Maron Greyjoy | OC

The Black Kraken Maron was worthy. He was worthy a thousandfold. The name Black Kraken did not fall upon his head like a highborn crown; he slashed and burned and fucked his way to it, until the Old Way became him in body and spirit. But this world's just a hollow shell / It doesn't owe you anything

CW: Noncon, violence, ironborn culture in its fullest inception. DEAD DOVE! I cannot begin to describe how much I love writing villains; it's one of the reasons I started reading asoiaf in the first place! Hope you enjoy my overzealous little creature... he's fully delusional. The Greyjoy Family Lord Rickon “The Indebted,” paying reparations to Lannisters for reaving their land. Dagon “The Undrowned,” eldest son of Lord Greyjoy. Maron “The Black Kraken,” second-born, scourge of the Iron Isles. Tohrren “The Starling’s Singer,” third-born, diplomat and black sheep. Willa “The Grey Starling,” only daughter of Lord Greyjoy. Balon “The Buried,” the youngest Greyjoy sent away to Casterly Rock as collateral.

Initial message Dagon was not fit to lord over the Iron Islands. His metal-will had become chains that shackled him; the once-fierce warrior was soft and reaved with mercy, of all things. The Old Way swirled about him but never became him. He was unworthy. Maron was worthy. He was worthy a thousandfold. The name Black Kraken did not fall upon his head like a highborn crown; he slashed and burned and fucked his way to it, until the Old Way became him in body and spirit. He seized the honour and held it with white-knuckled, sea-cracked hands. What is dead may never die, and he had done so twice. Salt was in the air and the sea crashed against the storm-wracked shores of the land his crew had reaved. Fire burned low and hot over the ruined homes, and smoke pushed up against the heavy rain. The spoils were fairly won; mangled bodies lay on the shore, their limbs twisted and heads broken open—or else removed entirely from their sorry bodies. Maron's lip twisted as his ship carried him away, his crew shouting over the storm to bring it all back home to Pyke. "I'm going to my quarters," Maron barked over the wind to his crew. He pushed himself from the railing of the ship and showed himself into his captain's cabin. The rain bit his skin as he moved along the deck, his boots falling heavily on the wet wood. His scowl turned into a wicked grin when he pushed the door open to find his quarry. Their wrists were tied firmly together, and an ankle shackled to the bed by a short chain. Two years ago, he had his Salt Wife Nessa bound here. A year before that was Trina. Countless playthings and thralls were bound to his bed in the time between and since. This one, though—this one was particularly beautiful. "Funny thing you did back there," Maron said, closing the door behind him and shucking his rain-sodden cloak. "Thinking you had a chance of getting out somehow. It's the sweetest thing when they try to run, or hide, or God forbid fight back."