[b][u]Dalton Greyjoy[/u][/b]

"My Lord. A message from the blacks."

Those were the words that greeted Dalton when he returned to his family's ancestral seat of Pyke - a once mighty castle that had eroded into a collection of towers connected by rope bridges. They had a tendency to sway violently in storms or strong winds, and it was not unheard of for a thrall or warrior to slip or be blown to their doom. Back from another dull day of inspecting ships and overseeing the training of warriors, he had initially worn a bored expression on his face... but news from the east peaked his interest.

Dalton snatched the message from Doric's hands, and immediately begun reading.

Then, he threw back his head and laughed.

"My lord?" Doric ventured nervously, as the nearby guards inclined their heads in confusion or interest.

"It is as I said!" Dalton exclaimed when his laughter died down, a smile on his face.

"There's another message, my lord. From the greens." Dalton wasted no time in snatching that one and reading it as well. His smile did not fade, but he looked from letter to letter, an eyebrow raised.

Finally, Dalton spoke. "Prepare a meeting. You, the Drowned Man, my brother, and my best captains."

...

A little less than an hour later, they were assembled. Seated at a table in Dalton's own quarters. Edron, Doric, Veron Greyjoy, three captains, and Dalton himself at the head. Veron seemed out of place - no doubt the youngest of them all at fourteen, and clearly lacking his elder brother's confidence and experience despite their similarities in appearance.

Dalton had just finished reading through the letters - skipping through the needlessly long titles, of course - and grinning haughtily throughout. Finally, he finished, and after a few moments of silence - when it became evident he was waiting for someone to speak - Maester Doric spoke up.

"Who do you intend to declare for, my lord?"

"A mainlander brat, or a mainlander whore. I don't see the difference." One of the captains - a bulky man named Korrin - muttered.

"I'll take the brat over the whore. I won't send my men out to fight and die for some woman who never even lifted a sword." The second captain - a tall and lanky man named Ragmer - added his voice to the argument.

"Aye. And this Aegon was chosen to be leader - doesn't sound too different from the Kingsmoots of old." Lenning, the final captain, spoke up.

"If it was anything like a Kingsmoot of old, we would have had a say in it." Ragmer shot back.

"You think I care which kinfucking Targaryen has the rightful claim to a metal chair?" Dalton spoke up, his loud and authoritive tone causing men who had lived over a decade longer than him to freeze up.

"But my lord. You had everyone building..." Doric began.

"By the Drowned God, you think I would sit this out!?" Dalton demanded, tone filled with exasperation. Doric said nothing.

"Then why not join the Greens?" asked Ragmer. "The whore hasn't offered you anything. She'll forget about you the moment the war ends and you stop being useful. The brat offers us a target whose pockets are no doubt lined with gold."

"Aegon also offers you the position of Master of Ships." Doric offered. "With a posting on the Small Council, you can enjoy a great deal of influence, and as Master of Ships..."

"...I can build, organize, and command Aegon's fleets for him?" Dalton questioned. "Does he also want me to fetch his meals and wipe his ass? What kind of King can't manage his own fleet? But no, I should be honored, I suppose. Grateful that a heathen Ironborn savage like myself was even noticed, yet alone considered for the position." Now his voice was dripping with sarcasm, but then it turned serious once again. "I already have the best fleet. Why would I help make some other twat's fleet even stronger? Why would I leave my homeland to go kiss the boots of some foreign King in a foreign city and give my brother Veron here the chance to usurp my own seat in a heartbeat?" He clasped Veron's shoulder in a friendly manner to show that he meant nothing by it. Then with a roll of his eyes he turned back to Doric. "Do you even remember what it [i]means[/i] to be Ironborn?"

Doric declined to mention the fact that he had returned to the Iron Islands as a maester years ago, before Dalton had even gone on his first reaving. He hadn't fought, but he was not unfamiliar with the culture... he just couldn't help but look down on it, and Dalton sensed it. Instead, Doric took the verbal abuse in silence, having long since grown used to it.

Then Dalton turned to Ragmer. "And Aegon would have us sail to the other side of the continent, to fight some sea snake fellow. For land that we can't hold and gold that will run out."

"But the Queen hasn't offered us [i]anything[/i]." Ragmer countered.

"The Queen sent us the same note she sent everyone else, when she was in grief and had less time to prepare than Aegon. She'll notice our neutrality, and she will need us on her side... if only to rest assured that we won't fuck her in the ass when she least expects it. I'm sure we'll get an actual offer, soon." Dalton argued. "And if we don't hear back? We take Aegon's offer, sail around the world, raid her villages, sink her fleet, and any who ally with her. If we capture her, maybe I can even take her as a salt wife for a few days before delivering her to the King?" He suggested with a smile. "Besides, the longer we wait, the further the lords send their armies inland - which means we'll have an easier time raiding the coasts."

That seemed to placate Ragmer, and anyone else who might have had concerns in their own. In truth, there weren't many - none of them had any love for the Targaryens.

Dalton then went on to address the room as a whole. "I don't just want to fill our pockets. I want something that will last. I want to pay the Iron Price. I want to return us to the Old Way. I want to make the Ironborn [i]feared[/i] again. What is dead may never die."

"What is dead may never die!" The room echoed.