"Pay no heed to what was said; it was naught but lies."
Balon Greyjoy spoke these words after the wildling woman Osha had departed his solar, her footsteps fading down the twisting stair.
"We sail south, aye, but not as obedient servants to that boy king. We have but one purpose: to ensure this war stretches onward without end."
"Three years, five years, ten years—until they bleed themselves dry, like great whales beached upon the shore."
Asha understood her father's meaning at once.
He was choosing no side in this conflict, but rather intended to bolster whichever faction appeared weaker, prolonging the struggle, allowing the Seven Kingdoms to tear themselves to bloody ribbons.
For now, that meant the Iron Throne. Later, perhaps, it would be Renly's cause they would seem to favor.
Balon Greyjoy's face bore a look of genuine regret. "There are too few kings in the Green Lands," he lamented. "Only two, where once there were many."
In the days when Andal kings ruled their separate realms across Westeros, ironborn longships had raided coastal settlements with impunity, claiming territory along every shore. No single kingdom could muster sufficient strength to challenge the Iron Fleet in its prime.
Euron's gaze fixed upon his elder brother's crown, fashioned from pale driftwood rather than black iron.
Since the Age of Heroes, when the Grey King—beloved by the Drowned God—first claimed the throne of the islands, the monarch had worn a crown of driftwood to symbolize the power granted by the sea itself. The Rock Kings, the Salt Kings, and later the High Kings of the Iron Islands had all maintained this sacred tradition.
But after Urragon Goodbrother violated ancient custom by slaughtering the captains assembled for the kingsmoot, both the ceremony and the driftwood crown had vanished from the islands.
That bitter betrayal had occurred some five thousand years past.
Kings who followed were no longer chosen through the collective wisdom of captains and priests but instead inherited their position as the eldest son of the previous ruler.
The crown, too, had changed, forged thereafter from black iron rather than the sea's offerings.
Now, it seemed, Balon Greyjoy—allegedly blessed by the Drowned God—sought not only to restore the Old Way of reaving and raiding, but to revive the most ancient traditions of kingship itself.
Gazing upon the elaborate, massive driftwood crown, Euron's voice trembled with ill-disguised excitement. "Your Grace. From whence came the driftwood that forms this crown?"
According to the oldest traditions, when a king died, his driftwood crown would be broken into pieces and cast back into the sea. His successor was obliged to craft a new crown from driftwood recently washed ashore on his home island, and could never inherit the crown of his predecessor.
Of course, inheritance was impossible now; the ancient driftwood crowns had long since returned to the depths from which they came.
Balon Greyjoy, understanding his brother's unspoken question, answered with solemn dignity. "Driftwood from Pyke itself, washed ashore this very morning. I give thanks to the supreme Drowned God for bestowing upon me such a magnificent crown."
Euron raised his hands in rapturous praise. "The holy Drowned God has granted us a sign! The Iron Islands shall surely reclaim their former glory!"
Asha suppressed a smile, knowing that within days, tales of this divine "sign" would spread from every tavern and fishing village across the islands.
"Asha."
Hearing her father's summons, she looked up sharply, meeting his penetrating gaze with unwavering respect.
Balon Greyjoy began to unveil his design. "You shall lead twenty longships up the Mander, drawing the Shield Islands' fleet into pursuit. Choose the swiftest vessels available. And send word to Dagmer Cleftjaw that he is to join your command."
Am I to serve as bait, then? Asha hummed coquettishly, "Well, for my father's grand scheme, this humble daughter has little choice but to dance to your tune."
Balon Greyjoy's response came without inflection. "You are my daughter, yet also my son."
Asha felt as though she had been struck. She struggled to calm the sudden, violent pounding of her heart. Theon still lives, she reminded herself. Yet could Ser Theon, who had pledged his loyalty to the Iron Throne, still truly be considered Balon Greyjoy's son?
Her thoughts raced like storm clouds driven before the wind.
"Victarion." Balon had already turned to address his formidable brother.
"You shall comprise our main strength in this venture. Approach the Shield Islands silently, await the departure of their fleet, then launch your assault to capture the castles themselves. Afterward, establish an ambush at the mouth of the Mander to crush the returning Shield Islands' fleet in a single stroke."
The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet offered a terse nod; Victarion Greyjoy had never refused any battle in his life.
"By that juncture, the entire northern coast of the Reach will lie open before us." Balon shifted his attention to his youngest brother.
"Euron, you shall take the longships of our various lords to 'exchange' goods as freely as opportunity allows: slaves, gold, grain. Pay the iron price and ensure the people of the Green Lands taste the ancient ways once more."
The priest-brother responded with fervor, "May the holy Drowned God bless our swords and guide our ships."
"And as for the Arbor fleet..." Balon continued.
He had clearly not forgotten this formidable adversary.
"For the sake of his two sons, Paxter Redwyne withheld his ships from King's Landing. But for us, he would unleash his full might without hesitation."
"Meanwhile, the Royal Fleet has sailed south toward Storm's End."
Balon's smile was as cold as the depths of the Sunset Sea.
"Once the Redwyne fleet puts to sea, Asha, Victarion, Euron—all our longships must cease their separate raids and sail southward in unison, enticing the enemy to give chase."
"Then we shall notify the boy king to direct his fleet further south to join us in destroying the Arbor ships."
Asha could not prevent her brow from furrowing in doubt.
The Iron Throne had originally requested nothing more than the Iron Fleet's neutrality in the broader conflict. Yet her father now intended to don a crown and launch attacks against the Reach.
Since these would constitute incursions into enemy territory, and her father had offered to accept royal appointment, the Iron Throne might well tolerate such actions.
But to expect the Iron Throne to commit its fleet against the Arbor, which had not declared itself an enemy...
The prospect seemed remarkably slender.
Balon Greyjoy continued, untroubled by her doubts. "Either they shall sail forth to engage Redwyne along the coasts of the Arbor or Dorne, or we shall take the initiative ourselves. Our longships can sail as far as the Stormlands if need be, drawing the Redwyne fleet after us to see what the boy king will do."
Should Paxter Redwyne refuse to emerge from his island sanctuary, they would simply continue their plunder of the Reach's vulnerable coastlines.
But Asha knew her Uncle Euron's ambitions surely reached far beyond such limited conquests.
"In the final reckoning," Balon Greyjoy concluded with uncharacteristic earnestness, "neither Renly nor Joffrey deserves our true allegiance. Preserve your strength and seek every opportunity to weaken their naval power, especially their fleets."
He raised his hands in a gesture of benediction. "May the Drowned God grant us his blessing."
"May the fleets of Redwyne and King's Landing alike be utterly destroyed after meeting in battle upon the open sea."
How could such an outcome be possible? Asha wondered silently.
Victarion looked deeply into his elder brother's eyes and seemed to grasp some unspoken meaning there.
Euron Greyjoy spread his arms wide, like a pair of great wings unfurling. "The wrath of the ocean shall eventually erupt, and the great Drowned God will extend his authority even unto the Green Lands!"
"What is dead may never die," Victarion intoned solemnly, and both Balon Greyjoy and Asha responded almost in perfect unison with the ancient words: "But rises again, harder and stronger."
Afterward, they departed the solar one by one.
Balon Greyjoy sat motionless before the brazier and spoke only after a long silence had settled over the chamber. "All of you shall leave as well. Go lie with women, attend the feast, drink yourselves insensate—do whatever pleases you, but leave me to my thoughts."
The handful of guards stationed within and without the solar retreated immediately, abandoning the newly crowned king to solitude.
The study grew quieter still.
Outside, the ceaseless sound of wind and rain continued unabated. Surging waves crashed against the rocky foundations far below, and the swaying rope bridge connecting the sea tower to the main keep emitted faint creaks of protest.
"Valar morghulis," Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands said softly, speaking High Valyrian from the distant continent of Essos.
Then, something remarkable occurred.
He lowered his head, and in the flickering firelight, his features seemed to melt and reform, transforming into the face of a slave who had served in Balon's household.
The true Balon Greyjoy was extracted from a secret compartment behind the throne by this impostor. The old man had been stripped of all vitality—foam clung to his lips and nostrils, his limbs were contorted at unnatural angles, his skin bore the waxy pallor of death, though the telltale blotches of a corpse had not yet formed.
The "slave" maneuvered Balon's body out of the chamber and onto the violently swaying suspension bridge that connected the sea tower to the main keep.
In the midst of the raging tempest, as waves crashed and winds howled their fury, Balon's lifeless form plummeted into the churning sea below. A massive wave immediately swallowed him whole, leaving no trace of his passing.
Without so much as a ripple to mark his end.
Finally, the slave changed his face once more and proceeded to the ongoing feast in the Great Hall, ready to fulfill his duties to powers unseen.