Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
POV: Dagon Greyjoy
Location: Pyke – The Seastone Chair
The salt wind howled through the ancient halls of Pyke, carrying with it the stench of seaweed and the whispers of drowned men. Dagon Greyjoy sat upon the Seastone Chair, his fingers tracing the pitted black stone as he listened to the raven's report. The parchment in his hand bore the seal of a northern lord—some minor house complaining of reavers. Again.
He crumpled the message and tossed it into the brazier, watching the flames lick at the words until they curled into ash.
"A setback," he murmured, more to himself than to the cowering captains before him. "Nothing more."
The hall was silent but for the crackle of the fire and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. The survivors of the Wolfsblood raid stood in a ragged line, their wounds still fresh, their eyes downcast. They had failed. They had lived. Both were unforgivable.
Dagon rose, his sealskin cloak whispering against the stone floor.
"You disappoint me," he said, his voice calm, almost conversational. "Not because you lost—but because you expected to win."
A frown flickered across the face of his youngest captain, a bold man with more courage than sense.
"My lord?"
Dagon's smile was thin and sharp.
"The North is not our enemy. Not yet. The Starks are bound by oaths to a throne that grows weaker by the day. The Mad King digs his own grave with every passing moon. And when he falls..." He spread his hands. "Chaos. And from chaos—opportunity."
He stepped down from the dais, moving among his men like a shark through shallow waters.
"This 'Arthur Snow' is a curiosity. A distraction. Let the Starks waste their strength on wildlings and bandits. We have greater prey."
One of the survivors dared to speak.
"He killed twenty of our men, my lord. Cut through them like—"
"I know what he did," Dagon interrupted, his voice like iron. "And he will answer for it. In time."
A heavy silence followed. Then came the rasp of Captain Varek, one of the oldest present. His voice was dry and sea-worn.
"The boy's name spreads like rot in the wind, my lord. Fisherfolk, dockhands, even southern traders speak of him now."
Dagon glanced sideways. "Then let them."
"But if he draws more to the North…"
Captain Joram, a lean reaver from Orkmont, scoffed. "If twenty of ours couldn't gut him, we'll send forty next time. What's one bastard to a fleet?"
Varek turned on him. "He wasn't leading men. He was the weapon."
Joram growled, "So we shiver at the name of a sword now?"
Dagon slammed a gauntleted fist onto the map-table, shaking tankards and blades alike.
"Enough."
The hall stilled.
Dagon's tone was calm again—but colder.
"Let him walk freely. For now. He builds his legend, unaware of how far shadows travel behind him. We'll study the path he cuts, and when the time is right, we'll drown it."
He turned to the table where maps of the western coast were spread, weighted down with daggers and cups of sour ale.
"Double the raids on the Reach. Their ships are fat with grain and wine. Take what we need. Slaves, timber, iron. The rebellion is coming, and when it does, I will not have the Iron Islands begging scraps from the victor's table."
His first mate, a grizzled reaver with salt-crusted braids, nodded.
"And the North?"
Dagon's gaze drifted to the narrow sea, where the first stars were beginning to pierce the twilight.
"Let them have their winter. When the time comes, we will remind them what happens when the kraken wakes."
He turned back to the survivors, his expression unreadable.
"As for you—you will serve. On the oars. On the ropes. In the pits. Prove you are still Ironborn, and perhaps one day, you will stand before me again."
They bowed their heads, not in gratitude, but in understanding. Mercy, in Pyke, was just another form of punishment.
Dagon returned to his chair, the ancient stone cold against his palms. The rebellion would come. The dragons would fall. And when they did, the Iron Islands would be ready.
As for Arthur Snow?
The kraken had long arms, and the sea was patient.