AN :
Next goal for another extra chapter is 850 power stones.
In the Game of Stones, you either win or you wait. The more Power Stones you offer, the faster the chapters come.
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( Gorman Bloodtooth POV )
A man stared out at the churning waves, the bitter sea breeze filling his nostrils with the smell of salt as it whipped through his greying black hair, curling his beard and freezing his ears.
His brow was furrowed with darkling thoughts as his armor sat heavily on his shoulders. Above, the sky slipped its cork like a billion-gallon keg and drained out a thick black downpour, splattering the stone with frigid water. It soaked through his clothes, thick wool, fur, and leather, and splashed off his bronze buckles and gold torque, making them slick and cold to the touch. In this dark place, Gorman Bloodtooth stood unmoving, a grim statue on the shore.
The beaches of Saltcliffe were sullen and gray, composed of rocks about the size of a man's fist that would slide and tumble and shift to and fro with the tides. They were hard to walk on, but Gorman had always liked the challenge. He liked the sea even better.
The gloomy water of Ironman's Bay was the source of life and prosperity for Gorman and his family. In his youth, it had made him a rich man, a captain in his own right plundering the shores of the disputed lands. He had gone as far east in his day as the shores of Qarth and Great Moraq and found there plunder, thralls, and two of his salt wives. It was because of the sea that Gorman, born to a fisherman of no repute, now had three good ships to his name, a fine stone house at the top of the cliffs, and ten fine sons to carry on his name.
It was on the sea that he had won himself the name Bloodtooth when with his teeth he had ripped out the throat of a Myrish mercenary in a bloody grapple on the deck of a merchant ship. It was on that same sea that he had won gold and jewels, silks and velvets, the treasures by which he had won the hand of his rock wife, a daughter of Lord Sunderly himself, a marriage that gave him land also, and an iron mine to lord over.
Yes, the sea had been good to Gorman, and Gorman made his proper offerings to the Drowned God in turn. He was not a religious man, he did not Pray or wear a squid on his head, but he believed well enough that you ought to return enmity with twice its weight, and favor with thrice its weight. Since the Drowned God had favored him, it was only right and just that he gave the God his due and more.
These last few moons though, the sea did not seem so friendly. Five moons ago his eldest son Rorrick, his heir, had taken his smallest ship, Skolda, and set out with a band of his fellows as so many Ironborn did. Thirty of them had left, equipped for fishing and for fighting. They had axes and shields, spears and bows, mail and helmet, and they had sailed out as Gorman himself had so many times before, off to adventure and plunder and loot.
They had sailed for the Westerlands, he knew, and Gorman had been happy for that, because Rorrick was only seventeen, and it would be good for him to try his hand at raiding in safer waters before he went off and ventured to Essos for plunder and glory. The North or the northern Westerlands were a good choice. There were scattered farms and small villages with few if any warriors amongst them. The Riverlands he had told his son to avoid.
There were few gaps in the cliffs of that towering coast, and what landings there were House Mallister kept close watch over. The purple eagles were perennial enemies of all Ironborn, they had been humbled once by the Hoare kings, but that only fueled their bloodthirst. Their lands were a graveyard of young men too eager for glory.
Not that Gorman hadn't dodged the headman's ax a few times in his journeys, but it was on the young to learn from the old, not the other way around. He had told Rorrick more than enough stories, the boy ought to know well when to strike and when to look elsewhere.
Gorman knew in his bones that he would tell his son no more stories. It was only six days sailing to the edge of the Northern Westerlands, eleven or twelve to the other side of them. If he'd spent a few days raising them he should have been back by the second moon after he left. Now it has been five, and Gorman knew his son was dead, or rotting in some Greenlander wagon on his way to the Wall. He would never see Rorrick again, never hear his merry laughter.
The sea had taken him, after giving Gorman so much. He knew he couldn't begrudge it one son when he had ten, but it still stung. Had he been killed on the land or on the water? Was his soul now in the Drowned God's grasp? Had the Storm God thrown his wrath on them when they were sailing out? Had it been on their return?
Rorrick's brothers all cried out for blood, from the youngest to the oldest. His sisters too, their blood ran hot with anger, but what was he to tell them? He did not know how Rorrick died. Who would he take his vengeance upon? Who could he point to for his children to blame? Was it men or gods or a sudden slip on a sea-slick stone that took his son from him? The rain thundered down on the stoney beach but it held no answers, none that Gorman knew.
"Still standing out here in the damp eh."
Gorman turned, he hadn't heard the other man approaching, the crunching of rocks under his boots was drowned out by the pounding rain. He frowned as he did. "Let me be Harren." Gorman sighed. "This is the best way for a father to mourn his son."
"Alone in the rain? You don't really think that, do you?" Harren asked, the man was one of Gorman's few peers on the island, he captained and owned the Leviathan's Bane, a big old Ibbense whaler that the man had captured more than a decade ago in the waters north of the Narrow Sea. He was tall and lanky, with cunning black eyes and fiery red hair, a bit of an odd duck, but a good Ironborn nonetheless. "Here" Harren groused, shoving a glass bottle into Gorman's hand.
Looking down at it, Gorman raised an eyebrow, "Arbor Red? You've been having some success then."
"Aye, Lannisport needs more Iron than it ever has before." Harren chuckled. "They're buying at half again the old rate, all to build some statue or something atop their mountain castle. That and they're giving away books. It's some Greenlander nonsense."
"Half-again? Why I ought to be charging you more then!" Gorman feigned outrage as he popped the cork out and poured the sweet red wine into his mouth. He wiped his lips with his sleeve and sighed. "Damn, and good vintage too."
"I thought it was appropriate," Harren said, sitting down on a rock, as unbothered by the cold rain as Gorman was. "I have some news as well, might be what got your son."
"What?!" Gorman nearly dropped the bottle, nearly. "Why didn't you start with that?" He stalked over towards Harren, but the other man raised his hand. It didn't really slow Gorman down much, but it let him get the next part out.
"Calm down, it's not a certain thing. But I did some asking around in Lannisport, knowing Rorrick's been gone too long." Harren explained quickly. "Turns out that Lord Tywin, that is, Tywin Lannister, sent his brother up to become Lord of the North Coast. They said he'd gone up to stop the raiding and build new towns there." Harren shook his head. "They didn't know if he'd caught any Ironborn yet, or anything of that sort. But it's a line to pull on."
Gorman stared into his friend's eyes, hard, his brow furrowing in anger, though not at Harren. "His brother eh? What's this Lannister's name?"
"Lord Tygett was the name I heard." Harren shrugged. "No guarantee he's the one who got Rorrick, but it would fit… only do be careful Gorman, the Lannisters are dangerous people." The red-haired man frowned. "Lord Tywin butchered two houses down to their serving boys and guardsmen just for disrespecting his father. Every mummer and troubadour from Sunspear to Winterfell knows the song they wrote about it. Be careful with your life if you're plotting against his brother."
Gorman grit his teeth. That was right, Lord Tywin Lannister was the Rains of Castamere, a Greenlander so powerful and so evil that the king had made him his hand. If Gorman pursued this, and did it badly, it would be a blood feud that his other children might not even survive. The Reaver grimaced, his fingers twitching towards a sword grip he wasn't wearing. "What am I to do then? If it was him… I will not let Rorrick's blood go unavenged."
"There are methods to ruin a man without killing him." Harren shrugged. "If you defeated him in battle and then only… took out his eyes, or gelded him or such, I doubt that Lord Tywin would raise the whole of his fleets against us."
"Would that satisfy the blood of my son?" Gorman asked, not sure of the answer himself. "It would be better to kill him, but for no one to know it was me. I might do it with poison, slip into his castle, and put wolfsbane in his dinner."
"That's a fair idea, but what if you are caught? I doubt most Greenlanders look anything like you. You're not some fair-faced lad anymore." Harren chuckled.
Gorman snorted at the insult but nodded. "Aye, I might be too old for that sort of ploy to work… hmm… this is all too much thinking without enough knowledge. Before I make any move, with such great risk especially, I must be sure that it was this Lord Tygett and his men that killed Rorrick." Gorman stroked his damp beard. "I'll go to Old Wyk, and to the other islands, and ask the captains that trade along the Westerlands coast." He decided after a minute. "If it was this Lord Tygett, I'll go myself as a trader, learn what I can about his ways, where he dwells, then I will decide on the means of my revenge."
"Now that sounds like the Gorman I know." Harren grinned. "It must be the alcohol, you always make your best plans drunk."
"Quiet Redbeard." Gorman grumbled, "some of us are trying to think."
Harren just laughed, standing up, he wrapped his arm around Gorman's shoulder. "We'll whatever you do, let me know. I liked Rorrick, he was a good lad, so I'll help you out with whatever it is you end up planning."
"What, with your big fat whaler?" Gorman asked, chuckling. "Nobody would mistake the Leviathan's Bane for a warship."
Harren smiled at him, his grin going from ear to ear as he looked at Gorman expectantly. "You're right-nobody would."
Gorman blinked realization dawning as the words rattled around in his mildly inebriated head, then smirked. "I always knew there was a reason I liked you, Harren."
His friend chuckled, "Can't imagine why."
...
Chronicle of the Targaryen Dynasty in the Seven Kingdoms
Maester Willem
279 AC - Tenth day of First Moon
Princess Valia gives birth to a son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, on Dragonstone. The boy is born healthy and his birth-cries fill the cavernous halls of the Targaryen's ancestral home.
His eyes are heterochromatic, one lavender, one gold, akin to her mother and father. Shortly after the birth of his son, Prince Rhaegar collapses into a fit of fevers, with Princess Valia falling prey to them soon after.
There are fears that it is the same disease that has left Queen Rhaella and Lord Steffon Baratheon bedridden these past few months. King Aerys, not suffering from the disease himself, but greatly stressed over the fate of his wife, son, and cousin, declares that all people of King's Landing are to attend daily prayers held by Septons in the streets until his family is healed.
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