A Feast for Dragons

Nute the Barber at her prow. Ahead loomed
the sacred
shore
of
Old Wyk
and
the grassy hill above it, where the ribs of Nagga rose from the earth like the
trunks of great white trees, as wide around as a dromond’s mast and twice as
tall.
    The bones of the Grey King’s Hall. Victarion could
feel the magic of this place. “Balon stood beneath those bones, when first he
named himself a king,” he recalled. “He swore to win us back our freedoms, and
Tarle the Thrice-Drowned placed a driftwood crown upon his head. ‘ BALON!’ they cried. ‘ BALON! BALON KING! ’”
    “They will shout your name as loud,” said Nute.
    Victarion nodded, though he did not share the Barber’s
certainty. Balon had three sons, and a daughter he loved well.
    He had said as much to his captains at Moat Cailin, when
first they urged him to claim the Seastone Chair. “Balon’s sons are dead,” Red
Ralf Stonehouse had argued, “and Asha is a woman. You were your brother’s
strong right arm, you must pick up the sword that he let fall.” When Victarion
reminded them that Balon had commanded him to hold the Moat against the
northmen, Ralf Kenning said, “The wolves are broken, lord. What good to win
this swamp and lose the isles?” And Ralf the Limper added, “The Crow’s Eye has
been too long away. He knows us not.”
    Euron Greyjoy, King of the Isles and the North. The
thought woke an old rage in his heart, but still . . .
    “Words are wind,” Victarion told them, “and the only good
wind is that which fills our sails. Would you have me fight the Crow’s Eye? Brother
against brother, ironborn against ironborn?” Euron was still his elder, no
matter how much bad blood might be between them. No man is as accursed as
the kinslayer.
    But when the Damphair’s summons came, the call to kingsmoot,
then all was changed. Aeron speaks with the Drowned God’s voice, Victarion reminded himself, and if the Drowned God wills that I should sit
the Seastone Chair . . . The next day he gave command of Moat Cailin to
Ralf Kenning and set off overland for the Fever River where the Iron Fleet lay
amongst the reeds and willows. Rough seas and fickle winds had delayed him, but
only one ship had been lost, and he was home.
    Grief and Iron Vengeance were close behind as Iron
Victory passed the headland. Behind came Hardhand, Iron Wind, Grey
Ghost, Lord Quellon, Lord Vickon, Lord Dagon, and the rest, nine-tenths of
the Iron Fleet, sailing on the evening tide in a ragged column that extended
back long leagues. The sight of their sails filled Victarion Greyjoy with
content. No man had ever loved his wives half as well as the Lord Captain loved
his ships.
    Along the sacred strand of Old Wyk, longships lined the
shore as far as the eye could see, their masts thrust up like spears. In the
deeper waters rode prizes: cogs, carracks, and dromonds won in raid or war, too
big to run ashore. From prow and stern and mast flew familiar banners.
    Nute the Barber squinted toward the strand. “Is that Lord
Harlaw’s Sea Song ?” The Barber was a thickset man with bandy legs and
long arms, but his eyes were not so keen as they had been when he was young. In
those days he could throw an axe so well that men said he could shave you with
it.
    “ Sea Song, aye.” Rodrik the Reader had left his
books, it would seem. “And there’s old Drumm’s Thunderer, with
Blacktyde’s Nightflyer beside her.” Victarion’s eyes were as sharp as
they had ever been. Even with their sails furled and their banners hanging
limp, he knew them, as befit the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. “ Silverfin too. Some kin of Sawane Botley.” The Crow’s Eye had drowned Lord Botley,
Victarion had heard, and his heir had died at Moat Cailin, but there had been
brothers, and other sons as well. How many? Four? No, five, and none with
any cause to love the Crow’s Eye.
    And then he saw her: a single-masted galley, lean and low,
with a dark red hull. Her sails, now furled, were black as a starless sky. Even
at anchor Silence looked both cruel and fast. On her prow was a black
iron maiden with one arm outstretched. Her waist was slender, her breasts high
and proud, her legs long and shapely. A windblown mane of black iron hair
streamed from her head, and her eyes were mother-of-pearl, but she had no
mouth.
    Victarion’s hands closed into fists. He had beaten four men
to death with those hands, and one wife as well. Though his hair was flecked
with hoarfrost, he was as strong as he had