"War was an ironman's proper trade. The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song."

―Theon Greyjoy

…

The wind carried the salt of the sea and the screams of gulls as Dalton the Greyjoy stood atop a jagged promontory overlooking the grey, restless waters below. The rock-studded waves surged and retreated in a rhythm older than the Ironborn themselves, their endless crash a dirge for the drowned and the damned. Dalton's black cloak whipped around him as he observed the scorpion being assembled on the rocky slope below, its iron arms glinting in the weak light of the overcast sky. The assembly of the monstrous contrivance progressed with all the enthusiasm that might be expected of men pressed into its service.

"Shift the weight to the base, you clumsy fools," Dalton barked, his voice cutting through the din of the sea. The thralls below scrambled to obey, sweat glistening on their brows despite the chill air. The weapon, one of many secreted along the craggy coastline, was a declaration writ in iron that the Ironborn, for all their reaving and rough-hewn ways, would not be cowed by fire and dragonwing again. Dalton had seen to it that every man who could lift a hammer was set to work under the watchful eye of his blacksmiths, fortifying the islands. He would not have his defences fail again for want of diligence.

Yet even the grandest declarations are not immune to the murmurs of dissent. Behind him, two lords waited, their unease palpable. Harrik the Swyft and Grell the Wynch had sailed to Pyke days earlier, summoned by Dalton to discuss the looming war between the Greens and the Blacks. The two lords had come reluctantly, each bearing warnings from their own men about crossing the One-Eyed again. Their apprehension only deepened as Dalton had ignored their counsel for two days, focusing instead on the preparations for war.

It was then, as the men made another attempt to broach the matter, that the cry went up, a single shout echoing across the rocky cliffs. "Dragon!"

The men fell silent, their faces blanching as they turned toward the sea. Dalton did not move. He stood rooted to the promontory, his gaze fixed on the distant figure that now appeared on the horizon. It was unmistakably a dragon, its crimson form glinting in the weak sunlight as it soared closer. Not Vhagar, the great beast that had visited such ruin upon the Ironborn years before, but a more sinuous creature, its movements imbued with a disquieting grace.

Caraxes.

A few of scorpions mounted along the cliffs swivelled into position, men scrambling to man them. Below, sailors and thralls abandoned their tasks and fled inland, seeking the safety of the tunnels and caves that honeycombed the islands. These tunnels had been dug on Dalton's orders after Aemond's last assault, a grim lesson learned from the scorched remains of their forts and holdfasts. Inspired by tales of the Crabfeeder's stubborn resistance in the Stepstones against the Red Wyrm, Dalton had resolved that the Ironborn would never again be so easily destroyed.

As the beast drew closer, its piercing shriek set Dalton's teeth on edge. The scorpion crews held their nerve, but only just. One man loosed a bolt, and the great weapon sang as its projectile flew true—only to pass harmlessly beneath the dragon's wing.

In response, Caraxes banked in the air, its long neck twisting in a manner that suggested surprise as it retreated out of range. For a time, it circled above the distant waters before alighting from the shore on a reef far exposed by the low tide, the jagged rocks barely accommodating its bulk. There it perched, still and watchful. Seemingly harmless.

Dalton's lips pressed into a thin line. The dragon had not attacked. Was this a prelude to destruction or an attempt at parley? Dalton's instincts, honed by years of experience, told him it was the latter.

The Greyjoy turned to his men. "Ready a skiff," he said. "If this dragonlord wishes to visit Pyke, let us see what he has to say."

The men hesitated, their unease palpable. It was Grell who found the courage to speak. "You mean to row out there? Are you mad?"

Dalton's gaze narrowed as he turned to face the man. "I am Ironborn," he spat, cowing the fool. "I'd sooner face him on the water and drown than wait for another dragonlord to torch our cliffs again."

With a handful of his bravest men, Dalton descended to the shore, where a small skiff was being prepared. The sea was choppy, the wind biting as they set out toward the reef. As they approached, Caraxes came into clearer view, its long neck curving as it watched their approach with eyes like molten gold. The dragon perched on the rocks, its claws gripping the slick stone like a crow on stilts.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

When they were close enough for voices to carry over the waves, the rider—Daemon—called out. "Who comes to parley?" he asked, his voice carrying over the roar of the waves. "And who dares to aim their toys at my dragon?"

The words, imperious and laden with scorn, did not deter Dalton. He stood tall in the skiff, shouting back. "I am Dalton the Greyjoy, lord of Pyke and master of these isles. And I'll raise what I please against any who think themselves my better. If you've come to burn us, dragonlord, you'll find us less yielding than the last time your kind visited."

Daemon leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Dalton Greyjoy," he mused. "Ah, the infamous Red Kraken. I'd expected someone taller."

Dalton's men bristled at the insult, but Dalton himself remained unmoved. "Expectations are often the ruin of lesser men. Why have you come, Targaryen?"

Daemon smirked, shifting his weight atop Caraxes as the dragon hissed softly, steam curling from its nostrils. "Why am I here, you ask? Isn't it obvious?"

Dalton crossed his arms, unfazed. "You didn't come all this way for riddles, Targaryen. Speak plainly, or take your beast and go."

Daemon's laughter echoed over the waves. "Bold words for a man of your stature. But no, I didn't come to burn your precious rocks. I've come to see if the Ironborn have the spine to join the true ruler of Westeros in taking what is owed."

At this, the men with Dalton bristled, hands going to the hilts of their weapons. One even stepped forward, glaring up at Daemon. "We owe you nothing, dragonlord," he spat. "Least of all fealty."

Daemon's gaze flicked to the man. "Careful, kraken-spawn. I've killed men for less."

Dalton raised a hand, silencing his follower. "You speak of a true ruler," he said, his tone even. "I assume you don't mean yourself but your woman." Daemon's expression darkened at the jab. "The one who would have us bend the knee to a Targaryen once more. What makes you think we'd trade one tyrant for another?"

Daemon spat to the side, his eyes narrowing at Dalton. "Rhaenyra doesn't demand your coin, Greyjoy. She offers you vengeance. I've seen what Aemond did to these islands. Fire and salt, wasn't it? Entire fleets burned, villages razed to ash. He called it justice, but we both know better."

The name Aemond was a spark to dry tinder, and Dalton's expression darkened as well. "Do not presume to know the hearts of the Ironborn. Our grievances are many, and our wrath is not yours to command. Aemond may hide behind his dragon and his lies but if you think to use my hatred of him as your leash, you'll find yourself sorely disappointed."

Daemon shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "I don't need a leash. I need swords and sails. Men who know how to raid and burn. Men who don't flinch at the sight of blood. The Ironborn have always been good for that. You want guarantees, Kraken? Very well. Fight for us, and you shall have them. The Ironborn will rule the seas, free of the Iron Throne's demands. No levies, no taxes, no dragon ever again darkening your skies. Your enemies will be my enemies and together we shall see them vanquished."

The promise, spoken with such certainty, was a hook cast into deep waters. Dalton's men shifted again, their unease giving way to murmurs of contemplation. Revenge was a currency the Ironborn understood well, and Daemon was offering it in abundance.

But Dalton was not so easily swayed. "That is nowhere near enough compensation for the ruin your house wrought upon my people."

Daemon threw back his head and laughed, the sound harsh and echoing against the cliffs. "Don't be greedy, Greyjoy. My terms are more than generous enough."

"And if we refuse?" Dalton asked, narrowing his gaze.

"Refuse me," Daemon said leaning forward with malice, "and I'll take Caraxes up to your cliffs—I'll make what Aemond all those years ago did look merciful."

For a moment, the only sound was the sea. The Ironborn had spent six years preparing for this moment—digging their tunnels, bolstering their defences, crafting their weapons of iron and spite. Six years to ensure the dragons would never again hold dominion over the islands. Yet Dalton, for all his boldness, was not so eager to test his handiwork against another one of the foul beasts.

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, before Dalton spoke. His voice was low, his words measured. "What do you want, Targaryen?"

Daemon's smile was slow and dangerous. "Have you considered taking a little jaunt to the Riverlands?" the prince asked, his tone almost casual. "I hear the weather there is rather pleasant this time of year."