[62] Flying Back Home

Chapter 62: Flying Back Home

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The ironborn forces honestly weren’t as big as I’d been thinking. Sure, their fleet looked impressive for a bunch of pirates, but it wouldn’t really matter in the war that’s about to go down in Westeros.

A few thousand men spread across a hundred ships—yeah, that’s not much compared to the armies we’ll see clashing soon.

Which is exactly why I’m letting them head off to raid the Free Cities instead, I thought, standing on a rocky ledge while workers bustled around the docks below. The smell of salt and tar hung in the air as they got the longships ready for their journey east.

They’d be wasted if I sent them against Stannis in Blackwater Bay. Maybe in another scenario, I'd have used them there, but come on, they'd just end up burning in wildfire, along with all of Stannis’ people. It would be smarter to send them east where they might actually do something worthwhile, such as plundering money for me.

Taking the throne was one thing, but paying back the insane debt the crown owned? That was a whole other war entirely.

Viserion shifted under me, her golden scales catching the dull morning light. She’d been getting restless; she always did if we stayed put too long. “Boring... humans slow,” she grumbled.

“Patience,” I muttered, patting her neck. “We’ll get moving soon enough.”

Below, the last crates and barrels were being hauled onto the ships. I saw Yara on the deck of her flagship, yelling orders at her crew. The Pirate Queen had ditched her usual leathers for something more heavy, though she still moved with that predatory grace I'd grown to like.

I guided Viserion down the high sky, passing slowly over the gathering fleet. The ironborn all paused, looking up as my dragon’s shadow slid across their faces.

“Once again,” I shouted, my voice carrying over the water, “you’re setting sail to prove yourselves. This time, I won’t be going with you, for my presence is more valuable here. Use my absence to show me what the ironborn can really do. Prove you deserve that tough reputation you keep boasting about!”

I heard them muttering among themselves. Some of them shot me nasty looks—these proud raiders hated being tested like this. But what could they do, really? Pick a fight with a guy who has a dragon?

Our eyes met from a distance—mine and Yara’s. She gave me the smallest nod, and I knew we understood each other. She had to keep them in check, steer them toward good targets, and make sure they didn’t get any bright ideas about returning to raid Westeros.

I'd initially worried about Yara. These people loved and respected her but might try to pick on her after recent events. They might try to kill her.

Fortunately, something very interesting appeared during our latest time in the bedroom.

[Your first true mate, Yara, has adapted to your presence after you've ejaculated into her so many times. She's come to accept you as her conqueror, her mate.]

[In many fairy tales, people use a dragon's human partner as his weakness to threaten him. To break him down by killing her. A dragon shouldn't ever be disrespected in such a manner, for worlds have met their end because of lesser things.]

[To protect your mate, you can now lend one of your Draconic Traits to her. The choice is up to you. Do not be worried; she’ll lose access to the trait if you want to.]

[Y/N]

I hadn't decided yet, letting myself sleep over the decision.

But now that I saw her moving her fleet for me, I was sure what to choose.

[Congratulations, you've chosen ‘Yes’! You can now lend one of your traits to Yara Greyjoy.]

[Available Traits:

[Good choice! Your Mate Yara Greyjoy can now access Dragon Wings. You can still use it, too, even if it’s at the same time as she does. Once again, if you want, you can also stop lending it to her.]

[Would you like to lend your experience on how to use these wings to her too, or have her find it by herself?]

[Y/N]

There was no meaning in holding back the experience since the whole point in doing this was so that she remained safe.

I watched as Yara’s eyes twitched and her knees gave in. She fell, clutching her head tightly, while a few men rushed to her to see if she was alright.

A minute passed as Yara waved them off, breathing heavily as she looked up at me. “You...” She looked at me and realized it wasn't a coincidence. I was the one who did this to her.

This was a great boon, and I barely held back my excitement at having such power. The problem with strong people always was that he often had weaker people around him. With this ability? It wouldn't be the case. Although I was unsure if this would work for the non-virgins too…

She stared at me, her eyes full of wonder, before we exchanged one last nod. She realized why I'd lent her such power.

The first ships drifted off the docks, oars dipping into the cold water.

Sails unfurled, black cloth stamped with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy catching the morning breeze.

Viserion flexed her wings, ready to fly. I had my own business to care for, things in King’s Landing wouldn’t sort themselves out. It was almost time for Stannis’ attack.

****

The wind slapped at my face as Viserion soared through clouds that looked like cotton stretched across an endless blue sky. We’d been flying for hours, leaving the Iron Islands far behind. The afternoon sun lit up her golden scales, shimmering in crazy shades.

Down below, Westeros sprawled out like a live map. Forests, hills, and rivers were all woven together, though the Riverlands looked pretty beat up from all the fights. Scorched fields and burned-out husks of villages dotted the landscape, telling silent stories of Lannister raids and Northern counter-attacks.

The destruction seemed almost artistic from up here, like someone had taken a torch to an elaborate painting. Not that the common folk down there would appreciate that comparison.

The sight reminded me why I needed to move fast. Every day of war meant more villages turned to ash, more resources wasted on petty lords playing their game of thrones. At least I had a dragon—that tends to speed up negotiations.

“Smell… humans,” Viserion growled, turning her big head slightly. “Many… below.”

She was right. Robb Stark’s army was camped all across the area, tents dotting the land like ant hills, as I remembered.

As we dropped lower, I saw soldiers pointing up at us, but the wind yanked their shouts away before they reached me.

Viserion landed with a heavy thud in a clearing near the main camp, letting out a roar to greet them. Many soldiers fell back, while most hung back like they weren’t sure if they should bow or run, but at least they didn’t look too freaked out. News must’ve spread that I’d been helping the North, as I'd agreed.

“Make way!” someone shouted. I turned to see Robb Stark heading over with many Northern lords at his back. There was no Catelyn—so she was probably locked up by now. They had no choice but to do something after that Jaime fiasco.

“Your Grace,” Robb said, his tone warm but still formal. The Young Wolf looked more like a king than the last time we met. That nurse who'd cursed his fate in the original was beside him this time. “We didn’t expect you so soon. I take it that things went alright in the Iron Islands?”

“Better than I expected,” I said, hopping off Viserion. “The ironborn got themselves a new ruler. Balon Greyjoy is dead.”

That brought on a round of gasps from the lords. Lord Umber’s bushy eyebrows practically jumped off his face. “Dead? How?”

His own daughter did it, but people didn't need to know that. The Ironborn didn't know that either, otherwise they'd have called Yara a traitor. “I did it,” I answered casually, liking how shocked they looked. “Yara Greyjoy rules now, having submitted under my authority.”

“Seven hells,” someone muttered, and another spat.

Being the practical rule he was, Robb asked, “And their fleet?”

"They're sailing east to raid the Free Cities. They're done bothering the North," I replied, locking eyes with him. A slight smirk played at my lips as I added, "Your shores are safe now, and they'll be bringing their particular brand of chaos to different targets that aren't us. Anyway, that's why I'm here. Yara made me swear that her brother wouldn't be executed, so I'm asking you to let him live. He's in your dungeons, the last where I left him.”

Robb's face went stiff at my words, torn between feeling betrayed and remembering the friend he grew up with. “Well…”

I could tell he didn't really want Theon dead, pride or not. The young wolf had that same look I'd seen on countless faces before, the struggle between duty and emotion, between what people thought they should do and what they actually wanted to do.

It was always entertaining to watch.

Lord Karstark stepped forward, face going red with anger. “That turncloak should die! He killed innocent children!”

“Aye,” Lord Glover chipped in. “The North remembers.”

Then Bolton, that sneaky bastard, spoke up. “A live hostage is worth more than a dead traitor. The boy’s already suffered a lot down there. If you allow me, I’d inform my bastard to handle him.”

Several lords nodded, and I saw Robb relax just a bit. He finally found an excuse. I found that pleasing, as well. Ramsay Bolton was a freak, but he’d break down Theon well, even if not as devastating as the original timeline since the Ironborn were an ally now. But this way, the Iron Queen’s brother will never stand against her.

“Fine,” Robb said at last. “Because of our alliance and for the sake of who he used to be, Theon will live. But he stays locked up until the war ends.”

“That’s all I need,” I said with a grin, offering my hand. Robb shook it firmly.

"What about... my sister?" he asked, slightly unsure. "Is Sansa safe? I got report from the Maester already, but I want to know from you." His eyes searched mine, desperate for reassurance about his beloved sister's fate, starving to know how our relationship had grown in that time.

He'd be disappointed.

Family meant everything to the Starks; it was both their greatest strength and their biggest weakness. A fact I'd learned to appreciate.

"She's good since she's in her home," I said, watching his face carefully. "Winterfell is cold, but she's happy there between Bran and Rickon. Last I saw, she was teaching the younger one how to embroider, though he seemed more interested in throwing the needles at the practice dummies when she wasn't looking." I let out a small chuckle, remembering the scene. "Your sister's strong, Robb. Made of the same steel as the rest of you Starks."

He let out a breath like a huge weight was gone, his shoulders visibly relaxing. He still looked a little unsatisfied, probably because I didn't drop any personal idea about Sansa, but he accepted it. "Thank you. Really. For all you've done for the North. We won't forget it."

Some more thank-yous and praises got tossed around, the usual diplomatic niceties that came with being royalty. I played along, but I noticed Viserion shifting beneath me, her muscles tensing with growing impatience.

My beautiful dragon never cared much about human ceremonies, and soon, it was time to go. I adjusted my position and climbed properly onto her back, feeling the familiar warmth of her scales against my legs. With a final, deliberate nod at Robb, I gripped her spines tight.

"Until next time, King in the North." The words carried just the right mix of respect and authority. After all, we were equals now, at least on paper.

But for how long, Robb should wonder.

Viserion spread her magnificent wings, golden membranes catching the cool northern light. With a single, powerful thrust that kicked up dust and made the nearby horses whiny in fear, we lifted off into the crisp air.

I watched the Stark army grow smaller below us, along with whatever fate awaited Theon in his cell. Some problems were better left behind on the ground.

It was time to return to King’s Landing.

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Author Note: Sorry for the lack of updates guys, been sick lately. Among some other personal stuff.

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