"The next time I suggest sending the Ironborn into a situation that may involve diplomacy,
please inquire as to the status of my massive brain damage."
Life was good. With how things were going, how could it not be? Things were proceeding according to schedule. My men were giving a good showing. And I had even managed to get stuck in!
Oh, to be able to break down a wall alongside a squad of my men and clear a room of glorified thugs, thieves, slavers, and rapists! To be able to point to a large expanse of ruins and rubble and truthfully proclaim that I, among several hundred other men, did that! Even the Cannibal seemed to partake in the good mood, sprawled out quite languidly among the debris of the ruined pirate town, basking in the sun and paying no mind to the destruction and danger around him.
By the Warrior above, I had missed this!
Did it bode well that I was taking such pleasure in fighting? That I focused more on the glory of having adrenaline singing in my veins than on the good I was doing? Mayhaps, but that was something to ask a septon.
Except it wasn't. Even I could answer that question.
The Book of the Warrior had been quite clear. There was no better way of proving your prowess than a direct contest. And why would you live to see the end of a battle if the Seven did not will it? There was nothing wrong with enjoying war; it was the purest worship of an entire aspect of the divine, after all. The dead would be mourned, their achievements glorified, and life would continue.
Another rickety shack collapsed as my men tore down a wall, the remaining walls unable to keep the roof in place. The actual fighting had stopped some hours ago, when I had marched through the winding maze of streets with my men. Now granted, those fights had been closer to horribly lopsided street brawls than proper battles, but they had been productive in clearing out a few hundred pirates.
Tragically, this little incursion had become a lot less productive when the pirates decided to take shelter in their shacks. Their poorly constructed, poorly planned, rickety, and dangerously inflammable shacks. The other invasion groups were busy tearing their shacks down by hand, one at a time, or more likely several dozen at a time, given how the concepts of sane architecture were a polite suggestion to these pirates.
Fortunately, we had a dragon. A dragon who was busy relaxing atop the still smoldering remains of what remained of nine-tenths of the settlement on Bloodstone. Basking, relaxing, and digesting. Which left us to handle the remaining shacks. As the men on the other islands were doing.
"Lazy beast," the captain of the third company muttered with a glance at the Cannibal. Pate had earned his position the same way as my other officers: competence in dealing with his subordinates, and a basic understanding of logistics. That did not, unfortunately, make him a brilliant, or even skilled, tactician. Those skills, fortunately, could be taught at a later date. "But that's why you've got us, eh, Your Grace?"
"Quite." I did not wish to publicly rebuke the captain by reminding him that having several hundred men on a burning island was suboptimal. Besides, his work had been sufficient. This was the last group of shacks still standing on the island. Which meant that my need here was minimal. "Once these buildings are cleared away, set up camp and fortify. The other companies, too."
These men had things well in hand. They would manage.
"Going to see to the men on the other islands?" he asked, but I shook my head, the mail chiming softly.
"I have faith in your fellows," I said. After all, the other islands had far small settlements than Bloodstone. The forces deployed to them had been overkill, true, but they also had lacked a dragon. A few hundred for each island with no more than a thousand pirates and assorted rabble was sufficient. "No, I must see how the Ironborn are doing."
"The Ironborn?" Pate asked. "I wouldn't trust them either."
"I trust them to take the islands they need to," I said. "But it is more a question of having them hold the islands instead of moving on."
Using glorified, and officially sanctioned, pirates to wipe out regular pirates was madness, that much was clear. After having led those same Ironborn on campaign in Dorne, I had experienced their madness firsthand. Which was why I had taken the time to actually do some research on Ironborn culture before meeting them for this next part.
But they were still more trouble than they were worth.
"You have your orders, captain," I told him before slowly picking my way through the ruined landscape of splintered and charred wood. "I'll ensure further orders will be included in the next shipment of supplies."
"Until then, Your Grace," Pate said, turning back to the far more interesting sight of a shack being slowly dismantled. Trusting him to his task, I kept moving.
"Cannibal!" I greeted my mount. The beast in question slowly shifted into a vaguely attentive posture. "We're leaving."
He growled by way of an answer. But he wasn't roaring, so this was as good as a sign of assent and compliance. And he didn't try to throw me off as I clambered into the saddle. And he didn't try to death-roll while I chained myself into place.
Clearly, he was just putting on an act. Lazy lizard.
But once we were in the air… we were in the air, cutting through the skies above brilliant blue seas. Up here, we were free to soar, free to fly. No duties, no obligations beyond moving towards our goal.
A goal that came a lot sooner than we had predicted. Though Bloodstone sat in the middle of the northern edge of the Stepstones, it was not terribly far from the coast of Dorne. And an even shorter flight to the closest island to said coast. Unlike Bloodstone, this one was closer to Dorne in climate. Or at least a lot drier and sparsely forested.
We circled briefly above the small island. Also unlike Bloodstone, most of the buildings had been kept intact, though the harbor here was absolutely clogged with ships, each of them bearing a different banner. And at the highest point of the island, or at least atop the most secure structure rising more than a single floor above the stony ground, fluttered the golden kraken on a sable field of House Greyjoy.
And in the middle of that clogged harbor, a small fishing boat bearing, bearing a familiar device: a red sun on a spear on an orange background. Surrounded by the seven-colored ribbons of a peace banner. There was a heat building in our throat that demanded it be unleashed. But it was a single ship, surrounded by allies.
That would not do.
We swallowed our fury and came down hard upon the small island, landing beyond the edge of the small settlement. The cluster of men standing closest staggered, covering their faces as a gust of air spread a cloud of dust all over them. The smaller half was disentangling himself from the chains that kept him secure before the dust had cleared, hitting the ground and striding towards the center of the settlement.
The Martells had sent their agents here.
I kept a hand on my sword as I moved through the streets, wondering if I should have brought some guards with me. No, my arms and armor would have to suffice.
"Your Grace." I was intercepted by a familiar voice. The Priest. The Drowned Man had served as the representative of the many captains during the Dornish campaign. Why was he here? How had he managed to get dragged into this? "Your presence is fortuitous."
It was to drown prisoners, wasn't it?
"I could guess as much from the presence of a Martell ship," I said without breaking stride. "Whom did they send? And what are they doing with Lord Greyjoy?"
"The Princess of Dorne did not send anyone, Your Grace," the priest said, and that was enough to halt me in my tracks. Right before making me set off even faster.
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