Posts by DAGDA GREYJOY

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=plantin][size=12]Now, why would Dagda have a candidate to mention? When he was here, he spent more time thinking about the Iron Islands than about who would serve the Targaryen king well. The names brought up didn't ring any bells, and he was happy with that. As far as giving away lands to new lords and ladies - well, as long as Jaehaerys didn't try to touch the islands, be it for this or for any other purpose, Dagda was fine. He shifted unhappily, wondering how much longer the meeting would be.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=plantin][size=12]Just his luck, who showed up but Tessa's murderer? Dagda was not interested in interacting with any greenlanders - it seemed to him that their words always had double meanings - and Oliver was, at the moment, his least favorite greenlander. Upon spotting the griffin, he stiffened, expression growing cool. Oliver's very manner of speaking irked him; what right did the Stark lord have to demand why he was here? The North might well be his domanin, but that didn't mean others couldn't pass through. The Iroborn were proud, and Dagda was prouder than most. Being talked down to didn't sit well with him. Insolently, he demanded, "What business is that of yours?"

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=plantin][size=12]Dagda might have disowned Farrah for abandoning the family and faith and becoming a septa, but she was still his blood, so he'd headed back to the greenlands to see if he could press anyone for information about her. Perhaps this time he'd able able to drill some sense into her thick head. Perhaps she'd return home and to the Drowned God.

What the otter found, however, was not his daughter but the king and a group of bootkissers. Wonderful. He might have ignored them, but Meg raised a question that he knew the answer to oh so well. "He was crowned after his pet archer murdered my cousin," the Lord of Pyke told Meg. It was rude, both to answer a question that had been fielded at the king and his actual answer, but everyone knew that the ironborn was savages. In truth, Jaehaerys had been crowned for winning against the Greyjoy rebels, but each side had their own history.

Turning to Jaehaerys, Dagda offered, "Your Grace."

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=plantin][size=12]Dagda paid little enough attention to Strider: he was sticking around for Meg's reaction, not to see every green boy who wanted to meet their king. Jaehaerys went on about how wrong it was that the Greyjoys had killed Blindlove for the crown, but that was the way things worked. Oliver had murdered Tessa: Jaehaerys was not king through his own merit. Of course, had Oliver been crowned, Dagda would not have bowed.

"Fairly," he snarled back. Tessa had not stolen any thrones. She'd earned them the same way the Targaryens had first earned the Iron Throne, decades back. "Your Queen had a chance. My cousin was murdered from afar, by a coward." Arrows were a cowardly weapon. Anyone could stay safe behind a wall and shoot. If you would not meet someone face to face, you should not kill them.

Clenching his jaw, the otter glanced back at Meg as she spoke to him but refrained from replying. Like as not, he'd lose his temper again, and as long as Jaehaerys had a hostage, he couldn't afford that. It was nice that he preached freedom, that he was seen as a good monarch, but Dagda was still like a chained dog. He could bark, but he dared not bite, and if his barks grew too tiresome, there was no reason for the Targayen to stand them.

He glared at the ground until the fire had left his dark gaze before offering the gathered animals a stiff nod and stalking away. Better to take Jaehaerys' dismissal and continue to play at obedience.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=avenir][size=12]After what had happened at the last competition he'd been on, Dagda had almost been disqualified for this one, but the show's producer had come around. Dagda almost wished he hadn't: well as he did, the Greyjoy had a feeling that he'd be leaving early. To be honest, he didn't mind that as long as he had the chance to beat a few other people first. (If he could wipe that smugness away from Oliver Stark, Dagda would die a happy man.)

The first round was over, and he was sitting with the other competitors in the break room. A couple of them were sitting at a round table and talking; Dagda leaned against the wall with a coffee, only half paying attention to them. It hadn't been his best round. When it came to seafood, Dagda was practically a god, and no one—no one—could beat his Moroccan fish recipe, and while he could certainly manage at some other foods, they weren't his specialty.

Scowling around the room, Dagda tried his coffee—and oh, it was hot. Coughing forcefully, he spat it back into his cup.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;]As he entered the room, Dagda glanced distastefully at the cushions scattered around. The lords sat on them, prim and soft as women, as though they could not bear the feel of stone. The king, at the very least, was supposedly an accomplished warrior, but looking at him, the beady eyed otter didn't see that. Irritably pushing at a cushion, he settled in to daydream.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;]Dagda didn't pay very much attention to what went on on the mainland. As Jaehaerys raised the question of possible promotions and demotions, the ironborn lord could only sit quietly. That was fine by him, and he turned his eyes toward the walls of the room, impatient for the conversation to move on, when he heard Fortinbras speak. Pyke was an ironborn name; a bastard's name, to be sure, but an ironborn name nonetheless. What was one of his fellow Iron Islanders doing here? Snapping his head toward Fortinbras, Dagda fixed him with a steady gaze. He'd have to find out more about that Pyke and why he wasn't back home, where he belonged.

// perhaps a promotion or shout-out for Strider?

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]The Iron Fleet was in working order, and to celebrate, Dagda had taken some Ironborn on a raid. There was no denying that Jaehaerys still had a tight leash, so rather than raid Westeros' coast, the otter had taken the fleet around to the Free Cities, where there were numerous merchant vessels and settlements to prey on. It felt good to be reaving once more, and it most have pleased the Drowned God, because their longships were heavy with spoils when they returned.

While his men partied, Dagda had come to the mainland to trade some of his prizes for meat and wheat: much as he might dislike trading with the fat, green merchants here, not everyone on the Iron Islands could survive on fish alone, and the soil wasn't suited for growing crops or raising animals. He was distracted, though, by some of his loot, and paying more attention to it than to where he was going, the ironman was soon lost in the marketplace with only his prizes for company.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]// everyone's free to say anything dagda won't :)

As the conversation proceeded, Dagda kept his attention on Fortinbras, but the Hand didn't seem likely to share any information on the ironborn bastard. Letting out an annoyed huff, he glanced back at Jaehaerys, trying to tell if the king was satisfied enough with the recommendations to let the conversation proceed.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]Huron Codd was not a highly successful man, but he had a ship of his own, and on the Iron Islands, that made him close to a king. Well, at sea, at least, and Lannisport was near the sea. On the Iron Islands, Dagda Greyjoy had resumed control, ending the chaos that had erupted following Tessa's death with a hard hand and terse threats. Huron was not the happiest with the Greyjoy family; over the course of of the failed rebellion, the wolf-fish hybrid had lost both his brothers, and after the rebellion, his father had almost been drowned by the Greyjoy lord after refusing to settle down; luckily, the threat had been enough to calm him, and Dagda hadn't followed through on the promise. So despite the fact that they'd been expressly forbidden from raiding Westeros for the time being, Huron had sailed his ship right over to the westerlands.

To say that raid hadn't gone well was an understatement, but there was a bonus: he was coming back with a captive. The boy was a pretty little thing, and he'd be put to work as a thrall, doing what the Ironborn were too proud too. Huron was satisfied with that outcome. The worst damage, in his mind, was the scent that had been left behind in Lannisport, signaling that it had been an Ironborn raid, but he did not think that the scent was too strong. Besides, he was fulfilling the Drowned God's will, so he would be protected from harm, come it from the Greyjoy or the Targaryen king.

@Strider L.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]The ship rocked gently on the waves, and Huron felt a smile break out over his angular face. This success, he was sure, would be the first of many. As he stared off into the distance, at the receding image of Lannisport, his captive stirred. The movements attracted Huron, and glanced down toward the feline. Strider didn't seem too groggy or terrified, but Huron was still on a high, so rather than kick him to remind him that he wasn't in charge, the hybrid gaily replied, "On the deck of my ship. I'm taking you back to the Iron Islands."

// would you like me to make a post-raid thread in the main board so it can get around that strider was nabbed?

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 430px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]Lannisport was swarming with excitement. The air buzzed with so many voices it was impossible to make out any individual words. It would take patience to learn the news: something had happened by the docks.

If the rest of the city was in a state of disarray, the docks were complete chaos. Animals conferred loudly or wept, and number watched as a small ship disappeared across the sea. Mingled with the usual stink of the city was the salty smell of sailors—of ironmen. Bit by bit, the story could be pieced together.

The day had been disturbed by a raiding ship, one that bore no marks. It had not done much damage, but the captain, a pale wolf-shark, had snatched a prisoner before departing—the golden cheetah Strider Lannister.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]Huron's grin broadened at the feline's confusion. How long had it been since he'd last felt this alive? Too long. Far too long. "I have the right of conquest." He'd come, and he'd managed to steal the Westerosi, and that alone gave the Codd the right to keep him. Might made right. "What's your name, boy?" Noting that Strider had moved closer to him, Huron narrowed his eyes and shifted his stance: if the prisoner tried anything stupid, he would be ready.

yes sign my boys up

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]Strider Lannister. Surprise flickered across Huron's features; he hadn't expected to catch a member of one of the noble Houses—he'd assumed that Strider was lowborn, the son of fishwife or a wanderer. For a moment, it occurred to the shark-wolf that he would get in trouble for this, but he pushed the rebellious thoughts away. He was ironborn: reaving was what they did, and just because the Greyjoy had submitted did not mean that he had to as well. "Huron Codd," he returned. "You don't seem upset, boy. Do you realize what your future will be? You won't be sitting around growing fat."

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]The pirate snorted. His pretty little captive wouldn't be lazing about if he was back home. The greenlanders didn't know the meaning of hardship. They lived on a luxurious, arable land where prey thrived. Of course he'd be growing fat. "Oh, aye," Huron agreed sardonically. "I s'ppose you'd be slaving away or training hard." He snorted again, obviously thinking the concept absurd.

They were come closer to the Iron Islands, and as Strider continued, Huron glanced at the craggy islands, a smile dancing around the corners of his mouth. Glancing back down, he disagreed, "A foolish hope. I'll keep you as long as I please, as a thrall working fer me. Who'll notice? Do you have anyone you talk with on a frequent basis? Besides, these are the Iron Islands. We can sink any ship before it gets close enough to rescue you." Not many non-ironborn captains would dare sail here, unless they were merchants with a connection to the ironborn—and even then. "In a few days," Huron promised, "You'll forget you ever had a different life." As for him, he'd go to a bar once the ship was docked and Strider dealt with and brag about the raid to some buddies. It'd be something.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]The Iron Islands were tightly under control. Dagda had resumed regular raiding parties to far off shores, and the spirit of defeat that had prevailed after their rebellion was put down had faded away. Drowned Men roamed the Islands, reminding the ironborn who they were: everything was running smoothly, and Dagda had therefore taken the time to visit the mainland. He wanted to expand the Iron Fleet, and that required timber—not something easily found back home.

Right now, though, he wasn't in the market, but in the gardens of the keep. Dagda was not used to such greenery: plants didn't grow well on the Iron Islands, and they certainly didn't waste what little arable land there was on dainty flowers or pretty bushes. Most of said bushes were covered in snow, and he found the effect unsettling.

As he strode down the well worn paths, the otter stumbled across a lioness sketching something in the snow. Dagda was curious, and because he had to pass by Lucrezia anyway, he took the time to examine her sketch. As a veteran of countless raids, the ironman's mind immediately went to war—and if that was indeed what the sketch was supposed to be, the Targaryen wasn't a half bad strategist. "Who you planning on attacking?" Dagda wondered, somewhat sarcastically.

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 420px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]Letting out a bark of laughter, Huron decided, "We'll see." He was, he knew, correct: Strider was not the first thrall he'd taken, even if he was the first in a long time. The Greyjoys might have forgotten what it meant to be Ironborn, but he certainly hadn't, and he knew how to deal with a homesick prisoner. As they neared his home, the hybrid turned his attention to shore and gave orders for the ship to be docked. Cheerfully, he turned back to Strider and announced, "Up, boy. It's time to see your new home."

[center][fancypost=bgcolor= transparent; bordercolor= transparent; height:; width: 440px; font=; text-align: justify;][font=timesnewroman][size=12]Dagda had to admit, this green lady spoke pretty words, but that didn't keep him from disagreeing with her. "Ye' can't be prepared for everything," he mentioned mildly. There was no not being caught unaware. There was no being completely for everything. If there was, his raids wouldn't be the successes they were. You could plan for multiple possibilities, but you couldn't be prepared for everything. "'S a good idea," he conceded at last, "So long as ye' don't get your mind stuck thinking only 'bout what your prepared for." Dagda was not used to talking strategy with greenlanders, but it was a good deal more pleasant than pretending he cared about their squabbles or that he wanted to make inane conversation with them, and it showed in his openness to Lucrezia.

As for his comments, take the Iron Islands. If the Royal Fleet was sent against them, Dagda felt sure that he'd beat it—not without casualties, certainly, but there would be far less on his side than on the other. An attack from the sky, though, by dragons? That wasn't something they were prepared for, and he was not sure he even knew how to begin preparing for it—but that was a thought for when he got home.

He'd been leaning over the lioness to view her sketches, but now Dagda straightened out. "But you're drawing battle plans. Would ye' fight first, before your enemies could attack, or are ye' just a child playing at raiding?" Was she prepared to put her plans into action, should the need arise? Words were pretty, but the Ironborn relied on actions, not words.

Sethos Uller might recognize Dagda, but the Greyjoy certainly didn't recognize him. All the green lords were the same in his eyes: fat, scheming men who talking in riddles instead of being straight and honest. Kill one and another sprang up, no different than the first. The only times Dagda really saw Sethos was at Jaehaerys' private meetings for the lords, and he spent more time daydreaming and brooding than paying attention to who else was in the stuffy room.

As the shaytanin spoke, Dagda glanced toward him, a frown flickering over his expression. After too long a pause, he offered the other male a faint, doubtful nod and returned his attention to the Targaryen expectantly.

Ah, anytime Jae summons him, Dagda's gonna expect trouble xd But yeah, that's good.