#sweet sweet misery for the broodkraken

[krakensofpyke]

Among Wolves, Part II

Victarion meets his betrothed.

The walls of Winterfell were great and many, well seasoned with grim guardsmen that stared down at them suspiciously.  They fear us, Victarion tried to assure himself, they have never seen the kraken’s arms stretch so far inland.  He knew it was foolish, though.  It was hard to feel fearsome without his set of plate on his back and his axe on his side.  In any case, they were too far from the sea.  We should not be here, he lamented, this is no place for a son of Pyke.  

The other men felt the same, he could tell.  Fishwhiskers turned his head swiftly and often, as if to keep eyes on all the men at once.  Lord Gorold Goodbrother made a show of acting as though their presence was not reproached, looking straight ahead and making hollow japes with Ser Aladale Wynch.  Only Lord Quellon truly seemed not to care.  His father accepted that the people of the green lands had a healthy mistrust of the Ironborn, but his acceptance of their disdain was more a sign of weakness than a peace offering.  Balon had told him once that the lord of Pyke would have them all play the fool if it meant good relations with the greenlanders.  

The maester of the castle met them as they approached the Great Keep.  He was a small rat of a man, with thin, pale hair and furtive hands that emerged and retracted from their sleeves like moles.  “My Lord Greyjoy,” he mumbled in greeting, “we welcome you and yours to Winterfell.”    Victarion was surprised to see that the man may have actually meant the words.  The advisor’s brow was not furrowed in misgiving, and there was even a thin sort of smile played over his face. 

Pyke had two maesters living within its walls.  Qalen was fine enough; he bothered the young kraken seldom, but was always available if he wanted to look over a map, or if he wished to hear the history of famous battles at sea.  The maester that had accompanied Quellon’s third wife, however, was a nuisance, always forcing his opinion into every matter.  This one before me is a smiling sycophant, to be sure, Victarion ruminated.  When I take the she-wolf back to Pyke with me, he will not be joining her, I will make sure of that.

“It is good to finally meet you in person, Maester Walys,” his father replied.  “Might we be shown to our guest chambers, that we may change into fresh clothes before presenting ourselves to Lord Stark?”

After they swapped their travel wear for more suitable attire, the servants of Winterfell led them through the courtyard toward the Great Hall.  He had donned relatively plain clothes, layered and woolen, but had also chosen two rings from the collection of jewelry that he had paid the Iron price for in the Stepstones.  Quellon shook his head in annoyance upon seeing his appearance, but made no comment.  His father had dressed more finely, in a rich, black doublet embroidered in cloth-of-gold with a great kraken on the breast.  

“Why are you trying so hard to impress the Starks?” he asked, taking care not to color his words with disdain.  He did not want to be slapped in front of his fellow Ironborn, let alone the smallfolk of this foreign castle.  

“The lords of the North take little stock in appearance,” Quellon replied, “but still, one cannot negotiate while looking the part of a beggar.”  He offered Victarion a pointed look.  “Is this the sort of garb you would wear as Lord Captain, when presenting yourself to your brother?”

No, he thought haughtily, I would be clad in steel plate from head to foot.  One day I’ll have a cape made as well to show that I am of the kraken’s blood.  The Starks, he had decided, were not worthy of such an entrance from him, however.

Victarion had expected the air of Winterfell’s Great Hall to be drafty and bitter, as it was in Pyke and Ten Towers.  Upon entering the receiving chamber, however, a rush of warmth greeted him.  It was an inexplicable, almost unnatural sensation for the hearth fires did not appear exceptionally lively, and only half of the sconces held lit torches.  He brooded on that as they approached the high table, feeling much like a fish in an oven.

Lord Rickard Stark was seated in an ancient stone throne, with likenesses of direwolves carved into it.  To his right sat the maester that had greeted them earlier.  Other than the odd servant tending to the hall’s upkeep, no one else was in attendance.  You have no regard for your guests, it would seem, the young man thought sourly.  

“Lord Greyjoy,” the Northman announced in a solemn and serious voice.  “It is good to see that you and yours have made it safely to Winterfell.  I bid you welcome to my home.”  He looked away and gestured, summoning a pair of serving men that held trays of bread and salt.  The lord watched them with intent as each of the Ironborn took a bite, and with it the mutual understanding of guest right.  Victarion could not help but think of the Bloody Keep of Pyke and what had happened to its guests, though even he had to admit that it was foul work on the part of the Black Line.

“Your hospitality is much appreciated,” Quellon responded after they had taken guest right.  “I know that your eldest sons are being fostered at this time, but where are Lyanna and Benjen?”

Rickard’s wintery eyes cast down in a brief show of contrition.  “Forgive me, my lord, for we did not know that you would cross the wolfswood so quickly and, thus, did not properly prepare for your arrival.  Lyanna is out riding currently.”  Victarion found himself wondering yet again why one would climb on the backs of such temperamental beasts for recreation.  

“Benjen is drilling in the yard,” the lord continued.  “Perhaps your son wishes to join him rather than sit and listen to us.”  

Quellon looked to his son.  “He may prefer to listen, since we will be speaking of matters that concern him.”  Victarion shook his head immediately.  I have resigned myself to this, he thought glumly, my presence will not improve my lot.  

The Lord of Winterfell waved over a guard and bade him show the young kraken to the courtyard.  He felt visible relief as soon as they stepped out of the hall.  The cool air seemed to take the weight of his future from his shoulders, and the sounds of steel on steel awakened his interest as they drew nearer.  The Stark boy was practicing at deflecting blows with his sword, though it was clear that he was struggling with the height of Winterfell’s master-at-arms.

"Gods be good,” he heard the lad murmur.  “Who is that? He’s near as big as Hodor!”  The two had stopped, and the young boy was staring at Victarion with wide eyes.  He furrowed his brow, displeased at being gawked at in such a way.  What in the Drowned God’s name is a Hodor...  

“Now, Benjen,” the warrior chided, “that is no way to speak of someone.”  He made eye contact with the kraken.  “You must be Lord Greyjoy’s son, yes?”  It was clear that the man’s defense was a hollow courtesy: his eyes were cool with the same distrust that everyone in the damnable realm seemed to harbor.  He nodded sullenly in response.  

“You are to be our guest, yes?”  He walked up to him, beaming upward.  “It will be good to have another to spar with; it’s been only Ser Rodrik since Ned left for the Eyrie.  Would you like to right now?”

The Ironborn blinked at the boy for a moment.  Benjen’s hurried speech was nearly too much to process, but he knew that the prospect of sparring with him was not enticing.  I would rather test my skill with the Northern knight, not this stripling.  

He had begun to form the words to respond when Cassel spoke up.  “Perhaps not today, young lord,” he suggested.  “Surely our guest is road-worn from his arrival.  He can join us on the morrow, is that meet, my lord of Greyjoy?”

“Surely he wants to,” Benjen replied in Victarion’s stead. “Old Nan has told us many tales of how the ironmen live to fight.  She told me of one man who grew stronger every time he was cut, is he one of your forebears?”

The Greyjoy’s head felt fit to burst.  Mayhaps it would have been better to stay with Father, he lamented.  The alternating bursts of being flooded with questions and being talked of as if he was not there overwhelmed him with the desire to bolt from the castle.  This is truly no place for me, how will I endure living here?

The sound of approaching hooves turned the heads of all three.  A young girl on horseback rode into the courtyard, her tawny hair blown backward like a banner.  She looked fierce atop the courser; almost beautiful if she did not seem so obdurate.  He had no doubt that this was Lyanna Stark  There was a wild grin on her face as she brought the beast to a halt, but it died quickly as she became aware of his presence.  Her eyes bored into him, as grey as the seas of Pyke.  No, he grimaced, they are the granite walls of Winterfell and the slate skies above.  She is of the North.

“Are you my lord husband-to-be?” she asked as she came down from her mount.  The edge in her voice was enough to tell him that the Stark girl thought as highly of the prospect as he did.  When he offered silent affirmation, she clicked her tongue.  “You are just as I imagined,” Lyanna replied, “large and dull.  Perhaps cleaner than most ironmen.”  

“My lady,” the master-at-arms uttered in surprise, “that is no way...” She already had her back to them, though, as she led her horse to the stables.  “Pray, forgive her, the lady Lyanna has been out of sorts.  I am certain she will apologize for her unseemly words.”  The fatigued expression on Ser Rodrik’s face did not inspire confidence in his words.

Victarion simply gazed off, stony and mute.  My betrothed, he sulked.  All to become the Lord Captain.  Drowned God grant me a short stay in this cold hell, and many campaigns at sea, that I need never spend time with this woman...