[55] The Iron Price? Nah
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The night pressed against the walls of Winterfell. It was dark and cold.
Beyond the window, a waning moon cast pale light on the snow-laden roofs. In a private chamber on the keep’s second floor, torches sputtered in their brackets, sending wavering shadows dancing across the cold stone walls.
Yara Greyjoy stood just outside the thick wooden door, her wrists bound behind her. Two Northern guards exchanged glances before the taller one rapped sharply on the door.
A muffled voice from within. It was calm and waiting as it called out, “Enter.”
The guard eased the door open, allowing Yara to stride inside, her head high despite her restrained hands. Finally, those bastards. Despite the short time with these guards, she had come to hate them already.
Not that the man inside was any batter.
The room was modestly furnished. A sturdy bed piled with furs, a small table set with a half-burned candle, and a narrow window overlooking the moonlit courtyard. A brazier in the corner diffused a faint warmth, though it felt far too mild for Yara’s chilled limbs.
None of that was more eye-catching than the man waiting near the window. It was the man who'd defeated and imprisoned her and her group, and executed four of her loyal men.
His silver-head turned at her entrance, and a slow, lazy smile curved his lips. It irritated her. He wore a loose-fitting tunic and breeches as though he were on the verge of retiring for the night. How dare he act so defenseless? Did he think she was no threat at all, just because her hands were tied?
That'd be your funeral, Targaryen. Yara noted as the candlelight gleamed on his pale hair, giving him an otherworldly aura.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Iron Princess,” he said in a conversational tone. “Let’s discuss world peace.”
Yara’s jaw clenched, rage welling in her chest at his casual greeting. World peace? Really? After he killed her men? Her shoulders twitched with the urge to lunge at him, to break his smugness. Instead, she forced her voice to remain steady.
“What’s there to talk about, Targaryen?” she demanded. “You’ve already burned three of my men and publicly executed four more. What else could there possibly be before you achieve ‘world peace’?”
“Ideally, the extinction of all Ironborn. Also, it's ‘Your Grace’ for you.” His gaze didn’t waver as he shrugged, glancing past her as though the matter were trivial. “You’re alive. Your brother’s alive. And quite a few of your men still draw breath. That’s more than you could’ve hoped for. I suggest you be grateful.”
Her jaw tightened further, teeth grinding together. For Theon’s sake—curse that punk—she had to remain calm.
Theon was in a cell somewhere beneath this castle, damned fool, but she didn't know where. If I push too hard, we both lose.
Fuming quietly, she advanced a step, keeping her chin lifted. The ideal plan was to kill this bastard, find Theon, and flee.
“Grateful? After everything you’ve done to humiliate us?” Her voice was sharp. “Hah. Let's stop talking about useless stuff. I’ve come to ask what you plan to do with me… and my brother.”
Viserys moved away from the window, and came closer. In the corner, the brazier crackled and sent up a faint glow that outlined his form. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t know,” he said. “Your father’s decisions forced my hand. Balon Greyjoy declared war, and your brother tried to hold Winterfell. All of the Five Kings are my enemies, so I’m simply finishing what they started.”
“Robb Stark too?”
“I might marry his sister, so no, he's not,” he said, watching her eyes narrow before continuing. “See? I’m no savage.”
“You're infuriating.”
“Despite what you might think, no. We just had a bad first impression. I do want world peace, but not through too big of a blood sea. I don’t plan to wipe out the Iron Islands for sport. You lots may be useful, if guided correctly.”
Yara’s lips curled in scorn. “Fool. We bow to no one,” she snapped. “The Ironborn do not bend the knee. We take what is ours, or we die in the attempt.”
“A foolish way to live, then,” Viserys said in a dry tone. “The statement is funny, coming from someone who’s halted her march her men into my dragon’s jaws. Shouldn't you have died trying to defeat me? Instead, you surrendered, ” His voice dropped, chilly as the winter air. “Yara… I can annihilate you, or I can make you an ally. Only you can decide which.”
Her anger flared, and before she could think better of it, she lunged for the dagger strapped to a belt near the brazier. She'd been eyeing it for a while now. With her bound hands, it was awkward, but she gripped the blade and spun to strike at him.
But she was surprised when Viserys moved swiftly, sidestepping her attack with practiced ease.
“Idiot,” the dagger clattered to the floor as he slammed her arms upward, spinning her until her face pressed into the cold stone beneath him.
Her cheek stung on impact, but her pride stung far worse. “I’ll ignore that little stunt,” he said lightly, his voice near her ear. “Once.”
He pinned her firmly, her bound wrists grinding painfully against her spine. She struggled to no avail and could only growl in frustration. “FUCK!”
“Hah. You’re lucky I enjoy your spirit, Yara Greyjoy,” he continued. “Now, I’ll grant you another chance. Make better choices than your father or your brother. Do that, and you may yet return home alive… with a crown on your head, perhaps. The Iron Queen. Doesn’t that sound appealing?”
A hollow laugh escaped her. “I’ll be queen regardless—Targaryen meddling or not.”
Viserys let a short laugh escape his own throat, an edge of true amusement in it. “You are one dumb bitch, aren't you? I won't deny that you've achieved a lot in your life, but do you really think your people will accept a bitch as their ruler?”
“Watch your mouth- argh!” She tried to free herself from his grip, but he was too strong. How was he so strong?
“Listen, you’d better choose the right side of the game if you want to play Queen,” he said, finally easing his grip, though not enough for her to break free. “I’ll kill the rest of your men if it furthers my interests, and I’ll kill you if you annoy me enough. Is that so hard to understand?”
Her breathing came hard, but she finally relented. “Fuck you,” the reality that she couldn’t kill him, couldn’t even scratch him, settled on her like a chain. “But… fine,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Let me go.”
He rose smoothly, allowing her arms some slack, and she scrambled to her feet, the humiliation of her position scorching her pride. She realized her hands weren't tied anymore, so she dusted off her leathers, refusing to meet his mocking gaze.
“So we can speak like civilized people now?” he asked.
“What do you want?” she demanded “Be more specific.”
He walked to the bed, half-dropping onto it in a languid sprawl. The single torch left in the room cast shadows across his face. “I want you to persuade your father to bow to me. I know he's a stubborn bastard, so I’ll fly to the Iron Islands with you and demonstrate my dragon’s power, if need be. Men like Balon understand force better than words.”
Yara huffed. “Even if I tried, my father does as he pleases. He’s—” She caught herself from revealing too much about her father’s insecurities. “Well.”
“Then you can show him. He sees a dragon, he might re-evaluate his stance. If not, well…” His fingers drummed on the fur bedspread, each tap a silent threat. “I’ll consider other options.”
He could always kill her father and put someone else on the throne. She frowned.
“So, what do you say?” He asked.
She hesitated, the flicker of a thousand potential outcomes flashing in her mind. The Iron Islands, proud and fierce, wouldn’t bow easily, but faced with a living dragon, might they yield for self-preservation’s sake? Or would they fight and burn?
“So it’s blackmail,” she muttered.
“Diplomacy. With teeth. See this from my shoes. How many nation-level incidents has your father caused in his lifetime? It's better for him to step down.” Sighing, he looked again, this time without menace. “You came here to fetch your brother. Instead, you’ll leave with me and my dragon. In return, you get to rule your people while you serve my claim to the Iron Throne, and all Ironborn escape their fate of being crisped alive.”
Anger flared behind her eyes, but she nodded. “....All right,” she murmured grudgingly. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m glad.” He patted the bed, a brazen invitation that made her jaw clench. “Now, how about we let’s seal that promise, Yara?”
Yara’s glare burned into him as his words settled in the air. “What? That wasn’t part of the agreement,” she spat.
Viserys tilted his head, his grin widening. “We’re just making the agreement right now, so yes, it is,” he replied smoothly.
“Bastard.”
He chuckled in response. His tone carried no urgency, only the confidence of someone who knew he'd already won. He leaned back on the bed, spreading his arms in mock invitation. “Be a good little Ironborn pig and crawl to me.”
Her eyes twitched, her fists clenching at her sides. The torchlight flickered, casting sharp shadows on the walls as the tension thickened.
For a moment, she seemed poised to refuse, to spit some cutting remark and leave with her pride intact. But then her shoulders slackened, her gaze flicking down as the weight of her situation bore down on her.
For the Ironborn, Yara told herself as she lowered to her knees, the motion slow and deliberate, every inch of her movement screaming defiance even as she complied.
The stone floor was rough beneath her hands as she crawled toward him, her eyes never leaving his face. Each step forward was a war between fury and submission, her pride and her survival instincts clashing violently.
Viserys’s grin deepened as he watched her, his pale violet eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Good little bitch,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock approval.
All this seemed like a bad dream as Yara reached the edge of the bed, and Viserys leaned forward, taking her.
[Image Here]
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Author Note: The picture is based on Elizabeth Swan from Pirates of the Caribbean, rather than Yara from GOT ?? just imagine Miss Swann with darker hair.