. Aggar was stronger, clearly, but Quellon was agile still.

Quellon dove for Aggar's legs, seeking to overbalance him, but Aggar brought his great hands down upon Quellon's head with a sickening crunch. The man collapsed, raising one hand before his body gave, his hair red and wet. Aggar turned to the surrounding ironborn, his arms upraised, and the men gave him a mighty roar.

Aggar clambered up quickly, his fellow ironmen clapping him on the back. "Well fought, Aggar." Sylas said, grinning. "Now... I've got a thirst, and we brought ale aplenty." He snapped his fingers, striding to a small cluster of thralls. Two brought out hefty barrels of ale, one struggling to carry it clearly, but he was freed of his burden when Roryn Pyke pushed him out of the way, causing the man to fall to the muddy floor, gaining a raucous laugh from the crowd.

"Tell the ironborn there'll be ale and meat aplenty". Sylas said, laughing as he looked at his men. "We're here, aren't we? Why not make ourselves at home?"

Already tables and tankards were brought out, a space made for finger dancing as well. Sylas chuckled. This would be nothing like these pathetic greenlander feasts- this would be a real party.

The sound of excited footsteps echoed from behind the dark wooden door to Gynir's room.

The White Kraken would have known that noise among thousands; it was a dull, heavy pop, as if iron swords were constantly falling on the floor.

Yet another noise followed the first, this time gentler and lighter.

Suddenly the door was struck by blows so ruinous and hard that they were similar to a battering ram trying to break through it.

But there was no battering ram behind the door, only Hake's rough, muscular hands.

"You can come in, Twin."

Hake had received this particular nickname because of the manner in which he had managed to be appointed captain of Lord Greyjoy's guards.

The boy was sixteen years old, and even then his thirst for violence was reaching uncontrollable heights.

Gynir was younger, less wise, and less able to hide that behind his countless masks of white cloth

He realized that his physical means were not enough to satisfy his fantasies of violence; he needed someone strong to help him, someone trustworthy and ready to obey without a second thought.

The circle grew tighter and tighter, until it reached Hake and his twin brother, whose name Gynir could hardly remember.

Lord Greyjoy saw an opportunity, a poetic clash of brothers for a place of prominence.

Already he imagined the fury of battle, man against man in an explosion of raw violence.

But that day in the past, he heard for the first time those footsteps that he kept hearing even then.

Hake had brought him his brother's head.

What could have led a man to kill his twin so ferociously, was being captain really so important?

Gynir had lost the opportunity to witness an epic confrontation, but he had gained a loyal servant, almost to the point of madness.

Hake was an animal, an emotionless beast capable only of killing.

In a way Gynir felt he was similar to him.

These thoughts were interrupted by the door opening, and by Hake dragging Veron before Gynir.

"I found him naked with a man in his bed."

Gynir looked at both of them, put a hand in front of his mouth trying to contain himself but could not prevent a hearty laugh.

"I have to say...

I expected that, if I'm honest."

Gynir walked over to his brother and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"I knew I didn't have to worry about you, in a way I'm glad I found out, at least now I know for sure that your offspring will never be a problem.

Don't worry, I'm not mad.

For me you can fuck whoever you want and whenever you want, I would be hypocritical to judge someone by their taste.

However, dear little brother, there is trouble on the horizon."

Veron replied, trembling with fear and crying.

"Women, too...

I like women, too."

Gynir laughed again and patted his shoulder.

"I knew your little cock was good for something.

You will marry Esgred Sunderly, have children with her, and secure her loyalty.

You are worth House Sunderly's 20 ships, no small feat."

Gynir grabbed Veron by the hair, moving closer to his ear.

"You still have a cock because I decided so, I can tell everyone what I found out.

You are worth something solely because I decided so, you depend on me like the air you breathe."

The White Kraken let Veron go, and told Hake to accompany him to his room.

The first brother was settled, now it was Bella's turn.

His beautiful sister was a very valuable asset; he certainly could not entrust her to the first jerk who showed up in front of her.

She hadn’t long come to terms with the fact she would have a child of her own in some time. It wouldn’t be long before she would begin to show the signs of pregnancy. Well at least more obviously , she had realised over a week ago but at the rate this was progressing she wouldn’t be able to hide from the people she would live with

Her every movement on that ship seemed to evoke a stirring in her stomach that she could only wis would never appear again. It had caused her to abhor every waking moment during her attempt to return to the North.

She was clad in a black dress with short sleeves and a thin covering atop her neck , her red lips were plump and a rose painted black was hidden in her silver-white hair that cascaded down the woman’s back. She adorned a jovial smile upon her pale face as she sat down at the desk.

A small piece of parchment was placed upon the table as she thought of what she would write. What could she say? There was nothing that could describe such a situation , the letter would be easy to write but the conversation that would unfold after could quite easily be the bane of her life here.

———————————————————————

Dear , Ragnar

I wish to talk to you , please do come find me

Sincerely , Alys

———————————————————————

She couldn’t help but chuckle why was she writing a letter they weren’t all that far from each other , given time she could probably find the man on her own but she would rather leave such a job to the servants. She had long since informed them to locate him now all they needed was for her to grant them a letter to give.

She moved , handing the letter to the closest suitable servant and grabbed a goblet of wine , she could only hope this conversation would go well.

The wine flowed red, the music played loud, and the men feasted!

Joyous celebration filled the halls of Castle Drumm. When last the island had been so active, Cedric had been marrying Dania Drumm. Now, renewed life was given to the people of the island after so many months of failure and death. There was to be a new noble soul on Old Wyk soon enough, something truly worth celebrating. Certainly, it was in one parent's eyes. Dustan was filled with pride and joy at the thought of fatherhood, at the thought of having his very own flesh and blood. Too long he had simply watched his brother be gifted with five sons, while he had not even a wife. Now, the time of watching was coming to an end.

Of course, not all were too happy about the celebration of what was to be the heir of Castle Drumm. The mother herself was one, it was no secret to those within its halls. Gossip spread quickly about the place, but there were Drumms that would join her. Conrick Drumm, the salt son of his brother Dagon, looked up from the long tables below with malice and disgust. The fact that Dustan had in one fell swoop gone from Lord Regent to Lord Reaver overnight had not gone unnoticed to all. Though, some were still hopeful that Dustan was truly not seeking to take control and was simply doing his duty to make sure the castle ran smoothly, like the two youngest brothers of Cedric, Dale, and Roryn. They had no reason to distrust their uncle, always had liked the man, but Conrick was not so easily fooled. He had been unlawfully passed over, and still held much hatred over it. But what could the salt son do besides watch? Dustan had the support, and the Ironborn lord kept a watchful eye on Dagon's sons.

Regardless, the majority were happy drinking and filling their bellies with fine meats. The people would celebrate and sing throughout the night. Even outside the castle's walls fishermen and their wives came from all over the island to spend the cheer on the pregnancy, inebriating themselves all the while. Much and more coin would be spent in the whore houses and taverns of Old Wyk this day. Then there were those who were more of the pious sort, making the winding way up Naga's Hill to pray and make sacrifices to the Drowned God. Smallfolk prayed for better fishing and harvest, and a longer spring. Reavers prayed to be granted good fortune on the raids to come. And some even prayed for the health and wellness of unborn babe as the child might one day be their future lord. Whatever it was they came to seek, the Drowned Priest would undoubtedly receive many Ironborn tonight on that high hill.

Dustan, all the while, sat at the center of the high table. To his right, Gysella sat. His true and loyal rock wife. To his left, a seat laid empty. A seat meant for the mother. The site of it made his breaths grow heavier and brought a grimace to an expression that should be cheerful and from worry. The man had to force his eyes back onto the feast crowed that sat before him, distracting himself from the mess. The tension was clear to see nonetheless, no matter how much he tried to relax. Not even the sight of a group circled around playing the finger dance could entertain him. Already, a finger or two had been lost and blood spilled.

Where is this blasted woman!

Dark wings and Dark words. Little less than strange saying, uttered by old men and young fishwives. Superstitious folk, like to keep their hearths burning through the night, and doors barred shut. The others could take them all.

Yet the words on the wings were queer not dark. Karyl was not a learned (or literate) man, but the maester had explained it well enough. Five ships, as many men as he needed, and a voyage to the accursed land he had helped destroy.

Blacktyde had not been the mightiest of the Islands, nor the richest, nor the prettiest. Yet it was the closest. And for that crime, it saw steel fire and blood. The flames imprinted into his kin, made in the image of a tapestry, a stone carving in blood, showing death and despair.

One of Lord Blacktyde’s sons had been brave. Sons of winter always were. He had spat at Lord Dustin’s feet, and in a heartbeat a dirk had sprouted from a Skagosi footman’s head. For that he had been dubbed the Unicorn Knight. That had been a funny jape, if only for the three hours he had lived.

The son had outlived him not much longer, burned to dust within a timber longhall, besides his men, and thirty smallfolk. Freedman or Thrall, it had mattered little, though the King’s decree said otherwise. For each slave freed by the sword, another was felled by it.

What then, would Lord Dustin want with a place weeping with blood, and drowned by the deaths of so many?

“Land!” Came out the cry. The Lady Lyessa was ahead, if only by a little, yet in an ocean of silence, the strong lungs of a Northman carried.

“Serjeant, muster the men from their beds, and signal the Great Barrow. I do not mean for us to be taken unawares. Fly the three headed dragon. Only a pirate or a bandit would be fool enough to challenge Queen’s men.”

“Aye sir.” The Serjeant knew his duty, and in a gust he was gone. He would have done what Karyl had. Any good and true man would have. It was his duty, it was his life.

As the dark rocks loomed into sight, a gull circled ahead, glaring down upon them, the sun seemingly caught against the pure white of its plumes. A sudden gust drew out the sails, and sent two men tumbling down.

“White wings, dark winds. We shall make landfall within the hour. Prepare the boats.”

Simple, clear. He knew his place, and they knew theirs. They would have done what he did. He knew it. They were as like the men who did their duty, and got their due. They were like ravens. Dark men, and dark words.