Post by Kurts on Apr 21, 2015 14:05:30 GMT -5
February, 368
The Great Kraken cut through the waters of the Redwyne Strait, drums beating and thralls heaving at the oars. The great port of Vinetown loomed in the distance, with Redwyne Keep on a hill overlooking it, the ordered rows of grapes in the vineyards stretching out along the verdant land like rows of soldiers in formation for a great battle. The Great Kraken was once Balon Greyjoy’s, the proud flagship of the Iron Fleet, four times the size of a normal longship. Yet, as it wove amongst the galleons at anchor in the cove, it looked as a child among giants, its scorpions and spitfires looking minute compared to the ballistae and catapults bristling on the Redwyne’s decks. The mighty longship, once feared in these waters, flew the flag of peace; for it carried a precious cargo to trade for goodwill.
A lanky boy stood on the prow of the ship, hair matted by the brine of the sea as he hooked one of his legs around one of the tentacles of the kraken-shaped figurehead of the longship. He had a sullen look in his grey-blue eyes as he stared at the warm green waters that surrounded the Arbor, already so different from the choppy grey waves that crashed on the rocks of his homeland. It was his 14th nameday, the day his father, Prince Euric Greyjoy, had promised he would first sail Ironman’s Bay upon a longship he could call his own. Instead, on the whims of his grandfather, he was here to bow and scrape as squire for Lord Thomas Redwyne like some prancing greenlander. He was supposed to be a king upon his own ship, not a servant to a wine swilling Reach lord.
An escort was waiting him at the docks, a few knights with the grape cluster livery. Killion knew he was a guest rather than a hostage, but at this point was unsure there was a difference. A horse was provided him, which he rode uncomfortably, to the amusement of the knights. He hated the animals, though would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him walk to the keep. He was ushered under the portcullis and through the massive oak doors into the great hall. The Ironborn’s blue-grey eyes scanned the room’s ostentatious decoration, in comparison to Pyke’s spartan decor. Everything was plush; velvet, silk, gold, silver, exotic woods. He knew well that the iron price could not have been paid for any of it. What did catch his interest were the few items on the wall that had been won in battle: banners, shields, and even the occasional piece of ship from some naval engagement. He was in the midst of inspecting an Ironborn ram, attempting to determine which ship it was from, when his attention was caught by movement on the dais of a man clearing his throat.
“Welcome to the Arbor.” Lord Thomas Redwyne said warmly, with a wry smile as the young reaver turned to face those who had assembled to greet him.
Lord Thomas had a kind face and eyes, with a short beard that pointed at the chin, white despite the youthful intensity of its bearer. Even on the Iron Islands, Killion had heard much of Redwyne, regarded widely as a paragon among men. It was said he possessed every virtue of other great lords without their vices. He was a foe without hate; a friend without treachery; a victor without oppression, and a victim without murmuring. He was a liege without vices; a vassal without reproach; a servant of the Seven without hypocrisy and a man without guile. Killion would get his own measure of the man he would be serving.
“This is my family.” Lord Redwyne continued, when Killion did not respond, motioning to three individuals almost of age with Killion.
“Shaun.” Lord Thomas motioned to a youth that was a year Killion's junior, who smirked in return. He was tall and gangly with a cocksure grin and fine clothes likely worth more than everything Killion owned.
“His twin sister Rachel.” the lord continued, motioning to a girl who curtsied. She was comely enough, with all signs indicating she would grow to be a great beauty.
“And my youngest, Martha.” Thomas motioned to another girl that shyly stood behind his sister, though only a year her junior. Her face was caked with makeup, odd for one so young but Killion played it off as greenland strangeness.
“Wesley our Steward will should you to your rooms and Ser Ronnet our Master-at-Arms will explain your duties as squire.” Lord Thomas finished, waving Killion off into his new life.
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April, 368
He hated his duties as much as he thought he would. Killion was used to hard work for hard men, but this was thrall’s work. He attended to the rooms of the castle, carved Lord Thomas’ meat and attended to the banquet tables, managed and inventoried the wine cellar, stocked and kept track of household goods in the pantry, cleaned and maintained the lord’s the armor and swords, and assisted the lord in all ceremonies and feasts. He was also responsible for keeping the decanter of Arbor Red in Lord Thomas’ solar desk full at all times. The tedious work took up the majority of his days. Besides that; huntsmen and falconers taught them how to hunt, septons of the Seven taught him religion, and the Maester Edgar taught him reading and writing. He learned to fight by imitating knights and practiced using training swords. During this period of squiring, the would-be knight was forced to learn and master the intricacies of social behavior and chivalry, picking up little to the chagrin of his tutors. Besides carrying out his duties in the lord's household, he learned how to brush, saddle, and ride the horses begrudgingly. He wore chain-mail armor to get used to its weight. As training progressed, he exercised and trained in full armor. The only task he truly enjoyed was when one of Lord Redwyne’s admirals would take him down to the docks to teach him about the different ships and how they operated.
Much of the lessons were taken side by side with Shaun Redwyne, Lord Thomas’ heir. The two got along poorly, part culture clash and part personality. They were too similar: arrogant, aggressive, charismatic, cocksure, sharp, talented, and impatient. Too alike, they were destined to become either great friends or bitter rivals. As fate would have it, in the course of their lives they would be both.
The training armor was heavy in the summer sun and Killion fought off one of the household knights under Ser Ronnet’s, the maester-at-arms, critical eye. Early on, the Ironborn youth had shirked the use of a shield in favor of two swords, as his father fought and had trained him. The logic of the decision was that a shield was great for battle when your foe was typically across the field from you, but that when fighting on the deck of the ships the foe often came from all sides. Better to have two blades with which to defend and deal death, than one.
“Stop!” Ser Ronnet bellowed, apparently ready for a new pairing, beads of sweat running down his furrowed brow. “Shaun, hop in and show our guest how it’s done.”
“My pleasure, Ser.” the Reach youth answered with a cocksure grin, facing Killion with sword and shield in hand. “Have always wanted to put a squid in the dirt.”
“A pity then that I’m of the mind to crush a sour grape.” Killion shot back, darting forward with a flurry of blades.
Despite the baking heat, the two gave a fierce competition, trading blows as sweat stained their tunics, cultural rivalry and prejudice driving them on. Finally, Shaun’s shield slammed Killion in the chest, knocking the prince onto his back.
“Yield” Shaun commanded with a victorious smirk, moving the training sword to Killion’s throat just a bit too slow.
Killion dug the tip of one of his training swords into the dry dirt and flung it up into the gloating lordling’s eyes, rolling to avoid the strike as Shaun lashed out blindly. With the other sword, he swept the legs, returning the favor by landing the Redwyne heir upon his back in an unceremonious cloud of dust.
“And that is why chivalry will get you kil-“ Killion began to gloat in turn, but was cut off as Shaun’s mailed fist struck him in the mouth.
There was a moment of confusion and dizzying pain as his lip was split, shocked the greenlander had actually struck him. The next it was replaced by rage as Killion charged and tackled Shaun. The two teenagers rolled around in the dirt, punching and kicking, trying to gain advantage over the other as Ser Ronnet shouted for them to stop. They only did so when the master-at-arms and a household knight dragged them away. The two lads struggled, fighting to get back to one another, before strangely bursting laughter.
“That was a hell of a right hook…for a greenlander.” Killion commended with grudging respect, spitting a glob of blood.
“Not too shabby yourself…for a squid.” Shaun answered, with a broad grin, his left eye already swelling shut.
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June, 368
Killion’s head was pounding and vision spotty, the minstrels only making it more unbearable. As a flutist came by playing a jovial tune, he nearly jammed the shrill instrument down the man’s throat. The smell of the food did little to help as he did all he could not to retch; course after course of bounties from the sea and land mixing to make an aroma that was more punishment than the welts Ser Ronnet had left on his backside. Looking across the high table, where Shaun sat at a place of honor beside his father, Killion took some small comfort in the Redwyne heir looking far worse for wear. The usually cocky teen was pale a ghost, visibly gagging every time one of the servants came by to fill a nearby goblet form a pitcher of Arbor Red. They had helped themselves to the decanter of wine Lord Thomas kept in his desk the night before in celebration of Shaun’s impending birthday, figuring that as it was Killion's responsibility to refill it, no one would ever be the wiser. That had proven a poor decision on both their parts, keenly felt as they sat miserable through Shaun’s nameday feast. The boys’ joint love of mischief would prove their undoing, but such was youth.
Rachel Redwyne sat a few seats down, pretty as a picture, as always. She and Killion had shared a few looks and playful banter over the past months, much to Shaun’s amusement. The cultural prejudice had been a bit to overcome at first, but the girl seemed sharp and open-minded. Culture, after all, was just a consequence of geography. Hard lands bred hard men and rich lands bred the weak. Killion had to admit there was some small comfort found in talking to a woman who was not related to him, ruled by his family, or in the midst of being dragged away kicking and screaming.
Her younger sister Martha sat next to her, face heavily caked in makeup, as always. Killion had not heard the girl utter a single word since his arrival. He was not sure if she was a mute or merely terrified of him from some nursemaid’s tale of monstrous Ironborn, but he had never cared enough to ask. Clanging rang out, exacerbating his migraine with white hot pain as it echoed in his eardrums, the gathered patrons ringing their silverware against their goblets. Lord Thomas had apparently called for a toast.
“As you all know, this is my son’s 15th nameday and a gift is in order.” their gracious host exclaimed, either failing to note or ignoring that his son cringed in pain at every vocalized syllable. “I asked him what he wanted and he desired only one thing. Where he got it in his mind that he could command a ship at fifteen I can only imagine,” the lord favored Killion with a knowing glance and wry smile. “but I would not deny my only son his heart’s desire on his special day. There is a galley recently finished at the shipyards and it is yours, my boy.”
Shaun’s whole face lit up, this the Westerosi equivalent of a newly licensed modern teenager getting his first car. This wasn't just a ship, it was freedom. He looked to his father with admiration and love, hugging the older man as he repeated his thanks time and time again. It seemed Lord Thomas could add generosity to his lengthy list of virtues.
Killion clapped and whooped for his friend, genuinely happy for him despite the pang of jealousy he felt gnawing. After all, he should have had his own ship to captain on his fifteenth nameday and instead he had received this life instead. As his eyes went from Shawn to Rachel, he shrugged. It wasn't all bad he supposed.
He stood, despite the dizzying effect and nauseating motion, making his way over to Rachel as the band started playing again. He swore he would kill that flutist.
“Care for a dance, my lady?” he asked in his best impression of a greenland noble, taking a nervous gulp.
“Only if you promise not to steal me away.” she quipped, with a demure smile and a bat of her eyelashes.
“Tempting, but not today.” he replied, taking her hand. “Wouldn’t want to put a damper on your brother’s big day.”
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August, 368
“Come on, Killion! Jump! It’s not that high!” Shaun’s voice called up, echoing as if he were leagues away.
It was a lie. It was indeed that high. A gull flew passed Killion’s head and the salt air stung his eyes as he balanced upon the yard of the galley’s topsail. The calm green waters below looked like an unbroken pane of glass. Shaun’s galley, The Wrath of Grapes, was a fine ship. However, that did little to slow Killion’s pounding heart.
“I don’t see you up here, captain! Perhaps you should show your crew how it’s done.” the prince called back down, challenging.
“And leave my ship in the hands of a reaver? That was lesson one on the list of things I was told a captain should never do, coming before sailing into a hurricane and taking a Braavosi’s first offer at market.” Shaun turned the wheel hard, nearly throwing the lad clinging on to dear life off balance.
“Fine, but I get next turn at the wheel!” he shouted, leaping off. It was exhilarating, the freefall, cutting through the water and momentarily enjoying the bliss of the Drowned God's Hall.
When he surfaced, taking a deep breath after the descent, he climbed up the rope ladder back onto the ship, sopping wet and hair matted with brine and a bit of seaweed.
“Enjoy the dip, squid? Say hello to the folks?” Shaun teased, as Killion shoved him from the wheel and took the helm.
The next hours were spent sailing the various isles that the Arbor called vassals. It was how most of their free time was spent now, enjoying the freedom of the sea, talking seafaring and strategy, boasting and dreaming as young men do. In the shipyard a Ryamsport they passed one of the newest additions to the Redwyne Fleet, a massive flagship of Lord Thomas’ design that made Shaun’s galley look a dinghy by comparison. It was only half complete, skeletal structure still visible as the oak planks were set in place. It would be finished by year’s end, christened Lord Thomas’ Pride.
“How would an Ironborn longship take on a monstrosity such as that?” Shaun pointed, absent-mindedly tossing and catching an apple.
“With ease.” Killion boasted, snatching the apple from the air and taking a bite before tossing it back. “You ram the oars on either side, dancing around the beast. A ship that can’t move is little better than driftwood. Then you circle around and ram it in the broadside. A pinprick through the heart can be effective as cleaving a man in two, my father always says.”
“As you say.” Shaun murmured, unimpressed as they circled Horseshoe Isle. “Careful for the coral beds!” he warned. “Have taken down many an unwary sailor and fine ship. Don’t want you scratching my boat.”
“Best not give the wheel back to you then.” he jested in turn, though stepped aside to return to helm to its captain.
“Yeah yeah, you wait, you’ll be eating my wake when you’ve a ship of your own.” Shaun boasted.
“Aye? Is that so?” the prince replied playfully. “What makes you think I’ll still spend my time with the likes of you when I’ve my own ship?”
“Well after you marry Rachel we’ll be brothers in law. Family. Won’t have much choice.” Shaun answered with a knowing grin.
“What? Why would I do such a thing like that?” Killion hastily feigned disinterest, stumbling over his words.
“Come now, first you’re fostered here. Then we’ll seal it with a marriage, linking the two greatest fleets in Westeros together by blood.” Shaun clearly had been pestering his father and listening in at his meetings. “Then who could stand in our way? The waves will be our playground. Shaun and Killion, the mighty and powerful, masters of the fourteen seas!” he proclaimed, theatrically raising a fist in the air.
“Killion and Shaun, the mighty and powerful.” he corrected, smirking, the idea not an unpleasant one. “King has to come before Lord. It's only proper”
“Of course, how could I forget, Your Grace?” the Reachman mocked, bowing and scraping. “With your fleet of dinghys. I wasn’t aware quantity counted for more that quality.”
“Longships.” the Ironborn corrected, well aware Shaun was just busting his chops. “And it is not the ships that matter, but the men that sail them. Perhaps by the time we rule the fourteen seas I’ll have taught you that.”
“A symbol to seal our unholy alliance then.” Shaun removed the pin from his tunic, a gold cluster of grapes, and offered it to Killion. The prince took it gratefully, but sheepishly only had an iron kraken to offer in return, blackened by salt spray. Yet Shaun took it as if it was a precious thing, pinning it in the place his old pin had hung with pride. “Now we are brothers in all but name.”
Later, belowdeck and searching for an apple of his own, Killion heard a rustling behind some of the supplies, likely a rat. Drawing the dagger from his belt, he shifted aside a crate to instead reveal a startled Martha Redwyne hiding.
“Looks like we’ve got a stowaway.” he smirked, offering the girl his hand. She recoiled from his touch, raising her hands and wide-eyed like a dog expecting to be struck.
“Calm down now, I’m not going to hurt you, Martha.” he cooed, hastily returning the dagger to his belt. “The septa must be worried sick about you. You’ll be missing your embroidery lesson.”
The girl shook her hand and raised a finger to her lips, eyes wide with terror.
“Alright, alright your secrets safe with me.” he smiled, tossing the girl an apple. “After all, us reavers and stowaways have to stick together.”
The girl smiled in return, her heavily caked makeup cracking, and it occurred to Killion that he had never seen her smile.
“Killion! Get up here! There’s a shark!” Shaun called from above deck excitedly. Killion ran up, replacing the box so no one would find their stowaway.
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October, 368
When they made love, Killion and Rachel, it was just that. Neither were virgins, yet they messed around with the eager inexperience only seen in young love, all arms and legs, mashing lips and awkward laughs, tentative movements and excitement in the taboo. The sneaking was part of the fun, escaping from their respective guardians to meet for fervent kisses in the pantry or a quick tumble in the stables. On this particular occasion, the girl had gotten bold, sneaking off at the Hour of the Wolf to Killion’s chambers.
Afterward, as they lay in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and reckless abandon; whispering sweet nothings, she posed a question.
“Will I like the Iron Islands, Killion?” she asked, looking into his grey-blue eyes with brown eyes flecked with bits of green.
The pause as he fumbled for the right words told more than anything.
“It is…different from here.” he finally offered, with a grimace, knowing that wasn’t the right answer.
“It matters not.” she said, undeterred, playfully curling a black lock of his unruly hand around one of her fingers. “I will be yours and you will be mine, your rock wife above all others.”
“Aye.” he smiled, happy she was at least not fighting the fact there would be others.
“And we’ll have a dozen little black haired babies.” she mused. “Though they’ll have far better manners than their father.”
He tickled her in reply, feigning insult, covering her mouth as she shrieked in fear of alerting someone. After another session of vigorous lovemaking, she dressed and departed with a kiss goodbye.
A short time late, the Hour of the Ghost, another knock came at the door.
“Miss me alrea-“ Killion began to ask, stopping dead in his tracks as the open door revealed Martha Redwyne
Tears were welling up in the saucer-sized eyes of the innocent. Her makeup, always heavy, was smeared on her right cheek, revealing the angry purple bruise that laid below its surface. Matching ones marred her shoulder and neck, the strap of her nightgown hanging off and torn a bit down the middle. A thin line of blood trailed down her inner thigh.
Not a word was exchanged as he ushered her in. She slept curled up in his lap, the Ironborn running his fingers comfortingly through her hair until she drifted off to sleep. Her secret was safe with him.
The next morning, while seeing to his duties, Killion opened Lord Thomas’ desk to check on the decanter of Arbor Red. It was empty...bone dry.
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December, 368
Killion did not know how long he stood on the docks in stunned silence. He had found an anonymous note slid under his door earlier that day, asking him to meet its writer at the docks at the Hour of the Nightingale.
When the robed figure in the fog lowered its hood, revealing Rachel Redwyne, the boy felt silly for not recognizing her handwriting. He leaned in for a kiss, assuming this was her elaborate setup for a dalliance, but was stopped by an insistent hand on his chest. She had cut straight to the point, knowing the gravity of the situation could not be danced around.
“Martha is pregnant.” she said, three words that would haunt him for years to come, followed by four that would come to define him. “Father will blame you.”
“…I never touched the girl!” he replied, stunned and defensive.
“I know…” she said softly, eyes sadder than he had ever seen. There was something else in them too…something else she knew…the look of a victim who knew intimately of her father’s drunken visits to look in on his sleeping beauties. The faultless Lord Redwyne. “They’ll hang you for this Killion. They’ll say you raped her.”
“I could tell them…” he began.
“And then it would be a reaver’s word against the Lord of the Arbor.” she cut him off, brutally honest.
“I could kill him!” he exclaimed, desperate and scared and vulnerable and angry.
“And then they would hang you anyways.” she said simply, holding back tears. “You have to run.”
“Shaun!…I could tell Shaun!” he ignored her, knowing there had to be some solution that would see this nightmare end.
“Shaun can never know.” she gripped his arm hard, the words coming out with finality.
“But-“ he began.
“It would destroy him.” she was certain. “He sees only the good in that man, only love and admiration, feels only pride in being his son. Better to let your friend hate you than destroy who he is. Your father will call you a hero; a true Ironborn.”
Killion was silent, words drying up in his mouth. He could not care less what his father thought of him at this moment, but he had no argument. She was right, much as it ate at his insides.
“You must run! Take one of the corsairs and go!”
"Then come with me." Killion offered, eyes wife. "You and Martha."
"And then father would send the entire fleet after you and the end result would be the same." she kissed him and walked back to the keep, not looking back.
He did not watch her go, eyes fixed on the harbor, the shadow of the recently completed Lord Thomas’ Pride looming over the other ships, not yet taken on her maiden voyage. He smiled, a sharkish smile without mirth or mercy, eyes brimming with tears of rage and loss. He would leave, but not on a corsair.
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January, 369
The oars dipped into the inky black water, the new moon covering the cove in a blackness that permeated all as the four dinghys made their way forward, guided by the lanterns lit upon Lord Thomas’ Pride.
Killion had been the perfect squire in the last month, keeping up with his duties without giving cause for alarm of complaint. Every few days he snuck down to the taverns and inns that lined the docks, stolen gold from Lord Thomas’ purse in hand, cajoling with the most disreputable sailors he could find, slipping gold into their hands with promise of more to come.
They had been forced to enact the plan sooner than anticipated. Rachel whispered that Martha had started to show and could not keep it from her father for much longer. Besides, he feared Shaun knew something was off. The Redwyne heir had noted the distance of late, the gnawing secret driving a wedge between them that widened each day. As it was, he could only cobble together forty men of questionable ability, a skeleton crew that would barely be able to man the rigging, let alone the oars of the massive flagship. Killion prayed to the Drowned God for fair wind as the dinghys pulled alongside the monstrosity, knowing he was a dead man otherwise. He was afraid he had bit off more than he could chew here as he stared up at the leviathan of a ship, yet threw up rope and grapnel all the same and began his climb.
The bloodshed was over in a blur, mercifully swift, as the sellsails proved worth their salt and used the element of surprise to push their advantage. Killion’s blades struck true, driving through the back and out the chest of one of the sentries as he ran to ring the alarm bell. As the man died, Killion saw that it was Maury, a sailor in Lord Thomas’ employ, who had taught him various knots. He looked in his dead eyes for only a moment, feeling a pang of guilt, before shaking it from his head. Lord Thomas had forced his hand. This blood was on that cursed wretch. As the men opened the sails, they caught wind, the prince’s prayers apparently answered.
The sun was high in the sky when one of the sellsails called out that they were being pursued. Killion ran to the stern, looking out over the water to see three ships approaching: two corsairs and a galley. He did not have to guess whose galley it was, even from this distance knowing the lines of Shaun’s Wrath of Grapes well.
“Battle stations!” Killion bellowed, knowing there was no way the monstrous ship with less than a third its full crew could outpace the three nimbler ships.
The corsairs were already approaching even with their port side as the sellsails finally managed to load the weaponry. Arrows from the first corsair fell short, swiftly met by ballista bolts that impaled many of its trained crew and a catapult stone that split it in two. Killion turned the wheel using the fair wind to gain enough momentum to flip the other corsair, using the inertia of the larger ship.
As they rounded Horseshoe Isle, the open sea and safety in sight, Killion heard an ear-splitting snap on the starboard side, followed by another and another in quick succession, as oar after oar shattered from a galleys ram. He almost smiled to himself, as Shaun took the advice he had given him months ago about how to assault this exact ship. Here was when theory gave way to experience, where knowing how to adapt counted more than textbooks and lessons. With a fair wind, Killion did not need the oars, nor did he even have the men to row them. Shaun had overextended in his eagerness and he had made one more mistake, one that he had warned Killion of and would have remembered were he clear-minded. He had sailed too close to the coral beds.
Killion turned the wheel hard starboard, cutting off the smaller ship, forcing Shaun to do the same to avoid collision. The sound that followed was horrendous, scraping at first, followed by splintering as the centuries old coral beds punctured the heavy oak of the galley's hull, tearing through planks like tissue paper. It was a mortal wound, the Wrath of Grapes floundered as many unwary sailors had before.
“Pull her around.” Killion ordered, noting the unmistakable figure who had run to the prow of the immobile ship, shouting across the green waters with a rage that had no outlet.
“Plan to finish her off captain?” one of the sellsails asked. "We'll pull the weapons around."
Killion shook his head, the ship pulling just into range for voices to carry but outside range of the bows.
“Is it true?” Shaun shouted across the waters, hair wild, face red from yelling, tears brimming in his eyes.
“It’s…more complicated than that.” Killion answered, choking on the words.
“Is it? Let me simplify. Did you rape Martha, seed a bastard in her, assault my father, and steal his flagship?” Shaun spat in return.
“Aye.” he lied, after a seemingly eternal silence, hating himself for it as the words slapped Shaun across the face, the betrayal stinging. He was only guilty of the last charge and had no idea who had assaulted Lord Thomas. One of the girls, he hoped, though he would gladly take the blame for that as well. He only regretted that the man lived.
There was another long silence, only the shrill call of the gulls and the lazy lapping of the waves against the ships' hulls.
“Were we ever truly friends?” Shaun finally asked; empty, defeated, and crushed.
“No.” he lied again, quicker this time, forcing the words out so he would not cry and lose his nerve and spill out the dark truths that wormed away inside him. “How could we be? You are a Redwyne and I am a reaver. This is who we are…all we will ever be.”
With that, he turned the ship around, sailing east for the Stepstones, hearing his name on the wind as the Redwyne called after him time and time again. His hands clutched the pin in his pocket until the sharp point drew blood, drops of crimson spreading over the golden grapes.
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February, 369
He spent the better part of his 16th nameday attacking it with hatchet and flame, a primal scream echoing in the pirate cove as tears streamed down his face. In his vanity, Lord Thomas had commissioned the figurehead of the ship in his own visage. His perfectly carved wooden eyes, always full of warmth, mocked the reaver. Thralls had been taken for the oars, ships plundered of their cargo, and tales spread of the monstrous ship that haunted the Stepstones; yet the now infamous Ironborn feared his own prow. He would not forge his legacy with that monster ahead of him, his victims not deserving to see that face as their last upon this earth. He would not be reminded daily of the life he had left. This was his lot now. This was who he was…what he always had been...what he always would be.
When he had forced the likeness of his foster father from the ship, marring its face beyond recognition with the hatchet, bloodying his knuckles striking the mocking visage; he had his crew start a massive bonfire to send the thing to the Seven Hells. The flames licked up around it, ironwood not burning easily, though the steel began to melt and pool like wax. It reminded him of something…of someone, a story he had heard in his youth of the fate of Harrenhal and its Iron King.
“Pull it out.” he ordered the men, the sharkish grin returning to his face as they got to work reattaching it to the ship, though his eyes lacked any mirth.
He had his ship, it had a name and figurehead, and he had a crew. Yet, it would be the loneliest name day Killion Greyjoy had ever known.
The Great Kraken cut through the waters of the Redwyne Strait, drums beating and thralls heaving at the oars. The great port of Vinetown loomed in the distance, with Redwyne Keep on a hill overlooking it, the ordered rows of grapes in the vineyards stretching out along the verdant land like rows of soldiers in formation for a great battle. The Great Kraken was once Balon Greyjoy’s, the proud flagship of the Iron Fleet, four times the size of a normal longship. Yet, as it wove amongst the galleons at anchor in the cove, it looked as a child among giants, its scorpions and spitfires looking minute compared to the ballistae and catapults bristling on the Redwyne’s decks. The mighty longship, once feared in these waters, flew the flag of peace; for it carried a precious cargo to trade for goodwill.
A lanky boy stood on the prow of the ship, hair matted by the brine of the sea as he hooked one of his legs around one of the tentacles of the kraken-shaped figurehead of the longship. He had a sullen look in his grey-blue eyes as he stared at the warm green waters that surrounded the Arbor, already so different from the choppy grey waves that crashed on the rocks of his homeland. It was his 14th nameday, the day his father, Prince Euric Greyjoy, had promised he would first sail Ironman’s Bay upon a longship he could call his own. Instead, on the whims of his grandfather, he was here to bow and scrape as squire for Lord Thomas Redwyne like some prancing greenlander. He was supposed to be a king upon his own ship, not a servant to a wine swilling Reach lord.
An escort was waiting him at the docks, a few knights with the grape cluster livery. Killion knew he was a guest rather than a hostage, but at this point was unsure there was a difference. A horse was provided him, which he rode uncomfortably, to the amusement of the knights. He hated the animals, though would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him walk to the keep. He was ushered under the portcullis and through the massive oak doors into the great hall. The Ironborn’s blue-grey eyes scanned the room’s ostentatious decoration, in comparison to Pyke’s spartan decor. Everything was plush; velvet, silk, gold, silver, exotic woods. He knew well that the iron price could not have been paid for any of it. What did catch his interest were the few items on the wall that had been won in battle: banners, shields, and even the occasional piece of ship from some naval engagement. He was in the midst of inspecting an Ironborn ram, attempting to determine which ship it was from, when his attention was caught by movement on the dais of a man clearing his throat.
“Welcome to the Arbor.” Lord Thomas Redwyne said warmly, with a wry smile as the young reaver turned to face those who had assembled to greet him.
Lord Thomas had a kind face and eyes, with a short beard that pointed at the chin, white despite the youthful intensity of its bearer. Even on the Iron Islands, Killion had heard much of Redwyne, regarded widely as a paragon among men. It was said he possessed every virtue of other great lords without their vices. He was a foe without hate; a friend without treachery; a victor without oppression, and a victim without murmuring. He was a liege without vices; a vassal without reproach; a servant of the Seven without hypocrisy and a man without guile. Killion would get his own measure of the man he would be serving.
“This is my family.” Lord Redwyne continued, when Killion did not respond, motioning to three individuals almost of age with Killion.
“Shaun.” Lord Thomas motioned to a youth that was a year Killion's junior, who smirked in return. He was tall and gangly with a cocksure grin and fine clothes likely worth more than everything Killion owned.
“His twin sister Rachel.” the lord continued, motioning to a girl who curtsied. She was comely enough, with all signs indicating she would grow to be a great beauty.
“And my youngest, Martha.” Thomas motioned to another girl that shyly stood behind his sister, though only a year her junior. Her face was caked with makeup, odd for one so young but Killion played it off as greenland strangeness.
“Wesley our Steward will should you to your rooms and Ser Ronnet our Master-at-Arms will explain your duties as squire.” Lord Thomas finished, waving Killion off into his new life.
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April, 368
He hated his duties as much as he thought he would. Killion was used to hard work for hard men, but this was thrall’s work. He attended to the rooms of the castle, carved Lord Thomas’ meat and attended to the banquet tables, managed and inventoried the wine cellar, stocked and kept track of household goods in the pantry, cleaned and maintained the lord’s the armor and swords, and assisted the lord in all ceremonies and feasts. He was also responsible for keeping the decanter of Arbor Red in Lord Thomas’ solar desk full at all times. The tedious work took up the majority of his days. Besides that; huntsmen and falconers taught them how to hunt, septons of the Seven taught him religion, and the Maester Edgar taught him reading and writing. He learned to fight by imitating knights and practiced using training swords. During this period of squiring, the would-be knight was forced to learn and master the intricacies of social behavior and chivalry, picking up little to the chagrin of his tutors. Besides carrying out his duties in the lord's household, he learned how to brush, saddle, and ride the horses begrudgingly. He wore chain-mail armor to get used to its weight. As training progressed, he exercised and trained in full armor. The only task he truly enjoyed was when one of Lord Redwyne’s admirals would take him down to the docks to teach him about the different ships and how they operated.
Much of the lessons were taken side by side with Shaun Redwyne, Lord Thomas’ heir. The two got along poorly, part culture clash and part personality. They were too similar: arrogant, aggressive, charismatic, cocksure, sharp, talented, and impatient. Too alike, they were destined to become either great friends or bitter rivals. As fate would have it, in the course of their lives they would be both.
The training armor was heavy in the summer sun and Killion fought off one of the household knights under Ser Ronnet’s, the maester-at-arms, critical eye. Early on, the Ironborn youth had shirked the use of a shield in favor of two swords, as his father fought and had trained him. The logic of the decision was that a shield was great for battle when your foe was typically across the field from you, but that when fighting on the deck of the ships the foe often came from all sides. Better to have two blades with which to defend and deal death, than one.
“Stop!” Ser Ronnet bellowed, apparently ready for a new pairing, beads of sweat running down his furrowed brow. “Shaun, hop in and show our guest how it’s done.”
“My pleasure, Ser.” the Reach youth answered with a cocksure grin, facing Killion with sword and shield in hand. “Have always wanted to put a squid in the dirt.”
“A pity then that I’m of the mind to crush a sour grape.” Killion shot back, darting forward with a flurry of blades.
Despite the baking heat, the two gave a fierce competition, trading blows as sweat stained their tunics, cultural rivalry and prejudice driving them on. Finally, Shaun’s shield slammed Killion in the chest, knocking the prince onto his back.
“Yield” Shaun commanded with a victorious smirk, moving the training sword to Killion’s throat just a bit too slow.
Killion dug the tip of one of his training swords into the dry dirt and flung it up into the gloating lordling’s eyes, rolling to avoid the strike as Shaun lashed out blindly. With the other sword, he swept the legs, returning the favor by landing the Redwyne heir upon his back in an unceremonious cloud of dust.
“And that is why chivalry will get you kil-“ Killion began to gloat in turn, but was cut off as Shaun’s mailed fist struck him in the mouth.
There was a moment of confusion and dizzying pain as his lip was split, shocked the greenlander had actually struck him. The next it was replaced by rage as Killion charged and tackled Shaun. The two teenagers rolled around in the dirt, punching and kicking, trying to gain advantage over the other as Ser Ronnet shouted for them to stop. They only did so when the master-at-arms and a household knight dragged them away. The two lads struggled, fighting to get back to one another, before strangely bursting laughter.
“That was a hell of a right hook…for a greenlander.” Killion commended with grudging respect, spitting a glob of blood.
“Not too shabby yourself…for a squid.” Shaun answered, with a broad grin, his left eye already swelling shut.
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June, 368
Killion’s head was pounding and vision spotty, the minstrels only making it more unbearable. As a flutist came by playing a jovial tune, he nearly jammed the shrill instrument down the man’s throat. The smell of the food did little to help as he did all he could not to retch; course after course of bounties from the sea and land mixing to make an aroma that was more punishment than the welts Ser Ronnet had left on his backside. Looking across the high table, where Shaun sat at a place of honor beside his father, Killion took some small comfort in the Redwyne heir looking far worse for wear. The usually cocky teen was pale a ghost, visibly gagging every time one of the servants came by to fill a nearby goblet form a pitcher of Arbor Red. They had helped themselves to the decanter of wine Lord Thomas kept in his desk the night before in celebration of Shaun’s impending birthday, figuring that as it was Killion's responsibility to refill it, no one would ever be the wiser. That had proven a poor decision on both their parts, keenly felt as they sat miserable through Shaun’s nameday feast. The boys’ joint love of mischief would prove their undoing, but such was youth.
Rachel Redwyne sat a few seats down, pretty as a picture, as always. She and Killion had shared a few looks and playful banter over the past months, much to Shaun’s amusement. The cultural prejudice had been a bit to overcome at first, but the girl seemed sharp and open-minded. Culture, after all, was just a consequence of geography. Hard lands bred hard men and rich lands bred the weak. Killion had to admit there was some small comfort found in talking to a woman who was not related to him, ruled by his family, or in the midst of being dragged away kicking and screaming.
Her younger sister Martha sat next to her, face heavily caked in makeup, as always. Killion had not heard the girl utter a single word since his arrival. He was not sure if she was a mute or merely terrified of him from some nursemaid’s tale of monstrous Ironborn, but he had never cared enough to ask. Clanging rang out, exacerbating his migraine with white hot pain as it echoed in his eardrums, the gathered patrons ringing their silverware against their goblets. Lord Thomas had apparently called for a toast.
“As you all know, this is my son’s 15th nameday and a gift is in order.” their gracious host exclaimed, either failing to note or ignoring that his son cringed in pain at every vocalized syllable. “I asked him what he wanted and he desired only one thing. Where he got it in his mind that he could command a ship at fifteen I can only imagine,” the lord favored Killion with a knowing glance and wry smile. “but I would not deny my only son his heart’s desire on his special day. There is a galley recently finished at the shipyards and it is yours, my boy.”
Shaun’s whole face lit up, this the Westerosi equivalent of a newly licensed modern teenager getting his first car. This wasn't just a ship, it was freedom. He looked to his father with admiration and love, hugging the older man as he repeated his thanks time and time again. It seemed Lord Thomas could add generosity to his lengthy list of virtues.
Killion clapped and whooped for his friend, genuinely happy for him despite the pang of jealousy he felt gnawing. After all, he should have had his own ship to captain on his fifteenth nameday and instead he had received this life instead. As his eyes went from Shawn to Rachel, he shrugged. It wasn't all bad he supposed.
He stood, despite the dizzying effect and nauseating motion, making his way over to Rachel as the band started playing again. He swore he would kill that flutist.
“Care for a dance, my lady?” he asked in his best impression of a greenland noble, taking a nervous gulp.
“Only if you promise not to steal me away.” she quipped, with a demure smile and a bat of her eyelashes.
“Tempting, but not today.” he replied, taking her hand. “Wouldn’t want to put a damper on your brother’s big day.”
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August, 368
“Come on, Killion! Jump! It’s not that high!” Shaun’s voice called up, echoing as if he were leagues away.
It was a lie. It was indeed that high. A gull flew passed Killion’s head and the salt air stung his eyes as he balanced upon the yard of the galley’s topsail. The calm green waters below looked like an unbroken pane of glass. Shaun’s galley, The Wrath of Grapes, was a fine ship. However, that did little to slow Killion’s pounding heart.
“I don’t see you up here, captain! Perhaps you should show your crew how it’s done.” the prince called back down, challenging.
“And leave my ship in the hands of a reaver? That was lesson one on the list of things I was told a captain should never do, coming before sailing into a hurricane and taking a Braavosi’s first offer at market.” Shaun turned the wheel hard, nearly throwing the lad clinging on to dear life off balance.
“Fine, but I get next turn at the wheel!” he shouted, leaping off. It was exhilarating, the freefall, cutting through the water and momentarily enjoying the bliss of the Drowned God's Hall.
When he surfaced, taking a deep breath after the descent, he climbed up the rope ladder back onto the ship, sopping wet and hair matted with brine and a bit of seaweed.
“Enjoy the dip, squid? Say hello to the folks?” Shaun teased, as Killion shoved him from the wheel and took the helm.
The next hours were spent sailing the various isles that the Arbor called vassals. It was how most of their free time was spent now, enjoying the freedom of the sea, talking seafaring and strategy, boasting and dreaming as young men do. In the shipyard a Ryamsport they passed one of the newest additions to the Redwyne Fleet, a massive flagship of Lord Thomas’ design that made Shaun’s galley look a dinghy by comparison. It was only half complete, skeletal structure still visible as the oak planks were set in place. It would be finished by year’s end, christened Lord Thomas’ Pride.
“How would an Ironborn longship take on a monstrosity such as that?” Shaun pointed, absent-mindedly tossing and catching an apple.
“With ease.” Killion boasted, snatching the apple from the air and taking a bite before tossing it back. “You ram the oars on either side, dancing around the beast. A ship that can’t move is little better than driftwood. Then you circle around and ram it in the broadside. A pinprick through the heart can be effective as cleaving a man in two, my father always says.”
“As you say.” Shaun murmured, unimpressed as they circled Horseshoe Isle. “Careful for the coral beds!” he warned. “Have taken down many an unwary sailor and fine ship. Don’t want you scratching my boat.”
“Best not give the wheel back to you then.” he jested in turn, though stepped aside to return to helm to its captain.
“Yeah yeah, you wait, you’ll be eating my wake when you’ve a ship of your own.” Shaun boasted.
“Aye? Is that so?” the prince replied playfully. “What makes you think I’ll still spend my time with the likes of you when I’ve my own ship?”
“Well after you marry Rachel we’ll be brothers in law. Family. Won’t have much choice.” Shaun answered with a knowing grin.
“What? Why would I do such a thing like that?” Killion hastily feigned disinterest, stumbling over his words.
“Come now, first you’re fostered here. Then we’ll seal it with a marriage, linking the two greatest fleets in Westeros together by blood.” Shaun clearly had been pestering his father and listening in at his meetings. “Then who could stand in our way? The waves will be our playground. Shaun and Killion, the mighty and powerful, masters of the fourteen seas!” he proclaimed, theatrically raising a fist in the air.
“Killion and Shaun, the mighty and powerful.” he corrected, smirking, the idea not an unpleasant one. “King has to come before Lord. It's only proper”
“Of course, how could I forget, Your Grace?” the Reachman mocked, bowing and scraping. “With your fleet of dinghys. I wasn’t aware quantity counted for more that quality.”
“Longships.” the Ironborn corrected, well aware Shaun was just busting his chops. “And it is not the ships that matter, but the men that sail them. Perhaps by the time we rule the fourteen seas I’ll have taught you that.”
“A symbol to seal our unholy alliance then.” Shaun removed the pin from his tunic, a gold cluster of grapes, and offered it to Killion. The prince took it gratefully, but sheepishly only had an iron kraken to offer in return, blackened by salt spray. Yet Shaun took it as if it was a precious thing, pinning it in the place his old pin had hung with pride. “Now we are brothers in all but name.”
Later, belowdeck and searching for an apple of his own, Killion heard a rustling behind some of the supplies, likely a rat. Drawing the dagger from his belt, he shifted aside a crate to instead reveal a startled Martha Redwyne hiding.
“Looks like we’ve got a stowaway.” he smirked, offering the girl his hand. She recoiled from his touch, raising her hands and wide-eyed like a dog expecting to be struck.
“Calm down now, I’m not going to hurt you, Martha.” he cooed, hastily returning the dagger to his belt. “The septa must be worried sick about you. You’ll be missing your embroidery lesson.”
The girl shook her hand and raised a finger to her lips, eyes wide with terror.
“Alright, alright your secrets safe with me.” he smiled, tossing the girl an apple. “After all, us reavers and stowaways have to stick together.”
The girl smiled in return, her heavily caked makeup cracking, and it occurred to Killion that he had never seen her smile.
“Killion! Get up here! There’s a shark!” Shaun called from above deck excitedly. Killion ran up, replacing the box so no one would find their stowaway.
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October, 368
When they made love, Killion and Rachel, it was just that. Neither were virgins, yet they messed around with the eager inexperience only seen in young love, all arms and legs, mashing lips and awkward laughs, tentative movements and excitement in the taboo. The sneaking was part of the fun, escaping from their respective guardians to meet for fervent kisses in the pantry or a quick tumble in the stables. On this particular occasion, the girl had gotten bold, sneaking off at the Hour of the Wolf to Killion’s chambers.
Afterward, as they lay in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and reckless abandon; whispering sweet nothings, she posed a question.
“Will I like the Iron Islands, Killion?” she asked, looking into his grey-blue eyes with brown eyes flecked with bits of green.
The pause as he fumbled for the right words told more than anything.
“It is…different from here.” he finally offered, with a grimace, knowing that wasn’t the right answer.
“It matters not.” she said, undeterred, playfully curling a black lock of his unruly hand around one of her fingers. “I will be yours and you will be mine, your rock wife above all others.”
“Aye.” he smiled, happy she was at least not fighting the fact there would be others.
“And we’ll have a dozen little black haired babies.” she mused. “Though they’ll have far better manners than their father.”
He tickled her in reply, feigning insult, covering her mouth as she shrieked in fear of alerting someone. After another session of vigorous lovemaking, she dressed and departed with a kiss goodbye.
A short time late, the Hour of the Ghost, another knock came at the door.
“Miss me alrea-“ Killion began to ask, stopping dead in his tracks as the open door revealed Martha Redwyne
Tears were welling up in the saucer-sized eyes of the innocent. Her makeup, always heavy, was smeared on her right cheek, revealing the angry purple bruise that laid below its surface. Matching ones marred her shoulder and neck, the strap of her nightgown hanging off and torn a bit down the middle. A thin line of blood trailed down her inner thigh.
Not a word was exchanged as he ushered her in. She slept curled up in his lap, the Ironborn running his fingers comfortingly through her hair until she drifted off to sleep. Her secret was safe with him.
The next morning, while seeing to his duties, Killion opened Lord Thomas’ desk to check on the decanter of Arbor Red. It was empty...bone dry.
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December, 368
Killion did not know how long he stood on the docks in stunned silence. He had found an anonymous note slid under his door earlier that day, asking him to meet its writer at the docks at the Hour of the Nightingale.
When the robed figure in the fog lowered its hood, revealing Rachel Redwyne, the boy felt silly for not recognizing her handwriting. He leaned in for a kiss, assuming this was her elaborate setup for a dalliance, but was stopped by an insistent hand on his chest. She had cut straight to the point, knowing the gravity of the situation could not be danced around.
“Martha is pregnant.” she said, three words that would haunt him for years to come, followed by four that would come to define him. “Father will blame you.”
“…I never touched the girl!” he replied, stunned and defensive.
“I know…” she said softly, eyes sadder than he had ever seen. There was something else in them too…something else she knew…the look of a victim who knew intimately of her father’s drunken visits to look in on his sleeping beauties. The faultless Lord Redwyne. “They’ll hang you for this Killion. They’ll say you raped her.”
“I could tell them…” he began.
“And then it would be a reaver’s word against the Lord of the Arbor.” she cut him off, brutally honest.
“I could kill him!” he exclaimed, desperate and scared and vulnerable and angry.
“And then they would hang you anyways.” she said simply, holding back tears. “You have to run.”
“Shaun!…I could tell Shaun!” he ignored her, knowing there had to be some solution that would see this nightmare end.
“Shaun can never know.” she gripped his arm hard, the words coming out with finality.
“But-“ he began.
“It would destroy him.” she was certain. “He sees only the good in that man, only love and admiration, feels only pride in being his son. Better to let your friend hate you than destroy who he is. Your father will call you a hero; a true Ironborn.”
Killion was silent, words drying up in his mouth. He could not care less what his father thought of him at this moment, but he had no argument. She was right, much as it ate at his insides.
“You must run! Take one of the corsairs and go!”
"Then come with me." Killion offered, eyes wife. "You and Martha."
"And then father would send the entire fleet after you and the end result would be the same." she kissed him and walked back to the keep, not looking back.
He did not watch her go, eyes fixed on the harbor, the shadow of the recently completed Lord Thomas’ Pride looming over the other ships, not yet taken on her maiden voyage. He smiled, a sharkish smile without mirth or mercy, eyes brimming with tears of rage and loss. He would leave, but not on a corsair.
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January, 369
The oars dipped into the inky black water, the new moon covering the cove in a blackness that permeated all as the four dinghys made their way forward, guided by the lanterns lit upon Lord Thomas’ Pride.
Killion had been the perfect squire in the last month, keeping up with his duties without giving cause for alarm of complaint. Every few days he snuck down to the taverns and inns that lined the docks, stolen gold from Lord Thomas’ purse in hand, cajoling with the most disreputable sailors he could find, slipping gold into their hands with promise of more to come.
They had been forced to enact the plan sooner than anticipated. Rachel whispered that Martha had started to show and could not keep it from her father for much longer. Besides, he feared Shaun knew something was off. The Redwyne heir had noted the distance of late, the gnawing secret driving a wedge between them that widened each day. As it was, he could only cobble together forty men of questionable ability, a skeleton crew that would barely be able to man the rigging, let alone the oars of the massive flagship. Killion prayed to the Drowned God for fair wind as the dinghys pulled alongside the monstrosity, knowing he was a dead man otherwise. He was afraid he had bit off more than he could chew here as he stared up at the leviathan of a ship, yet threw up rope and grapnel all the same and began his climb.
The bloodshed was over in a blur, mercifully swift, as the sellsails proved worth their salt and used the element of surprise to push their advantage. Killion’s blades struck true, driving through the back and out the chest of one of the sentries as he ran to ring the alarm bell. As the man died, Killion saw that it was Maury, a sailor in Lord Thomas’ employ, who had taught him various knots. He looked in his dead eyes for only a moment, feeling a pang of guilt, before shaking it from his head. Lord Thomas had forced his hand. This blood was on that cursed wretch. As the men opened the sails, they caught wind, the prince’s prayers apparently answered.
The sun was high in the sky when one of the sellsails called out that they were being pursued. Killion ran to the stern, looking out over the water to see three ships approaching: two corsairs and a galley. He did not have to guess whose galley it was, even from this distance knowing the lines of Shaun’s Wrath of Grapes well.
“Battle stations!” Killion bellowed, knowing there was no way the monstrous ship with less than a third its full crew could outpace the three nimbler ships.
The corsairs were already approaching even with their port side as the sellsails finally managed to load the weaponry. Arrows from the first corsair fell short, swiftly met by ballista bolts that impaled many of its trained crew and a catapult stone that split it in two. Killion turned the wheel using the fair wind to gain enough momentum to flip the other corsair, using the inertia of the larger ship.
As they rounded Horseshoe Isle, the open sea and safety in sight, Killion heard an ear-splitting snap on the starboard side, followed by another and another in quick succession, as oar after oar shattered from a galleys ram. He almost smiled to himself, as Shaun took the advice he had given him months ago about how to assault this exact ship. Here was when theory gave way to experience, where knowing how to adapt counted more than textbooks and lessons. With a fair wind, Killion did not need the oars, nor did he even have the men to row them. Shaun had overextended in his eagerness and he had made one more mistake, one that he had warned Killion of and would have remembered were he clear-minded. He had sailed too close to the coral beds.
Killion turned the wheel hard starboard, cutting off the smaller ship, forcing Shaun to do the same to avoid collision. The sound that followed was horrendous, scraping at first, followed by splintering as the centuries old coral beds punctured the heavy oak of the galley's hull, tearing through planks like tissue paper. It was a mortal wound, the Wrath of Grapes floundered as many unwary sailors had before.
“Pull her around.” Killion ordered, noting the unmistakable figure who had run to the prow of the immobile ship, shouting across the green waters with a rage that had no outlet.
“Plan to finish her off captain?” one of the sellsails asked. "We'll pull the weapons around."
Killion shook his head, the ship pulling just into range for voices to carry but outside range of the bows.
“Is it true?” Shaun shouted across the waters, hair wild, face red from yelling, tears brimming in his eyes.
“It’s…more complicated than that.” Killion answered, choking on the words.
“Is it? Let me simplify. Did you rape Martha, seed a bastard in her, assault my father, and steal his flagship?” Shaun spat in return.
“Aye.” he lied, after a seemingly eternal silence, hating himself for it as the words slapped Shaun across the face, the betrayal stinging. He was only guilty of the last charge and had no idea who had assaulted Lord Thomas. One of the girls, he hoped, though he would gladly take the blame for that as well. He only regretted that the man lived.
There was another long silence, only the shrill call of the gulls and the lazy lapping of the waves against the ships' hulls.
“Were we ever truly friends?” Shaun finally asked; empty, defeated, and crushed.
“No.” he lied again, quicker this time, forcing the words out so he would not cry and lose his nerve and spill out the dark truths that wormed away inside him. “How could we be? You are a Redwyne and I am a reaver. This is who we are…all we will ever be.”
With that, he turned the ship around, sailing east for the Stepstones, hearing his name on the wind as the Redwyne called after him time and time again. His hands clutched the pin in his pocket until the sharp point drew blood, drops of crimson spreading over the golden grapes.
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February, 369
He spent the better part of his 16th nameday attacking it with hatchet and flame, a primal scream echoing in the pirate cove as tears streamed down his face. In his vanity, Lord Thomas had commissioned the figurehead of the ship in his own visage. His perfectly carved wooden eyes, always full of warmth, mocked the reaver. Thralls had been taken for the oars, ships plundered of their cargo, and tales spread of the monstrous ship that haunted the Stepstones; yet the now infamous Ironborn feared his own prow. He would not forge his legacy with that monster ahead of him, his victims not deserving to see that face as their last upon this earth. He would not be reminded daily of the life he had left. This was his lot now. This was who he was…what he always had been...what he always would be.
When he had forced the likeness of his foster father from the ship, marring its face beyond recognition with the hatchet, bloodying his knuckles striking the mocking visage; he had his crew start a massive bonfire to send the thing to the Seven Hells. The flames licked up around it, ironwood not burning easily, though the steel began to melt and pool like wax. It reminded him of something…of someone, a story he had heard in his youth of the fate of Harrenhal and its Iron King.
“Pull it out.” he ordered the men, the sharkish grin returning to his face as they got to work reattaching it to the ship, though his eyes lacked any mirth.
He had his ship, it had a name and figurehead, and he had a crew. Yet, it would be the loneliest name day Killion Greyjoy had ever known.