GOT : All Left Behind

"They are troublesome, yes, but the alternative is too expensive and unnecessary."

I landed at the Arbor in a poor mood. In all honesty, there was nothing wrong with the island. It was a beautiful teardrop-shaped patch of land just to the southwest of Oldtown, covered in a dozen vibrant shades of green. 

This far south, it was all but guaranteed to be hot, but the perpetual sea breeze kept the heat from being unbearable. Even the salty smell of the air was manageable, some past Lord Redwyne having had the wise decision to take advantage of the climate to plant fragrant flowers in every patch of soil too poor to grow crops.

Were this any other time, this would have been a beautiful place to be. An island paradise just a short trip on dragonback.

But I would rather have been home in King's Landing.

I would have rather had more time.

More than twenty years ago, I had bitterly used that phrase over and over again. More time to work, more time to write, more time to myself. More time to live. But now, it felt even more bitter knowing that I would be leaving the sweetness of home for the harsh reality of war. No, it was worse than that; I was going to war, leading a campaign of death and destruction, at the head of the Ironborn.

Part of me -the lethally curious part of me, admittedly- recognized the opportunity to learn more of one of my father's more insular vassal cultures. A case could be made that they were far closer to the First Men before the Andal Invasion than even the people of the North. This was an opportunity to get a closer look at them, at how another culture lived and breathed and warred.

The rest of me, however, absolutely dreaded it.

These were the Ironborn. They were synonymous with pillage, murder, piracy, and the closest thing Westeros had to slavery. Were it not for the numerous innocents and green boys who had never before gone reaving beyond the borders of the Seven Kingdoms, I would have been tempted to 'lose' my army to a 'freak storm' off the Dornish coast.

But those were monstrous thoughts, and not worthy of entertaining for more than a moment. These were men of my father's realm, legally innocent of any crime. What right did I have to kill them? For not subscribing to my particular brand of morality? They were part of this kingdom, the same as I. And I would be leading them to war.

I wish I had had more time, the familiar refrain echoed through my mind once more. A few more days with Aerion and Aerea would have eased the burden on my soul. A few more days with Viserys would have distracted me from what I was going to do. A few more days with Maegelle would have reminded me of what was right and justified.

But I had not had a few more days, only the one.

And it had passed some time ago.

I was making decisions based on stereotypes, I realized. Mayhaps the Ironborn would be a pleasant surprise. Mayhaps I would encounter some halfway reasonable individuals instead of a collection of butchers with an unfortunate penchant for rape and piracy.

I failed to contain a snort of amusement, and I felt the Cannibal stir behind me. For convenience, we had claimed the keep's central courtyard for the meeting. My royal prerogative, and the orders from the king himself, had given me a free hand to do as I pleased and claim whatever areas of the keep that I needed. And since there were no other places in the keep that could house the Cannibal, there was really no other choice but to meet them in the courtyard.

There were men to greet, after all. And what better place to receive them than in front of a giant murderous fire-lizard? A sleepy fire-lizard, granted, but that hardly detracted from his size. Especially when the people could be a touch belligerent.

It was in that courtyard that I waited for the captains of the Ironborn fleet. From what I knew, or at least according to stereotypes, they were martial people. Trying to sway them as one might sway the average westerosi noble would only go poorly. Thus, I found myself channeling the image of my great grandsire. At least, if the Conqueror had worn white armor, wielded a white blade, and flew a substantially smaller dragon.

No, not important. What was important was the image of the martial prince, here to command his father's subjects.

And eventually, the horde of Ironborn captains arrived at the courtyard, each clad in a unique arrangement of boiled leather, mail, and plate. No two captains were dressed alike, and few bore any heraldry, but that was not what concerned me.

It was how they approached that made me worry. Not in a trickle did they arrive, not in clusters, but all at once. They had been talking beforehand, I knew immediately, had met to discuss strategy without me.

It meant they had ulterior motives.

But who would speak for them? Who would take charge? Who was their leader, and would thus become my second for this campaign?

Judging by the man at their head, I could only dread the following weeks. Roughspun robes the color of the sea, unkempt hair, a wild beard, and the unmistakable driftwood cudgel made it clear what this man's vocation was. A Drowned Man, one of the priests of the Drowned God.

This was a man who drowned people, either to kill them or to make them priests in his own image. A calculated move, it had to be. Or an insult. A group of captains meeting with a prince more pious than most? Why, send a priest! Who could go wrong?

"Ironborn," I greeted the assembled captains. Each of them, I knew, commanded a ship and its crew. Losing the loyalty of one, or failing to secure their obedience at all, meant my force would be diminished. "I am glad that you were able to reach the Arbor in such great numbers."

"Spare us your empty platitudes," one of the assembled captains grumbled once the mass of leaders had come to a halt. Not the priest at their head, blessedly. Had their informal leader proved this diplomatically challenged, then this would have been a doomed effort from the beginning. "We are here for war, not bandying words."

"A courtesy," I said evenly, refusing to let my temper slip its leash. Cooperation between a commander and his levied troops was essential. Allowing myself to be ruled by my anger would only hinder my efforts. "I may be unfamiliar with the customs of the Iron Islands, but I would prefer we start this campaign on good terms."

"Should have at least fed and watered us before telling us where to go." The Rude Ironborn declared. No formal address, no title, not even a polite phrasing. Mayhaps this was the end result of a culture where every captain was a king aboard his own ship, but that did not make for a conducive working relationship. "That is courtesy."

Hm. That… that could still work. I had a fair amount of coin with me, enough to buy every captain and his crew some decent ale and meat. Mayhaps even some mead from Beesbury lands; They were close enough, and my soon-to-be goodbrother's house could certainly spare it.

But it would set a poor precedent. The men would expect the same every time I needed something from them in the future. Before I had time to ponder the situation further, the priest spoke for the first time.

"Peace, Matthos," he chided the Ironborn with a gentle tone in a rough voice, as though he had been drinking salt water before the meeting. Though I appreciated the gesture, it did rouse my suspicion. They had all arrived as one, and had had the time and opportunity to compose a strategy ahead of time. This might simply have been a way for them to ingratiate themselves. "His Grace Prince Vaegon is a Greenlander and ignorant of our ways. We must forgive him the occasional lapse, I think."

There was a glint in his eye that I did not like, and I already knew the game he was playing. They would forgive this lapse, and I would be forced to act with a looser leash. If I did not take this offer, it would only sow the seeds of mistrust. Deprived of an easy solution, I decided to take a risk.

"You are generous," I said, rising to my feet to speak to the gathered captains as an equal. I was not their king, to command them from a throne, but merely the man who would lead them on the battlefield. From high above the battlefield, admittedly, but I would still lead them. "Too generous, really, so I cannot accept such a gift. This calls for a proper apology. One at a time, step forwards."

"You going to give us a kiss and say you're sorry?" Another Ironborn called out. Mayhaps I had been too hasty in labeling only one of the Ironborn as rude. It appeared to be cultural. Mayhaps they were suicidal instead? There was a giant dragon behind me, after all, and it had done nothing to dissuade their poor choice of words.

"No, but you are going to tell me how many men you brought," I said without missing a beat. "I need to know how much ale to buy to properly apologize for my ignorance." There, that was better. No feast as a precondition of following orders, but as an apology. A more acceptable standard was set, while they still received their feast.

"Done!" A third captain shouted, shoving to the front of the pack. No heraldry, no banner, just salt-stained leather and mail. As common a man as could exist, and not a hint of hesitation to speak to a prince as though we were equals. Yes, this was definitely cultural. This would go either magnificently well or horribly wrong. "A hundred and three men aboard Naga's Bane."

As many dozen captains all began to shout numbers at me, I realized that I had been, in fact wrong: This would not be exclusively good or bad. It would also be expensive.

Horribly, horribly expensive.

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AN : 

And we are heading back into the action. Back to... Dorne. Great. This next part will actually be fairly important for future plot points, so I can't just skip it. This is turning into a far longer section of story than I had anticipated.

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Hey guys I really need you to throw some power stones to elevate the ranking :)

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