Hail to the Stag Kings

Chapter 14: The Talons Strike

—The Iron Islands—

Pyke...

Daemon, shirtless and disarmed, sat on a pile of straw before standing to pace around in his cell. His attention centers around the crew of the Falcon's Flight—its captain, the engineers, staff, even Petyr and Broden. Were they all right? He did not know for certain. The cells of the Iron Islands were harsh and unforgiving. In an adjoining cell, three seedy-looking prisoners try to coax a nearby guard. One holds a sack of gold; another offers a wineskin.

"Come on! How about a nice cold one?" one prisoner beseeched.

"I've got more money, ser," another beckoned. "Let me out and I'll make you rich beyond your dreams."

One of Daemon's cellmates, however, was not so inclined.

"You can keep pleading and bargain all you want, the guard is not going to budge an inch," he replied grimly.

The ironborn guard nodded. "So, keep your mouths shut 'less you all want to visit the gallows much sooner!" he huffed as he took another gulp of his wine.

« ...They're coming. You must leave... »

Daemon groaned; shaking his head once more, the dreams kept coming.

"You look like you haven't slept, friend," his cellmate observed.

His voice sounded different. "Your accent... You're not from Westeros, aren't you?" Daemon inquired.

"No," he replied. "I'm a colonist."

"Where are you from, friend?"

"Mirantibus Spe, across the Sunset Sea. Baelor Farrin's my name if it means anything to you. My father is Lord Jorgan Farrin, Governor of the Kental Province."

"Nice to meet you, Ser Baelor. I'm Prince Daemon of House Baratheon."

That peaked Baelor's curiosity as he raised an eyebrow. "So... you're the famed rebel Prince," he observed. "What brings you to this godforsaken island?"

"My mission here is only part of it," the Prince explained. "I'm building an alliance. I need the Vale's support, who need the Tullys of Riverrun and who in turn need the Greyjoys of Pyke."

"Which is why I never became a diplomat. Too much coddling – much to father's disappointment."

"HEY! Keep it down in there!" the ironborn guard hollered again.

Daemon shrugged at the ironborn. "So... how did you get here?" he whispered.

"I'm a freelance merchant, responsible for ferrying supplies from the homeland to the colonies. We were expecting our next shipment a couple of months ago, then... nothing. When that happened, my father wanted to know why. Instead of risking our fleets, our colony decided it was best to send someone alone to investigate the sudden change in this regime. So, I volunteered. That's when I first heard about the civil war." Baelor sighed. "The ironborn must've thought I was one of King Argilac's spies sent to assassinate Lady Asha. I tried to plead my case, but they didn't believe a word I said."

"Yeah. They did the same to me and my friends as well."

"Then you understand how rigid their culture can be. I still had my documents in my pack, but I suspect the guards still have it." He turned to the Prince. "And what about you? How did the Prince—Argilac's flesh and blood—manage to venture out here?"

Daemon contemplated his options; either tell Baelor the truth and risk word spreading or lie and risk alienating a potential ally. He shook his head upon weighing his options. "This business I have with the ironborn is part of a much bigger picture. I need the Vale's support, who need the Riverlands... who in turn need the Iron Islands."