"A sword is a modest payment for a life."
— Jeor Mormont.
…
Year 289 AC.
The Iron Islands. Pyke, the Greyjoy castle.
"My King, the south tower has fallen! The catapults brought it down!" The heavy doors of the throne room burst open, and a disheveled man rushed in.
He was not a pleasant sight. His chainmail, torn in a couple of places, was soaked in blood, and gray dust covered his wet, matted hair. His beard resembled rotting seaweed washed ashore.
"What?! May the Storm God plague them! What of the defenders!?" The man sitting in the chair rose in shock.
Balon Greyjoy was nearing fifty, yet he was still robust and healthy. His calloused, corded hands clenched into fists. A vein bulged on his forehead, and his steel-colored eyes fiercely demanded an answer from the warrior.
"Your son, Maron, he was there... He was buried by the stones along with most of the defenders," the wounded Ironborn swallowed and replied.
"We should gather the remaining sons of stone and salt and slaughter all these green-blooded sheep!" Aeron Greyjoy bellowed sharply, his nostrils flaring menacingly.
"Be silent, brother. We have but a handful of warriors left. Without the walls of Pyke, we are doomed," Balon forced out, sinking back onto the throne.
This was the end. He had miscalculated. He thought that lords and knights would not follow Baratheon as readily as they had the Targaryens. He thought the Crown was weak, and this was his chance... but no. The Iron Fleet was smashed, his army almost destroyed, and both his elder sons were dead.
No! He would not let his Great House be destroyed so easily! His hands clenched again, and his heart fluttered in his chest. He would surrender Pyke. He would accept all the blame himself. But his daughter and son would live... the green lands would yet see ships bearing the kraken banner off their shores!
"Command the men to lay down their weapons. Pyke surrenders to the mercy of the victor." Balon gave the order, his heart heavy.
"My King!" Dagon Wynch, the eldest son of the Lord of Iron Holt, tried to protest.
"Silence! I am the King here, not you. And you will all do as I say!" Balon unleashed his rage upon his subordinate.
"It shall be done." Wincing from the pain in his shoulder, the messenger turned and staggered out.
And in half an hour, a completely different king was seated in the throne room of Pyke.
"Hah-hah-hah! Didn't that bastard fly when my hammer split his skull, eh, Ned?" Robert Baratheon was in high spirits.
His hands had once again felt the weight of his warhammer! He thrilled to the scent of blood and the clang of steel that echoed across the field! After five years of peace, he had once again donned his antlered helm and, shoulder-to-shoulder with his old friend, had crushed his enemies!
"I think we should decide the fate of the rebels first, and then celebrate," Ned Stark replied with his usual slight detachment.
Their duo was quite colorful.
There was the broad-shouldered, muscular warrior, whom many ladies looked upon with admiration. Fearsome and furious in anger, yet good-natured the rest of the time. Especially when he'd had some wine and groped another serving girl. Given Baratheon's lifestyle... the King was cheerful and good-natured almost always.
And Ned Stark. Almost always serious and focused, an exceptional model of honesty and decency. His lean, sinewy physique and impressive height made the Warden of the North resemble the direwolf depicted on the sigil of the Lords of Winterfell.
In short, these two were as fated to friendship as a wolf and a stag. But they had managed it nonetheless, and their brotherly bond was as strong as steel.
"Alright, Ned, fine. Have that scoundrel brought in. Else you'll nag me bald with your moralizing." The King of the Seven Kingdoms waved his hand.
Soon, Balon Greyjoy, bound in chains, was led into the hall, which was filled with knights and aristocrats. Behind him, with hands tied, stood his brothers and daughter. His wife and youngest son, clinging to his mother in fright, had their hands free.
"Balon Greyjoy, the cursed rebel," the ruler of Westeros greeted the Lord of Pyke in his own distinctive way.
"Robert Baratheon, the blessed rebel," the Ironborn replied, raising his head proudly with a wry grin.
Silence descended upon the hall. Scattered indignant cries began here and there, but they were all cut short by the King's booming laughter.
"You have spirit, kraken. Why did you rise against me?" The brunette asked, stroking the handle of the hammer placed near the throne, once his laughter subsided.
"I am no rebel. No Greyjoy ever swore fealty to a Baratheon," the Lord of Pyke cut him off, frowning and staring stubbornly into Baratheon's eyes.
"Your Grace, I do not think this conversation is appropriate at all. The Ironborn attacked Lannisport and burned it to the ground, violating the King's Peace. These pirates dared to attack those who are the pillars of the throne. My daughter is your wife; the Lannisters lend the Crown hundreds of thousands of gold dragons. This is already enough to hang these brigands," Tywin Lannister intervened in the discussion.
The Warden of the West knew his son-in-law too well and was perfectly aware of his fondness for brave men and his merciful nature. He could not permit even the slightest chance that...
"I am the King here, and I decide what must be done! Not you, Tywin, but me!" The King's menacing roar interrupted the thoughts of one of the most powerful men in Westeros.
"Greyjoy! Kneel and acknowledge me as your King, or the block awaits you!" Robert stood up and took a step forward.
After standing for a few moments, the Lord of Pyke knelt. And while Balon spoke the words of his oath, Tywin could only look at his son-in-law's back with fury. Nothing was over yet, the Lannisters always paid their debts... For the insult to his House, he would repay these pirates threefold, sooner or later.
"But my goodfather has a point; punishment is still necessary," Baratheon admitted, accepting Greyjoy's oath. "Your son. He shall be fostered by my best friend at Winterfell. Ned is a good man and an excellent warrior; the heir of Pyke will grow up to be the same." The monarch made his decision.
"But I have no sons left save Theon. This is unacceptable." Balon's jaw muscles bunched.
"You swore an oath! And you will do as I command, or your head will be smashed by my hammer." Robert frowned threateningly, his face flushing.
"As you command, my King," Greyjoy hissed angrily.
Glancing at his youngest son, who was barely ten years old, Balon frowned, watching him cling to his mother, whimpering with fear. Then the ruler of the Iron Islands turned his gaze to his daughter. Asha. The fourteen-year-old girl's trousers and shirt were stained with blood, and a bruise showed beneath her cheekbone. She had taken part in the battle and had even managed to kill half a dozen warriors. Hah. Perhaps the King wasn't taking his heir after all...
…
Year 289 AC.
The Jade Sea. Aboard the Sea Panther.
"Islands to starboard!" The cry drifted down from the crow's nest where the lookout sat.
"How many are there!?" I asked the sailor, filled with hope.
We were almost there. After visiting New Ghis and Vahar, we were moving slowly along the coast of Sothoryos. The heat was dreadful, and a light breeze carried the scent of jungles from the mainland.
"Three! They look like the shape you showed us, Tribune!" came the answer, which pleased me immensely.
And after a while, I was ready to dance with delight. Three islands were visible just a few kilometers away from us; we could even make out the blackening structures in the distance.
"It seems our journey is nearing its end," Zirarro, standing to my right, leaning on the ship's rail, said with a tight smile.
"And now, when our goal is within arm's reach, perhaps you can finally tell me what this mysterious place is?" Alequo Olko asked with a kind of childish excitement, eagerly examining each island. "Those are the ruins of some large buildings, built of black stone like the inner wall in Volantis! Have we found the residence of one of the Dragonlords?"
"Unfortunately, you will never know that, Captain."
"But why, Viserys? Do you not trust me because I am not part of the Burning Legion, and you won't allow me to go ashore?" The Braavosi man was clearly confused, shifting his bewildered gaze from me to Zirarro.
"Not exactly. I don't trust you because of the papers stored in your captain's cabin. You shouldn't have been lured by the eunuch's gold," I replied dryly.
The fire of realization was just igniting in Alequo's eyes when a narrow dagger plunged into his chest. A pair of Praetorians standing behind him quickly bound the captain's hands, and a third bodyguard deftly slit the seafarer's throat.
"Where to put him, Tribune?" a muffled voice asked from beneath a mask.
"Overboard." I shrugged indifferently and began wiping the dagger with a rag. There was a splash, and soon nothing remained of the recent incident except a small puddle of blood on the deck.
"Would he have died anyway?" Zirarro broke the silence.
"He was needed to bring the ship to the Jade Sea. You're a decent captain yourself, but you've never sailed here. Now, having learned all the intricacies as his first mate, you'll be able to bring us back yourself. As for his death... perhaps if he hadn't been working for Varys, Alequo might have survived. He could have stayed at my estate for a couple of years, and that would have been it. But it turned out the way it did." I sighed and replied.
I even felt a little sorry for the seafarer. He was a brave and decisive man, and very pleasant to talk to due to his erudition. But giving Varys even a grain of knowledge about what is on this small archipelago is absolutely impossible. As for the sailors and legionaries, I already had a solution ready—not as radical as with Alequo.
"Will we even be able to sail up to those ruins?" Zirarro raised an eyebrow doubtfully, pointing to several almost rotten ship hulls resting on the reefs and rocks.
Apparently, someone else had sailed this far from the trade routes before us, encountering these islands. But our risky predecessors were clearly unlucky.
"Don't worry, Zirarro. I know a safe path." We only docked near the island closer to evening. The safe path shown to me in a dream was narrow; only a small boat could squeeze through. So the ship had to be anchored. Three longboats were lowered into the water; I was in the first, pointing the way. My Ghiscari captain sailed with me. The Centurion, however, had to stay aboard the Sea Panther, to maintain order on the vessel.
The first island we landed on was small and rocky. The only vegetation present was rare bushes and yellowish tufts of grass. The pier was made of ordinary gray stone. But we did not leave the boats in the water and dragged them onto the shingle beach.
"That tower looks like some kind of lighthouse," one of the legionaries remarked, craning his neck. The structure was imposing. About six stories of black stone with a crenelated roof, upon which sat dark gargoyles, wyverns, and other mystical grotesques.
"Pitch the tents and light fires. We will begin exploring the archipelago in the morning." After giving the orders, I took a couple of sips of wine from my waterskin.
As much as I wanted to rush right now to look for the treasures and secrets of this place, I needed to let the men rest. Rowing for several hours straight is not easy. Plus, it was already dark, which would make the search, to put it mildly, difficult. I definitely didn't need to break my neck in a fit of impatience and curiosity.
In the morning, after a hearty breakfast, we explored the lighthouse. The wooden door, rotted by time, was easily kicked in, and we entered.
Torches provided our light; not all rooms had narrow loopholes through which the sunlight could penetrate. On the first floor, we found nothing useful. The rooms were cluttered with various debris that had not yet turned to dust. The scene did not change much on any of the subsequent floors. Mess halls, storerooms, and barracks. Sometimes we came across toilets. At least, that is how one of the legionaries, who had previously served in a castle garrison, characterized these rooms. It seemed this structure was not only a lighthouse but also housed a small garrison.
On the top floor was the place where the signal fire was lit. And next to it stood a stone bench on which we found human remains. The skeleton was seated, leaning against a column behind it that supported the roof. The empty eye sockets were fixed on the horizon. Rust-pitted armor covered the bones in places, and the decayed, purple-hued cloak was riddled with holes. The hands rested on the guard of a greatsword, its point buried a good inch into the stone floor. As an inspection revealed, the blade had been thrust into a crack between the stonework.
"It looks like this man was the last survivor in this lighthouse," the Ghiscari remarked thoughtfully, scratching his growing stubble.
"Where is everyone else, then?" one of the warriors asked.
"Most likely buried nearby with their weapons. Books on Valyria write that warriors were buried with all their equipment, unless it was a family relic. It is rumored that some great commanders were laid in the ground along with weapons made of Valyrian steel," I replied, examining the crest on the cloak with interest. It depicted a dragon's muzzle, embroidered with silver threads.
"Just think of how much money went into the ground," a man from the rear ranks whistled. We decided to bury the remains, interring them in the thicket of bushes nearby. Nothing else of interest was found in the lighthouse, so I decided to follow the bridge to the next island.
The local equivalent of the Dragonpit commanded respect. Resembling a coliseum, but roofed, it was enormous. Inside, the sounds of our footsteps echoed through the chambers where dragons were once kept. But as it turned out later, they kept more than just fire-breathing lizards here...
"Oh gods..." Zirarro whispered quietly, looking around the enormous room. Along the walls, right up to the ceiling, were cells with rust-covered bars. And in these cells, human remains could be seen. Not in all of them, but even those that were present were striking. Hundreds of skeletons, frozen in various poses and staring at you with empty sockets. A grim sight.
"Was this a massive dungeon?" one of the officers inquired, recovering from the shock.
"Unlikely. Why would one of the Forty Noble Houses of Valyria maintain a dungeon in such a remote location?" I shook my head and proceeded toward the double doors leading to the next room.
"Just as I thought." I quietly chuckled to myself, examining the hall with several iron tables.
"There are all sorts of saws, knives, needles, and vials lying everywhere. Is this a torture chamber? But why is it so large?" The Ghiscari looked around in confusion.
"There are several such rooms here," a decurion reported, peering into three doorways nearby.
"No. I have read about places like this in the works of Maesters. This is one of the Flesh Pits. That was the name given to the large laboratories where the Valyrians experimented with magic. Including on people, animals, and even dragons, if they were born deformed. One theory about the origin of dragons suggests they were bred by crossing wyverns and firewyrms precisely in Pits like this. But that is unlikely. There is much evidence that dragons existed even before the rise of the Freehold." I examined one of the knives, which resembled a scalpel, placed it back on the iron tray, and walked toward the exit.
"So we'll just leave everything as it is?" Zirarro caught up with me on the way out.
"If you mean the skeletons, there are hundreds, perhaps even thousands, here. We simply cannot bury them all. As for all the tools... I do not need them. And space on the galley is limited; I don't want to fill it with things of little value. Decurions Wold and Firar, search every corner here with your men. I am primarily interested in books and scrolls." I gave the order.
I didn't think paper or parchment could have survived for centuries, but in my dream, I saw the treasury of the Dragonlord's citadel, and there were shelves packed with scrolls and books. Most likely, some kind of magic is involved here, so perhaps this laboratory has something similar.
"Understood, Tribune." Thumping their fists on their chests, they both went to give orders to their fighters.
"Well, as for us, we shall visit the most intriguing place on this archipelago." I smiled, envisioning the treasures hidden within the residence of the ancient Valyrian House.
After wandering for a while through overgrown gardens of olives, date palms, and fig trees, we reached the castle walls. Bypassing the ten-meter-high fortifications was no problem, as the gate was wide open. Inside the walls, we were met by smooth cobblestone roads and white stone houses. And at the center of this architectural ensemble stood a fifteen-story tower, with a place for a dragon at its summit.
"Hear my command. The legionaries must thoroughly search all the houses. Anything found is to be brought to the entrance of the tower and carefully stacked under the supervision of Zirarro. If I learn that anyone has concealed anything, I will cut off their hand. Each of you will receive a share of the spoils and a decent bonus." I gave the instructions and strode directly toward the Dragonlord's dwelling. A dozen Praetorians followed me.
The treasures of Old Valyria were very close now...
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