[h1]The Ironborn[/h1]

Lord Cidran Harlaw, his brother Maxos and Lil’ Ant Harlaw all stood in the ruins of a Westerland river town. The place functioned as a trade center. Barges moving up and down the river to the coast and then up to places inland where goods are exchanged back and forth. But today, the town burns. The Lord of the Harlaw family has one hell of a chip on his shoulder when it came to the Westerlands, especially the houses of Brax and Crakehall. Any time he could manage he’d go out of his way to leave a message for either of the Houses. And today Cidran, his brothers and their three ships are deep into the heart of the Westerlands. Every single soldier stationed here already a corpse, just a few of the civilians remain, many of them also butchered and left to become maggot food on the streets, and inside their burning homes.

Cidran breathes in deep, smelling the carnage. His brothers and their raiders stood in the city center, around a very nice looking bit of masonry that was at one point a fountain, but the tip of it, a Crakehall emblem now lay crushed to one side, a soldier head impaled upon the stump of stone at the top. His still open eyes stared into the distance blankly. Cidran turned slowly, to look at the few remaining citizens of the town, a bailiff of the town court, the mayor, a few families here and there, the children of which were being taken to the ships, to be broken and trained as Thralls. He chuckled softly. Looking at the last remaining Westlanders here, “So, I’m sure you’re curious what this is all about.” He grinned as a few of the raiders walked by all casually with some of the spoils of the raid. A big chest of silver and some food and drink. One of them already drinking deeply of a big bottle of beer. Cidran chuckled, “I know how much you must hate us for this. But this isn’t your fault. Nor is it ours. If you blame anyone while going to your graves, blame your great lord King Tyget Crakehall. He’s the one who started this. And he’ll be the one to pay for it. But not in your lifetime I’m afraid.” At a nod his brothers and raiders struck, all but the mayor was left alive after the Ironborn fell on the last members of the town. Throats were slit. Maxo set a record with how far he can knock a head off someone’s shoulders with his mace. Antom Harlaw ended his victim with a quick slick push of his long dagger through her shoulder down into her heart. The only man left was the mayor. It’s Cidran who walks up on him, “You’re going to be the signature of our message. When someone finds this town burnt to the ground, cinders blowing in the wind. They’ll find you all. But you most of all.”

Cidran fell upon the man. His sword sliding free, a dagger in the other hand. The mayor had a quick end. But the desecration of his body was such that few would recognize him. Cidran wanted to send a message. He began to cut, and carve. The eyes were the first to be removed. Torn free of his lifeless head. Set upon the edge of the fountain. Next was the mayors tongue, cut free and placed between the eyes. The man that was the mayor butchered right there as the rest of the town was piled high and set alight. Cidran still worked though. Next came the mans ears, sawn off and placed beside the eyes. Last to come off were the mayor’s balls. His manhood desecrated with a sawing motion of the dagger in his hand. His son Peytr brought him a wooden box, into which Cidran placed the items. And he placed on the edge of the fountain. He left a note atop the box, that read, “The Iron Islands remember, Crakehall.”
Their message to the Westerlands left, the raiders gathered up their loot. Boarded their ships. And with the heave of oars and the billow of sails. Disappeared back out to open water. It would be a day later when a patrol came to the town, finding the devastated town, the grisly container and the note. And not long later that the letter and contents taken to the throne room of Tyget Crakehall.

[h3][i]Several Days Later[/i][/h3]

Cidran leaned out from the side of the Black Vision, an Ironship fully 120 meters long, with a pair of scorpion launchers and a spitfire launcher on top of that. The mighty ship had one hundred and ten souls aboard, of course armed as you might figure. The Elder Harlaw watches as they cut through the waves off of Old Wyk Island. The raiding had finished, mostly. The ships are returning. And many of the Houses of the Iron Islands are sailing for Old Wyk.

On the way in he’s already seen ships flying the banners of Houses like Botley, Humble, Sharp and Ironmaker. The ship flying his brother in laws colors, those from Blacktyde had pulled up beside them a few hours ago. And his wife and her brother had been playfully shouting jibes and barbs back and forth across the water at each other. His son’s cousin from Blacktyde had swung across on a rope during a swell and the pair were now engaged in a friendly sword duel on the deck of the Iron ship, practicing to fight during the dips and swells of the water.

Ahead the shore below Nagga’s Hill loomed. There were already a few ships beached up on the rocky shore. One flying the banner of House Stonetree, another flying the colors of House Volmark. Cidran hrmed as he jumped off the rigging and landed beside his brothers. He groaned and popped his back, having landed a little badly. His little brother Jonaton reaching back and helping him stand tall, “Easy brother. Don’t hurt yourself before the Moot. You’re our best bet after all.” Cidran growled, “Even if I don’t want the Seastone chair brother? I want the Islands to succeed, but taking that Seastone chair on Pyke, that’s not my best outlook of things.” He sighed and stood up full and straight, “But I will put my name forward anyway. Maybe just maybe the name of Cidran Harlaw will be called out the loudest.” He gave a chuckle, and looked back over his shoulder, his brothers here to stand with him, his wife at hand, her hair flowing in the sea air. His son coughing and laughing on the deck after his cousin had landed a proper blow on him.
He shouted out, warning everyone of the upcoming beaching of the ship. He grabbed abit of rigging, While his brother Maxos leaned forward. His wife squealed and grabbed the gunwale. The ship growled and groaned as it hit the sand and rocks with a mighty boom! Several of his men jumping off the ship, crashing to the shore and pulling the ship up a few more feet, securing the might Iron Boat to the shore. And then turning to watch the already gathered Ironborn. These men were here for the Kingsmoot.

Soon Cidran swung down and landed calling out, “I am Lord Cidran Harlaw, Lord of Ten Towers, Lord Harlaw, I come to put my name forth for the Kingsmoot.” A Drowned Man, one of the priests of the Drowned God stepped through the crowd and called out, “Then be welcome to Nagga’s Hill, Cidran Harlaw. We begin as soon as all the Salt and Stone Kings who wish to put their name forth have arrived. Come. Join us on the Hill.”

[h2]Somewhere in The Reach[/h2]

A pot clattered over the heat of the stove. One of several in the underground hidden section of the small building in fact. In the pot a slurry of mashed up vegetation. And what looked like scorpion stingers…or maybe even Manticore tail tips. It’s not really clear, the way they are all just floating there. Could be anything really. After a moment the lid is lifted off the pot, and a pair of green eye peer down at the strange slurry within the pot. A small steel spoon raises then dips in, stirring the mix, once, twice, thrice. A few ginger taps on the side of the pot and it’s closed again, keeping what is likely a very dangerous mix hidden from the eyes of any who might descend into this alcove under the house. Roderick Flower, scion of House Hunt hrms, running a hand over his tattooed shaven head. He heads over to another of the many stoves, their exhaust pipes built through the walls, and cleverly hidden when they reach the surface behind the house. Where smoke or floating embers wouldn’t be out of place.

It's a good few minutes before Roddy heads up stairs to the house and shop he tends too. As you might expect no one entered the building while the slightly eccentric apothercary, brewer and rumoured assassin was out of sight. Some of the items on the shelves, quite dangerous to the people who didn’t know how to use them correctly. There are loads of people who would love to get their hands on essense of nightshade, or concentrated wolfsbane, but those people don’t usually come to the small little shop on the outskirts of one of the many little satellite towns that dot the area around Horn Hill. 

It’s still several more minutes later, that we find the young man reading a book on various uses for certain plants and animal parts. Like the poison paste he had taken off the heat. Business this day is fairly light, none of his normal clients or any new clients make their way into his shop. Thankfully he did fairly good business with those people who used his services so he didn’t have to worry about going out of business anytime soon.

So he waited. Maybe just maybe someone would come along to visit Little Roddy Flowers, the Poison Flower of House Hunt.