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Game of Thrones: Nero King of Knight
One day later.
When the terrifying Iron Fleet appeared on the horizon of Lesser Moraq, a strange scene was playing out along the coast.
Though Euron's letter had been cold and unforgiving, it hadn't explicitly demanded that they kneel on the beach with weapons raised to show submission.
He had merely given them two choices.
But the precedent of the Basilisk Isles—the rumors that those who resisted were ground to dust while those who yielded survived—had traveled on the sea breeze, reaching the ears of the island's remaining inhabitants. Fear was the best messenger; it arrived faster than any fleet and took root in every heart.
The islanders also knew how the pirates of the Basilisk Isles had shown their submission. Copying them seemed the safest bet.
So, as the familiar yet alien sails grew distinct, without any organization or command, the remaining pirates, trapped merchants, and civilians who simply wanted to live all made the same move—the only one they believed could buy them a chance at survival.
They walked out of their crude shelters and gathered on the beach where the fleet was most likely to land. When the flagship's prow cut through the surf, the dark mass of people fell like wheat before the wind. They knelt on the rough gravel, heads bowed low, scimitars and hatchets held high above their heads, symbolizing total abandonment of resistance.
With silent prostration, they loudly declared their choice: Submission.
Euron accepted their surrender. On the spot, he announced that Dunstan Drumm's second son, Donnel Drumm of Old Wyk, would serve as the Governor of Lesser Moraq, effective immediately.
The strategy of placing second sons of the Iron Islands as rulers of conquered territories had been decided before the expedition began. The order and importance of the islands assigned were determined by the merits earned during the war.
Euron never interfered with the recording of merits; that was managed entirely by the head of House Harlaw. Donnel Drumm ranked first on the list, so handing this vital trade hub to him raised no objections.
Upon hearing the news, Donnel Drumm felt as if a burning coal and a chunk of ice had been dropped into his heart simultaneously.
Uncontrollable joy rushed first—as a second son, he now had an island of his own! The weight of this reward far exceeded expectations; it meant power, status, and considerable income. A flash of approval even crossed his father Dunstan's stern face.
For Donnel, this meant he could be a lord like his father and brother. The glory of House Drumm would be extended and expanded in his generation.
But the heat was quickly cooled by a wave of loss. Becoming the Governor of Lesser Moraq meant he could no longer participate in Lord Euron's magnificent campaign—a journey destined for the history books. He would be nailed to this spice-scented rock, dealing with endless taxes, disputes, and construction, while his comrades followed the Kraken banner into the unknown, chasing greater legends.
His Ironborn brothers laughed and slapped his chest, congratulating him on his glory.
Donnel sighed. He had gained a stable foundation but lost the chance to seize greater glory in the stormy seas. He didn't know if this was fortune or misfortune.
---
In the boundless emerald waves of the eastern Summer Sea, the Isle of Vahar floated like a forgotten pearl in the center of the waters.
This small but wealthy island prospered by controlling the precious spice trade, draping the city of Vahar in a golden veneer.
Looking out from the island, the blurry blue-gray silhouette of Great Moraq loomed on the eastern horizon like a sleeping sea beast. To the west lay the faint outline of the newly conquered Lesser Moraq.
Interestingly, when sailing east, as soon as Great Moraq rose above the horizon, looking back would show Lesser Moraq fading into the mist. These two islands stood like silent giant sentries, one east and one west, sheltering Vahar securely in the middle, blocking the fiercest storms and creating a natural, calm harbor.
Known to merchants as the "Spice Nest," Vahar looked from above like a carefully polished piece of amber set in the endless blue, warm and inviting.
Unlike many ports with formidable fortresses, Vahar had no towering castle. Its heart and soul were the simple wharves stretching along the coastline.
It was more like a massive, open-air bazaar. The air was permanently mixed with the smells of spices, salted fish, and the sweat of different races.
On the docks, rough hemp ropes tethered numerous single-masted cogs, bobbing gently with the tide as if dozing. Their sails were faded indigo, printed with the blurred names of various trading companies in white paint, telling tales of their ownership and past voyages.
Sailors, bare-chested and bronzed, glistened with oil under the sun. They scooped salty seawater with coconut ladles, splashing it onto the wooden decks to wash them down.
The salty breeze carried a faint but distinct spiciness—the burning scent of black pepper and the warm sweetness of cinnamon drifting from the warehouses behind the docks, permeating every corner.
Deep-draft wooden merchant ships sat in the harbor, their holds heavy with spice.
The market area adjacent to the port was scattered with sturdy stone buildings and colorful tent stalls. The architecture was simple and practical, with steep roofs designed to shed sudden summer downpours.
The wealthiest and most well-connected merchants had fled with their most valuable possessions long before the Iron Fleet appeared on the horizon. Those left on Vahar were small traders who had staked their entire livelihoods here.
Facing the Iron Fleet swarming into the harbor like black reefs, they were incredibly respectful. They raised the curved knives hanging at their waists—tools more than weapons—high above their heads and knelt in unison on the rough ground to show submission.
Euron smiled and told them to rise. His gaze swept over these fearful, humble faces, and he declared clearly, "From this day forth, Vahar belongs to Lesser Moraq and will be under its unified administration." He paused, pointing to the young man beside him. "And the administrator is the Governor of Lesser Moraq—Donnel Drumm."
As his words fell, the islanders didn't hesitate. They immediately turned and knelt again toward Donnel Drumm, as if pledging loyalty to whoever sat in the chair.
Most of these islanders had simple eyes, marked by the weathering of long labor at sea. They lacked the fierce air of desperate pirates. For them, life was realistic. As long as the new ruler didn't tax them to death, it didn't matter whose flag flew overhead.
Young Donnel Drumm straightened his back.
It was the first time Donnel had been knelt to so unreservedly. The dark mass of bowed heads made his palms sweat slightly, a nameless anxiety fluttering in his chest. But when he caught the affirmative glint in Lord Euron's eye from his periphery, strength seemed to pour into his limbs.
Donnel took a deep breath, suppressing the panic of newfound power. He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the prostrate islanders. He slowed his voice deliberately, speaking with a gravitas beyond his years that carried clearly across the docks.
"Listen well! From now on, this land is under the protection of the Golden Kraken of the Iron Islands and the White Bone Hand of House Drumm!"
He paused to let the declaration sink in, then added weight to his tone. "From this day forth, all of you are my subjects! I, Donnel Drumm, pledge to you on my family's honor and the sword in my hand—"
"As long as you work diligently for this land and keep to your duties, I will guarantee the safety of your lives and property. I will ensure you are not bullied by pirates or foreign enemies, and I grant you the right to fair and just trade in these waters!"
This promise, simple and strong, struck directly at the core concerns of these small traders.
After a brief silence, a thunderous, heartfelt cheer erupted from the crowd. The islanders bowed deeply again, their shouts in thick local accents ringing across the coast of Vahar.
"Long live!"
"Long live Lord Drumm!"
Euron laughed loudly and stepped forward, slapping Donnel Drumm on the chest with the rough intimacy characteristic of the Ironborn. "Good! Well said! Governor Donnel Drumm—" He dragged out the new title, his teasing tone drawing knowing smiles from the surrounding Ironborn captains. "Then, Lesser Moraq and this Isle of Vahar are all in your hands."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice so it reached only Donnel and the core captains nearby. "You'd better help the Iron Islands keep a tight grip on this 'Spice Nest'... watch it well!"
As the words fell, everyone understood the mix of friendly ribbing and heavy trust, erupting into a burst of knowing laughter.
Donnel Drumm gave a helpless, wry smile. He understood the weight of this trust and opportunity. He also knew that behind the laughter lay a complete shift in his life's trajectory.
Subconsciously, Donnel gripped the hilt of his sword. The leap from a warrior used to fighting on decks and surviving storms to a lord who had to balance factions, handle mundane affairs, and guard assets was immense. He would need a lot of time and tempering to adapt.