The waves roared like ancient beasts against the jagged shores, their fury echoing through the stone halls of Pyke.
The Great Hall hung heavy with unspoken words and burdened hearts. More lords and captains sat at the long table than had feasted there the previous night, yet a grim silence prevailed. All wore their full armor, weapons close at hand as though battle might erupt at any moment.
Wary eyes glanced about the chamber, noting the Pyke soldiers bearing the kraken sigil who stood guard both within and without. Others stared fixedly at the Seastone Chair that dominated the far end of the hall, carved in the shape of a massive kraken, its tentacles winding down into the stone floor. The throne sat empty, save for a light driftwood crown placed upon its seat.
The driftwood crown.
They had found it in Lord Balon's tower room, though its owner had already departed for the Drowned God's watery halls.
The treacherously swaying drawbridge between the towers had seemingly claimed another victim.
Had it?
The violent waters surrounding Pyke made it impossible to dock longships directly beneath the castle. When the night storms had intensified and the waves grown more turbulent, Pyke's castellan had nevertheless ordered men to the nearest harbor to dispatch vessels in search of their fallen lord.
The results were as regrettable as they were predictable.
The sacrifice of two longships and a score of sailors had not been enough to persuade the Drowned God to return Lord Balon from the sea's cold embrace.
The leader of the Iron Islands' reavers had passed from this world.
His body had likely been swallowed by the deep, now food for fish and crabs in the lightless depths.
But his soul—that was another matter.
The dead do not truly die.
The ironborn who drowned were the fortunate ones. Because of their courage and their faith, the Drowned God chose them, inviting them to eternal feasting in his submerged halls.
There, mermaids would fulfill their every desire.
The Drowned God had chosen him.
The Drowned God had chosen Lord Balon, summoning the king to his watery palace beneath the waves.
Had he?
Many eyes turned toward the three figures who sat to the left and right of the empty Seastone Chair.
Lord Balon's second brother, Victarion Greyjoy, Commander of the Iron Fleet, occupied the seat of honor at the right. His broad face remained calm as stone, betraying nothing of his thoughts.
Beside him sat Lord Balon's youngest brother, Aeron Greyjoy, known as "Damphair," leader of the Drowned Men. His lips moved in silent prayer, no doubt beseeching the Drowned God for guidance in this dark hour.
Seated alone on the left was Lord Balon's only daughter, Asha Greyjoy, captain of the Black Wind. She wore high leather boots crusted with salt, woolen breeches, a short jacket, and a sleeveless, tight-fitting vest that accentuated her womanly figure. If one looked away from her face and the unmistakable swell of her breasts, she might have been mistaken for any ironborn warrior—save that she was not.
She was, after all, a woman. And how could a woman rule the Iron Islands and command the fealty of countless longships and their captains?
Perhaps this was why many cast doubtful glances toward Asha, while others looked thoughtfully upon her uncles.
Lord Balon had plunged into the sea on the very night of the reaving feast, the very night he had worn his crown and proclaimed his intentions. The timing seemed far too convenient to be mere happenstance—so conspicuous that it was nearly impossible not to suspect foul play.
Who had killed the king? Who had committed the grave sin of kinslaying?
And more pressingly still—who would become the new king?
Would it be Victarion, the iron captain who commanded the Iron Fleet, or Asha, who possessed the stronger claim by law?
Some minds turned also to the two krakens absent from this gathering.
Euron Crow's Eye.
And Theon, who had dwelled in the green lands for nearly a decade, all but forgotten by the Iron Islands.
These two krakens held stronger claims than any of the three present, but one had been raiding in distant waters, and the other remained a hostage to the Iron Throne.
Or so it was believed.
Who had killed Lord Balon?
An atmosphere of suspicion, calculation, estrangement, and dread simmered in the salt-laden air.
Finally, Aeron "Damphair" rose from his seat, his seaweed-strewn hair still dripping with seawater.
All eyes turned to the gaunt priest, and the hall grew quieter still. Only the relentless roar of the waves remained, a sound no man could silence.
Damphair spread his thin, weathered hands.
"We come from the sea, and to the sea we shall return," he intoned, deliberately lowering his voice to compel attention.
The captains and lords leaned forward, straining to catch every word.
"The wrathful Storm God cast Balon from his tower, killing him with the fall. Now he feasts in the Drowned God's watery halls beneath the waves."
Aeron raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling.
"Balon is dead! The Iron King is dead!"
Every head bowed in solemn acknowledgment of the truth they had gathered to confront.
"What is dead may never die," Aeron reminded them, "but rises again, harder and stronger!"
His voice gained strength, like the tide flowing in. "King Balon, my elder brother, gave his life to restore the Old Way. Everything he claimed, he paid for with the iron price."
The priest's eyes burned with fervent conviction. "He was Balon the Brave, Balon blessed by God, Balon who twice wore the crown. It was he who won back our freedom and the favor of the Drowned God!" He paused, letting his words sink deep. "But Balon is dead..."
"We need a new Iron King to sit upon the Seastone Chair and continue Balon's sacred work!"
Aeron's voice resounded off the ancient stones.
"The new king will rise again!"
"The new king will rise again!" Asha and Victarion responded in unison.
The gathered assembly took up the chant: "The new king will rise again!"
"He will rise, he will." Aeron's voice rumbled like the distant thunder of breaking waves.
"But who shall it be? Who can shoulder Balon's burden? Who can rule these sacred isles?" The priest stretched his arms wide, encompassing all present. "Who among us will be our king?"
Silence descended upon the long table.
Asha maintained an expressionless visage, casually tossing a dagger from hand to hand, concealing the anxiety that churned within her breast.
Only captains and chieftains had the right to speak at the council table. Her own supporters were few and lacked sufficient influence—even the bravest among them, "Maiden" Cogg, commanded as much respect as dust in the wind.
Asha needed someone of greater stature to champion her cause.
Yet her father's sudden death had caught her unprepared.
Time had been too short for her to solidify her position. She had barely managed to sound out her uncles, seeking Victarion's support above all.
The pressing question hung in the air: who would break this suffocating silence?
Asha turned pleading eyes toward the lower end of the long table, where her mother's brother, Lord Rodrik Harlaw of Harlaw—known throughout the isles as "the Reader"—sat in contemplation.
Rodrik Harlaw sighed softly, shaking his head in what might have been resignation. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
"Ser" Harras Harlaw rose to his feet.
"Are we to hand the Iron Islands to the green land's pups and kneel before the Iron Throne like beaten dogs?"
With a single fluid motion, "Ser" Harras drew the sword at his side—the Valyrian steel blade called "Nightfall." The gleaming black steel plunged downward, piercing the thick wooden table with a resounding crack.
"Never!"
His voice carried to every corner of the hall. "From the day Theon Greyjoy left these islands, he ceased to be a proud kraken. From the moment he bent his knee to Joffrey, he was no longer a free ironborn."
Harras's eyes blazed with conviction. "Lord Balon's true heir stands before us! A warrior proven in battle, a captain respected by her crew, a believer in the Drowned God, one of our own blood!"
His gaze settled upon Asha, who sat beside the empty throne.
"I stand with Asha Greyjoy!"
"As do I!" called another voice.
"Indeed, Theon cannot be our king."
"Lord Balon favored his daughter above all others. He clearly meant her to inherit his legacy."
"Queen Asha!"
"Asha carries Lord Balon's blood and his vision! The Old Way shall be restored through her hand!"
Many captains from the houses of Harlaw, Volmark, Stonetree, Kenning, and Myre added their voices to the growing chorus.
Others held their tongues, watching the iron captain who sat at the right hand of the Seastone Chair.
Victarion's face revealed nothing as he regarded his niece with an inscrutable stare.
Soon "Red" Ralf Stonehouse, Sawane Botley, "Lanky" Ralf, Ralf Kenning, and other prominent captains and lords joined in the call: "Queen Asha! Queen Asha!"
Half the assembly was shouting now, the remainder swiftly joining the acclaim. The unified voice grew stronger, and the gloomy pall that had hung over the proceedings began to lift.
Asha fought to suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.
BANG!
The great doors to the hall crashed open.
"Dear niece, am I late for the merriment?" A voice smooth as oil yet cold as the deep sea cut through the tumult.
Every head turned toward the threshold.
It was him!
Silence fell like a blade.
"Crow's Eye" Euron surveyed the gathering with his single, gleaming eye and smiled like a man privy to some dark jest.
"It seems," he said with cold amusement, "that I am not too late after all."
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