A Feast for Dragons

brow. “What is dead can never
die,” the priest said, and Victarion replied, “but rises again, harder
and stronger.”
    When Victarion rose, his champions arrayed themselves
beneath him; Ralf the Limper, Red Ralf Stonehouse, and Nute the Barber, noted
warriors all. Stonehouse bore the Greyjoy banner; the golden kraken on a field
as black as the midnight sea. As soon as it unfurled, the captains and the
kings began to shout out the Lord Captain’s name. Victarion waited till they
quieted, then said, “You all know me. If you want sweet words, look elsewhere.
I have no singer’s tongue. I have an axe, and I have these.” He raised his huge
mailed hands up to show them, and Nute the Barber displayed his axe, a fearsome
piece of steel. “I was a loyal brother,” Victarion went on. “When Balon was
wed, it was me he sent to Harlaw to bring him back his bride. I led his
longships into many a battle, and never lost but one. The first time Balon took
a crown, it was me sailed into Lannisport to singe the lion’s tail. The second
time, it was me he sent to skin the Young Wolf should he come howling home. All
you’ll get from me is more of what you got from Balon. That’s all I have to
say.”
    With that his champions began to chant: “VICTARION!
VICTARION! VICTARION KING!” Below, his men were spilling out his chests, a
cascade of silver, gold, and gems, a wealth of plunder. Captains scrambled to
seize the richest pieces, shouting as they did so. “ VICTARION! VICTARION!
VICTARION KING! ” Aeron watched the Crow’s Eye. Will he speak now, or let
the kingsmoot run its course? Orkwood of Orkmont was whispering in Euron’s
ear.
    But it was not Euron who put an end to the shouting, it was
the woman. She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, a sharp
shrill sound that cut through the tumult like a knife through curds. “Nuncle! Nuncle! ”
Bending, she snatched up a twisted golden collar and bounded up the steps. Nute
seized her by the arm, and for half a heartbeat Aeron was hopeful that his
brother’s champions would keep her silent, but Asha wrenched free of the
Barber’s hand and said something to Red Ralf that made him step aside. As she
pushed past, the cheering died away. She was Balon Greyjoy’s daughter, and the
crowd was curious to hear her speak.
    “It was good of you to bring such gifts to my queensmoot,
Nuncle,” she told Victarion, “but you need not have worn so much armor. I
promise not to hurt you.” Asha turned to face the captains. “There’s no one
braver than my nuncle, no one stronger, no one fiercer in a fight. And he
counts to ten as quick as any man, I have seen him do it . . . though when he
needs to go to twenty he does take off his boots.” That made them laugh. “He
has no sons, though. His wives keep dying. The Crow’s Eye is his elder and has
a better claim . . .”
    “He does!” the Red Oarsman shouted from below.
    “Ah, but my claim is better still.” Asha set the collar on
her head at a jaunty angle, so the gold gleamed against her dark hair. “Balon’s
brother cannot come before Balon’s son!”
    “Balon’s sons are dead,” cried Ralf the Limper. “All I see
is Balon’s little daughter!”
    “Daughter?” Asha slipped a hand beneath her jerkin. “Oho!
What’s this? Shall I show you? Some of you have not seen one since they weaned
you.” They laughed again. “Teats on a king are a terrible thing, is that the
song? Ralf, you have me, I am a woman . . . though not an old woman like you. Ralf the Limper . . . shouldn’t that be Ralf the Limp?” Asha
drew a dirk from between her breasts. “I’m a mother too, and here’s my suckling
babe!” She held it up. “And here, my champions.” They pushed past Victarion’s
three to stand below her: Qarl the Maid, Tristifer Botley, and the knight Ser
Harras Harlaw, whose sword Nightfall was as storied as Dunstan Drumm’s Red
Rain. “My nuncle said you know him. You know me too—”
    “I want to know you better!” someone shouted.
    “Go home and know your wife,” Asha shot back. “Nuncle says
he’ll give you more of what my father gave you. Well, what was that? Gold and
glory, some will say. Freedom, ever sweet. Aye, it’s so, he gave us that
. . . and widows too, as Lord Blacktyde will tell you. How many of you had your
homes put to the torch when Robert came? How many had daughters raped and
despoiled? Burnt towns and broken castles, my father gave you that. Defeat was what he gave you.