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A Week After leaving Seagard - Jaime Lannister
The Greyjoy Rebellion was a fire that Balon had lit, but the sea was the water that would drown it.
The waves off the coast of Harlaw were choppy and grey, churning with the same restless violence that seemed to infect every man aboard the Western fleet. Jaime Lannister stood at the prow of the flagship, The Lion's Pride, the salt spray misting against his golden armor. He gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlets.
Around him, the might of the Westerlands stretched across the horizon. Over a hundred ships cut through the water, their crimson sails billowing like fresh blood against the bruised sky. It was a fleet built for vengeance, carrying men who had seen their own harbor burn and were eager to return the favor tenfold.
Ahead, the island of Harlaw rose from the mist. It was the richest and most populous of the Iron Islands, dominated by the silhouette of the Ten Towers, the seat of House Harlaw. The castle was a sprawling, jagged thing, looking less like a fortress and more like ten different keeps huddling together for warmth against the damp chill of the sea.
"They see us," Kevan Lannister said, stepping up beside Jaime. His uncle wore heavy plate, his face grim. "Look."
Jaime squinted. In the harbor beneath the castle, a pitiful defensive line was forming. It was laughable. Against the hundred heavy war galleys of the West, House Harlaw had mustered perhaps twenty ships. They were longships, swift and deadly in a raid, but against the floating fortresses Tywin Lannister had brought to bear, they were kindling waiting to be split.
"Twenty ships," Jaime scoffed, the wind whipping his golden hair across his face. "Balon Greyjoy calls himself a king, yet he leaves his richest bannerman with nothing but driftwood to defend his home?"
"Balon is a fool," Tywin Lannister's voice cut through the wind from behind them.
The Lord of Casterly Rock stood near the helm, wrapped in a heavy cloak of crimson wool clasped with a golden lion. He did not look like a man at war; he looked like a man inspecting a ledger that had been found wanting. His eyes were fixed on the distant ships, cold and calculating.
"Archers," Tywin commanded, his voice not loud, but still everyone heard him.
Hundreds of bows were raised along the length of The Lion's Pride and the neighboring ships. The sound of bowstrings being drawn taut was like the intake of breath before a scream. The Lannister soldiers were eager. They had spent weeks on the march, weeks at sea, stewing in their anger over the attack on Lannisport. They wanted to loose. They wanted to see Ironborn die.
"Hold," Tywin said.
Jaime watched the enemy ships. They were in range. The wind favored the Lannisters. A single volley would turn the Harlaw decks into slaughterhouses.
"They aren't forming a shield wall," Jaime noted, frowning. "They're... drifting."
Then, a banner rose on the lead Harlaw ship.
It was not the black kraken of Greyjoy. It was not even the silver scythe of Harlaw.
It was white.
A ripple of confusion went through the Lannister crew. Murmurs broke out among the archers.
"A white flag?" Kevan muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Ironborn do not surrender. They drown."
"Smart ones do not," Tywin said, his gaze unwavering. "Hold fire. If a single arrow flies without my command, the man who loosed it will lose the hand that held the string."
The threat silenced the deck instantly.
From the cluster of Harlaw ships, a single vessel broke formation. It was a sleek longship with a dragonhead prow, but its oars moved slowly, rhythmically, signaling a lack of aggression. The white banner snapped loudly from its mast.
It sailed straight for the massive bulk of The Lion's Pride.
"It could be a fireship," Jaime warned, his hand tightening on his sword. "Filled with pitch and oil."
"It sits too high in the water," Tywin dismissed the notion. "Let them come."
The longship drew alongside the towering Lannister galley. The size difference was stark; the deck of The Lion's Pride loomed ten feet above the Ironborn vessel. Lannister spearmen lined the rail, pointing their weapons down at the exposed crew below.
On the deck of the longship stood a man. He was older, thin, with short-cropped grey hair and a face that looked eroded by wind and worry. He wore plate armor, but he held his helmet in the crook of his arm, exposing his head, a sign of trust, or perhaps resignation.
"Lord Lannister!" the man called out, his voice dry and raspy. He looked up at the wall of crimson soldiers without fear, only a profound weariness. "I seek an audience!"
Tywin stepped to the railing, looking down like a god judging a mortal. "Who are you?"
"I am Rodrik Harlaw," the man shouted back. "Lord of Harlaw, Lord of Ten Towers, and Harlaw of Harlaw."
"The Reader," Tyrion had called him once, Jaime recalled. A man who preferred books to axes. An anomaly among the squids.
"And do you intend to fight for your 'King,' Lord Harlaw?" Tywin asked, the word King dripping with such venomous mockery that it seemed to poison the air between the ships. "Or have you sailed out to watch your fleet burn closer to the warmth?"
Rodrik Harlaw didn't flinch. "I have no desire to see my people slaughtered for a crown made of driftwood and delusions. I advised Balon against this folly. He did not listen. I see no reason why my sons and my smallfolk should pay the price for his deafness."
"Treason against your King?" Jaime called down, unable to resist. "Balon will have your head."
"Balon is at Pyke, playing at empire," Rodrik retorted, his eyes shifting to Jaime. "You are here, with a hundred ships and five thousand men. I fear the Lion at my gate more than the Kraken in the distance." He looked back to Tywin. "I wish to talk, Lord Tywin. My ships will not fire. My castle will not bar its gates. I offer you Harlaw, provided we can come to terms."
Tywin studied the man for a long, agonizing silence. The wind whistled through the rigging.
"If you are sincere," Tywin said finally, "come aboard. Alone."
Rodrik hesitated. He looked at the hundreds of archers, the spearmen, the Kingslayer in his golden armor, and the Stone Lion of the Rock.
"I request the guest right," Rodrik shouted. "Bread and salt. I am no fool, my lord. I will not step onto a lion's den without assurance I won't be eaten."
Tywin nodded once to a squire. "Bring it."
A basket of bread and a bowl of salt were lowered on a rope to the longship. The Lannister soldiers watched in silence as the basket was handed to the lord. Rodrik Harlaw tore a chunk of hard bread, dipped it generously in the salt, and ate it in full view of the fleet.
"Done," Rodrik said, swallowing. "The gods witness it."
"The gods witness it," Tywin repeated. "You have my word. No harm shall come to you aboard this ship."
Rodrik nodded. He said a few words to his own captain, then walked to the edge of his ship. The gap between the vessels was perhaps four feet, but the height difference was significant. A rope ladder was thrown down, but Rodrik ignored it. He grabbed a trailing line from the Lannister rigging, waited for the swell of the ocean to lift his longship, and swung across.
He landed on the deck of The Lion's Pride with a heavy thud of boots on timber, straightening his tabard. He was spry for an old man.
"Lord Tywin," Rodrik said, inclining his head. "Ser Jaime. Ser Kevan."
"You know us," Kevan noted.
"I read," Rodrik said simply. "And descriptions of the Lannister leadership are... vivid."
"My cabin," Tywin said, turning his back on the Ironborn lord. "We have much to discuss."
The captain's quarters of The Lion's Pride were austere, smelling of polished wood and lemon wax. A map of the Iron Islands was nailed to the central table. Tywin took the only chair, leaving the others to stand.
"You have twenty ships," Tywin began without preamble. "Where is the rest of the Harlaw fleet?"
Rodrik Harlaw sighed, tracing the coastline of his island on the map with a gloved finger. "Balon took them. Fifty of my best war galleys. He demanded them for the defense of Pyke. He said Harlaw could defend itself with its towers."
"He abandoned you," Jaime said.
"He consolidated his power," Rodrik corrected. "Balon cares only for Pyke. He believes if he holds the center, the rest of the islands can bleed to buy him time."
"A foolish strategy," Tywin said. "He allows us to defeat you in detail."
"I told him that," Rodrik said, a bitter smile touching his lips. "I told him he was waking a sleeping giant. I told him that Robert Baratheon is not Aerys Targaryen, and Tywin Lannister is not a man who forgives insults. He called me a coward and took my ships."
Tywin leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "I want those twenty ships, Lord Harlaw."
Rodrik blinked. "My lord?"
"I accept your surrender," Tywin said. "House Harlaw will not be put to the sword. Your castle will not be looted. Your library will not be burned. When this war is over, and Balon Greyjoy is dead, House Harlaw will retain its lands. Furthermore, the lands of those who persist in this rebellion will be forfeit. I imagine the Harlaws could find use for additional holdings on Pyke or Great Wyk."
Rodrik listened carefully. He was a man weighing the cost of honor against the cost of survival. "And the price?"
"Total submission," Tywin said. "And your twenty ships. They will sail with us. They will fly Harlaw banners, but they will take their orders from me."
"You want me to help you kill my countrymen," Rodrik said quietly.
"I want you to help me end a rebellion that you yourself admit is madness," Tywin countered. "Before more of your people die for Balon's vanity."
Rodrik looked at the map. He looked at the vast disparity of force waiting outside. "My men will not fight their own kin. They will sail, they will blockade... but I cannot ask them to board Ironborn ships and slaughter their cousins."
"They won't have to fight," Tywin said. "They merely have to be seen. Do we have an accord?"
Rodrik took a deep breath. "We have an accord. The ships are yours."
Tywin sat back. "Now. Tell me what you know of Euron Greyjoy."
A shadow passed over Rodrik Harlaw's face, and he actually shuddered.
"Crow's Eye," Rodrik murmured. "He... he is not like his brothers. Balon is iron—hard and brittle. Victarion is a bull—strong and stupid. But Euron...he is Mad."
"Where is he?" Tywin demanded.
"As far as I know, he is at Pyke," Rodrik said. "Or he was. Balon ordered him to remain there to command the defense of the Sea Tower."
"Ordered him?" Jaime asked. "Does Euron follow orders?"
"He mocks them," Rodrik admitted. "He treats this entire war as a mummer's farce. When Balon declared himself King, Euron laughed. He said crowns were for men who didn't know how to take what they wanted without permission."
"Would he fight to the death?" Kevan asked.
"Euron?" Rodrik shook his head. "Euron fights for Euron. He is no fool. He knows the Royal Fleet is coming. He knows Stannis Baratheon is a hammer. If the battle turns, Euron will not die on the walls of Pyke for a brother he despises. He will sail. He will run."
"He will try," Jaime said darkly.
Tywin stared at the map, his eyes drilling into the islands. "If he is at Pyke, he is within reach."
"Then we sail for Pyke?" Rodrik asked. "If you strike now, before the Royal Fleet arrives, you might catch Balon unprepared."
"No," Tywin said.
The answer made Rodrik blink.
"No?" Rodrik frowned. "But Pyke is the capital. It is the heart of the rebellion. If you want to end this..."
"I have my own reasons," Tywin said, his voice dropping to a register that suggested no further questions should be asked. He pointed a finger at a different island, to the northwest of Harlaw. "We sail here."
Rodrik peered at the map. "Blacktyde?"
"Specifically, the seat of House Drumm," Tywin said.
Jaime looked at his father. He knew why. The torture of Maron Greyjoy. Maron had broken after five hours, babbling that Euron had not kept the boy at Pyke, but had given him to Lord Drumm to hide. Why? Maron hadn't known. But Tywin Lannister acted on intelligence, not assumptions.
"House Drumm?" Rodrik looked bewildered. "Why go there? Lord Dunstan Drumm is a fanatic, yes, and he wields the Valyrian steel sword Red Rain, but he is a minor player compared to Balon. Blacktyde is isolated."
"Is House Drumm located on Blacktyde?" Tywin asked sharply.
"Yes," Rodrik confirmed. "To the northwest of here. A day's hard sailing."
"Then that is where we go," Tywin said.
"But Balon—"
"Balon can wait," Tywin snapped. "House Drumm will fall first. And that is where your ships come in, Lord Harlaw."
"My ships?"
"If a hundred Lannister war galleys appear on the horizon of Blacktyde, Lord Drumm will barricade his keep before we make landfall," Tywin explained. "But if twenty Harlaw longships approach... allies fleeing the battle at Harlaw... seeking refuge..."
Rodrik understood. "You want to use my banners to get close."
"I want your ships to enter their harbor," Tywin said. "I want you to signal that the sea is safe. And then, when their guard is down, my fleet will emerge from the mist behind you."
"It is a deception," Rodrik said. "It violates the Old Way."
"The Old Way burned my fleet," Tywin said. "Do not speak to me of honor, Lord Harlaw. Speak to me of headings and tides."
Rodrik bowed his head. "As long as my family remains safe in Ten Towers... I will do as you ask."
"Kevan," Tywin ordered. "Signal the fleet. We change course. Put a contingent of our best men onto the Harlaw ships—hidden below decks. If the Harlaw crews try to betray us, kill them all."
"At once," Kevan said, stepping out of the cabin.
Tywin turned to Jaime. "Prepare yourself. We sail for Blacktyde. If the boy is there, we get him back today."
Jaime nodded, his hand resting on his sword. We're coming, Adrian, he thought. Whoever you are, we're coming.
Blacktyde - Adrian Lannister
Adrian Lannister sat on the pile of moldy straw that served as his bed. He was thinner than he had been a month ago. His ribs pressed against his skin like the rungs of a ladder, and his once-fine festival clothes were reduced to grey rags. The mud Euron had plastered into his hair had mostly flaked away, revealing the silver-gold roots that shimmered in the weak shaft of light from the high window.
But his eyes were not the eyes of a starving child. They were hard, green flint.
"Last day, little lion," the guard said.
The guard, a man the others called 'Toad' because of his wide, wet mouth and the warts clustering on his neck, leered at Adrian. Toad was the worst of them. The other guards were rough and indifferent, but Toad... Toad liked to touch.
He liked to run his greasy hands over Adrian's arms when he brought the water bucket. He liked to make comments about how pretty highborn boys were, how soft their skin was compared to the iron-hard women of the islands.
Adrian hated him. Sometimes the Toad would use the broom near the wall to hit him, saying he liked it when he cried out in pain.
"Leaving tomorrow?" Adrian asked, forcing his voice to be small and trembling. He kept his hands hidden in the folds of his rags, fingers brushing the sharp point of the fish bone.
He had spent two weeks grinding that bone against the rough stone of the wall. Back and forth. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. It was no longer just a bone; it was a needle, a white splinter of death hardened by hate.
"Aye," Toad chuckled, scratching his crotch. "Lord Drumm says Euron will arrive soon to take you away." He took a step closer, the keys at his belt jingling. "Shame, really. I'm going to miss you, pretty thing. We never got to have any real fun."
Adrian swallowed his bile. He looked up through his lashes. He knew he needed to leave today. He could not wait. If Euron took him away, he might...he might be gone forever. He could not stay here and wait for his family to arrive. He knew they would, but he did not have time anymore to wait; it's been fourteen days now.
"If... if I'm leaving tomorrow," Adrian whispered, looking down at his shackled wrists, "couldn't you take these off? Just for a little while?"
Toad paused. "Lord Drumm said keep the chains on."
"Please?" Adrian looked up, making his eyes wide and wet. "My wrists hurt so much. And... if it's the last day... maybe we could make it... better? If I could move?"
Toad's grin widened, revealing yellow, rotting teeth.
"Well now," Toad said, his voice thick with lust. "That's a sweet offer. A going-away present, eh?"
He stepped forward, pulling the heavy iron key ring from his belt. "You're just a little whelp anyway. Where are you gonna go?"
Toad knelt in front of Adrian. The smell of him, stale ale, unwashed body, and lust, was suffocating. Adrian held out his hands, the heavy iron cuffs clanking.
"Good boy," Toad murmured, reaching for the lock on Adrian's left wrist. "Hold still."
The key turned. The shackle clicked open.
"Now the other—" Toad began.
Adrian moved.
Adrian drove it into the soft, unprotected hollow of Toad's throat.
He pushed with everything he had, all his fear, all his hunger, all his rage.
Thunk.
Toad's eyes bulged. A terrible, wet gasping sound erupted from his mouth. He jerked back, hands flying to his neck, but the bone was buried deep.
Blood, bright, arterial red, sprayed across Adrian's face, hot and salty.
Toad fell backward, gagging, clawing at his throat. The key ring dropped from his convulsing fingers, clattering onto the stone floor.
Adrian didn't freeze. He didn't scream. He scrambled forward, ignoring the blood, and snatched up the keys. His hands were slick with gore, making the iron slippery, but he found the key for his right cuff.
Click.
The heavy iron fell away. He was free.
Adrian stood up. He was panting, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked down.
Toad was thrashing on the floor, heels drumming against the stone. Pink froth bubbled from his lips. His eyes were locked on Adrian, filled with shock and terror.
Adrian felt a cold calmness settle over him. It was the calm of the Rock.
He knelt beside the dying man. He reached out and wrapped his small fingers around the end of the fish bone protruding from Toad's neck.
"Die," Adrian whispered.
He ripped the bone out. A fresh geyser of blood followed.
Then he stabbed him again. And again. Hard, frantic jabs into the side of the neck, puncturing the windpipe, severing the veins.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
Toad stopped thrashing. He gave one last, long gurgle, and went still. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, glassy and empty.
Adrian stood up, the bloody bone clutched in his fist. He looked at the corpse.
"A Lannister always pays his debts," he said, his voice cracking but firm.
He reached down to Toad's belt and pulled the heavy iron dagger from its sheath. It was heavy in his hand, far better than a bone. A real weapon.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Heavy boots.
"Toad?" a voice called out. Rough. Angry. "What's taking so long? Drumm wants him now!"
Adrian froze. He looked at the door. It was unlocked; Toad hadn't locked it behind him. He couldn't get out without running straight into the second guard.
He looked around the cell frantically. The straw. The bucket. The broom.
The broom stood in the corner, a sturdy piece of driftwood with stiff bristles.
Adrian moved. He grabbed the broom. He grabbed the strip of cloth he had torn from his tunic days ago.
With shaking but nimble fingers, he lashed the handle of Toad's dagger to the end of the broomstick. It wasn't perfect, but it held. A spear. A lance for a small knight.
He backed into the shadows beside the door hinge, holding the broom-spear tight.
"Toad?" The voice was right outside. "You deaf, you ugly bastard?"
The door swung inward.
A second guard, a burly man with a beard braided with bells, stepped into the room.
"By the Drowned God, it smells like—"
He stopped. He saw Toad lying in a pool of spreading crimson. He saw the empty shackles.
"What the—"
The guard turned, reaching for his sword.
"Here!" Adrian screamed.
He charged from the shadows, driving the broom forward with all his weight.
The dagger point caught the guard in the soft belly, just below his leather cuirass. It punched through cloth and flesh.
The guard grunted, a sound of pure surprise, doubling over the makeshift spear. He grabbed the broom handle, trying to pull it out, dropping to one knee.
Adrian didn't let him recover. He let go of the broom.
He leaped onto the man's bent back, wrapping his legs around the thick torso like a monkey.
His hand came up, holding the fish bone.
"Die!" Adrian shrieked. "Die! Die!"
He drove the bone into the side of the man's neck. He pulled it out and stabbed again. He stabbed the ear. He stabbed the throat. He stabbed blindly, fueled by pure, unadulterated terror and fury.
The guard thrashed, slamming Adrian against the doorframe, but Adrian held on, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing.
Warm blood soaked Adrian's chest, his arms, his face. He was drowning in it.
Finally, the guard collapsed, falling face-forward onto Toad's corpse.
Adrian rolled off, scrambling backward into the corner, chest heaving. He held the bloody bone out in front of him, waiting for them to move.
Neither man moved.
The silence of the room returned, broken only by the drip, drip, drip of blood.
Adrian wiped his eyes with a bloody forearm. He looked at his hands. They were red.
He was a Lannister. He was alive.
He crawled over to the second guard, unbuckled the man's sword belt, and tried to lift the shortsword. It was too heavy to use, he let go of it, but noticed something else, a short crossbow, and it had a bolt on. He grabbed it, untying it from his waist. It wasn't light, but he needed the distance it would give him.
He walked to the open door and looked out into the dark corridor.
"I'm coming, Father," he whispered as he stepped into the darkness of the corridor; the sunlight behind him through the window illuminated his form, and it showed the shadow of a lion.
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