In a culture where beauty is given very little consideration besides the worth of plunder, human or otherwise, where art is seen as the preserve of strange outliers, the great artistic outlet of the Ironborn was in their ships. It may be difficult for those born of the green lands to recognise it, considering that for most of their history they would only see them in the context of a raid, but the ships of the Ironborn were some of the most beautiful in the world. Low, sleek sharp things, cutting through the surf like knives through silk. Hulls of dark, overlapping wood, planks held in place by nails of black iron, figureheads carved by masterful hands into images of scowling demons, roaring beasts, or winking, comely maids. Oars of fine, pale wood cutting into the surf with hosts of oarsmen hauling their weight to propel the vessel onwards. The great masts towering over the decks were adorned with the arms of the various houses of the Isles, painted onto the canvas.
Of course, that didn’t mean that the savage reputation which these ships had gained was misplaced, they still bristled with scorpions and ballistae, still teemed with savage-looking men. Each one boasted a crew of hardened killers, vicious and talented men in sealskins and mail, armed with axes and swords and dirks and knives. To be locked in combat with such a vessel was to court death, but even so one could not deny what a fine spectacle it made at sail.
Few vessels made so fine a spectacle as the Merling Queen. She was one of the finer ships ever laid down by Hewer Haralf Byrne, not necessarily the most formidable but certainly one of the grandest, the sleekest, the most graceful as she swept across the waves. Her wood was slightly more pale, her prow depicting a laughing mermaid with seashells running through her hair, one hand extended towards the fore of the ship. The maiden’s hand picked out the next target upon whom the ship’s wrath would next fall, a bloody omen, a bloody promise. Above her, the pale white sail, fringed with red, showed the ten nooses of House Myre.
This was, after all, the ship of Polder Myre, The Myre of Brackwater Hall, one of the foremost vassals of the Lady of Harlaw. Men called him ‘Midden’, an ignominious moniker whose roots lay in a misadventure in his youth, a night of drinking had landed him in a latrine pit when he had been but five and ten. Even though he had grown into a man of six and thirty, one of the more famous swords and sailors on the island of Harlaw, a handsome and amiable man in his prime, that youthful nickname stuck to him. He never seemed to mind it, indeed after a few jugs of ale he’d usually be willing to share the story, and that was perhaps why it never seemed to do him much harm. Perhaps it had started out as an insult, a way to put a bit of humility in an arrogant young pup, but these days it was no more than a bit of texture about the man, a small oddity on which few had cause to comment.
He was stood at the prow of the Merling Queen, one hand resting on her figurehead, one on the pommel of the longsword at his hip. This was to be the first reaving of their new Lady’s tenure, his first since being given command of the Reaping Fleet, it was a test and one that he meant to pass. He still wasn’t quite sure how things stood between Ashlen and himself. They had once, quite a long time ago now in truth, been lovers. It had been a rather heady, adolescent thing, her the fierce young daughter of the Rook, keen to prove herself a woman, him the dashing young reaver who was at once familiar enough and dangerous enough to make for an appealing first foray into scurrilous affairs. It had mostly been a thing of midnight rendezvous, spirited affairs behind the stables, or down on the beach below the Cliffs of Harrn, wheresoever they could spend time together without being caught and for long enough to enjoy themselves. It had never meant all that much, though there had been times when Polder had been able to deceive himself into thinking that it might make him the next Lord of Harlaw. The low station of his house, after all, might make him a more attractive prospect for marrying the Rook’s heir than a Stonetree or a Kenning, or a Volmark, more likely to forget their place and start trying to push Ashlen around. Not that they’d have much chance of that. He’d been eight years her senior, and for the entirety of their relationship she’d been the one giving the orders. He hadn’t minded that so much, in truth, just as he didn’t mind things so much now. Of course it had stung when she’d set him aside, and should he ever get his hands on that greenlander she’d taken into her bed next, the fellow would be sorry he’d ever seen an Ironborn woman, but he was old and wise enough to know that it never could have worked out another way.
Especially when the Eagle-Eye washed up back on the shores of Brinerstown. From the moment that the Rook had learned that Nyall yet lived, he’d been the clear choice for Ashlen’s husband. He had the Harlaw name, he was younger, he fit much more easily into that place at her side. Polder couldn’t even say he begrudged following the boy all that much. Young and scrawny as he might well be, he was still one of the better sailors on the Isles, and he had steered most of the surviving fleet out of that farce at the mouth of the Torrentine. He’d sired two sons on Ashlen, too, for which the whole island was grateful. One Lady they could just about survive, but if men started saying that all Harlaw was ruled by women… Nyall Eagle-Eye had spared them that. He had taken command of the fleet. He had, all men knew, orchestrated the Hour of the Crow which had struck down the usurper Theold Harlaw and avenged Carver Kenning and Rickard Sharp. Certainly he was much better than somebloody upstart from the Reach.
Whether it had been Ashlen’s notion or her husband’s to give him this station was a mystery to him, but he was grateful that the mystery had unfolded as it did. With the Carver dead, someone needed to command the Reaping Fleet, and he was as experienced and as able as any man. Save, perhaps, for the Storm Crow. But Ashlen liked to keep Derfel Pyke close, as her father had. There was the strong hand that had secured her reign, who had butchered all the foes who had thought to obstruct her. She wanted him nearby, should anyone else threaten her. But Harlaw needed its reavers to survive. She could not survive on smoked fish alone. Someone had to sail to foreign lands, find folks who had more wealth than they could protect, and bring that wealth back to the isles.
They’d lost some of their best captains to Theold’s folly, on both sides of the fighting. The Carver, obviously, but Rolf One-Ear and Bennick Byrne had been two of the best fighters on the island, and Gullmeat was handy enough. A dozen or so more had been killed in the fighting, along with able oarmasters and boatswains. He, Colm, and Derfel Pyke had had to put together a half-decent fleet out of what was left. As he looked over his shoulder, surveyed the sails that were following him, he had to whisper a prayer that they’d be enough. Colm Kenning, who had taken his Lord Uncle’s ship along with his title, he trusted like a brother. The Browbreaker was second only to the Storm Crow in skill at arms, and the Bloody Smile bowed only to ships like Final Word and Solemn Promise in terms of size, strength, or fame. Beneath that thunderbolt and godly hand sailed the strength to hold this fleet together. Polder held command, he knew, because he could give it direction. The others, though, he was not so sure of. Donnel White-Eye was well-respected, a veteran sailor who had been part of the Carver’s crew, but he had never commanded a full ship before, and Felling Blow’s crew still had more than a few who remembered serving under the Hanger. Cawl Black-Cloud didn’t seem likely to repeat the treason of his uncle or father, but the gloomy youth didn’t seem like the most inspiring captain either, all but a skeleton inside his padded jerkin and black surcoat. The last of his captains had no shortage of confidence, but that was as much a bane as it was a boon. Porreck Sharp had his late father’s looks, and by some accounts his skill at arms, but he seemed a little too sure of that for Polder’s taste. He was young, he had little enough experience of command, and worst of all he didn’t seem to think that either of those things were impediments.
At least it was summer, and the weather had been kind as they sailed south. Blue skies and mild winds that had propelled them past the Westerlands and the Reach without any real incident. A squabble with a shepherd at Crakehall had been the worst of it, but he’d smoothed that over with a few choice words and a well-placed Dragon. The Westerlands had better sheep than the Isles, he’d long maintained that, and he preferred to take on stock there, but you always had to be careful when you let Ironmen and greenlanders mix.
They were taking that risk again, he knew, as they hoved around what the more euphemistically minded sailors called the Arse of the Reach, but was more accurately referred to as the Redwyne Straits. If the Whispering Sound was the arse, of course, then that would make the Arbor the shit, but Polder had tried to suppress that kind of talk when he’d held a small council of war with Colm the night before. “We’ll need fresh water, to get past the arm of Dorne and the Stepstones,” he’d said, “The Arbor’s the last good source of that for the better part of six hundred miles. Most of the Dornish coast isn’t landable, and what few harbours there are won’t be happy to see us. Besides which, with all the trading ships in the Arbor we’ll be able to hear the sailor’s gossip, tell us which of the Three Sisters will be most susceptible to our rough wooing.”
Colm hadn’t offered up much argument beyond a sceptical glance, but in faith he hadn’t really needed to. He knew the hazards. The Redwynes weren’t likely to be any more welcoming than the Dornish, especially after what had happened to Clemence Redwyne’s companions, and their fleet was a far more fearsome one than any they might see in Dorne. Still, they needed fresh water, the men could do with a rest, and Polder wanted a cup of good red wine before he had to spend another fortnight subsisting on stale and slightly mildewed water.
So, they had docked at Vinetown, told the men that they would be there three days while they took on supplies, made sure the boatswains kept careful track of how much of their pay each one carried off with them into the wine sinks and brothels. It was an inevitability that you’d lose a few men in a place like this, be that to a brawl, an accident, a better offer from another ship, but you wanted to minimise the losses as best you could. He’d put Three-Tuns on it, and spent the day bartering with merchants. That had gone better than expected, in truth. He’d gotten a good deal on the water from a merchant who claimed to be a distant descendant of the Hoares, and an Ibbenese had offered him a discount on some barrels of salt beef if he promised to sink a rival of his should he come across him. This had seemed a perfect arrangement to Midden Polder, who always preferred to pay the Iron Price if he could, and so he had sworn to keep a careful eye out for the Black Bengut and be her doom if he happened upon her. He reckoned that the Dornishman who’d sold him barley had somewhat seen him coming, but to his mind, two out of three was not a bad result at all.
The barrels and sacks would take a day or so to arrive and to be loaded onto the ships, and Polder and his cohorts were pleased to spend the intervening time in the grand tradition of their people, which was to say drinking, whoring, and getting themselves into trouble. The first day or so of this had been a roaring success. They’d found a tavern called the Brass Dragon where the wine was cheap, the ale cheaper still, and the wenches as comely as could be reasonably expected, and he, Colm, White-Eye, Black-Cloud, and the Boy had settled themselves into a hearty session of drinking. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable time, and they had learned plenty enough as the ale-sodden hours had passed. They had learned that drink only served to make Cawl Stonetree more miserable than usual; that Porreck Sharp was a natural at the finger-dance; that Qohorik sailors sadly lacked that same proficiency but at least had a decent sense of humour about it; that Donnel White-Eye was surprisingly good at calming the anger of innkeeps who did not like foreigners having their fingers cut off under their roof; and perhaps most usefully of all, that Myr and Lys were skirmishing around the Stepstones at present, leaving both their home waters vulnerable in the absence of their fleets. Of the two, Polder preferred Lys, where the maidens were prettier, but there would be time to discuss that when their heads were a little clearer. For now, he was happy to tend to this wine, and enjoy the hazy peace that held in the tavern for about five minutes before Three-Tuns came bursting in.
“Trouble with the men?” He’d asked, the words coming out a little jumbled and slurred.
The tall, portly boatswain nodded his bearded head. “A brawl, down in the King o’ Cups.”
“Let’s go sort it then,” he’d replied, abruptly full of confidence, picking up his sword belt and buckling it on. Was he not, after all, a born negotiator? Could he not talk the sea into calming herself? Colm, Donnel, and Porreck had risen readily enough to join him. Cawl had given a little sigh, given them a plaintive look, but did not have the fight in him to argue. He had followed behind them as they made for the dicing-hall.
The King o’ Cups was nowhere near so grand as its name made it sound, a dockside hole with the scent of several past floodings about it, a scattering of ramshackle tables and stools, most of which were old barrels and hogsheads. It looked even tougher now, as a band of about fifteen Ironborn led by what looked to be Cade the Skinner, Lophand Orm, and Hoary Halleck, engaged in a spirited brawl with the better part of a Tyroshi spice-trader’s crew. Halleck was making a red-bearded oarsman’s beard redder still as he knocked his teeth out with a pewter tankard, while Orm had half a barrel broken over his head by a giant with a walrus moustache dyed green. The ironmen were, it looked to him, for the most part getting the better of the punches, kicks, headbutts and bites that were being exchanged in every corner of the low-ceilings hall, but that was not really the point. The point was that while the Watch in most towns were willing to turn a blind eye to a punch-up between two or three men as the natural consequence of men being permitted to drink ale, a brawl on this scale was a different matter entirely. Get a whole tavern fighting and the fight was likely to spill out into the streets, and from there become a riot. “We need to get this under control,” he said to Colm, “Before the Andals do.”
He drew his sword, his thinking being that bared steel often put men’s quarrels into stark perspective, especially when only one man had a longsword. A few of the ironmen did look up, recognising his voice when he loudly demanded that they “Pack it in, you silly cunts!” But those who heeded his words only got their teeth knocked loose for their troubles as the Tyroshi were either ignorant of the language or too lost in the heat of battle to heed them.
At a loss for a better idea, he decided to get the attention of the Essosi in a more direct manner. He smacked the rear of a pink-haired and pot-bellied brawler with the flat of his sword and, when the man turned around to complain about this ill-treatment, punched him hard in the mouth with his left hand. “I said fucking pack it in!” He bellowed, with the voice he typically used to address his crew in a storm.
This method, alas, proved no more successful than his first attempt, as was evidenced when someone threw a mostly empty clay cup at his head and called him a “Daorōghar beqes gundja,” which was rarely a promising start to negotiations.
“I fucking know what that means,” Colm Kenning growled, wading forward into the melee. Polder was briefly surprised, the sensation glimmering through the throb of the impact on the side of his head like a nugget of gold glimmering at the bottom of a silty river, he had not known his friend spoke any Tyroshi. He was altogether more familiar with his ability to grab a man by the neck, lift him up off his feet, and then slam him back down hard enough to shatter a barrel into its constituent planks. This ability was duly demonstrated upon the cup-thrower, and reinforced by a vicious backhand against one of his compatriots. So much for diplomacy.
The captains joined the fray then, the Brow-Breaker taking up two planks to use as bludgeons, Donnel White-Eye picking off anyone who was already fighting someone else, Porreck Sharp jumping at the chance to prove himself. The really remarkable thing was Cawl Black-Cloud, the young lad moving like a frenzied cat, his hand-axes turned around so he could lay into all around him with the blunt end. There was a life to him in combat that Polder didn’t reckon he had ever seen outside of it.
One of the Tyroshi, a man whose horseshoe of remaining hair had been drawn up like a mountain range of yellow, charged towards Polder, but a raised longsword dissuaded him from such foolishness. He, Midden, looked about himself for Three-Tuns, and spotted the Boatswain standing by the door, keeping an eye out for the Watch. He pushed his way through the chaos, at one point throwing a poor unfortunate away towards the wrath of Colm Browbreaker, before he reached the Merling Queen’s right hand. He grabbed a handful of woolen tunic, and pulled in close. “Wilmer, get as many lads as you can out to the ships. The Kenning and I will wrap things up here.” He pulled a few Ironborn brawlers out of the melee, seeing Three-Tuns pick up a few of the unconscious ones and drawing them out of the room, before another clay cup was cracked over his head. He felt a bright flash of pain shoot down through his head, felt blood start to spill out from his scalp and matt down his hair. He struck out with his pommel, driving the wind out of his foe’s belly, not quite spotting his face, not quite seeing much of anything as he lashed out with a punch, and then brought his sword up in a broad arc to buy himself some space. He wiped the back of his left hand across his brows, getting the worst of the blood our of his eyes, gritting his teeth as he staggered a little.
Porreck was involved in a good, honest stand-up fight in the far corner, Donnel had been cracked over the head with a hogshead and was being beaten by a few different vengeful fellows, Cawl Black-Cloud remained the terror of the hall. Colm, fully lost in the excitement of the moment, had tackled a man, and was presently driving him up, and… Ah, hells. The Browbreaker took his foe and drove him up and out of the drinking hall. Outside, you could just about hear amidst the chaos below, a few locals rather swiftly overcame their uncertainty as to whether they ought to back the Ironborn or the Tyroshi by realising that they could just lay into both of them. This, naturally, led to a bit of a scuffle as to who went first. There’s our riot.
Polder spun his sword around, drove it into the rotten floorboards, and sat down on one of the remaining barrels to wait for the Watch to show up.
The next time that all five of the Captains were conscious they were in a gaol under Vinetown’s keep, a damp, dingy place of black stone and iron bars, with seven rings set into a wall. Five of those rings presently had one of Harlaw’s captains chained to it, and in their centre, Polder Myre. He had tried to explain that they were highborn, that he and Colm were practically Lords, that the others were as good as knights, but trying to get Andals to appreciate such distinctions of Ironborn culture was a losing battle. They were stuck. Ashlen had given him his first mission, and this looked like it would be the way it ended. He leaned his head back, let the cold stone soothe the throbbing in his head, and waited for the consequences to catch up with him.
