The sky darkened to the color of bruised flesh, and rain began to fall in slanting sheets across Pyke's jagged silhouette.
The narrow drawbridge leading to the sea tower swayed violently, buffeted left and right by the unrestrained salt-laden wind, resembling nothing so much as a child's swing built for giants.
A storm was brewing, both in the heavens and within the castle walls.
Asha Greyjoy felt no concern for the treacherous passage. She had long since grown accustomed to such conditions, having weathered far worse at sea.
She moved with the bridge's unpredictable rhythm almost playfully, as if standing upon the heaving deck of her beloved longship Black Wind, using the waves rather than fighting them, merging with the sea itself as she pursued her prey.
By the time she entered her father's study within the sea tower, her two uncles had already taken their places.
The tall and mighty Victarion, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, discussed tides and wind directions with the practiced ease of a man who had spent more of his life on water than land. Nearby, her uncle Euron knelt in pious supplication, murmuring prayers to the Drowned God in a voice that seemed to carry the echo of the deep within it.
Asha settled into her appointed seat, awaiting her father's instructions without comment.
After several long moments passed, she found herself regarding her father with thinly veiled surprise.
Lord Balon was wrapped in a sealskin robe that had seen better days, sitting rigid before the glowing brazier, his weathered face impassive as he listened to his brother's reports in uncharacteristic silence.
This was uncommon behavior, to say the least.
Asha knew her father's ways well enough. By now, he should have cut through his brothers' chatter with sharp commands and clear directives.
Had he truly not yet decided their course?
Asha maintained her quiet vigilance as her uncle, Commander of the Iron Fleet, continued delivering his assessment of naval conditions and offering tactical suggestions. Her taller, thinner uncle occasionally interjected with observations, all laced with fervent praise for the Drowned God who lurked beneath the waves.
After what seemed an age, her father finally spoke.
"Bring that wildling woman to me," he commanded.
The personal guard standing in the shadowed corner of the chamber departed without a word.
Asha instantly understood the reason behind her father's uncharacteristic patience, and with it came a flash of insight regarding his intended decision.
She recalled the wildling's face with perfect clarity.
Several days past, Pyke had received an envoy from the Iron Throne—a party of twenty, led by a tall woman who called herself Osha.
According to her own account, she hailed from beyond the Wall, that massive barrier of ice that separated the Seven Kingdoms from the untamed wilderness of the far north.
Asha had heard tales of the free folk beyond the Wall since childhood. Their women could serve as warriors alongside men, bearing the distinctive title of "spearwives."
Upon first glimpsing Osha, who stood a full head taller than herself, Asha's hazy conception of these northern warrior women had suddenly gained substance and form.
Osha's eyes carried a coldness that surpassed even many hardened Ironborn.
She was a warrior of uncommon strength, forged in hardship.
This came as no surprise. The lands beyond the Wall were undoubtedly more barren, desolate, dangerous, and unforgiving than even the Iron Islands, harsh as they were.
Merciless lands invariably bred people of similar character.
The wildling Osha had delivered the Iron Throne's formal letter of appointment, offering Lord Balon the title of "Warden of the Sunset Sea."
The Sunset Sea.
This vast ocean west of Westeros remained shrouded in mystery. Even the Ironborn, who knew its moods and currents better than any, could navigate only its coastal waters. Its depths persisted as a realm of swirling fog and sailor's legends.
Asha found herself somewhat tempted by the proposal.
Accepting such a title would permit the longships of the Iron Islands to roam freely throughout these waters, inspecting and plundering passing merchant vessels with the thinnest veneer of legitimate authority.
As Warden of the Sunset Sea, the Iron Islands would claim complete dominion over the waters that had shaped their very identity.
Yet she understood that her father would never be satisfied with so limited a prize.
More to the point, the terms offered by the rival king, Renly Baratheon, were substantially more generous.
The North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and especially the wealthy Westerlands and Crownlands—any lands and riches seized by the Iron Fleet could remain in Ironborn hands, with promises of further rewards to follow.
All that Renly asked in return was that they dispatch their longships at the appropriate moment to help repel the Royal Fleet and secure passage across the Blackwater Rush.
Asha harbored doubts about the wisdom of such an offensive. The Royal Fleet possessed greater strength than the Iron Fleet, and even if every longship in the islands were summoned to the task, merely containing the Royal Fleet's movements would entail considerable risk and inevitable losses.
But Lord Balon had always been bolder than his daughter in matters of war.
Asha had assumed her father would align himself with Renly Baratheon, seizing this rare opportunity to expand his territory, accumulate strength, and restore the Iron Islands to their former glory.
But now?
Asha studied Lord Balon as he sat motionless before the brazier, his angular face betraying nothing of his thoughts.
Was her father truly prepared to stand with the Iron Throne, to ally with Lord Tywin against the vast army gathering in the south? Could he genuinely be satisfied with nothing more than an empty title?
The wildling Osha had not yet arrived. Asha waited in silence for the unveiling of her father's design.
"The Lannisters show too much arrogance in this matter. Why should we choose the lion?" Victarion suddenly broke the silence, his deep voice resonating within the chamber.
Asha regarded her uncle with undisguised surprise.
That the loyal commander of the Iron Fleet would dare question her father's judgment was itself remarkable.
Even more unexpected was that Balon Greyjoy deigned to provide an explanation.
"I place no trust in that callow Renly," he said with obvious contempt. "Vain, hypocritical, believing himself the very embodiment of justice and mercy."
Lord Balon snorted derisively.
"He will never view our kind as true allies. He promises much, yet I suspect he merely seeks to replicate his brother Robert's destruction of our people."
This reference summoned unwelcome memories of the war nine years past.
Robert's forces had stormed Pyke with overwhelming might. Rodrik and Maron, Asha's brothers, had perished in the fighting. Only Theon had survived among her siblings, taken to Winterfell as a hostage to ensure the Iron Islands remained docile and obedient in the years that followed.
Theon. Asha recalled that her little brother now served as a knight under the Iron Throne, reportedly commanding a significant number of men.
Perhaps her father's decision was influenced by concern for Theon's safety?
Asha could not be certain.
"Lord Tywin, however, possesses a measure of credibility and understands the importance of honoring his commitments," Lord Balon continued, his tone suggesting his mind was firmly set.
Victarion nodded slowly, accepting the rebuke. "There exist many tempting targets within the Reach," he observed calmly. "The Shield Islands, the Arbor, Oldtown, the banks of the Mander River. The Iron Fleet and our captains would not refuse such prizes, and victory would be assured."
Asha glanced at her father. The Iron Throne had requested only that the Iron Fleet remain uninvolved in the conflict, nothing more.
Lord Balon laughed then, a harsh sound devoid of warmth.
"What did you imagine I summoned that wildling woman for? To offer her comfort and reassurance?"
At that moment, the guards returned, escorting Osha to the chamber doorway.
"Lord Balon, after so many days of deliberation, have you finally reached your decision?" Osha asked, offering a perfunctory bow before straightening to her full impressive height.
"All must stand in awe before the foremost of reavers blessed by the Drowned God!" Euron shouted suddenly, his voice carrying the fervor of true belief.
Asha, for her part, found herself admiring Osha's courage and unfettered spirit. She had grown weary of her uncle's pious pronouncements, which failed to stir the slightest devotion within her heart.
In truth, she preferred her uncle as he had once been.
The Euron of her childhood had been vibrant and full of life—drinking heavily, quick with jests, adept at games and contests, a captain of remarkable charisma who could inspire Ironborn to follow him into the very jaws of death.
But the war nine years ago had transformed many things, her uncle not least among them.
Euron's longship had been sunk during the Battle of Fair Isle. He himself had nearly drowned before being taken captive and imprisoned within Casterly Rock until the war's conclusion.
The Uncle Euron who eventually returned to Pyke was barely recognizable as the man who had departed.
Increasingly gaunt, with sharp, cold black eyes that seemed to pierce through the visible world. He had taken to wearing robes in varying shades of gray, blue, and green—the colors of the sea, symbolizing his newfound devotion to the Drowned God.
The waterskin under his arm never left his possession, filled with seawater that he used to "drown" people—a ritual rebirth for the faithful—at seemingly random intervals.
He had transformed into the most devout and fanatical priest the Iron Islands had witnessed in generations.
If a man who escaped death could be reborn as someone entirely different, Asha wondered, was this not also a kind of death for the person he had once been?
Asha regarded Uncle Euron with a mixture of pity and wariness.
He had changed completely. Women, strong drink, gold, fine food—he had renounced all worldly desires.
His unkempt beard and waist-length black hair were threaded with strands of dried seaweed, perhaps deliberately incorporated as symbols of his faith, or perhaps because he simply could not be troubled with such mundane concerns.
Her father rose then, commanding the attention of all present.
"Return to your master and tell Lord Tywin, tell your boy king, that the Ironborn will no longer endure humiliation," he declared with cold certainty. "We shall take what we desire with swords and longships, rather than waiting like beggars for scraps from the mainland table!"
The guards stepped forward, presenting a crown fashioned from driftwood—pale, twisted branches smoothed by salt and time. Her father placed it upon his head without hesitation.
"From this day forward, I, Balon Greyjoy, am King of the Iron Islands. The Ironborn shall restore the Old Way and take the wealth of the Reach as our own!"
A faint smile played across her father's face, sharp as a blade's edge.
"I shall indeed serve as 'Warden of the Sunset Sea'—but on my terms, not yours. Go and convey that message to your little king."
Osha retreated from the chamber, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts.
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