A Feast for Dragons

eight-and-eighty and won’t live
long enough to finish. If old is wise, no one is wiser than me. If big is
strong, no one’s stronger. You want a king with heirs? I’ve more’n I can count.
King Erik, aye, I like the sound o’ that. Come, say it with me. ERIK! ERIK
ANVIL-BREAKER! ERIK KING! ”
    As his grandsons took up the cry, their own sons came
forward with chests upon their shoulders. When they upended them at the base of
the stone steps, a torrent of silver, bronze, and steel spilled forth; arm
rings, collars, daggers, dirks, and throwing axes. A few captains snatched up
the choicest items and added their voices to the swelling chant. But no sooner
had the cry begun to build than a woman’s voice cut through it. “Erik!” Men moved aside to let her through. With one foot on the lowest step, she said,
“Erik, stand up.”
    A hush fell. The wind blew, waves broke against the shore,
men murmured in each other’s ears. Erik Ironmaker stared down at Asha Greyjoy.
“Girl. Thrice-damned girl. What did you say?”
    “Stand up, Erik,” she called. “Stand up and I’ll shout your
name with all the rest. Stand up and I’ll be the first to follow you. You want
a crown, aye. Stand up and take it.”
    Elsewhere in the press, the Crow’s Eye laughed. Erik glared
at him. The big man’s hands closed tight around the arms of his driftwood
throne. His face went red, then purple. His arms trembled with effort. Aeron
could see a thick blue vein pulsing in his neck as he struggled to rise. For a
moment it seemed as though he might do it, but the breath went out of him all
at once, and he groaned and sank back onto his cushion. Euron laughed all the
louder. The big man hung his head and grew old, all in the blink of an eye. His
grandsons carried him back down the hill.
    “Who shall rule the ironborn?” Aeron Damphair called again.
“Who shall be king over us?”
    Men looked at one another. Some looked at Euron, some at
Victarion, a few at Asha. Waves broke green and white against the longships. The
gull cried once more, a raucous scream, forlorn. “Make your claim, Victarion,”
the Merlyn called. “Let us have done with this mummer’s farce.”
    “When I am ready,” Victarion shouted back.
    Aeron was pleased. It is better if he waits.
    The Drumm came next, another old man, though not so old as
Erik. He climbed the hill on his own two legs, and on his hip rode Red Rain,
his famous sword, forged of Valyrian steel in the days before the Doom. His
champions were men of note: his sons Denys and Donnel, both stout fighters, and
between them Andrik the Unsmiling, a giant of a man with arms as thick as
trees. It spoke well of the Drumm that such a man would stand for him.
    “Where is it written that our king must be a kraken?” Drumm
began. “What right has Pyke to rule us? Great Wyk is the largest isle, Harlaw
the richest, Old Wyk the most holy. When the black line was consumed by
dragonfire, the ironborn gave the primacy to Vickon Greyjoy, aye . . . but as lord, not king.”
    It was a good beginning. Aeron heard shouts of approval, but
they dwindled as the old man began to tell of the glory of the Drumms. He spoke
of Dale the Dread, Roryn the Reaver, the hundred sons of Gormond Drumm the
Oldfather. He drew Red Rain and told them how Hilmar Drumm the Cunning had
taken the blade from an armored knight with wits and a wooden cudgel. He spoke
of ships long lost and battles eight hundred years forgotten, and the crowd
grew restive. He spoke and spoke, and then he spoke still more.
    And when Drumm’s chests were thrown open, the captains saw
the niggard’s gifts he’d brought them. No throne was ever bought with
bronze, the Damphair thought. The truth of that was plain to hear, as the
cries of “Drumm! Drumm! Dunstan King!” died away.
    Aeron could feel a tightness in his belly, and it seemed to
him that the waves were pounding louder than before. It is time, he
thought. It is time for Victarion to make his claim. “Who shall be king
over us?” the priest cried once more, but this time his fierce black eyes found
his brother in the crowd. “Nine sons were born from the loins of Quellon
Greyjoy. One was mightier than all the rest, and knew no fear.”
    Victarion met his eyes, and nodded. The captains parted
before him as he climbed the steps. “Brother, give me blessing,” he said when
he reached the top. He knelt and bowed his head. Aeron uncorked his waterskin
and poured a stream of seawater down upon his