( Victarion POV )
He wore a cloak of white bearskin, like the last few strands of hair on his head and the great shaggy beard that fell down to his knees. He sat in a driftwood throne, carried up the hill by his grandsons, all of whom were made red-faced by the effort.
Forty years ago he might have been a threat, Victarion thought, but his best days are all long past.
...
"Why not!" he boomed at the looks he got from the crowd. "Who better? I'm Erik Ironmaker, Erik the Just, Erik Anvil-Breaker." He looked down to his grandsons below. "Show them my hammer, Thormor," he commanded. One of them hefted it up with a heave, holding it aloft for the crowd to see. It was a monstrous thing, with a spiked brick of steel for a head. "I've smashed more heads with tha' thing than I can remember," he said, "but maybe some widows could tell you. Now, I could tell you all the deeds I've done in all the battles I won, but I won' live long enough to finish. So if old is wise, then there's none wiser than me. If big is strong, there's none bigger. And I got heirs - more'n I can count. So, come say it with me. KING ERIK! KING ERIK ANVIL-BREAKER!"
Below his seat, his grandsons took up the cry, beating their chests. The crowd joined the chant even as his grandsons set down the driftwood seat and raised axes and swords in the air, chanting over and over. The rest of the crowd looked caught in the chant, but before they could build any true rallying-cry a woman's voice cut loudly through the din.
"ERIK!" Asha cried. The crowd parted to let her through as she approached the driftwood throne. "Stand up, Erik!"
A hush fell over the crowd. Off in the corner, Victarion saw Euron's face split into a grin. The crowd broke out murmuring and muttering.
"What did you say, girl?" Erik asked, his voiced deep and dangerous.
"Stand up," Asha said, unperturbed by Erik's grandsons glowering at her. "Stand up and I'll cry your name with all the rest. You want a crown? Then stand up and take it."
Euron's smile spread, and then a laugh bubbled up his throat and past his lips. Erik shot him a glare, and Euron just laughed louder. Erik's arms gripped the sides of his throne tight, his fingers white. He heaved and groaned. His face went purple with strain, and though for a second it seemed as though he might do it, his breath escaped him at his last second, his strength escaping with it. He leaned back, bowed his head and finally looked his age, and his grandsons hefted up his throne, and carried him sullenly down the hill.
"Who shall rule the Ironborn?" Aeron asked again once Erik was gone. Again, the people in the crowd looked at one another. Some glanced at Euron, others at him, and a final few glanced at Asha. Victarion counted. Him and Euron were roughly even, and Asha was far behind.
"Make your claim," the Merlyn called to him, "so we can have this mummer's farce done with."
Victarion shook his head. The crowd wasn't quite done with it's revelry yet. "When I am ready," he shouted back, "and no sooner."
Another two claimants presented themselves: Gylbert Farwynd, who offered the crowd a fool's fantasy of a great land in the west for the Ironborn to claim; and then Old Drumm, who spoke and spoke till he lost the chants and cheers he'd won himself, and then offered such petty gifts that his last supporters left him. Each time the crowd grew excited, and then fell disappointed when the men proved unsuitable.
It's time, Victarion knew. Aeron was shooting him a tight look, even as he asked again, "Who shall rule the Ironborn? Who shall be king over us?" Victarion nodded to Aeron for his introduction. "Nine sons sprung from the loins of Lord Quellon Greyjoy. But one was mightier than the rest, and knows no fear."
The captains all parted before him as Victarion shook himself and began his climb to the top of the hill. "Bless me, brother," he said when he reached the top. He knelt and bowed his head before the glory of the Drowned God, watching his waves. Aeron pulled his waterskin from the folds of his robes and poured the salty brine of seawater atop his head.
"What is dead may never die," Aeron intoned, "but rises again, harder and stronger."
When Victarion stood, his champions all arrayed themselves before him. One man unfurled the Greyjoy banner. "You all know me," Victarion began, eye flicking to Euron to watch for any disruptions. "If you want sweet words, go elsewhere. If you want heads smashed, you're in the right place. I have no great tongue, but I have this here axe. With it, I was a loyal brother," Victarion said. "The first time Balon took a crown, he sent me to Lannisport to singe the Lion's tail. I led his longships, and never lost but one. The second time, it was me he sent to see to the Young Wolf if he came howling home. And that's all I have to say."
Besides him, his champions began the chant. "VICTARION! VICTARION! KING VICTARION!" They flung open the chests, stuffed to the gills with gold and silver and gemstones, quite literally a king's ransom. The captains in the crowd scrambled to seize as much as they could, taking up the chant as they did so. "VICTARION! VICTARION! KING VICTARION!"
Victarion watched Euron closely as the crowd kicked up in a frenzy. He stood, relaxed and quiet. Does he mean to stay silent? Victarion wandered. Has one of his mongrels finally ripped out his tongue? Victarion braced himself for an interruption, but when the voice ripped through the chants and cut through the crowd, it wasn't Euron.
"Nuncle!," Asha cried. "Nuncle! It was good of you to bring gifts to my queensmoot, Nuncle, but you need not have worn so much armour. I promise I won't hurt you." She turned to face the captains, and Victarion felt the urge to punch the back of her head as some of the captains laughed. "There's nobody braver than my nuncle," she said, "nobody stronger, nobody fiercer in a fight. He has no sons, though. His wives keep dying. The Crow's Eye is his elder and has a better claim..."
What are you doing? Victarion raged in his mind. You came to me! Offered to be my hand, all so that Euron wouldn't win! And now you hold him above me!
"He does!" one man cried from the crowd below.
"Ah," Asha said, "but my claim is better still. Balon's brother cannot come before Balon's son!"
"Balon's sons are dead!" one of his champions shouted over the wind. "All I see is Balon's little daughter!"
"Aye," she said, "I'm his daughter. And I'm a a mother too." She pulled a dirk from under her jerkin, tucked between her breasts. "Here's my suckling babe!" She held it up for the crowd.
"I may be a woman, but I'm man enough for this! Nuncle says he'll give you more of what my father gave you. And what was that? Gold and glory, some of you will say. Freedom, others will no doubt agree. But most of all, he gave us defeat. Tell me, how many of you have had your homes put to the torch when Robert came? How many wives and daughters and sisters of yours were raped and despoiled? No, what my father really gave you was burnt towns and broken castles. Nuncle promises more of the same. But not me."
"And what will you give us?" another man asked as Victarion seethed. "Knitting?"
"We need to take a lesson from the Young Wolf," she said, ignoring the man, "who won every battle, and lost all. We need to take a lesson from the Boy King on the Iron Throne, who lost every battle, and won all."
...
If you want to read ahead of the public release, or just want to support me.
you can join my p atreon :
[email protected]/Nolma