The Lord of Fairmarket

Fairmarket was a town that should have been a grand city, nestled along the Blue Fork of the Trident. Its position was ideal—perfect for bustling trade routes and a thriving marketplace. Yet, it never reached the heights it could have. The old river kings had refused to grant the charters that would have allowed it to expand and grow. As a result, Fairmarket remained small, its cobbled streets winding between narrow stone buildings, and its market stalls bustling with merchants, farmers, and traders, but lacking the grandeur its location could have promised.

The marketplace was always lively, filled with the scents of freshly baked bread, roasting meats, and the pungent odor of fish from the river. Wagons clattered over the stones, their drivers shouting as they navigated the crowded streets. Blacksmiths' hammers rang out as they shaped iron into tools and weapons, while children darted between the stalls, laughing as they played.

In recent years, the town had gained prominence in the kingdoms, as it was here that Harwyn Hoare had defeated the Storm King, Arrec Durrandon, leading to the conquest of the Kingdoms of the Rivers and Hills by the Ironborn. Harwyn had begun using the town as his capital on the mainland. His son, Halleck Hoare, had ruled from a modest tower in the town—a far cry from the grandiose fortresses of other kingdoms. That same tower now housed Haldon Greyjoy, installed as governor of the lands of House Frey, Blackwood, and Mallister by Harren Hoare.

Haldon stood at the window of the tower, his tall frame silhouetted against the light. He looked out over the busy streets of the town, watching as the people went about their day. His face was set in a mask of frustration. This was not where he wanted to be, looking after landlubbers far from the salt-scented winds of his home. He had no desire to play lord over the Blackwoods, Mallisters, and Freys. He longed for the sea, where Ironborn men truly belonged. But his king had commanded it, and he had to obey.

Behind him, a man in a black-and-gold surcoat stood stiffly. "Your answer, my lord?" the envoy from King Harren pressed. His tone was respectful, but there was an edge to his voice, the impatience of someone used to having his demands met.

Haldon turned from the window, his jaw clenched, his frustration barely contained. "I have already told you," he said, his voice hard. "I have the gold, the iron, and the other minerals the king has demanded. But the grain—it will be late this year."

The envoy arched an eyebrow, clearly displeased. "The King will not be pleased to hear this."

"I care not for the king's pleasure or displeasure," Haldon growled, his voice low and full of contempt. "Even I have come to pity these greenlanders," he added, his gaze hardening as he looked back out over the lands he ruled on Harren's behalf. The fields were barren, the people exhausted by years of heavy taxation and labor for the ever-hungry fortress of Harrenhal.

The envoy shifted uncomfortably at Haldon's growing agitation. "The King does not take well to excuses, my lord."

Haldon's lips curled into a snarl as he turned away from the window. "Tell him that his lands have been drained dry by his own taxes, and if he wants his grain, he'll have to wait. The people here have nothing left to give."

The envoy stiffened, clearly displeased with the response, but his expression remained neutral. "What of the thralls, my lord?" he asked after a moment.

Haldon's annoyance deepened at the mention of the thralls. "The thralls he keeps demanding for his fortress? I can't spare any," he muttered, his irritation boiling to the surface.

"His Grace requires more than gold," the envoy pressed. "The grain shortage will not go unnoticed. Harrenhal needs more thralls. The fortress must be completed, and his armies must be fed. It is not a matter of choice, Lord Greyjoy. His Grace demands it."

Haldon's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the frustration finally bubbling over. "I cannot give him more thralls!" he snapped, his voice rising in anger. "If I take more peasants from the fields, we won't have enough men to plant for next year. And if we pull more from the mines, the iron shipments will slow. We're stretched too thin as it is!"

The envoy regarded him with cold, calculating eyes. "His Grace will not care for these excuses, Lord Greyjoy. You will find a way to meet his demands, or I fear the consequences will fall upon you."

Haldon gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw twitching. He knew well enough what 'consequences' from Harren meant, and none of them were pleasant.

The envoy gave a slight nod, then turned to leave. But before exiting, he delivered a final, chilling warning. "Remember, Lord Greyjoy, His Grace's patience is thin. Deliver what is due, or you will answer to him personally."

The heavy wooden door creaked shut behind the envoy, leaving Haldon alone in the room. For a moment, the only sound was the muffled din of the bustling town outside and the rhythmic flap of the Greyjoy banners swaying in the wind.

Haldon let out a growl of frustration, his fingers digging into the wooden table beside him. He turned back toward the narrow window, glaring out at the banners that fluttered in the wind. The weight of Harren's ever-present demands pressed down on him like an iron shackle.

"Damn Harren and his fucking castle," Haldon muttered under his breath, his frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He walked towards the small chair in the room and sank into it, his mind a flurry of thoughts.

'Rodrick,' he brooded.

His eldest son had been sent to handle tax collection and the capture of thralls in the Sevenstreams as a punishment—a lesson to teach him responsibility, to show him the consequences of his recklessness. The boy needed to learn much if he was to succeed him one day.

He was deep in thought when the door creaked open, and Vikon, his second-born, strode into the room. Taller than his older brother, Vikon bore the same blue eyes as Haldon but with a sharper, more calculating edge.

"Father," Vikon said, his voice calm but with a hint of curiosity. "I saw King Harren's envoy leave. He did not look happy."

Haldon scowled, rubbing a hand over his weary face. "Rodrick," he growled. "He was supposed to send thralls and grain from the Sevenstreams. It's late, and the king's patience is wearing thin."

Vikon's lips twisted into a half-smirk, an almost mocking glint in his eye. "I told you, Father. That punishment of yours for my dear brother would only bite us in the ass. Rodrick is a fool, unfit for command."

Haldon's temper flared. "Rodrick is my heir!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the armrest. "Your older brother! My firstborn!"

Vikon's expression darkened, the smirk vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "And where is he, Father?" he spat, his anger matching Haldon's. "I've been sending him ravens to that keep he's holed up in for about two weeks. Not a single reply. Face it—Rodrick is nowhere near Sevenstreams. He's probably already sailing to Essos, raiding and plundering like he wanted."

Haldon clenched his jaw, Vikon's accusation cutting deep. He knew there was truth in his second son's words. Rodrick was impulsive, reckless, and prone to fleeing when things didn't go his way. Haldon had hoped that exile would force his eldest son to grow up, to take responsibility for his actions. But now it seemed the boy had run off.

Haldon exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He couldn't deal with this right now—not with Harren breathing down his neck, demanding thralls and resources.

"Vikon," Haldon began, "I want you to sail up to the Sevenstreams. Search for your brother. If Rodrick is there, bring him back—alive."

Vikon's eyes flickered with doubt, his reluctance evident. "And if he's not there?" he asked, already knowing that Rodrick's tendency to run might have led him far from the Riverlands.

Haldon's expression darkened. "Then find him!" he snapped, his fists tightening on the armrests of his chair. "Wherever he is—Essos or the other side of the world. I don't care. But I want him back here. Do you understand me?"

For a moment, Vikon hesitated. His face betrayed his reluctance, but the stern, unyielding look from his father silenced any argument he might have had.

"And while you're at it," Haldon added, his tone still sharp, "we need thralls to send to Harren. Take whatever men you need, raid along the river, and bring back as many as you can."

"Very well, Father," Vikon finally said, his voice quieter now. He nodded curtly and turned to leave, though it was clear he was not pleased with the task. The door closed behind him with a soft thud.

Haldon stared at the closed door for a long moment, his knuckles still white as he gripped the armrests of his chair.

"Damn that boy," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples as the pressure of his responsibilities bore down on him.