The Icefyre Conquest 29

“Father,” Robb’s voice echoed in the tent, and his eyes snapped open as Ned immediately sat up, finding his son kneeling by his bed, “Lord Hoster has taken ill with fever. The Maesters say that it is likely his last night.”

“Right when we are at the Twins” he grunted, standing on his feet as Robb moved back, and donned his cloak, “Damn it. I had hoped he would be able to brave the snows.”

“He has weakened greatly. Even in Winterfell, he was growing frailer by the day, and the fast travel has drained him greatly,” his son muttered as Ned strapped his longsword at his waist and moved out of the tent, Jory joining in behind them as Grey Wind trailed at their feet, “It should have been Uncle Edmure who should have traveled North. Not him.”

“Aye, it should have,” he nodded. To this day, Ned had been unable to understand just why the already ailing, aged man had decided to undertake such a journey into the perpetually cold, unforgiving North. He doubted it was because of his love and desire to see his daughter and grandchildren, or because he cared about the rescued women—quite a few of those were of the Riverlands, and even now, were traveling South hoping to reunite with their families. But it mattered not, “Has the King been informed?”

“The King was…busy,” Jory answered, and he silently shook his head as they walked past the Northern section of the camp, the gleaming weirdwood upon the black and red of the Blackwoods barely visible in the torchlight. “The Kingsguard instead have alerted the Lord Hand.”

“Very well,” he nodded, as they saw the Trout of the Tully fly in the moonlight, the flag slowly being pulled down as he saw the Silent Sisters enter the tent, while Jon Arryn stood by the entrance with a solemn look upon his face.

Hoster Tully had passed.

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Kicking away a dismembered hand by his feet, the Captain of the Silence looked out at the bloodbath before him, his pale blue eye shining with satisfaction as he saw the cages being filled. His crew worked silently—and wasn’t he a good captain? Ensuring peace and quiet upon his ship—as they cut down the remaining sailors, while those who surrendered were being hoarded towards the chains.

Running a finger down the front of his scaled armor, Euron Greyjoy sighed as he felt the blood stick to his hand. It had been quite a while since he had personally fought, he realized, wiping his blade clean on a dead man’s shirt, eyeing the rippled steel with satisfaction. It had been a dangerous journey into the boiling waters of the still-smoking, fire-covered Valyrian Islands, and even then, he had been unable to sail much more than a few miles into the Freehold’s smoky waters.

But even then, the bounty he had reaped was more useful than all the treasure dwelling in Casterly Rock.

On a small island he ahd stopped ot rest at after one of his ships had been sunk by some great, tentacled beast, Euron had struck gold as he found the bones of a dragon, along with what he assumed to be the bones of its rider. The ashen skeletons didn’t interest him in the slightest, but the burnt remains of the chest they had been carrying did greatly. Breaking open the already rotten, dried wood, the Greyjoy had taken the valyrian steel armor and the curved sword for himself. It had been three months since he had donned it, not once had he seen even a scratch or dent appear on it.

“Throw the bodies overboard when you are done,” he shouted, walking by the cages as he eyes the captured men and women, scratching his crotch as he saw the female flesh on display through the torn and wet clothes. Eyes stopping upon a pretty little thing barely covered by the Essosi wear, he looked at the dirt and blood caking her form, the pale flesh darkened by the bruises in some place, “You! Get up!”

The girl whimpered, fresh tears coming out of her eyes, and for a moment, she seemed to look at the other people in the cage for some support…only to find none as everyone moved away from her, leaving her standing alone in the middle like an offering. Lips twisting in amusement as Euron raked his eyes over her trembling, crying, helpless form, he moved inside and grabbed her by the back of her head, burying his nose in her neck to take in that smell of blood and sweat and the sea, tempered by the fear he could feel in the air around him.

That night, the Silence echoed with the screams and whimpers of the girl Euron had picked, his large hands bruising her body even further as he took her without mercy, taking the Iron Price and relishing in the warmth of her body. Pushing her face into the sheets as he grew tired of her sobs and screams, he grunted with the force of his release, pulling out of the still girl and wiping his cock clean on her backside.

Staring out of the window a moment later as the waters below swallowed the body, Euron took a swig of the rum, staring out at the lights in the distance, his eyes setting upon the Basilisk Isles. It had been a while since he had been with those savages, but he had grown tired of Essos and its ‘free cities’...and it was probably time to head back to Westeros.

After selling his latest plunder of course.

It was a few hours later that he walked off the Silence, his crew carrying in the cages off the longship, as well as the rest of his ever-growing fleet onto the docks of Port Blunder. “Get the flags made and collect the scorpions,” he ordered to the man on his right, smiling at the sight of the furious nod as the mute rushed off to do his bidding, the garland of bones on his chest rattling. The fact that most of them were the man’s own fingers amused him greatly, but such was life on the Silence. If you couldn’t keep the quiet, Euron would remove the problem personally, whether it was a ripped-off tongue or chopped fingers.

“Crow’s Eye!” an excited, scratchy voice shouted ahead of him, and Euron turned his head as a toothy grin stretched across his face, watching the crippled, one-eyed pirate hobble towards him on a wooden leg, a wicked Yi-Tish sword hanging on his hip, “Whut bounties have you caught this time? Lyseni Whores? Westerosi wines? Or slaves to be auctioned?”

“All of them, Black,” he laughed, waving a hand at the chained cattle behind him, “Caught a few of them just a few hours ago. Quite a few of them are Summer Islanders, and even a few Lyseni cunts I took from some Pentoshi pig.”

“Elenoara would be happy with ‘em, fresh meals are always welcome in Port Blunder,” the Pirate Lord nodded, smiling lecherously at the nearest group of women, eyeing the blonde gold hair, and the flesh on display with reddened eyes and golden teeth, “What shall ye have this time? Yer regular resupplies and gol’ in exchange? I wager yer bout to return to Westeros, eh?”

“Why would I do that? There is plenty much to do in the Summer Sea before I look West.”

“Word is that the Stag King is gonna attack yer Iron Islands,” Black shook his head, pointing at a galley docked a few ways away, “Came from the Reach yesterday, telling bout how those Redwynes of yers are moving, and how yer brother attacked the North again.”

“He did what?” Euron blinked. That…was a surprise for sure. When he had left, the Iron Fleet had been rebuilding itself, capturing and crafting ships and galleys, depleted and destroyed as it had been when Stannis had smashed it in the failed rebellion. But if his brother had decided to return to his foolish ambitions of being the Iron King of the Salt Throne, then Baratheon wasn’t going to sit idle.

Humming a little, Euron touched his covered eye slightly adn turned around, looking at his fleet with a critical eye, “I need to go to Talon,” he said, looking at Black over his shoulder, “Ready the provisions, and make it…three hundred barrels this time.”

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“Ser Mormont,” the young, hesitant voice of his charge—target really, but Jorah doubted that the King would command him to slit the Targaryens’ throats—came from the room he was guarding, “When is the Khal supposed to arrive by?”

“The Khalasar was reported to be in sight just a few minutes ago, Princess,” he answered, “Khal Drogo could arrive at his manse any minute, after which the Khal shall see you.”

“He has a big army right?”

“Khalasar,” he corrected absently, looking out of the south-facing window. Mopatis’ manse was close to the Bay of Pentos, but it also allowed a rare view of the Southern side. In the distance, he could see the giant Khalasar the horselord commanded, dust rising in the wake of thousands of horses, “About thirty-five thousand riders, according to the last time he visited Pentos.

“Is it bigger than what the Usurper, Stark, and the Lannister have?”

“By quite a margin,” he lied, snorting mentally as he remembered the last time the seven kingdoms had gathered in strength. Either of the Kingdoms could alone defeat the Khalasar outside Pentos, that is, if the horselords even dared to cross the sea in the first place. This endeavor by Viserys was as foolish as Aerys’ last days had been, hoping to use the Dothraki to reclaim the Iron Throne. Any organized army would wreck the Dothraki with a proper defensive strategy, and that is without counting the sheer numbers and skill the Baratheon King could bring down upon the savages. But he wasn’t going to tell that to the delusional girl, who somehow believed that her father had been the paragon of virtue and fairness, “With the promised armies ready to march at the King’s return, victory shall be yours.”

“Illyrio was saying that we might receive some guests when the Khal arrives,” Daenaerys spoke after a moment, and Jorah rolled his eyes as he thought about perfumed man, “Can we expect someone from Westeros?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about it, Princess,” he shook his head, and truthfully speaking, he doubted that anyone from Westeros would dare come in the presence of the Targaryens. Not when the Spider was keeping an eye out here, “We can’t risk the Usurper coming to know about you so early.”

“Ser Mormont!” a high, nasal voice echoed down the corridor, and Jorah heard Daenaerys’ gasp as she fled back deeper into her room, and the sound of stomping footsteps began to come from his left, “Where is my sister?!”

“In her rooms, Your Grace,” he lowered his head, cracking a half smile as he saw the other guards just look at the Targaryen as if he were a commoner, “Has the Khal arrived?”

“Yes,” Viserys snapped impatiently, before the anger seemed to melt from his face, leaving behind a gaunt, sharp, smiling visage behind, “Move aside. I shall see to it that my sister is presentable before the Khal.”

“Illyrio has already sent his servants for that, Your Grace,” he answered, head still lowered as he felt a grimace flit across his face. As much as he was irritated by the Princess's naivete and childishness, he didn’t want a curr like Viserys harassing her right now. Not when she was already going to be a Dothraki’s broodmare in a few hours anyway.

‘I am your King, you imbecile!” the thin boy suddenly snarled, and Jorah saw his hand twitch by his side as if to strike him, “Move aside!”

“As you command,” he moved aside, taking a step back as Visenrys threw a withering glare at him, his purple eyes narrowing in anger. But Jorah knew that the Beggar King couldn’t do anything. Not with no allies by his side, no protectors to save his neck, and no one to act as ‘Kingsguard’.

As Viserys strode towards the door separating him from his sister, Illyrio’s guards crossed their spears in front of him, barring his entry again—just like they had stopped him last night, Jorah noted with amusement. And it had surprised him somewhat, that the cheesemonger had decided to risk a headache with that. Though, given that the Khal would raze Pentos if he was given a sullied wife, Illyrio had just been saving his own neck rather than Daenarys from her brother’s cruelty.

Viserys stared up at the taller guards, incensed beyond measure. But after last night, he knew it was futile to shout at them, or demand Illyrio to acquiesce to his demands. Somewhere in that thick, addled skull of his, Jorah suspected that the madman knew his reality. Of how he was surviving on scraps because that is what Illyrio saw him as, and the day Illyrio tired of his tantrums and dramatics like all of his previous herpes had been…he would be out on the streets with nothing to his name.

He still didn’t know why someone hadn’t already slit the little shit’s throat over the years. And on that note, it had been a while since Varys had contacted him. He had arrived here a month ago, only to learn that the Khal’s arrival had been delayed, and since then, he had entered the ‘service’ of Viserys Targaryen, The True Dragon and King of Westeros.

And each day, he found himself reaching a new level of patience, hearing and seeing Viserys strut around with his weak little gait and that sneering, bony face. Gods, how he wished that he had never even seen Lynesse, let alone married her. If not for her pretty face and worldly wishes, he would still be back home, fighting men and living his life instead of spying and acting as a bodyguard to two witless idiots. His wife had found herself a place as a concubine, but he had been forced to flee from Lys too, drifting through the land as a sellsword and a bodyguard for hire. He had seen all of Essos in the years since, from the Slaver’s Bay to the Free Cities to the Dothraki Sea, and then one day, out of somewhere, the Spymaster had caught him with a messenger. But it wa-”Ser Mormont,” a voice jerked him out of his head, and Jorah turned around to look at the servant behind him, the man looking down at the ground with a hunched back, “Lord Mopatis has sent for you.”

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Victarion was aware that he wasn’t as smart as his brother. He wasn’t addled by any means, his skill lay at fighting—at killing his enemies under the blade of his axe or cutting them with his sword, or drowning in the sea with the splinters of their ship sinking along them. Balon on the other hand was the mind-smart one, with his scheming and plotting.

The less said about Euron’s treacherous, twisted mind, the better.

But even he had been smart enough to see the twitch for violence in Balon’s old, thin arms, and the smoldering anger in his eyes as he had found his brother staring North at one of the bridges. Walking closer to his brother still, Victarion had finally found the reason for his anger, and the tension that he had felt on the whole way here. By the docks of the Pyke, three ships flying the flags of the Harlaw were sailing off, and so were a dozen others towards the other Islands as dozens of men started to row their boats alongside them. “What happened?” he asked, stopping beside his brother and frowning as he looked at the reavers running all over the Pyke, shouting and screaming cutting through the air, “Is it the Black Sun?”

“It is Harlaw,” Balon grunted out, the sound of his knuckle popping drifting through the winds.

“What has Harras done now? Destroyed another whaling ship?”

“The Ten Towers and its village have been attacked and burnt to the ground,” the Lord Reaper of Pyke had said next, turning around to face him as his hand raised in the Harlaw Island’s direction, “Harras attacked the Bear Island and kidnapped their women, to take the Stark’s bastard as his salt wife four days ago according to one of the men that came from the Island. The night he returned, the Harlaw was burned down and everyone in the main village was killed down to the last man, woman, and child.”

It had been months since then.

Overnight, every Ironborn ship had been called back, and the shipyards made to work even through the night. Trading galleys and such had been captured from as far south as Lannisport. Three days ago they had moved a bit too close to Lannisport, enough that he had been able to see the ballista being installed by the shore through his far-eye, as well as the larger number of ships than normal.

He had reported his findings to Balon, only to hear from his brother that a captured Mallister ship had revealed what had happened after the Harlaw burned. Ned Stark’s bastard had called the King to the North, and all the Lords had followed after like the suckerfish on a whale. There, the boy had killed the Ironborn he had captured on their freaky tree, and declared war on them. And now, the kingdoms were once again going to come at the Ironborn. From the previous war, Victarion knew that letting the Greenlanders come ashore the Iron Islands would ensure their loss. They needed to be stopped at the Sea, or even before they got on their boats.

“We have more ships than them,” he said, looking down at the map placed between him and his brother, along with the rest of the Lord Reapers, “We can keep one part to battle Stannis, and the send the other two to the Greenlands before there armies can come together.”

“The North,” Goodbrother commented, pointing at streams leading inwards the sparsely populated land, “We can raid their villages and these settlements. The Riverlan’s can also be raided. The water and the forests make it easy to move inside, and we can attack them from the inside. Capture their family and pretty castles.”

“Attack Lannisport first,” Blacktyde grunted, “Prevent them from coming from the East. Stannis will come there to gather the army for the invasion like the last time. Stop him from even coming close to the shore.”

“Lannister’s army was seen by a few of my men a few days ago,” Drumm rumbled, his scratchy voice echoing in the chamber as they all looked at him, “They are gathering by the Rock, and his shipyards are also running more.”

“What about the Baratheon?” Towney asked, looking at the Southern end, where Dragonmount was denoted with a large knife embedded in the table, “and those flower-sniffing cunts?”

“Attack the Reach first,” the Lord of Iron Islands ordered after a moment of silence, drawing his finger across the Southern kingdom of Westeros. Burn their fields and raze their villages before those lazy sacks of balls can gather. Destroy their Septs, and kill everyone, and burn their ports with their piss wine.”

“And what if their ships still manage to reach us?”

“Then they will drown.”