Faircastle had been redecorated in red. Tapestries once enamouring lay strewn across the floor torn and charred, gold coins were scattered about soaked in blood and sobbing could be heard occasionally, breaking an otherwise deafening silence. A great banquet had been laid out in the main hall, fine food from all across the Seven Kingdoms sat delicately untouched or else splayed out across the floor like many of the unfortunate guests. Their celebration had come prematurely.

“Peace?” The word sounded queer coming from his mouth, like a man tasting sour wine. Dalton Greyjoy swilled the idea around in his mind before spitting it out, face ever passive. He was the only person sat at the great feast table, but he wasn’t feeling much of an appetite, he hungered for something different.

“Please, the war is over damn you!” The lords voice sounded desperate and distant, Dalton paid it no heed. She looked like [i]her[/i]...His attention was focused on one of the serving girls, her hair a faint shade of gold, almost grey, her blue eyes staring vacantly into nothingness as blood pooled out of her. No, he thought, not like [i]her.[/i]

Why do this? The question came to him unbound. A thought that had haunted over him for a while now, he had never cared for gold or glory, but he liked to believe there was some method to his actions, some overarching point he was trying to make. He’d made a mistake so long ago and for that it seemed the world needed to pay.

“Someone, write this down.” Dalton’s voice was hoarse but there was power behind it, one of the Ironborn scrambled to retrieve paper from the twisted remains of a Maester. “Tell the king that I will keep his peace.” Dalton’s eyes slowly wound down to the letter upon the table, half blood stained; the Dance of the Dragons was over and [i]Aegon III[/i] now ruled. 

“Tell him he need not concern himself with the western shore now, his friend Dalton Greyjoy will protect it for him.” The remaining citizens of Faircastle were huddled against the throne, their eyes spoke fear and each hung on his every word. “I will be his warden of the west, hunt down the traitors and supporters of his false uncle and they will never trouble him again.” Dalton’s eyes locked with Lord Farman’s. “My lord,” He murmured softly. “You’re looking a little [i]green.”[/i]

Dalton stood up with alarming speed; Midnight was in his hand, his stolen sword of Valyrian steel and he had the aged lord by the throat, Dalton’s formerly passive expression was now twisted up in rage. Slowly, slowly he slid midnight up into the man’s ribcage, watching as an expression of abject horror took over Farman and a scream that turned into a gurgle as blood dripped from his mouth before darkness finally took him.

“The Red Kraken does not heel.” Dalton spoke with a distant voice, but there was an undeniable edge to his tone. He wiped Midnight across the lords already sodden cloths then turned slowly to the nearest captain. “Where is my brother? I must plan and I need Veron.”

As the captain turned away Dalton found his eyes wandering back to the girl, this one was younger and her mouth was wrong, [i]hers[/i] had always been smiling, this, mouth was screaming. He would find whichever of his men had done that to her, it was unforgivable.

“Her.” He said walking over to the corpse, his cloak draped across the floor soaking up blood as he went. He stopped in front of the girl, knelt and carefully ran the back of his hand across her lifeless face. “Take her to my bedchambers.”