Whale fat candles as thick as a man's arm lit the chamber bright as day, leaving nowhere for the haggard pallor on the face of Quellon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, to hide. He drank down a cup of poppy milk, and the stabbing pain in his stomach eased at last, allowing him to gather enough strength to face the sons and grandsons gathered around him.
He had taken three wives and sired nine sons. Four had lived to adulthood, and those sons had in turn produced another generation—so many that Quellon's failing eyes sometimes mistook his eldest son for his eldest grandson. They all shared the same hard, angular features, sharp eyes glittering with aggression and hunger.
"Tell me," Quellon asked, "did House Botley truly raid the prince's ships?"
On the oak table before him lay the raven's message from King's Landing: the king had decreed that Quellon and his heir were to go to the capital in person, offer apologies to the prince, and pay compensation ten times the value of the plunder.
His eldest son and heir, Balon, gave a cold laugh."Father, does it matter whether they raided them or not? We follow the Old Way. That is our custom! Summer reaving happens when it happens. Who knew whether those ships belonged to a Free City or the Targaryens?"
The words were immediately echoed by his brothers and sons.
Quellon looked at these ambitious children and felt his own weakness more keenly than ever. His efforts—tightening ties with the green lands, pledging loyalty to the Iron Throne, abandoning the Old Way of reaving, bringing in maesters—were clearly things this younger generation had no intention of continuing. The Greyjoys now gazed out at the sea with naked hunger.
Balon shouted, "We refuse to pay compensation! King's Landing wants half the Iron Islands' treasury! That's extortion! The ironborn will never submit!"
"This was never something money could fix anyway," said the second son, Euron, licking the edge of his teeth. "I handled the interrogation. We chopped House Botley's salt wife into seven pieces to frighten him. He admitted they raided several ships north of Fair Isle—and only afterward realized they bore the Targaryen three-headed dragon. But unlike what King's Landing claims, there was no gold aboard. Not a single ring. Just straw and stone. I dunked him in a barrel of brine again and again, and he never changed his story. Looks like it's true. That damned prince is trying to swindle the ironborn."
Balon drew his sword with a metallic rasp, dark eyes blazing like forge coals."Father, what are you hesitating for?! Only the Old Way can restore the ironborn! The Targaryens are outsiders! The driftwood crown and the kingsmoot are our true traditions! The ironborn should honor the glory of the Grey King, not bow to Targaryens! Their house doesn't even have a dragon now! Did Aegon the Conqueror have dragons when he became king of the Seven Kingdoms?! Their time is over! We have the strongest longship fleet on the continent!"
Quellon's breathing grew labored, bellows-like, as coughing wracked his chest. Balon stared at his father's mouth—once a legendary warrior, now just a dying fish dragged onto shore, he thought without much respect.
"Are you prepared?" old Quellon asked at last. "Their strength will be greater than you imagine."
The three eldest brothers exchanged looks. Balon had waited for this day since he was fifteen, since his first summer reaving. He had long since begun building the Iron Fleet.
"Our ships are larger than any before! Iron-plated hulls! Each one fitted with iron rams, scorpion ballistae, and fire-spitting crossbows! The sea itself is the ironborn's castle!"
The loyal third brother, Victarion, volunteered to lead the vanguard fleet—he wanted to show the mainlanders their colors.
Euron was even more eager, insisting the Iron Fleet should strike first and launch a surprise attack on Lannisport, burning the western fleet to ash.
Thus, in the long summer of Conquest Year 283, the Iron Islands resolved to rebel openly against the Iron Throne, seeking to restore the Old Way and break free from the Seven Kingdoms. The aging Quellon ceded his seat to his vigorous eldest son, Balon Greyjoy, declaring he would remain behind with part of the forces to defend the islands.
Balon was crowned on sacred Old Wyk, the legendary site where the Grey King slew the sea dragon and hung its bones. He piled title upon title onto himself: the Brave, the God-Blessed, the Crowned Iron King, King of Salt and Rock, Lord of Reavers. The absurdly long list drew a snort of laughter from one onlooker—cut brutally short when Euron casually stabbed the fool to death.
Freshly crowned, King Balon returned to Pyke, the Greyjoy seat—bridges and towers of dark stone slick with green lichen, the main keep perched on its own barren isle, linked to the others by arched causeways and swaying rope bridges.
He told his only wife, Alannys, "You're a queen now!"
Alannys smiled faintly as she sewed by candlelight for their daughter. But when Balon announced he was naming their eldest son Rodrik as deputy commander of the Iron Fleet, her brow furrowed."Will Maron go too?"
"Of course!" Balon said. His second son was assigned to the assault on Lannisport as well. "The ironborn fight to restore the Old Way! They're strong lads! After this victory they'll each get a dozen salt wives to bear their children!"
Alannys disliked salt wives, but she had no standing to argue against custom. She lowered her head and kept sewing.
Balon noticed his three-year-old youngest son, Theon, staring at the axe hanging at his waist. Laughing loudly, he scooped the boy up."Want to play the finger dance, son?"
Alannys gasped. "No! For the love of the gods—he's too young!"
"It's just play," Balon said casually. He tossed the axe toward the child, then snatched it back by the haft himself. "You've got to grip it tight, or your fingers will be chopped clean off!"
Theon understood nothing and giggled at the shining blade.
"Fine lad! Born ironborn! I'll take you cliff-climbing and reaving one day. When you're fifteen, you'll have your own longship!"
"I want one too!" shouted eight-year-old Asha. "I want my own longship!"
Balon roared with laughter, ruffling her short black hair. "Aye! And an axe for you too, to smash the mainlanders! Necklaces, rings, crowns, silks—do you like them? All of it can be taken from the sea!"
On an ordinary storm-lashed night of that long summer, a hundred iron longships rowed out from their lair, rain and darkness shrouding their advance as they struck straight for Lannisport. Their prows cleaved the waves—and shattered the so-called prohibition against reaving in the waters of the Seven Kingdoms. Reaving was the path the Drowned God ordained!
They succeeded.
The fleet guarding Lannisport was helpless. Wreckage littered the Sunset Sea, and the driving rain could not extinguish the raging fires aboard the ships. Ironborn fire-bolts shrieked through the air, igniting tarred sails with precision, punching through decks—these fragile vessels were nothing but eggs smashed against stone before iron longships.
Clad in heavy armor and wielding a massive axe, Victarion Greyjoy, commander of the vanguard, led from the front. He hacked down a pale-haired foe and leapt onto the deck, ordering every Lannister warship in harbor set ablaze.
Euron was right! The Lannisters currently possessed the strongest fleet on the continent. Destroying it meant half the war was already won.
Golden-red lion banners burned and toppled into the sea. Even the dark waters turned gold and red, flames lighting half the sky. Victarion raised his blood-dripping axe and roared, "In the name of the Drowned God!"
"In the name of the Drowned God!" came the answering howl.
Like iron locusts descending on a field of grain, they swarmed the wealthy but fragile city, trampling it at will. Cathedral spires shattered, crystal windows smashed. Priceless golden statues had their gem-eyes pried out before being toppled and hacked apart, fragments scooped into greedy hands. From every street and house came wails—men who resisted were cut down, noblemen bound and taken, beautiful women thrown over shoulders as spoils, all carried back to the longships—
By dawn's first light, the city was utterly transformed from the night before, nearly a ruin. Survivors wandered among blackened rubble, clinging to life in misery. Meanwhile, the hundred iron warships—laden with wealth—sailed home without the loss of a single vessel.
After the storm, the sea gleamed a pale gray, filling the ironborn with fierce joy. On a deck piled high with plunder, Victarion grabbed a fistful of pale-gold hair and examined the woman's face."Not bad. My sixth salt wife."
News of Lannisport being sacked once again reached Summerhall as Viserys was trying on the first suit of armor ever made to fit him. Modeled after his brother's black armor, it too bore the three-headed dragon picked out in rubies. It was heavy—chainmail beneath, thick padding under that. Wearing it all day was the privilege of warriors.
Viserys grew irritated and ordered it removed at once.
As the attendants hurried forward, his thoughts drifted to a scene he had once glimpsed—his brother removing his armor.
Silver hair damp and clinging, sweat sliding down a powerful chest, everything about him dreamlike and beautiful.
Viserys felt his throat go dry.The only one who gets to see that, to touch him, is Lyanna, he thought bitterly.
Does the little wolf girl even know how lucky she is? If I were her, I'd have warm water and a stack of linen ready the moment he returned… I'd strip off his shirt myself…
"Damn it! Son of a whore!"
The curse shattered his fantasy. He came back to himself.
Tyrion stormed in, waving the latest report, spewing a stream of curses."That whore-spawn Lantell! I warned him to watch for an Iron Islands attack!!"
He was furious that his family's lands had suffered such disaster again—and most of it was man-made. "Damn it!" he paced the hall on short legs, like an enraged little lion.
"They didn't take your warning seriously," Viserys said, holding the helmet that had been suffocating him. "There's a saying—good advice can't save a doomed ghost. That's what this is. Now the Lannisport fleet is finished, and Lantell Lannister is dead. If he hadn't died, your father would've killed him anyway."
Tyrion clambered onto a couch and sat, fuming."They thought a dwarf's warning didn't matter. That tuition fee was expensive enough."
Viserys joined him, chin in hand. "The Iron Islands are openly rebelling now."
Tyrion's expression hardened. "The king and my father will finally agree on something. War is really coming."
Viserys nodded. "Orders and mobilization from King's Landing will reach every realm soon. Let the ironborn swagger for a few more days."
Tyrion sighed. "We'll have to rely on the royal fleet as the backbone."
Viserys' lips curved slightly. Perfect. The battered Lannister navy wouldn't be able to launch major sea operations for now… which meant the vengeance-hungry Lannister armies could do the dirty work of landing.
Against ironborn who excelled at sea warfare, Viserys had already calculated the balance. Across all Westeros, the only fleets worth mentioning were the Targaryen Royal Fleet, around two hundred warships, and the Oldtown fleet of the Reach, some three hundred strong. As for the Stormlands? At this time, they had no navy to speak of. Stannis only built his fleet after receiving Dragonstone following the usurper's war.
After the attack, King's Landing erupted in fury. A new decree arrived: King Aerys granted Viserys fifty warships and named him supreme commander, assigning Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne as his sworn protectors.
Crown Prince Rhaegar, for daring to argue against sending his brother to war, was scolded by the king and sent back to Dragonstone. Anxious beyond measure, the prince nevertheless reassigned thirty ships from Dragonstone to reinforce his brother.
While sailing south, Viserys hurriedly wrote to his beloved brother, assuring him he was perfectly safe.
Thus, everything that could be gathered was gathered. The North's ships remained in White Harbor and were fit mainly for transport, so the Hand ordered them to carry Stormlands troops instead. House Redwyne of the Reach was commanded to bring a hundred warships to join the remaining western fleet and await the young Targaryen commander.
As for the combat power of this patchwork armada—that was another matter.
Viserys had only one requirement of the allied fleet:
Lure the enemy. Draw them into the trap.
...
The fully completed English PDF of this fan-fic is now available on my Patreon shop.If you want to support my work and enjoy the entire story in one go, grab the PDF and binge-read it from start to finish without any breaks.
Patreon Shop:patreon.com /InkNovels
Here are a few fan-fic titles that I've recently uploaded on my Patreon:
"Game of Thrones: Dragon Prince"
"Game of Thrones: Political Life"
"Game of Thrones: Lannister Kingdom"
"Game of Thrones: Ruler of the Deep Seas "
" Game of Thrones: From the Elden Lord to the Young Wolf"
"Game of Thrones The Glory of a Knight"
(End Chapter)