Post by The Stranger on Jul 28, 2008 17:21:50 GMT -5
'Twas a dark and stormy day. But, then, such days are all too common off the Iron Isles. It did nothing to faze the fleet then approaching Lordsport.
It was a strange sight for those in the town. Normally, a fleet returning before the war was done meant either defeat, or so much plunder that they needed to take an extra trip. But they did not move as ships weighed down by gold, and no news of defeat had reached Pyke.
It was made even more curious by the flag that flew from each ship, a flag not seen there for years.
The ships docked at the port hurriedly, and the men aboard went ashore. Most of them were not even Ironmen, but Riverlanders pressed into service. That was how it should be. The foreigners march, while those of salt and rock lead. That was how it had been once, and would be again.
Women and children gazed out windows as the army wound its way through the town, across the island to the castle. The men were gone, taken to the Green Lands to fight for their King. Shame he'd led them foolishly. Shame he wasn't their true king.
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Elsewhere, further West, that false king slept soundly in a keep once ruled by upjumped fish, made lords by the dragon who'd bested them. Outside his room, a minstrel stumbled through the hall, looking like he'd had one jug of wine too many.
The minstrel bumped into one of the guards outside, getting a grunt and a shove in return. The guard did not count on having his shoving arm dislocated by a drunken minstrel, but then, he wasn't really drunk. Within a few seconds, the two men that had been watching the door were broken and pacified, not a breath leaving either of them.
One of them carried the key to the door, and in crept the minstrel, seeking his quarry. The false king slept still, undisturbed by the commotion outside. His eyes did not open until the minstrel's hands tightened around his neck, and when they did open they looked ready to burst from his head.
"Evening, my lord," The minstrel whispered in the false king's ear, "Glad you could join me. No, don't try to fight me. How could you hope to break a kraken's grip? Give the Drowned God my regards, should you ever meet him. I doubt he gives much attention to usurpers and fools, however."
Mortimer Greyjoy kept talking for a little while, long after Dagon Harlaw stopped fighting. When the sun rose that morning, however, he was gone.
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Back on Pyke, the sun had set. The army had reached the castle, and had the doors opened for it. Young boys guarding it, for the most part, all the men having gone reaving. Those few that remained were quieted quickly, and replaced by loyal men.
It was not long before black and gold flew from the two highest towers, one a stag and one a kraken.
Below, the Riverlanders manned the walls while a ceremony took place. A Driftwood Crown, carried by a Drowned Man, was placed on the head of the King of Salt and Rock, and shouts of "Erik! Erik Greyjoy King!" could be heard echoing for miles around.
It was a strange sight for those in the town. Normally, a fleet returning before the war was done meant either defeat, or so much plunder that they needed to take an extra trip. But they did not move as ships weighed down by gold, and no news of defeat had reached Pyke.
It was made even more curious by the flag that flew from each ship, a flag not seen there for years.
The ships docked at the port hurriedly, and the men aboard went ashore. Most of them were not even Ironmen, but Riverlanders pressed into service. That was how it should be. The foreigners march, while those of salt and rock lead. That was how it had been once, and would be again.
Women and children gazed out windows as the army wound its way through the town, across the island to the castle. The men were gone, taken to the Green Lands to fight for their King. Shame he'd led them foolishly. Shame he wasn't their true king.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere, further West, that false king slept soundly in a keep once ruled by upjumped fish, made lords by the dragon who'd bested them. Outside his room, a minstrel stumbled through the hall, looking like he'd had one jug of wine too many.
The minstrel bumped into one of the guards outside, getting a grunt and a shove in return. The guard did not count on having his shoving arm dislocated by a drunken minstrel, but then, he wasn't really drunk. Within a few seconds, the two men that had been watching the door were broken and pacified, not a breath leaving either of them.
One of them carried the key to the door, and in crept the minstrel, seeking his quarry. The false king slept still, undisturbed by the commotion outside. His eyes did not open until the minstrel's hands tightened around his neck, and when they did open they looked ready to burst from his head.
"Evening, my lord," The minstrel whispered in the false king's ear, "Glad you could join me. No, don't try to fight me. How could you hope to break a kraken's grip? Give the Drowned God my regards, should you ever meet him. I doubt he gives much attention to usurpers and fools, however."
Mortimer Greyjoy kept talking for a little while, long after Dagon Harlaw stopped fighting. When the sun rose that morning, however, he was gone.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back on Pyke, the sun had set. The army had reached the castle, and had the doors opened for it. Young boys guarding it, for the most part, all the men having gone reaving. Those few that remained were quieted quickly, and replaced by loyal men.
It was not long before black and gold flew from the two highest towers, one a stag and one a kraken.
Below, the Riverlanders manned the walls while a ceremony took place. A Driftwood Crown, carried by a Drowned Man, was placed on the head of the King of Salt and Rock, and shouts of "Erik! Erik Greyjoy King!" could be heard echoing for miles around.