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10: Dragonborn Conqueror, The Kraken Lord
🕑 Added 2025-01-02 12:20:24 +0000 UTCFairmarket was a town that should have been a grand city. Nestled along the Blue Fork of the Trident, its position was ideal—perfect for bustling trade routes and a thriving marketplace. But the town never reached the heights it could have. The old River Kings had refused to grant it the charters that would have allowed it to expand and grow, as they had done for many would-be cities in the Riverlands.
Instead, Fairmarket remained humble, its cobbled streets winding between narrow stone buildings, and its market stalls alive with merchants, farmers, and traders—yet lacking the grandeur its location could have promised.
Despite its modest size, Fairmarket had carved out a place in history. It was here that King Harwyn ‘Hardhand’ Hoare defeated the Storm King, Arrec Durrandon, marking the conquest of the Kingdoms of the Rivers and Hills by the Ironborn. Since then, the town had gained prominence, as Harwyn used it for his mainland capital. His son, Halleck Hoare, ruled from a modest tower in the town—a far cry from the grandiose fortresses of other kingdoms. That same tower now housed Haldon Greyjoy, the governor appointed by King Harren Hoare to oversee the lands of the Freys, Blackwoods, and Mallisters.
Haldon stood at the window of the tower, his tall frame silhouetted against the light. He looked out over the busy streets of the town, watching as the people went about their day. His face was set in a mask of frustration. This was not where he wanted to be. Far from the salt-scented winds of his home, he found himself playing lord over landlubbers. The Ironborn did not belong on the mainland, surrounded by fields and rivers. They belonged on the sea, their longships cutting through waves, taking what they needed by force.
But his king had commanded it, and so he had to obey—and stay here to rot.
He had ruled over Fairmarket and the surrounding lands for years without much trouble. The town had accepted its lot under the Ironborn, begrudgingly paying its taxes and tributes. But those days were far behind him now.
Unrest simmered beneath the surface of Fairmarket, threatening to boil over. Harren’s demands had grown insatiable. His monstrous castle, Harrenhal, consumed resources and lives at an alarming rate. Stone, timber, and metal were not enough to meet his insidious vision; he demanded thralls—men and women to labor on his grand project until they dropped dead.
When the quotas for thralls weren’t met by the outlying lands this year, Haldon had no choice but to take from the town itself. Farmers, craftsmen, merchants—even the town’s children were not spared. He had been forced to increase taxes to impossible levels, and when the coin fell short, he sent his men to drag townsfolk from their homes to fill the king’s demands.
The people of Fairmarket endured, but barely. Anger and desperation were written across their faces as they moved through town. Those who dared speak too loudly against his rule often disappeared overnight, their absence marked only by the silence of their empty homes. It was something he had to do to keep them in line; otherwise, if they rebelled, Harren’s wrath would fall on him.
“My lord,” came a voice from behind him, pulling Haldon Greyjoy’s attention away from the window. He turned to see the man who had requested an audience with him—Septon Ryam, one of the most prominent figures in Fairmarket.
Though Haldon didn’t follow the Greenlanders’ faith, his father had taught him the value of using it to control the people.
“There is nothing I can do, Septon,” Haldon said curtly, his voice edged with irritation.
Ryam stepped forward, his face lined with worry, dark circles under his eyes making him look as though he had aged ten years since their last meeting. “But my lord,” Ryam began, his voice trembling, “the people… they are scared. Afraid. They fear for their families…”
Haldon’s jaw tightened. “I said there is nothing I can do,” he repeated more firmly, his tone final.
The septon’s hands clasped together as if in prayer. “Families are being torn apart. The new men you’ve brought in, my lord—they are too—”
“Septon,” Haldon interrupted sharply, his patience wearing thin. He fixed Ryam with a steely gaze. “Do you think I want to be here? Do you think I enjoy this? I would rather be plundering and raiding in Essos than ruling this town and keeping your Riverlords in line. But our king demands it, and I obey. As should you.”
Ryam opened his mouth to respond, but Haldon cut him off again. “Leave. Tell your flock to pray more. Perhaps if the gods are kind, our king will drop dead and free us all.”
The septon’s shoulders sagged, his expression one of quiet defeat.
Before Ryam could leave, the heavy oak doors creaked open, and Haldon’s steward entered, his face pale with urgency. “My lord,” he said quickly, “the king’s envoy is here.”
Haldon’s eyes widened, the words jolting him upright. “The envoy? Now?”
The steward nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Haldon waved a hand impatiently. “Leave us, Septon. We’re done here.”
Septon Ryam cast a glance toward the steward. He bowed briefly to Haldon and turned to leave, passing the approaching envoy as he exited the room.
The envoy strode in, his black-and-gold surcoat marking him as a representative of Harren Hoare. He gave Ryam a disdainful glance as they passed, his lip curling in visible disgust. Ryam hurried out, the door closing heavily behind him.
Haldon composed himself as the envoy approached. “Envoy Farwyd,” he greeted with strained politeness, his voice betraying none of the irritation bubbling beneath the surface.
Envoy Farwyd returned the greeting with a curt nod, his expression smug and self-assured. Haldon despised dealing with Harren’s envoys. They were always difficult—drunk on their own power as the bearers of the king’s words, their arrogance matched only by their ignorance of the struggles they left in their wake.
“Lord Greyjoy,” Farwyd said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I trust you’ve kept everything in order for the king’s pleasure.” His gaze flicked briefly to the door through which Septon Ryam had just departed. “Though I do wonder why you bother dealing with these Greenlander priests.”
Haldon forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “They help keep the peace.”
Farwyd smirked faintly, his eyes cold and calculating. “We have much to discuss,” he said, his tone making it clear there would be no pleasantries.
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After some time, Haldon found himself sitting on his modest throne, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands pressed against his brows.
“Your answer, my lord?” the envoy prompted. He stood in front of him.
Haldon’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening against his temples. “I have already told you,” he said, his voice hard and clipped. “I have the gold, the iron, and the other minerals the king has demanded. But the grain—it will be late this year.”
The envoy arched an eyebrow, his displeasure evident in the slight downturn of his lips. “The King will not be pleased to hear this.”
“I care not for the king’s pleasure or displeasure,” Haldon growled, his voice low and simmering with barely restrained contempt. The words surprised even him, though he found no reason to take them back. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing at the envoy. “Even I have come to pity these Greenlanders,” he muttered, the admission leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
The envoy shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsettled by Haldon’s growing agitation. “The King does not take well to excuses, my lord.”
Haldon’s lips curled into a snarl, his frustration bubbling over. “Then tell him that his lands have been drained dry by his own taxes, and if he wants his grain, he’ll have to wait.”
The envoy stiffened at the defiance, his expression tightening, though he kept his composure. “What of the thralls, my lord?” he asked after a moment, his voice softer but no less insistent.
Haldon’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the frustration finally boiling over. “I cannot give him more thralls!” he snapped, his voice rising in anger. “If I take more peasants from the fields, we won’t have enough men to plant for next year. And if we pull more from the mines, the iron shipments will slow. We’re stretched too thin as it is!”
The envoy regarded him with cold, calculating eyes, unflinching in the face of Haldon’s outburst. “His Grace will not care for these excuses, Lord Greyjoy,” he said icily. “You will find a way to meet his demands, or I fear the consequences will fall upon you.”
Haldon gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw twitching with barely restrained fury. He knew well enough what “consequences” from Harren meant, and none of them were pleasant.
The envoy gave a slight nod, his expression calm. He turned on his heel to leave, the weight of his threat lingering in the air. But before exiting, he paused at the door, casting a final glance over his shoulder. “Remember, Lord Greyjoy. His Grace’s patience is thin. Deliver what is due, or you will answer to him personally.”
The heavy wooden door creaked shut behind the envoy, the sound echoing in the now-silent chamber. Haldon was left alone, the weight of Harren’s demands bearing down on him. For a moment, he stared at the closed door, his chest rising and falling with the force of his suppressed rage.
Then, with a growl of frustration, he slammed his fist onto the armrest of his throne. The impact echoed through the room, but it did little to alleviate his anger. “Damn Harren and his fucking castle,” Haldon muttered under his breath, his voice thick with disdain.
He stood and began pacing, his mind a flurry of thoughts. His boots scuffed against the stone floor, the rhythmic sound doing little to quiet the storm within him. His eldest son, Rodrick, came to mind—a constant source of frustration. Rodrick had been sent to the Blackwood Vale to oversee the collection of taxes and the capture of thralls as punishment, a lesson in responsibility and consequence.
‘The boy has much to learn if he’s ever to succeed me,’ Haldon mused bitterly. The decision to send Rodrick had not been easy. It had meant breaking his longstanding agreement with Lord Blackwood, one that had kept relative peace in the region. But what choice did he have? Harren’s demands were absolute, and refusal meant ruin.
‘Harren will have his due, no matter the cost,’ he thought grimly.
The door creaked open, interrupting his brooding. Haldon turned, his gaze meeting that of his second-born son, Vikon. Taller than his older brother, Vikon had the same piercing blue eyes as Haldon, but with a sharper, more calculating edge. Where Rodrick was brash and impulsive, Vikon was measured and shrewd.
“Father,” Vikon said, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity. “I saw King Harren’s envoy leaving. He did not look happy.”
Haldon didn’t answer immediately, his mind still churning. Vikon, unperturbed, stepped farther into the room. “I think it’s time we accepted Prince Aeron’s offer.”
Haldon stopped pacing, turning to fully face his son. The mention of Prince Aeron drew his attention.
King Harren had four sons, each as distinct as they were dangerous. Dagon, the eldest, shared his father’s ambitions but lacked his cunning. Dagon was headstrong and arrogant, a man whose recklessness would lead the Ironborn to ruin faster than Harren ever could. For a time, Haldon and a group of disillusioned lords had considered Dagon as a potential replacement for Harren, believing an outright rebellion or assassination might pave the way for change. But the more they learned of Dagon, the clearer it became that his rule would be no different—perhaps even worse.
The third son, Wex, was infamous for his sadism. He was Harren’s enforcer, overseeing the Ironborn fleets patrolling the Trident’s waterways and ensuring tribute was collected by any means necessary. Wex’s cruelty knew no bounds. While loyal to his father, he was despised by almost everyone else, making him an unsuitable candidate.
The youngest, Harren the Younger, was a mysterious figure. Rumors swirled about his interest in sorcery and the dark arts, but little else was known about him. His isolation and secretive nature made him a complete non-option.
But Aeron, the second son, was different. The ‘Silver Tongue,’ as he was called, was a rarity among the Ironborn—level-headed, pragmatic, and much like his grandfather, King Halleck. He had earned the respect of even the Riverlords, a feat unheard of for an Ironborn prince. Aeron represented a chance at stability, keeping King Harwyn “Hardhand’s” dream of the Kingdoms of the Isles and Rivers alive.
Haldon stared at Vikon. “Harlaw has been getting close to Dagon,” he said, breaking the silence. “Filling his head with poison against Prince Aeron.”
Vikon chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “All true, Father. Our dear prince is indeed plotting against his own father and brother.”
Haldon shot his son a stern look, his tone hardening. “Don’t jest about this, Vikon. And don’t speak of it again. If Wex catches wind of such talk…” He trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging heavily in the air.
Vikon’s expression changed instantly, his amusement replaced by a flicker of fear. Wex was a man who thrived on chaos and violence, a dangerous adversary to provoke.
Haldon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as his frustration mounted. “Rodrick,” he muttered, shifting the conversation. “Your brother was supposed to send thralls and grain from the northern Blackwood lands. It’s late, and the king’s patience is wearing thin.”
Vikon’s lips curled into a half-smirk, his eyes glinting with a mocking light. “I told you, Father. This punishment you gave him would only come back to bite you on your arse. Rodrick is a fool, unfit for command.”
Haldon’s temper flared, his voice booming as he slammed his fist against the wall. “Rodrick is my heir!” he bellowed. “Your older brother! My firstborn!”
Vikon’s smirk vanished, his expression darkening as anger flared in his own eyes. “And where is he, Father?” he spat, his tone sharp and cutting. “He’s probably already sailing to Essos, raiding and plundering like he always wanted.”
Haldon clenched his jaw. Vikon’s words stung because they held a kernel of truth. Rodrick’s impulsiveness and recklessness had always been a problem, and the boy had shown little interest in the responsibilities of leadership.
“Enough,” Haldon growled, his voice thick with frustration.
Vikon did not speak. He didn’t press the matter further, but his silence spoke volumes. The tension between them simmered as Haldon walked closer, towering over his son.
“And don’t let Prince Aeron’s plots inspire you, my boy,” Haldon warned, his voice low and dangerous. “You are my second son, Vikon. Remember your place.”
Vikon said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. His glare remained fixed on Haldon.
Haldon sat back on his throne. “I want you to sail up to the Sevenstreams. That is where Rodrick said he was going. Search for your brother. If Rodrick is there, bring him back—alive.”
“And if he’s not there?” Vikon asked, his voice tinged with frustration.
Haldon’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “Then find him!” he snapped, his voice rising. His fists clenched on the armrests of his throne, knuckles white. “Wherever he is—Essos or the other side of the world. I don’t care. I want him back here. Do you understand me?”
“And while you’re at it,” Haldon continued, his tone sharp and commanding, “we need thralls to send to Harren. Take whatever men you need. Raid along the river and bring back as many as you can. I don’t care anymore… We’ll deal with the consequences afterward.”
Vikon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening. “Very well, Father,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. He nodded curtly, and without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
The heavy wooden door closed behind Vikon with a muted thud, leaving Haldon alone in the dimly lit chamber. He stared at the closed door for a long moment, his mind racing. His knuckles remained white as he gripped the throne’s armrests, the tension refusing to dissipate.
“Damn that boy,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples as the pressure of his responsibilities bore down on him.
