Game of Thrones: Winter's Fire

Dagon

Qarth, the so called greatest city that was and ever will be was a smoking ruin. It had been ripe for the taking, and so the Ironborn under Quellon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke, had sailed across the sea to the underside of Essos, and they had with the permission of Dagon's cousin Daeron Stark, sacked the city. The conflict had been relatively bloody, a story for the ages, many men had made their names during the fighting and the sack, and many salt wives had been taken, conquest and legends had been made during the sack. But all was not as it seemed, Qarth had fought back hard, and the losses of the Ironborn had been many fold more than what they had expected, Dagon's father Quellon had been slain during the fighting, that the city had been ripe for the taking could not be denied, but that the Qartheens were unprepared was a lie, a lie that the maester at Pyke had forgotten to tell Dagon's father, and it was a like that would make the maester wish he had not been born.

Qarth's vast wealth was something that could be put to good use to help improve the kingdom of winter, and it would also help refill the coffers of the Ironborn which had been depleting over the years, what with their traditional practices of reaving having been outlawed since the time of Aegon the Dragon. Dagon's father had put these reasons forward, and even though at the time they began their invasion of Qarth he was eight and fifty, Quellon Greyjoy still deigned to lead the Ironborn into their invasion of Qarth. But of course Dagon had come to expect nothing less from his father. Ever since he had been old enough to understand, Dagon had grown up hearing the tales of how his father had always led from the front, whenever he had been given a mission to do by the King, be it the raiding of Dorne during the reign of the Conquest of Dorne. Dagon knew for a fact that, Dorne still trembled at the mere mention of his father's name, that his father was one of the most feared men and his ship The Royal Kraken, was one of the most feared ships in existence.

Dagon Greyjoy had grown up hearing the stories of his father's conquests, had grown up in his father's rather large and impressive shadow. His father, who was hailed as the greatest Lord Reaper of Pyke, since the Seven Kingdoms had become one, who was seen as the trusted man of the seas for both the Young Dragon and the Winter Dragon, Quellon Greyjoy was a hard man from a hard land, who dealt not with cravens and weaklings but with harsh words and harsher fists. Dagon could still remember sailing with his father during the Blackfyre rebellion, could still remember seeing his father in the thick of the action as they made Lannisport burn, as they put the Golden Lions into the shitter, as they destroyed the falseborn's hold on the West. He had seen the way his father had held the respect of his captains and crew, how he had never shied away from doing anything that would get his hands dirty, he had seen just how fierce a fighter his father truly was, and how skilled a leader his father was as well. It was something that Dagon had desperately tried to emulate as a child growing up, and something that he now needed to continue, if his next plans for the Ironborn were to be successful.

As Dagon watched the ships sail on the sea, he remembered a long ago conversation that he had had with his father once, after the battle of Lannisport. He had thought himself a true man then, having won much glory for himself, killing Damon Lannister's eldest son- Tytos- having fought against some of the best men in the West and in Westeros, and having matched them blow for blow. He had been high of off the battle, but then when he had come down he had the most horrible nightmares, the visions of Lannisport burning, of women and children, of grown men screaming and crying out for their loved ones who were more than likely, had haunted him, had made sleep nigh on impossible. His father had sat down with him, and had told him one thing and one thing only, "Never let the battle get to you son, fight as fiercely as I know you can, but never let the battle get to you. Otherwise you will never be free from demons." It was only one simple piece of advice but it was something that Dagon had kept close to his person in all the years since then.

It was that one piece of advice that had allowed Dagon to keep on fighting through the carnage that had been the conquest of the Summer Islands, which had once again been done to help supplement the Kingdom of Winter that conquest had occurred some two years ago now. Fierce fighting and much bloodshed had occurred and yet whilst others swept their sorrows under the rug with drink and women, Dagon watched his father fight through all the pain and horror and sorrow that such fighting brought about, and watched him continue to lead his men as if nothing else was going on. Dagon had often heard it said that his father was like an incarnation of the Drowned God fierce and proud, and that had never seemed more true than when he had watched his father fight during the taking of Qarth. Many men half his age had come up against him and all had been sent to the Drowned God's watery halls, all were dead and his father had moved onto the next opponent.

Still though Qarth had fallen to them, they had sustained many more casualties than they had been expecting including Quellon Greyjoy- who died like a true warrior- one of the many prisoners that Dagon had captured after the fighting had been done and the last of the merchant princes had been slain, had spoken of the plot to draw the Ironborn away from the mainland, so that a rebellion could be launched in the north by Horras Bolton- a slippery fellow if there ever was one- and Dagon had raged and raged when he had heard this. Their maester was a spy for that kingslaying abomination and had led them down a false root, giving them instruction as to where and how to take Qarth, but giving it in such a way that it had taken them much longer to arrive at the god damn city, than it should have done. Therefore giving the people of Qarth time to prepare for a long and drawn out fight, which of course cost both sides many lives, all so that that one eyed abomination could reap havoc in the north. Oh Dagon was angry alright, and he would have his revenge, but first he had had to think of his mother and his wife and family back home.

Due to his father's marriage to his mother Jeyne, Dagon was King Daeron Stark's cousin, and as such his loyalty would always be to Winterfell, as would his children's considering that he was married to his cousin- Daeron's sister- Velena. He had written to Pyke after his father's death and passing to inform his mother and family of it, and he knew that his mother would take the news hard. She and father had loved each other deeply; it was plain for all to see. Whilst father had been strict and tough with his children, Lady Jeyne had been caring and compassionate, the type of person that would always be there to look out for you and point you in the right direction should you go astray, Dagon knew that he had needed his mother's help on more than one occasion growing up. His father's death would hit her hard; it would hit the whole Iron Islands hard, especially as his death could have been avoided.

Velena, his beautiful wife, whom he had not seen in so long. She and he had been married for roughly twelve years now, and each day he was away from her was like a new wound was being opened inside of him. He missed her smiles, her laugh, he missed talking with her. And he missed their children, Rodrick, Theon, Bethany and Asha, he missed them and he could not wait to see them, but first he would have his revenge on the Greenlanders for plotting against him and his father.

The closer they got to land, the more ships that Dagon could see, signalling for his men to begin lighting the torches, Dagon walked back inside to his cabin to suit up. As he was putting on his armour, he heard the first torches begin to be thrown, and heard the resounding screams and cries from the Reachermen, he smiled a sly smile. The Reach would burn before the Targaryens could even bat an eyelid. Dagon put on his helmet and walked out toward the main part of his ship, drawing his sword. His men were already engaged in combat with the Reachermen, and it seemed that they had the better of it. Dagon swung his sword to his left, taking of a man's arm. He swung his sword to the right, and left a man short a head. He swung his sword again and again, cleaving a bloody path through the Reachermen, and painting the floor of his ship red with blood.

Walking across the ropes his men had attached, Dagon continued his onslaught. Swinging his sword like a mad man, hacking a man here, cleaving a man there, his sword cut through more bone and skin and flesh than he could ever remember it doing before. And yet all the time he was swinging his sword and killing men, he kept repeating the words his father had told him, on that day long ago in Lannisport. He kept swinging his sword, and cleaving is way through the Reachermen, but he did not truly see them, instead he thought of something else, something that would keep the nightmares at bay. Once all the men on the ship were dead, Dagon moved onto the next ship and began the process once again. The hacking and cleaving left his sword and armour covered in blood and dirt and salt from the sea, but inside his blood was singing, the true calling of the Ironborn.

Once the men who had come out to stop their advancement were all dead, Dagon made his way back to his ship and in a cold voice ordered the Reachermen ships burnt, and as he sailed on toward the port, the ships of the Reachermen burnt in the background. The chaos and destruction continued in the Arbor, as more men died by the Ironborn hands, justice was being served, and coffers and loot aplenty were taken. Their job done, Dagon ordered his men to set sail from the Arbor, there would be plenty more looting to be done soon.

The process repeated itself on the Shield Islands; the Greenlanders were more prepared this time though, having been warned of the impending attack. Still they were not match for a bloodthirsty horde of Ironborn, and their men died deaths on swords, morning stars, hammers and maces. Dagon himself led the charge that took control of the main keep on the Shield Islands, hacking and slashing his way through the men who stood in his path, bloodying his sword even more, and then when he came face to face with the Lord of the Shield Islands, his sword only needed three thrusts before the man was lying face down in a puddle of his own blood, death by sword. Dagon marched his men through the keep, instructing them to take what they could, to leave behind anything that would be too much of a hindrance to take back to Pyke.

Baelor Breakspear

Peace was a hard thing to come by, it was even harder to maintain. The proof of that was standing right in front of Baelor and the rest of the small council. Domeric Bolton, the second son of Horras Bolton, and as of now the current Lord of the Dreadfort. Bolton was a tall man with long brown hair and piercing grey eyes, he was also thickly built, and broad shoulders, a warrior if ever Baelor had seen one. After the failed rebellion in the north, which Baelor had always been strongly opposed to, the Boltons had all been executed their lands and incomes given to Daeron Stark's younger brother Cregan. Domeric Bolton had fled the execution though, fleeing in the dead of the night with six loyal men, forcing their way into White Harbour, and forcing a ship to take them to King's Landing they had appeared some two weeks past, battered, bruised and angry.

Brynden had engineered the northern rebellion, in the hopes of getting Stark out of the way and killing Aemon Blackfyre and any potential children the boy may have with Barbery Stark. Both had failed, the rebellions in Skagos and the rest of the north had been crushed, Aemon Blackfyre still lived, and now the Iron Throne had the increasing wrath of the North and the Iron Islands, for the attempted killing of Barbery Stark and her unborn child. Sometimes Baelor wondered what would have happened had Brynden and Daeron been different people, perhaps they may have actually been able to achieve some sort of stalemate. But then again he supposed with Bittersteel still alive in Tyrosh, peace would never be achieved.

"My family paid the price for following your orders Lord Brynden, what will we get in return for the folly that cost my father and brother and uncles their lives? How can you repay us, when the Stark has our home and our lands and has given them to his stubborn brother?" Baelor heard Domeric Bolton ask.

Baelor turned to look at Brynden who seemed to be quite tired, as did Baelor's own father, Daeron the Good seemed to be much more weary and tired since the war with Daemon had ended, and since Baelor's mother had died, something seemed to have been taken from him. Brynden replied. "You failed to oust Stark from power, your rebellion failed Lord Bolton. As such though, you have proved your loyalty to the Iron Throne and for that you do deserve to be rewarded. Your Grace?"

Baelor saw his father turn his eyes toward Domeric Bolton, and saw a mixture of anger and tiredness in his father's eyes, though for those who did not know his father well, they would not be able to see the difference. Baelor heard his father sigh once before he spoke. "Yes you do deserve to be rewarded Lord Domeric, I believe your mother was a Darklyn was she not?"

"Yes Your Grace she was." Domeric Bolton replied.

Baelor's father sighed once more. "Very well, you shall marry one of Lord Darklyn's daughters, and I shall award you the Lordship of Lord Harroway's Town for your efforts to the crown."

Baelor saw Domeric Bolton bow his head in acceptance, and then watched as he was escorted out of the small council chamber by Ser Roland Crakehall of the Kingsguard. Once Domeric was finally out of the room, Baelor heard his father sigh once more. "That man will cause us nothing but pain, I want him watched, Brynden since it was your idea to have this blasted rebellion in the north, and you will ensure that the man and his family are watched." Baelor's father said using his most kingly voice, the voice that could make grown make quake in their boots with fear.

It certainly seemed to be working with Baelor's uncle, for Baelor saw Brynden bow his head looking bashful, as he said. "Of course Your Grace."

Baelor saw his father nod his head once, and then that issue was dismissed. "What news from the north then?" Daeron the Good asked.

Brynden spoke once more. "Daeron Stark's wife is with child, as is Barbery Blackfyre."

Baelor heard the mutterings of the other lords in the small council, but kept his mouth shut. He knew what would be said next, and he wondered what his father would do this time, whether or not his father would take the moral high ground.

"Let them have their children, I will not have my people fight needlessly. So long as the maintain the peace I have no qualms. Jon died foolishly trying to take Moat Cailin; we lost many good men for that ridiculous attempt. We must rebuild relations with the north, if we are to ever have a lasting peace." Daeron said.

Baelor could see the protest about to form on his uncle's lips, but before his uncle could voice it his father cut him down. "No Brynden I will not call the Lords of Westeros to war once more, to march north and try and fail to end the Blackfyres. Too much blood has already been shed for this damned throne, peace is essential for making sure that there is no more need for pointless fighting. So long as Daeron wishes to keep peace, and he will, there is no need for us to mobilise our men. Aegor won't march across the sea unless he is confident he can have Daeron's support. Now what other issues are there for us to discuss?"

Baelor spoke then. "Dagon Greyjoy has been raiding along the coast of the Reach. Lord Luthor sends a request for help from the Iron Throne. Greyjoy has been plundering, he defeated and killed Lord Redwyne and plundered the wines from the Arbor, he holds the Shield Islands now."

"Write to Lord Damon, tell him to mobilise his ships, Dagon Greyjoy will wish to try and sail up the Mander if he becomes too daring. We shall need to deal with him before that happens. If it comes to it Baelor you may need to ride out to confront the man." Baelor heard his father say.

Baelor nodded in response. "Now if that is all my lords, I would ask that you leave and give myself and my son a chance to speak alone for a moment."

Once the lords of the small council had departed, Baelor saw his father visibly sag in his seat, a tired expression on his face; the effects of ruling truly seemed to be getting to him now.

"You may be ruling sooner than you think Baelor." Daeron Targaryen said, his voice no louder than a whisper.

Baelor was about to protest when his father raised one slender finger to silence him and continued speaking. "Grand Maester Orthorys tells me I have the wasting sickness, I do not have long left. We must make peace with Daeron Stark before I die though, that is something I must do, to atone for past wrongs, and otherwise Westeros will continue to bleed."