The sky hung leaden and gray over the Iron Islands, sullen as the men who called this harsh land home.
Relentless seawater battered the island reefs with tireless fury, leaving behind crystalline deposits of white sea salt as it slowly claimed the rocks it touched, consuming them bite by patient bite.
Pyke, ancestral seat of House Greyjoy, stood as a masterpiece sculpted not by human hands, but by the sea itself.
Originally built upon a formidable cliff that thrust defiantly from the churning waters, the castle had been transformed by centuries of erosion. As the rocks supporting the foundation were steadily devoured, Pyke's proud towers now stood isolated on fragile, precarious fingers of stone that rose from the hungry depths.
The reef-riddled approaches to Pyke had long since become too treacherous for longships to dock directly, rendering the castle increasingly isolated and indifferent to the wider world beyond.
It was a place that offered no welcome.
The Great Keep, the Blood Bridge, the Sea Tower—all were now connected by swaying rope bridges that shifted restlessly with every gust of salt-laden wind.
To walk these narrow, unstable spans was to feel Pyke's constant malice and rejection. Every step reminded the visitor they were not wanted here.
It perfectly mirrored the unyielding character of the Iron Islands themselves.
Only the tenacious and cruel Ironborn would willingly make their home in such a castle, finding pride in its very hostility.
Its feasts, too, were as harsh and dangerous as the fortress that housed them.
In the smoke-filled Great Hall of the Great Keep, hundreds of Iron Islands chieftains and ship captains crowded the long trestle tables. They gulped down ale by the hornful, tore apart loaves of hard black bread with calloused fingers, used their daggers to spear pickled fish which they gnawed with ferocious appetite, and ripped at unseasoned roast mutton with their teeth.
Three burly men performed the finger dance in the central space between the tables.
A series of short-handled throwing axes were tossed in complex patterns among the three men. By the ancient rules of this grim entertainment, participants had to catch or avoid the whirling axes without shifting their feet from their appointed spot.
The dance earned its name because it typically ended when someone lost a finger...
If luck turned particularly sour, two fingers might be forfeit, or even an entire hand.
The chieftains and captains who served as the evening's audience would rise spontaneously if the mood struck them, extending an open palm as challenge to join the deadly game.
The strong men performing the finger dance innately understood such gestures. After some elaborate feinting, an axe would suddenly fly from a practiced hand. The sharp blade would cut through the smoky air past guttering torches, the rolling edge flashing with cold, deadly light.
The guests seated at the long tables were all hardened veterans, well-versed in such displays, and for them, the danger of the finger dance had been worn familiar through countless such revels.
Of course, should one prove genuinely unlucky or too deep in his cups to judge rightly and thus fail to catch the spinning axe—well, that too would simply add to the raw atmosphere of the banquet.
In such instances, the loser either retreated in disgrace, or acted like a true man of the islands, swiftly cauterizing his wound with fire and seawater before returning to his meal as if nothing of consequence had occurred.
The others would then decide whether to deliver a chorus of contemptuous jeers, or offer cheers and piercing whistles of approval for such stoicism.
Fortunately, this particular feast had remained relatively peaceful thus far.
The dancers performed their deadly art with fluid grace, turning in tight circles and executing acrobatic somersaults while manipulating the flying axes with apparent ease—calm and comfortable as the painted jesters of the Reach might be while tossing colorful balls for the amusement of soft-handed lords.
Thralls moved efficiently back and forth among the tables, pouring wine and ale for the assembled chieftains.
The hall resonated with the music of fiddles and drums—sounds reminiscent of sea winds and crashing waves, of battle cries and dying screams.
Upon the dais, Balon Greyjoy sat rigid upon the Seastone Chair. This throne, evocative of some ancient sea monster, had been carved from a single piece of oily black stone that seemed to drink the light from the room.
Legend held that when the First Men initially set foot upon the Iron Islands, this massive rock had already lain upon the beach of Old Wyk, mysterious in origin and purpose.
In time, this throne had become the exclusive property of House Greyjoy, symbol of their dominion over these harsh islands.
At this moment, Balon's two younger brothers and his only surviving daughter sat beside him on lesser seats.
Balon upon the Seastone Chair remained silent, his body thin and frail. It was as if the Drowned God had placed him in a cauldron of brine and boiled away every ounce of flesh, leaving behind only sinew, skin, and iron will.
A hard skeleton clothed in weathered skin.
Yet his face remained angular and severe, appearing almost carved from the same flint that formed the islands. His black eyes were sharp as obsidian blades, and his hair—ravaged equally by the passage of years and the constant assault of sea winds—had faded to the gray of winter waters, streaked with white that mimicked seafoam. It hung past his shoulders, untied and untamed.
A single glance was sufficient to perceive the deep wellspring of stubbornness that resided within him, the cold calculation, and the utter lack of reverence for anything beyond the sea and iron.
A quintessential Ironborn, to his marrow.
He observed all that transpired below with eyes cold as the depths, and the rare smile that occasionally crossed his lips was invariably one of cruelty.
Mockery, sarcasm, derision, hateful laughter.
And beneath it all, an arrogant satisfaction at the victory and throne that would soon be reclaimed through adherence to the "Old Way."
The Old Way. Yes, it was time to restore the Old Way! How could the Ironborn ever be content with tilling the soil like common thralls? They must pay the iron price, seize what they desired with their own strength, prosper as reavers, and restore the ancient glory that was their birthright!
In service to this restoration of the Old Way, Balon had once again united the Iron Islands under his banner, preparing to claim all they desired through sword and flame.
His calculating gaze swept across the assembled faces below.
Lord Stonehouse, clad in sealskin, remained courageous and loyal, at least.
Denys Drumm, heir to House Drumm, sat with his brother Donnel—both warriors of repute, qualified captains who understood the true meaning of iron.
Rodrik Harlaw, mockingly called "Rodrik the Reader" by his peers—how could such a man be Lord of Harlaw? How could one who preferred parchment to steel possibly lead resolute Ironborn into battle?
For the sake of Harlaw's formidable longships and his own wife who hailed from that house, Balon Greyjoy's contemptuous gaze passed over him without comment.
Next sat the Lord of Blacktyde, Baelor Blacktyde, whose face remained as smooth and unmarked as some Lysene pleasure slave, and who even worshipped the Seven Gods of the greenlanders!
What manner of men were these to call themselves leaders of the Ironborn?
Balon Greyjoy's expression hardened further as he continued his assessment.
House Goodbrother, House Sparr, and House Merlyn of Great Wyk; House Sunderly and House Saltcliffe of Saltcliffe; House Botley and House Wynch of Pyke...
Thankfully, most still carried themselves like true Ironborn, like captains who dared raid the holdings of mainland lords and kings alike.
Like warriors who honored the Old Way.
In pursuit of restoring that sacred tradition, Balon Greyjoy had attempted rebellion nine years past.
That effort had ended in failure, costing him all his sons and leaving only his daughter Asha. Fortunately, this daughter had taken axe and dagger as her chosen companions and proved herself more qualified to sail and plunder than many men who called themselves reavers.
But this time would be different.
Robert Baratheon, who had personally smashed the walls of Pyke with his warhammer, had been torn apart by some beast in the forest. The kingdom forged by Aegon the Conqueror now stood fractured and hostile to itself. The Reach had descended into chaos, and two would-be kings fought over the Iron Throne like dogs over a scrap of meat.
The Lannisters had failed to gather sufficient loyal allies, while the youthful Renly—whom Balon remembered as a stripling boy during the rebellion—now commanded a hundred thousand swords.
Ha!
Who would emerge victorious from such a conflict?
Balon Greyjoy cared only that these great houses should bleed each other dry, exhausting their strength in fratricidal slaughter. Ideally, they would destroy one another completely, like those forgotten Targaryen twins during the Dance of the Dragons, whose names history had discarded, remembered only for their mutual destruction.
Of course, Balon merely entertained such thoughts as pleasant diversions. In truth, he would prefer to personally eliminate both contenders for the throne himself.
Two arrogant fools! Two preening cravens!
One had offered him nothing but continued obedience to mainland laws. And what reward did he dangle? "Warden of the Sunset Sea"—an empty title without substance or meaning.
Even when feeding a dog, one offered a bone!
The other proved somewhat cleverer, promising the Ironborn free rein to seize land and wealth as they wished, without obligation to surrender their conquests afterward. Yet he too expected Balon to bend the knee, to serve this self-styled noble king, and only then receive his "rewards."
Two kings.
Balon Greyjoy had chosen neither.
The Ironborn had no need of alms or charity; they would practice the Old Way. The Ironborn had no need to kneel before the kings of the greenlands; they had their own king!
Balon Greyjoy had already prepared the crown.
As master reaver of Pyke, as Salt King and Rock King combined, as Son of the Sea Wind, he had resolved to pay the iron price and claim what was rightfully his, just as Urron Redhand had done five thousand years before.
Who, then, would be the first to pay the iron price for his ambition?
Balon Greyjoy rose abruptly from the Seastone Chair.
"When the drinking is done, gather in my solar," he commanded Victarion, Euron, and Asha seated on the high platform beside him.
"I will reveal our plan."