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The great hall of Pyke groaned under the weight of salt spray and fury as Lord Dagon Greyjoy read the latest raven from his spies in King's Landing. Around the ancient table carved from driftwood, his captains and kin waited with the patience of predators, their weathered faces lit by the flickering flames of whale oil lamps.
"So," Dagon's voice carried the rumble of distant thunder, "this Arthur Snow—the bastard who slaughtered Dagmer at Rimehall and cost us fifty longships in the Riverlands—has now humiliated Ser Jaime Lannister before the entire court and somehow struck down the Mad King himself."
Captain Rodrik the Reader, one of the few surviving veterans, shifted uncomfortably. "My lord, perhaps we should speak of how he knew. The forged raven to House Dustin—it was perfect work, indistinguishable from their usual correspondence. Yet somehow he recognized the deception immediately."
"Aye," growled Tormund the Red, his weathered face grim with memory. "We thought ourselves clever, luring northern forces away from Winterfell while our wildling allies struck at Rimehall. But the bastard saw through it like clear water."
Young Balon Greyjoy, barely past his twentieth year but already showing the iron in his spine, leaned forward with hungry eyes. "Tell it again, Tormund. How did Dagmer die?"
The grizzled captain's hands tightened around his ale horn. "Dagmer was no green boy with a wooden sword. He'd killed a hundred men, maybe more. But at Rimehall..." Tormund shook his head. "Arthur Snow moved through our wildling allies like the Stranger himself. When Dagmer finally faced him, sword to sword, it lasted maybe three heartbeats. That black blade took his head clean off."
"And Hrok?" Aeron Greyjoy asked quietly. "Our spy among the wildlings?"
"Found dead in his tent the night before the battle," Tormund replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. "No wounds, no signs of struggle. Just... dead. Like his soul had been plucked from his body."
Silence fell over the hall like a burial shroud. Hrok had been one of their most valuable assets—a wildling who'd turned coat for ironborn gold, feeding them information about northern defenses. His mysterious death had been the first sign that their carefully laid plans were unraveling.
Euron Greyjoy, Dagon's younger brother, spoke for the first time, his voice carrying an edge of dark fascination. "The boy doesn't just kill, brother. He thinks. He plans. He turns our own strategies against us like a master playing cyvasse."
"Three moves ahead," Rodrik added grudgingly. "He used our forged raven as intelligence, arrived at Rimehall before our forces could consolidate, and wiped out both our wildling alliance and our best captain in a single night."
Lord Dagon slammed his fist on the table, making the whale oil lamps flicker. "And then he followed our surviving forces back to the Riverlands and destroyed the largest fleet we'd assembled in a generation."
"Tell that part," Balon demanded, his eyes bright with a mixture of fear and admiration.
Tormund's face darkened further. "We'd been raiding the western Riverlands for months—along the Blue Fork where it meets the Red and Green, hitting the villages rich with grain and timber. Easy prey, those river folk, with the Riverlords' troops all gathered at Riverrun instead of watching their coasts."
He paused, staring into the flames as if seeing ghosts in the fire.
"Seagard was too strong, but the smaller towns along the estuary... ripe for the taking. We'd burned a dozen fishing hamlets, taken their grain barges, filled our holds with river gold. Sixty longships we brought—the largest raiding force in a generation, meant to make up for our losses at Rimehall." Tormund's voice grew bitter. "Then word came of a great merchant fleet moving down the Red Fork, heavy with trade goods. We thought it was fortune smiling on us at last."
"But he was waiting," Aeron said, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"Aye. Came out of nowhere as we closed on the merchant fleet near the mouth of the Red Fork. Moved like winter wind given form across the water itself. His sword—black as the depths and twice as deadly—cut through our steel like it was driftwood." Tormund's voice cracked. "Ship after ship, he moved between them like some sea demon. By the time the sun reached its peak, fifty longships were burning or sinking in those cursed waters. Only ten of us escaped to tell the tale."
The hall erupted in uneasy murmurs. The ironborn were not accustomed to such defeats, especially not at the hands of a single enemy. Their entire culture was built on taking what they pleased from the weak, on being the wolves among sheep. Arthur Snow had made sheep of them instead.
"How?" Balon asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How does one man destroy sixty ships?"
"The same way he killed Hrok without leaving a mark," Euron said softly. "The same way he struck down a king with nothing but a look. This Arthur Snow possesses powers that make a mockery of steel and numbers."
"Blasphemy," snarled Aeron, though his voice lacked conviction. "No man stands against the Drowned God's chosen."
"Then perhaps he's no man," Euron replied, his smile cold as winter sea. "Perhaps he's something else entirely. A weapon forged in the North's coldest depths, sent to humble the ironborn."
Lord Dagon studied the raven's message again, his weathered features carved deep with thought. "The ravens speak of chaos in King's Landing. The Mad King lies broken, Prince Rhaegar grasps for power, and the lords scramble like crabs in a bucket. This Arthur Snow has given us the greatest gift possible—a distracted enemy."
"You mean to strike while they're divided?" Captain Rodrik asked, his scholarly mind working through the implications.
"I mean to take what should have always been ours," Dagon replied, his voice carrying the weight of old ambitions. "Dagmer is dead, our wildling alliance is shattered, and half our best ships rest on the bottom of the Trident. But the boy has also shown us something invaluable—that even the mightiest can be brought low."
He rose from his seat, his presence filling the hall.
"The time of the Targaryens ends. Their dragons are dead, their king is mad, and now this Northern bastard has proven that crowns and thrones mean nothing to those with the will to take them. When chaos reigns on land, the sea kings rise."
Balon's eyes shone with fierce pride. "The Iron Throne, father? You mean to claim it?"
"Why not?" Dagon spread his arms wide, encompassing the hall and all who sat within it. "We are ironborn. We take what we will. Arthur Snow has taught us that lesson—strength matters more than birthright, more than tradition, more than the fear of kings."
Euron's laughter was like waves breaking against rocks. "Ambitious, brother. But first, we must survive long enough to press our claim. This Arthur Snow stands between us and every prize worth taking."
"Then we avoid him," Dagon said pragmatically. "The realm has a thousand coastlines. We strike where he is not, take what we can, build our strength. When the time comes to face him..." The Lord of Pyke's smile was sharp as a reaver's axe, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, even legends must sleep sometime."
"And if he comes for us here?" Aeron asked quietly. "If he brings his black sword to Pyke itself?"
The hall fell silent at the thought. Pyke had never been taken by storm, its towers rising from the sea like the very bones of the Drowned God. But then, no enemy like Arthur Snow had ever tested its defenses.
"Then we'll show this Northern bastard what it means to fight ironborn in ironborn waters," Dagon declared, though something in his voice suggested even he wasn't entirely confident in that outcome. "The Drowned God protects his chosen."
"Does he?" Euron mused. "He didn't protect Dagmer. Or Hrok. Or fifty longships full of his faithful servants."
As the council broke up and captains scattered to their ships, carrying orders to expand their raiding while avoiding northern waters, Lord Dagon remained at the window, staring out at the grey expanse of the western sea.
Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, a bastard with grey eyes and a black sword had changed the game entirely. He'd turned their own deceptions against them, killed their champions, sunk their fleets, and now held court with kings and princes. The ironborn would adapt—they always had. But for the first time in his long life, Dagon Greyjoy wondered if Arthur Snow was the storm that would finally sink them all.
The boy didn't just fight wars. He ended them.
And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying thing of all.