Rodrik II

The army of the Seven Kingdoms had taken the island of Grey Gallows in a matter of days. First the twin fleets had secured the coast, sweeping over the little ports and hidden coves in a tide of steel and flame in the early hours of the dawn. The pirates were in their ruined forts and hidden caves and little shanty towns feasting and drinking, and when their ships had gone up in flames they had issued forth to give battle, but by then the marines were landing and forming up to give battle.

The pirates, undisciplined scum of the seas, were easily crushed. From there, the armies of King Robert had moved to secure the island's interior. There were villages there, inhabited by the descendants of Westerosi exiles, Free City castaways, even Rhoynar who had been stranded and cut off from Nymeria's fleet long ago. Some of these villages gave up without a fight, but in others the little village levies, stiffened with survivors of the coastal villages, had formed up to fight the invaders. Elsewhere, outlaws had begun hit-and-run attacks against King Robert's forces.

As before, discipline and skill won out, and now Rodrik Greyjoy walked across a field strewn with the bodies of the slain. Perhaps three of his own men lay dead among them, while the rest were peasant levies or pirates and sellsails. His Ironborn reavers had gone through them like a hot knife through butter.

In front of Rodrik, the victorious Ironborn were sacking the village. At his side was his wife Dacey Mormont, moving as easily in ringmail and leather as she did in silk. The hot southern sun had tanned her skin, and a lock of hair was plastered on her forehead with sweat. To Rodrik, the blood spattered across her face did nothing to diminish her beauty. The blood still thundered in his veins, and he wanted to kiss her.

"Grim work," she said, eyes moving from one corpse to the next. These villagers had probably lived here for centuries, giving up tribute to the pirate crews or joining them to bring back wealth to their families. Otherwise they herded goats and farmed little plots of land, and lived their small lives. They were a mongrel people, descended from half a hundred peoples, lawless until the day the men of the Seven Kingdoms had set foot on their shores.

"Necessary," Rodrik replied. This island was to go to his uncle Aeron, and the gold he was to make from taxing passing ships would fill House Greyjoys coffers. Dacey made no response except to grunt. Suddenly, a flash of anger crossed her face, and she broke into a trot.

"Hey, shithead! What did I say? Take what you want, but no rapes!"

An Ironborn reaver released his grip on a weeping woman's arm, gave Dacey a surly look, then saw Rodrik a short distance behind her. He spat and turned back to the village.

Dacey stood over the local woman, axe in hand. The girl had the dark skin and darker hair of the Rhoynar, and aside from a dark bruise where the reaver had grabbed her she was unharmed.

"Keep your men in hand, Rodrik," she snarled. Rodrik shrugged and glanced around.

"I've never seen a sack without rapes. There are probably dozens of villages like this one that will be sacked before the war's over. You can't stop them all."

"I can stop them here," Dacey replied darkly. Before either of them could speak, the blast of a trumpet and a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of a column of mounted men led by Jorah Mormont.

"Uncle," Dacey called. Jorah nodded and looked at Rodrik.

"We've rooted out another band of outlaws in the hills," he said, "I think this valley's secured."

Rodrik nodded and turned back to the town. The survivors of the battle were being gathered up, along with all the people of the village. Dacey helped the girl to her feet and gave her some kind words, then sent her to join the others. Jorah Mormont urged his horse forwards, joined by a herald and two banner-carriers bearing the King's sigil and that of House Mormont.

"People of this village!" the herald began in Common, "This island is now the demesne of Aeron of the House Greyjoy, and over him is Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Protector of the Stepstones, and over him is Robert Baratheon, King on the Iron Throne. You are now under the King's Peace and the King's Laws."

He repeated it in the Trade Tongue, the bastard language that seemed to be common among the merchants and pirates of the Narrow Sea. When he was done, Jorah turned to Rodrik.

"This is good. We have most of the interior of the island under control. Your father is preparing to push on to Torturer's Deep, and the pirates seem ready to give him battle."

Rodrik frowned and toyed with the haft of his axe.

"Well, then, we'll head back to the coast. But are we not leaving a garrison?"

"We are. King Robert is leaving a battalion of mounted men, to better respond in case any outlaws spring up."

Rodrik gave the village another glance. Most of the fighting men had been slain, but the townsfolk were giving the soldiers dark looks and mumuring to one another quietly. He nodded.

"Very well, then. Let's get moving."