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13: Dragonborn Conqueror, The Spares pt.2
🕑 Added 2025-02-18 08:22:34 +0000 UTC“Nothing?” Vikon asked, his voice laced with irritation.
Keig, his first captain, shook his head. “No, my lord.”
Vikon’s jaw tightened. “And the men who brought the thralls? The ones who claim to have captured them under my brother’s orders—what do they say?”
Keig hesitated slightly before speaking. “They say Lord Rodrick resides at Honeytree Castle. I’ve already sent men there, but they have yet to report back.”
Vikon hummed in thought, a smirk creeping onto his face. “And what do these men say when you questioned them?”
Keig continued, “They claim Lord Rodrick was displeased, that he was planning to abandon his post and return to the Isles.”
Vikon scoffed. “That sounds like my idiot brother.” He leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders. “If he’s truly left… then he’s finished. No matter what he does, Father will never forgive him.”
He stood from the throne, stretching as Keig quickly rose and followed. “How many thralls do we have now?”
“Enough to fill the quota your father set,” Keig answered promptly.
“Good. I want to inspect the ones my brother sent over.”
Vikon strode through the halls of Greyholt, Keig following closely behind. The cold stone corridors were alive with the sounds of Ironborn men drinking, laughing, and sharpening their weapons. The reek of ale, sweat, and salt filled the air, and servants scurried past, careful to avoid eye contact with their overlords.
Vikon’s boots echoed as he walked, nodding to a few captains who saluted him in passing. He reached the courtyard, where his horse awaited him. Swinging onto the saddle, he urged the horse forward. Keig mounted his own steed, and with a sharp kick, they galloped out of Greyholt’s gates, heading toward the port where the holding pens stood.
They rode down the winding path from Greyholt’s fort, the horses’ hooves kicking up dust as they descended the rugged hillside toward the port. The air grew thick with the scent of brine and rotting fish, and the sound of the flowing Blue Fork reached Vikon’s ears. Sailing these rivers is nothing compared to the sea, he thought, like every Ironborn, I miss the salt water.
Vikon briefly considered Prince Aeron’s impending arrival. There was a war on the horizon. Even though his father tried to avoid it, Vikon did not. He had no illusions about his father’s weakness—Haldon Greyjoy hesitated where he should act, clung to neutrality where he should wield power. But Vikon was not his father. He had already made his choice in the coming struggle between Crown Prince Dagon and the younger, sharper-minded Aeron. Today, he would prove his loyalty.
“All must be prepared for the prince’s arrival,” Vikon said as he rode alongside Keig.
Keig grunted in acknowledgment. “Aye, my lord. The feast will be ready, the mead will flow.” He smirked. “Though the whores have yet to arrive. Perhaps we could arrange for some of the fort’s serving girls to warm the prince’s bed.”
Vikon scoffed, barely sparing Keig a glance. “Those ugly creatures? By the Drowned God, it would be an insult.”
Keig chuckled. “Then perhaps among the thralls, my lord. Some of the last batch had real beauties—smooth-skinned, soft-voiced, still untouched.”
Vikon hummed in thought, his lips curling into a smirk. “Now that… that might do.”
As they neared the port, Vikon’s mood soured at the sight before him. Ironborn guards—men supposed to be keeping order—lounged lazily near the piers, some drinking, others gambling, while a few barely kept upright in their drunken stupor. One sat on a barrel, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, while another leaned against a crate, laughing with a whore perched on his lap.
“Look at those fuckers,” Vikon growled, his teeth clenched in irritation.
Keig’s eyes narrowed at the disgraceful display. “I’ll deal with them, my lord.”
Vikon dismounted, his jaw tight. He had no patience for slackers—not today, not when the prince was coming.
He strode forward, his boots crunching against the damp, uneven ground as Keig stormed toward the lounging guards, his voice cracking like a whip.
“You worthless shits!” Keig roared. “You think you can drink and whore while the prince himself is on his way? Get off your arses and act like Ironborn, not dockside beggars!”
The guards scrambled, knocking over bottles and dice as they hastily straightened themselves, bowing their heads in shame. Keig’s hand lashed out, striking one across the face. The man stumbled back but did not dare raise a hand in response.
Vikon ignored the spectacle, his mind set elsewhere as he walked past the thrall enclosures, his sharp gaze sweeping over the huddled villagers. The stench of sweat, fear, and unwashed bodies filled the air. Some captives kept their heads down, refusing to meet his eyes. Others stared back with open hatred, their spirits not yet broken.
Vikon did not mind thralls—it was the right of the Ironborn to take what was theirs. But even he could see that the rate at which Harren gathered captives was unsustainable. Too many villages burned, too many fields left barren, too many men and women worked to death.
It would not last.
Not under Harren.
But when Aeron took the throne—when he, along with Drumm and the other enlightened captains, steered the Ironborn in a new direction—things would change. They would no longer be seen as savage pirates but as rulers of a thriving kingdom.
Vikon stopped abruptly, his thoughts scattering as his gaze landed on her.
A girl.
Even through the grime and the tattered remains of her dress, her beauty was unmistakable. Soft auburn hair matted with dirt, high cheekbones, and deep, fearful eyes.
She will do, Vikon thought. A fine gift for the prince.
He gestured with a lazy flick of his fingers. “That one. Bring her out.”
The guards obeyed, opening the enclosure and yanking the girl up. She let out a startled cry, struggling against their grip. Around her, the other captives stirred—some reaching for her, others murmuring in protest.
One man lunged forward, his chains rattling as he tried to shield the girl. “No! Please—Maise, no—”
A guard struck him hard across the face with the butt of his spear. The sickening crack of bone echoed in the air as the man crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain.
“Stop that,” Vikon snapped, his voice laced with irritation. “They are to be presented in perfect condition. They are not to be damaged.”
The guards quickly straightened, muttering apologies as they tightened their grip on the girl.
Vikon stepped forward, his gloved hand reaching out to lift the girl’s chin. Her lips quivered, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice almost gentle.
The girl swallowed hard. “M-Maise,” she stuttered.
“Maise,” Vikon repeated, rolling the name over his tongue. “A pretty name.”
He turned to the guards, his decision made. “Take her to the fort. Have the servants bathe her and clothe her properly. She is to be given to the prince.”
Maise’s eyes widened in horror. “No—please—”
Her plea was cut short as the guards dragged her away, her feet stumbling against the dirt. She twisted, trying to fight, but their grip was ironclad.
Vikon watched impassively as she disappeared through the thrall’s gate leading up toward the fort.
Prince Aeron would be pleased.
===
Vikon walked out of the enclosure, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. The thralls were secured, the preparations in place. Everything was proceeding as planned. He was already picturing Aeron’s approval—the favor he would gain—when the sound of hurried footsteps disrupted his thoughts.
Keig was sprinting toward him, breath coming in sharp gasps. “My lord—my lord, the prince! He is here!”
Vikon’s eyes widened. “Already?” He cursed under his breath. “He’s early.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the private docks. Everything needed to be perfect. He wove through the bustling port, past dockhands and thrall-masters, past the Ironborn warriors who now stood at attention, having abandoned their lounging and drinking at Keig’s earlier command.
The private docks came into view, and there, disembarking from a sleek longship bearing the sigil of House Hoare, was Prince Aeron.
Aeron Hoare cut a striking figure—tall, lean, his long black hair tied back neatly, a sharp contrast to the wild manes of many Ironborn lords. His beard was well-trimmed, his armor well-crafted but practical rather than ostentatious. His keen blue eyes swept the docks with quiet calculation before landing on Vikon.
Beside the prince stood another man—Qarl Drumm, heir to House Drumm.
As Vikon approached, he bowed swiftly. “My prince.”
Aeron smiled as he stepped forward and grasped Vikon’s shoulders. “No need for that, my friend.” His voice was warm, almost amused. “I arrived a bit early—hope that didn’t trouble you.”
Vikon straightened, forcing down his irritation at the surprise arrival. “Not at all, my prince. I have prepared the finest Greyjoy hospitality for you.”
Aeron chuckled. “Call me Aeron, Vikon. We talked about this.”
“As you wish… Aeron,” Vikon said, nodding.
The prince glanced toward the looming fortress of Greyholt and exhaled. “Shall we? I’d like to see what my father’s most ‘loyal’ lords have been up to.”
“Have they arrived yet?” Aeron asked.
“No, no. Like you said, my prince, you’re early,” Vikon replied.
Vikon then gestured toward the path leading up to the keep. “After you, my prince.”
“So, how have you been, Vikon?” Aeron asked as they walked.
“My brother has disappeared, and my father is not happy.”
Aeron gave a dry chuckle. “Ah, that makes things easier for you then. Rodrick is much like my brother Dagon—he would only bring ruin to us all.”
“I could not agree more, my prince,” Vikon said.
As they made their way through the port, they passed by the thrall enclosure. Aeron’s expression darkened as he looked at the captives—men, women, and even children huddled together. His lips curled in distaste.
“This is unsustainable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “At this rate, we won’t have any greenlanders left to rule over.”
Vikon remained silent, knowing better than to speak until he was sure of Aeron’s mood.
The prince continued, his voice laced with bitter amusement. “And my father—he plans to add more keeps to Harrenhal. Can you believe that? He wants it even bigger—he damns us all.”
Vikon frowned. “That… doesn’t seem possible.”
Qarl Drumm snorted. “Believe it, Greyjoy. The king”—he lowered his voice to a near whisper—“has gone mad.”
Aeron gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Dagon and Wex enable him, of course. My elder brother is as blind as he is arrogant, and Wex? That monster enjoys it. They’ll undo everything our great-grandsire built.”
Vikon glanced at Aeron. “Are there any other lords, other than those who have accepted, willing to stand with us?”
Aeron turned to him, his expression unreadable. “That is the question I need answered. And your father—”
BOOM!
A thunderous explosion ripped through the air, the shockwave rolling over them like a crashing wave. The ground beneath them trembled.
All of them reeled back, hands flying to their ears to shield themselves from the deafening sound.
“What was that?!” Qarl yelled, his voice barely audible over the ringing in their ears.
Vikon’s heart pounded in his chest, his body frozen for a split second as his mind scrambled to process what had just happened. He turned sharply toward the source of the blast—his blood ran cold.
The front of Greyholt’s fortress was wreathed in smoke and dust.
Aeron spat out a curse. “Well, we can’t just stand here! Come on, let’s find out what the hell is happening!”
Without hesitation, they sprinted for their horses. The men around them scrambled to do the same, urgency gripping every one of them as they mounted and rode hard for the fortress.
