Some Time Prior to the Tourney at Gulltown
Kraken’s Reach was a pebble among the Stepstones, three leagues square at most, and home to naught but a fishing village nestled in a rocky cove and a squat, four-walled tower perched on the cliffs above. It could not have been home to more than a hundred fishermen and goatherds, all of them living in ramshackle, driftwood hovels.Those present for Brandon’s landing watched him come ashore with an unfocused disinterest. He and his men wore wolf and ermine furs, a strange sight in this climate, but the villagers paid little mind to visitors beyond the occasional Tyroshi merchant. Brandon had nothing to sell or trade them.
The climb to the tower was a steep and rocky affair. The tower was worth little in terms of strategic value, but defensibly speaking it had great promise. With a half adequate garrison and further fortification it stood to be impregnable. The uphill road, wide enough for no more than a small cart’s width, was rough and uneven, a haphazardly cut gouge in the mountainous landscape of the island with steep rock walls to either side. Brandon and his companions walked single file to be surer of their steps over the treacherous terrain; the Greyjoys had chosen their outpost well. Crossbowmen atop the rocks and a line of shields on the road could bring an army to ruin, he observed.
The tower itself, however, was in disrepair, a weathered structure that seemed half a ruin. To its credit it had a wall Brandon’s height, and while hardly capable of stopping an enemy it would certainly slow him down. The gate was raised when they arrived, though no one was in sight. At least, no one save the three corpses strung from the portcullis. Their feet dangled half a hand from the ground, and upon closing the distance Brandon judged them to have been dead for some time. One of his men drew a blade and made to cut them down.
“Don’t,” Brandon hissed with great urgency, hand raised. The man looked at him quizzically.
“They’re in the way,” he said, stating the obvious.
“We are guests on this island, and this man is no host to offend,” the sellsail answered gravely, "nor question. These men are not our concern." His companion, a young Pentoshi man named Naheo, slid his dagger back into its sheath. Brandon pushed past the corpse dangling in the middle, holding his breath to shield himself from the stench of death. His men followed his example, and once past the gates they made for the tower itself.
-
An Ironborn warrior in iron brigandine showed them to the solar, and Brandon found their host slouched in an authoritative chair, inelegantly carved from what seemed to be driftwood. He was garbed in ornamental black and scarlet silks, cutting a striking image in the plain, dimly lit room. The oils in his black hair glimmered in the lurching lantern light, and his dark eyes smiled with the glint of fire. It had been half a year since they'd met last, but the man hadn't changed save for a white hrakkar mantle that had taken the place of the sable cloak Brandon recalled.
The driftwood chair was the only chair in the solar. It was the only object in the solar, in fact. The room, a square space at the top of the tower, was completely bare save for the seat of Kraken’s Reach. It was not a luxurious hall. Brandon, under the guise of a hedge knight, had chanced to travel to the Crownlands for a tourney some few years ago, and had visited the halls of half a dozen lords in that time. The Westerosi lords had decorated their solars with stag, wolf, and aurochs pelts, rich tapestries, and stained glass, and all had more lordly chairs than the one before him. Criston Greyjoy, the Lord of Kraken’s Reach, sat the chair as though he were born to exceed it.
A goblet swayed in his right hand, the gold clicking gently against the many rings that adorned his splayed fingers. Brandon espied the black glint of dragonglass, and the bloody red twinkle of a ruby set on a band of Valyrian steel, to say nothing of gold, silver, emeralds, and sapphires. The raven haired lord dismissed their escort with a wave of the glittering hand, and the Ironborn man saw himself out.
“Wine, old friend?” Criston asked, lazily gesturing to the serving girl at his side. She held a large crystal carafe, half full of the blood red liquid. Brandon shook his head and thanked him for the offer. “Do you want the girl?” he asked bluntly, sizing her up. There was a heavy silence and a heavier stillness, broken only by the girl’s trembling. She was a feather of a child, no older than ten years of age. The pause grew longer and more uncomfortable, and Brandon could feel the eyes of his men on him. With terrible suddenness. Criston’s mouth split into a red stained grin, and the hall echoed with his laughter. He laughed alone. “I jest, of course,” he clarified.
“A dark jape, Lord Greyjoy,” Brandon answered, eyeing the trembling girl. He’d suspected as much, but there was all too often no telling with this man.
“Mayhaps it was,” Criston replied, unapologetic, and then repeated, “Lord Grejoy.” He seemed to consider the words for a moment. “Have your men leave us. I must speak with you privately,” he continued, and took to draining what wine remained in the goblet. Brandon’s men showed themselves to the doors of the solar, a little too eagerly in his opinion. Once they’d seen themselves out, Criston rose with a violent swiftness and flung his goblet across the room. The golden cup skipped across stone, and what little wine remained within splattered across the floor. In the room’s dim lighting it looked morbidly like blood.
“Clean that up,” Criston roared, and the serving girl set the carafe down and scurried after his goblet with fear in her eyes and stride. Hrakkar cloak whirling as he turned, he stalked his way to a window offering a view out onto the rocky cove and village below. “Lord Greyjoy,” he spat, his tone all but dripping venom. Mad as ever, Brandon thought. Maron Greyjoy’s issue were rumored to be touched by a madness that ran in the blood. Brandon had dismissed such notions as foolish before he became acquainted with Criston’s erratic, half-manic fits, to say nothing of his encounter with the Mad Kraken of Wreckstone. “Lord Greyjoy of what?” Criston demanded.
“You are the Lord of Kraken’s Reach,” Brandon replied, fighting the urge to scratch an old scar, “a domain that is yours by right.”
“Aye, I got my damn island,” Criston growled, turning to face Brandon. Half his face was bathed in the reddening sun’s light. He offered a wickedly red smirk that had the color and sharpness of a bloody knife. “It’s merely on the wrong side of the fucking world.” He held out his open hand toward the girl, and she came hurrying with the goblet, newly filled.
“That makes it no less yours,” Brandon growled. “I have sailed a week to this island, and I place great value on my time. If you have you called me here for a reason, I would have you get to the point of the matter, rather than dance around its edges.” He’d told his men Criston was no man to offend, but Brandon knew how to keep him checked. Criston loved words the way the Red Priests loved fire. Perhaps there was something to be said of language's beauty, but Brandon had no interest in poetry or rhetoric. “Speak plainly,” he finished. Criston took a long draught of wine.
“My sweet, half-sane cousin and I are not the only krakens this side of the world, Brandon.” Criston returned to his driftwood chair and sat himself down. Brandon pursed his lips as he went through the Greyjoys he knew. Criston was the only one relevant to the Free Cities as of late, and he’d not seen nor heard of any longships other than his. “Gyselle came to me, bearing tidings of our grandfather’s health,” the Lord of Kraken’s Reach clarified.
“And how does he fare?” Brandon prompted, realizing, after a momentary pause, that a response was expected of him.
“He dies as we speak, and once he is dead we will have a new Lord of the Iron Islands.”
“And I am sure there will be a lovely feast,” Brandon said, hoping that Criston took note of his tone. He did not sail to this obscure corner of the world to hear of a man he'd never met.
“I trust you have not forgotten the debt you owe me, Brandon Greystark.” Criston regarded him with eyes dark with malice, his voice flat. Brandon felt a chill spread from his heart and into his limbs. He had not forgotten. Could not forget.
Brandon had first heard of Criston Greyjoy by way of a saying that had taken root among sellswords hired by Tyrosh and Lys. For ordinary sellsails a man pays with gold, but for the Eclipse he pays with the soul, or so they had said. Criston was an oddity among sellsails for rarely dealing in coin. He fought for other, darker treasures. Some said that, on the outbreak of the last war, Lys purchased the Eclipse and her captain for the price of a Lysene merchant lord’s eldest daughter. Others said it was the girl’s maidenhead, or all three daughters, or all five daughters and their mother, and so on and so forth. Rumors birthed new rumors, but one thing was certain; Criston Greyjoy was no man to hire lightly, nor a man to owe a debt.
Brandon had the distinct misfortune of owing Criston Greyjoy his life.
“I have not forgotten,” Brandon replied. Criston favored him with a long, languid smile, and his eyes were a confident promise.
"Good." He looked into the goblet and considered its contents a moment before continuing. "I believe names have great power. Do you know who Criston Cole was?"
"The Kingmaker."
"I suspect in naming me for him my late father had hoped I, too, would shoulder the burden of leading men, and laying the brick and mortar for new chapters in the annals of history." The Greyjoy corsair drained the chalice of its remaining wine and handed it to his cupbearer. "No more," he ordered as she made to fill it again. "Upon my lord grandfather's passing," he continued, "I shall be fourth in the succession to Pyke - fifth, if my dear cousin Victaria can rally men to her name. I mean to change that."
"You mean to take the Iron Islands," Brandon said gravely.
"I mean for the Ironborn to give them to me," Criston corrected. There was something in his voice that made Brandon uneasy, like the grating screech of steel edges dragged against one another. “Unfortunately, some of my kin may need to be sacrificed for the sake of my vision.”
“No man is so accursed as the kinslayer,” Brandon warned, shifting uncomfortably as he realized that Criston was slowly reaching the purpose of summoning the sellsail to his keep. Criston smiled an aloof, lazy smile.
“Incest and kinslaying are both affronts against the gods, old and new,” he replied, “yet the Targaryens are kings and Bloodraven all but rules the realm. The Faith grovels and the Drowned God’s followers kneel before men who ought to have been smote for their sins. The world is ruled by the godless, Brandon, and the godly suffer what they must.”
“And you are no godly man.” Criston turned his hand over and distractedly admired his carefully kempt fingernails.
“No,” he said, bored, “I should think not.” He flicked a speck of invisible grime out from under his third nail. “I require your services.”
“I figured as much,” Brandon said. He hoped his voice did not betray his trepidation.
“How loyal are your men?” Criston asked sharply, the question pointed and concise. “Do they serve you, or gold?”
“They are loyal to me, and I am loyal to gold,” Brandon replied evenly. “Not one of them would think of betraying me.” Criston drew a Myrish stiletto and worked the thin blade around the edge of another of his fingernails, extricating another fleck of dirt he’d likely imagined.
“I dislike coin,” Criston commented dryly, deftly working the stiletto through each successive nail, “much too obvious. and too easy for another to match. I pay you two hundred dragons, another pays one and two hundred, then I pay two and two hundred, and so it goes. No one wins save you, sellsail.”
“I was under the impression that I am working to clear my debt to you,” Brandon reminded him, “not for coin.” Criston nodded.
“You certainly are, but what I ask of you far outstrips the value of your debt.” He sheathed the stiletto and slouched deeper into the driftwood chair as he returned his fire kissed gaze to his guest. “You will swear your sword to me. You will serve to deliver the Iron Islands to me. In exchange, I will consider your debt fulfilled. Also,” he said, and here he paused, allowing a self-satisfied smile to creep into the corners of his wine stained lips, “I shall ensure the restoration of House Greystark to lordship, complete with a Westerosi domain to be inherited by your children and grandchildren until the end of days.
It was the not the Wolf’s Den, but it was a lordship, and an opportunity his forebears had never had. He thought of the stories his father had told him during his tender years, about the forging and reforging of the Greystark blade, about their exile from the North. He thought of a body in a Braavosi canal. He drew his bastard sword and laid the flat of the blade across his left palm as he knelt. He spoke slowly, carefully, but perhaps impulsively all the same. “In the sight of the gods, old and new, I, Brandon of House Greystark, son of Rickard Greystark, do swear my sword to you until the hour of my death, or the release from your service.”
“And I, Criston Greyjoy,” the Lord of Kraken’s Reach spoke as he rose from his seat and drew his own longsword, “accept your oath of service, and swear that I shall reward your loyalty with honors, your service with glory, and your trespasses with vengeance.” He laid the flat of the black Qohorik blade on Brandon’s left shoulder, the edge a hair’s breadth or two away from the nape of his neck. “Now until the hour of your death, or the release from my service, your sword is bound to me,” he continued, raised the sword, and laid the flat on Brandon’s right shoulder, “and your life to mine. May these vows be known to the gods, old and new alike.” He sheathed the blade and returned to his seat.
“Rise,” Criston commanded as he slumped into the driftwood chair, and Brandon rose. “Return to your ship and make for Tyrosh. Take on supplies there and wait for my arrival should the winds favor your sails over mine. From there we will make for the Iron Islands and Pyke.”
“As you command. My lord,” Brandon added quickly. Criston excused him from the solar, and Brandon saw himself out.
The Winter Wolf set sail for Tyrosh before nightfall.