Sea's Cruelty
Twenty-First Day of the Sixth Month 293 AC
An old saying about Ironborn oft spoken among those they call 'Greenlanders' claims they only take to the sea to escape the sight of their dreary storm-shrouded home, or in more ribald sensibilities their women. As you halfheartedly try the fish stew in front of you the most likely cause seems to you to be their food. "Haven't they heard of any spice besides salt?" you grouse.
"For a lord's keep perhaps, but not a tavern, even one such as this," your mother replies, motioning to the narrow private dining room your friends had rented for the discussion.
"And that is at the heart of the divide that turns the islanders against themselves," Xor sighs. "Old Ways and New, Iron Price or Gold, it all comes down to the fact that from the merest oarsman to the captains counted kings of their own longboats, they all look to the horizon for all that their islands cannot give. It's in those dreams and not any practical solution that we must seek our answers. For millennia they traded as much as raided, conquered as much as burnt, but to listen to their songs it is only in the latter that true and lasting wealth can be found."
"Ironborn are dumb shits, the sky's blue and this beer tastes like piss," Bronn snorts, earning himself a reproving look from your mother, not that he seems to notice. From what Tyene told you he had been recently gathering tales around the ale barrel with the expected consequences. Though either of you could have cured him of it you decide he's earned the joys of intoxication. After all, much of the most important information you have comes from him.
Xor clears his throat: "Being 'dumb' does not account for the sheer imbalance of songs and tales in a people's collective memory. Consider this, if you are an ironborn who has grown rich on trade, tribute, or both, will you not pay singers to proclaim your honor and ever-lasting glory?"
"Of course," you reply thoughtfully, already getting an inkling of where this is going.
"So then as it follows that it's better to milk the cow for years than skin and eat it once, why are there not more songs about
that?" your friend continues, leaning across the table. "Why do so few seems to remember the Hoares who ruled the Riverlands by sailing their ships up its waterways, who only
dragons could cast down?"
"Mayhap the Greyjoys have spoken against such a tale," Ser Richard interjects. "No House wishes to live in the shadow of those they replaced."
"That they would have wanted to I do not doubt," you interject. "Yet have you ever heard of a lord however high able to seal a singer's lips?"
"Part of the answer is undoubtedly the Drowned Men, for ever have their preached the way of sword and axe, all the bloodier once they had to contend with the septons' words of peace and plenty," Xor picks up his tale. "Even now they are a thorn in the regent's side, stirring up their faithful nowhere more than on Old Wyk. At times they also call out to the sea for... 'aid'." It is a rare thing to see disgust on your friend's face, but whenever he must speak of the evils the Deep Ones do it is writ clear as day. "Alas that there are more insidious ways.
They slip their lures before these unsuspecting folk."
"We found these at the market," Tyene spills open the contents of a small bag on the table. A handful of oily black charms clatter onto the table, the sound oddly muffled. "Only the well-off could buy them of course, but you don't have to be wearing the damn thing for it to sap your mind, waking or
sleeping."
"There are far more madmen on the streets of Pyke these days than one might expect," you mother continues grimly. "We found two captains who used to stand with the Reader and one man who claims to have been a singer and a skilled one."
"That's what set me thinking," Xor continues. "What if this isn't new, just
stronger? Perhaps Those Below have always poisoned the dreams of Ironborn, none more so than the one who sat upon the Seastone Chair. Rodrik Harlaw does not sit upon it for he claims he is no lord but merely a caretaker for the true heir. Perhaps his humility saved his life and sanity both."
From what you hear of the Reader's deeds the man has certainly demonstrated more than mere sanity, forethought, wit and, wisdom in the face of an uphill battle where a single step could mean his doom. The company he founded on the Essosi model, West Sea Seekers, has made consistent profits by both trade and sellsail contracts, profiting from the fact that in the Iron Isles, unlike the rest of the Seven kingdoms, it is far likelier for smallfolk to have wealth in coin not just land, beasts, or other cumbersome goods. Much like any of success it has drawn imitators, lords eager to make their fortune 'paying the gold price' after Iron has failed so utterly in Balon's rebellion. Alas none of these companies seem to survive long, storms, ill chance, and hushed tales of monsters followed everyone your friends had discovered.
"Either the man's a thrall hiding in plain sight, or the damn squids are being surprisingly cunning, stoking the fires of jealously while letting Harlaw struggle like a fish at the end of the line," Tyene concludes. "The latter would explain his increasing desperation in seeking some sort of magical council."
"Who are his allies and his foes?" you ask at length. "Houses, histories, and characters, everything you found."
Thus you learn that most of the lords of Harlaw support the regent still, save for his own cousin Boremund the Blue who quarreled with his lord over a ill-fated voyage. The Stonetrees are supposedly restless, more from greed than any grudge, though tales of giving shelter to Drowned Men who had been declared outlaws persist. Beyond the island the Regent's control shows a def hand, but slipping from the reigns just the same. Erik Ironmaker is first with the wine cup at feast time, but some of his grandsons are said to be reaving in defiance of law and oath. Lord Meldred Merlyn is a man of the New Way educated on the mainland, but one of his ships has supposedly mutinied recently due to some 'sign of the Drowned God' which lead to to him being ever more afraid to set foot outside his keep lest rebellion not follow him ashore.
Perhaps most ominously Lord Donnor Saltcliffe appears to have simply abandoned his lands along with the entire population of his fiefdom, though he did not have nearly enough ships to sail off. You fear that the most common rumor, that 'the sea had swallowed them up,' is all too real, and that they will not be staying there for long.
What do you do?
[] Seek an audience with the regent
-[] Write in
[] Try to gather more information
-[] Write in
[] Write in
OOC: As part of my effort to deliver on more nuance in politics I rolled a lot more on the Iron Isles situation, rather than just leaving it at the background rolls. I hope it works and makes the wold feel more alive.