Arron always struggled with trying to explain himself, trying to get someone to understand him and what he saw all around him. They were constantly in danger, even when they were safe because they were safe when it happened. When they were pillaged and attacked, their people raped and murdered and enslaved. Being safe could lead them into softness and what happened to soft men? They died. Their wives taken and their children murdered. Arron didn't know how to explain that to Tyland, he didn't know how to make the other see the truth of the matter. Perhaps they weren't attacking them yet but they would attack them and then they would be happy he was prepared.
No, he knew Tyland would act when he wanted, when he was ready in some Tyland way and when things didn't work they would eventually reach Arron's way, his view. Arron didn't think they should share the islands, he didn't think they should just see the world as a board or a realm but a battlefield with swords hanging over head waiting to fall.
The Prince chose to listen to him, to keep his mouth shut and try to understand. Arron didn't like this feeling, he didn't like feeling like he had no control and that he would just have to wait. But, nothing his brother said could truly be disputed. So he followed him, his tongue dragging over lips as the breeze hit him. The salt air and sound of the sea as he looked out at the distance where his second home, perhaps true home was.
Then his brother began to speak to him about he would do with his men, how they would have more than just something minor. He turned to face him fully,focusing on his words, and perhaps Tyland did understand him. Perhaps Tyland knew that it was important to be ready, even deep down Arron knew it would take mor eon the sea but the land, well he would do well there.
"Some of my men would be perfect for this life. They are in need of something more. Bored warriors leads issues unseen here. Breaking up fights turn into brawls and smallfolk die or worse, we are embarrassed because some common can tell tales of how he bested a warrior. Though, none I will have a history of brawls for that would go against the purpose." And it was good to have men who did the hard things, the dirty things. Arron wondered how those men could be put to use when his brother mentioned Roman Prester. Arron frowned at the mention of the spy but he knew it would be good for them, useful. "I think....I know the harder men could answer to Prester, we all know how spies get their answers. I remember the clubfoot." Cripples were always devious, they were like bastards.
"Brother, what if the Fair Isle way becomes the way for our knights and warriors, guards? What i More than just second and third sons, the occasional first. Most everyone trains the same, you can see it when we get together. Yes, there are little differences but the biggest differences come from the Dornish and the Northmen. Men who take the oath will take it in blood." Arron already knew how he would have it done; an oath, signature, and print in blood.
There was something about discipline that he understood. He was more than familiar with strong hands to guide someone to greatness. It was the only way to survive Fair Isle and now the realm would face more than his rage they would witness rise of the King's Fist. And they would tremble in fear. They would beg for mercy.
"I will do it." He said it as if it weren't obvious. Arron wouldn't let go of his concerns about the sea and the Reach but it would be go to focus. If he could prove to Tyland that he was not wrong, that he could be something more than look for war then perhaps he would see. And he could convince his brother they take all of the Iron Isles for themselves.
â
he had always thought there was much honour in one knowing their place in the world; knowing what part they played on the great wheel and knowing that, despite however much it spun, there was always strength in remaining steady in the role they had been born into. or at least, that was what he had always thought; in the early days of independence following the end of the hour of the wolf, tyland lannister had quietly wrestled with the fact that his position would shift. shift in the most drastic and majestic of ways, ways that should not truly have existed in a society such as their own; the most powerful lord in a realm was still not a king, and it were always imperative for one to know that to excel in being that there could not be a blurring of lines.
he noted the slight facial expression change at the mention of a spy - it was enough for the man's mouth to turn slightly upward; he always did find it amusing how arron believed himself to be above the use of spies. how else were individuals meant to be obtain their information? did he believe his blade would wield him answers for everything? there was always a time and a place for such ruthlessness - yet one needed the information to strike first.
it had been the source of many a sleepless night, the true essence of what a king felt a bundle of anxiety and nerves about in the pit of his stomach; what was his place? arron, had never quite been one to know his place: not always from a place of pure arrogance, though for most of the times he could count on his hand it would be from a place of believing himself a god - but also, a feeling of being lost. "you remember much." he commented; for it were the truth. it was always arron who reminded him of past conversations and past situations, who relished in speaking openly and honestly of it - as though it provided him some comfort and reminder of times that had long passed. "as you tell me each time i see you."
tyland wondered whether his brother ever thought of the fact it was never him who brought up memories, or who tried to reminisce with his kin. he wondered whether that had wounded him, had been one of the many reasons why he had ended up an animal which would reach out and strike.
he had always been the lost little lion cub, the one who had needed extra coaxing and tempering by their mother and then the one who was to be sent away to fair isle - it was done as much for his benefit as it was the concept of honouring their lineage. he remembered the mighty lion stressing the importance of the youngest son of lannister needing strict routine; as much as he could look for excitement, it was routine he needed to come home to. he were the type to be lost without it. and what routine could tyland offer him during times of peace at the sea, when he so desperately craved and needed a return to the billowing sails and the thunder of war. would he make war, for the sake of keeping a loved one happy?
"and do you honestly think all of our fighting men could withstand such intense training?" he asked, almost as though he knew the answer - ever the pragmatist and the viewer of the bigger picture, tyland lannister understood it took years for a mainland knight to become of the level of the warriors of fair isle. what did that mean for their legions? would they need to be training for longer amounts of years, resulting in their numbers of present men in arms decreasing? "do you not think they provide more value as a specialist elite that can be equipped when and as needed?" whilst his voice sounded inherently piercing with judgement and authority, in this the man genuinely asked - for tyland lannister knew his place. it was not him that was the warrior in their pride; it had never been him.
"how are we meant to handle the majority of our land and sea army having to train for many years long term?"
even if it were a war he was sure they would easily win, that they could be the reason redwyne and blackbar sails remain at the bottom of the sunset sea, a relic of an old age - and yet, could he risk completely aliening himself yet? the concept of self sufficiency was one tyland lannister strove towards, an age where they need not rely on trade aside from perhaps one kingdom that could be used for their benefit - and whilst they were close to it, they were not there. not yet. it was the one thing he would wish to swipe from the twisted figures that were the valemen; their level of independence, meant that any form of attack did need more thought than any other. "and would their even be much difference? the fair isle way is accustomed to shorter sea battles, rather than on the open field for what could stretch for hours."




















