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Year 300 AC
Bitterbridge, The Reach
The banners of House Tyrell hung limp in the still air above Bitterbridge, their golden roses faded by sun and rain. Jon Connington rode beside Aegon through the castle gates, his eyes cataloging every detail with the instinct of a man who had learned too late the cost of complacency. The walls were well-maintained, the guards alert but not hostile. A careful welcome, then. The Tyrells were nothing if not careful.
And cowardly, Jon thought, the old bitterness rising in his throat like bile.
Ser Garlan Tyrell waited in the courtyard with Lord Lorent Caswell, both men dressed in their finest. Garlan wore green and gold, the colors of his house, and carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who had only tourneys won under his belt. Jon's jaw tightened. He remembered Garlan's father, fat Mace, who had sat outside Storm's End for a year while Robert Baratheon hunted Rhaegar's loyalists across the realm. Who had bent the knee the moment the tide turned.
Turncoaks. All of them.
"Your Grace." Garlan bowed, the gesture precise and proper. "Welcome to Bitterbridge. House Tyrell is honored by your presence."
Aegon dismounted with practiced grace, his silver hair catching the afternoon light. "The honor is ours, Ser Garlan. Your grandmother's letter was most welcome in these troubled times."
Jon dismounted as well, his stiffened fingers making the movement awkward. He caught Garlan's eyes flicking to his gloved hand before the knight's expression smoothed into courtly neutrality. Let him wonder, Jon thought savagely. Let them all wonder what I hide beneath the leather.
"Lord Caswell." Aegon inclined his head to the older man. "Your hospitality is appreciated."
"The pleasure is mine, Your Grace." Caswell's voice was thin and reedy. "Bitterbridge stands ready to serve the true king."
The true king. The words should have brought Jon satisfaction, but instead they felt hollow. How many times had he heard such pledges? How many lords had sworn themselves to Rhaegar, only to abandon his cause when the dragons fell?
"My sister regrets she could not greet you personally," Garlan said, gesturing toward the keep. "Lady Margaery is with the maester at present."
Aegon's expression shifted, concern replacing the diplomatic smile. "Is aught amiss? Is Lady Margaery unwell?"
Jon watched Garlan's face carefully. The knight's jaw worked, and his eyes went distant for a heartbeat. Thinking how to lie, Jon realized. Or deciding how much truth to tell.
"My sister suffered burns in King's Landing," Garlan said finally, his voice tight. "From the wildfire Cersei Lannister set loose in the Great Sept. The maester assures us she will heal, but the wounds still pain her."
Jon had heard reports of the Sept's destruction, of course. Thousands dead in green flames, Mace Tyrell among them. Cersei's madness had done more to unite the realm against her than any army could.
"I am glad Lady Margaery survived," Aegon said, and Jon heard genuine relief in the young king's voice. "That is all that matters. And please accept my condolences for your father's death, Ser Garlan. Lord Mace was a great man."
Liar. Jon kept his face carefully neutral, but inside he seethed. Mace Tyrell had been a preening fool, a man who mistook wealth for wisdom and numbers for courage. The realm was better off without him.
Garlan's expression darkened, anger flashing in his eyes before he mastered it. "You are kind to say so, Your Grace. My father served the realm as best he knew how."
A gracious lie in return, Jon noted. These Reachmen and their courtesies.
Aegon glanced at Jon, a pointed look that said clearly: Your turn.
Jon met his king's eyes and felt the weight of expectation. He should offer condolences. It was the politic thing, the proper thing. But the words stuck in his throat like fishbones. He thought of Storm's End, of Mace Tyrell feasting outside the walls. Of Rhaegar falling on the Trident while the Tyrell host sat idle.
"Where is Lady Olenna?" Jon asked instead, his voice flat. "I had expected to find her here."
If Garlan noticed the slight, he gave no sign. "My grandmother is two days away. She will arrive soon."
Two days. Jon felt a headache beginning behind his eyes. Two more days of waiting, of playing at diplomacy while Cersei consolidated her power in King's Landing. But there was nothing for it. They needed the Reach, and the Reach meant dealing with the Queen of Thorns.
"We look forward to her arrival," Aegon said smoothly, covering Jon's silence. "In the meantime, perhaps you might show us to our quarters? The road from the Kingswood was long."
"Of course, Your Grace." Garlan gestured toward the keep. "Chambers have been prepared for you and your men. We will feast tonight in your honor."
The great hall of Bitterbridge was smaller than Storm's End's, but no less grand. Tapestries depicting the Reach's bounty hung from the walls, and the long tables groaned under platters of roasted meats, fresh bread, and honeyed fruits. Jon sat at the high table beside Aegon, forcing himself to eat despite the nausea that had plagued him since the Kingswood. His hand throbbed beneath the glove, the greyscale creeping ever higher.
The hall buzzed with conversation, lords and knights mingling over wine. Jon recognized several banners: Rowan, Tarly, Ashford, Mullendore. The Reach's strength on display, a reminder of what alliance with the Tyrells could bring.
The doors at the far end opened, and the hall fell silent.
Margaery Tyrell entered like a queen, her head high and her smile radiant. She wore a gown of deep green silk that clung to her figure, cut low at the bodice in a style that would have been scandalous in a less worldly court. Olenna's teaching, Jon thought cynically. Use every weapon you have.
But the bandages ruined the effect. White linen wrapped around her left forearm, visible beneath the sleeve. More bandages circled her neck, stark against her pale skin. Jon caught glimpses of angry red flesh at the edges, the marks of fire.
Poor girl, he thought, surprising himself with the sympathy. Whatever else she was, Margaery had survived hell. That counted for something.
Aegon rose smoothly, moving to greet her. He took her unbandaged hand and kissed it with perfect courtly grace. "Lady Margaery. Your beauty outshines even the tales I have heard."
"Your Grace flatters me." Margaery's smile was practiced, flawless. "Though I fear I am not at my best. Wildfire leaves marks that no gown can hide."
"You honor us with your presence, my lady. That is all that matters."
Jon watched them size each other up, two players in the game recognizing worthy opponents. Margaery was younger than he had expected, barely seventeen, but her eyes held the calculation of someone twice her age.
They moved to the high table, Margaery taking the seat to Aegon's right while Jon sat at his left. Servants poured wine, and the hall's noise resumed.
"Lady Margaery," Aegon said once they were settled, "please accept my deepest condolences for your father's death. Lord Mace was a pillar of the realm."
Jon watched Margaery's face. Not a flicker. Not a crack in the mask. "You are kind, Your Grace. House Tyrell will have justice for my dear father's murder. Cersei Lannister will answer for her crimes."
"As she must," Aegon agreed.
Margaery's smile turned sharp. "And please accept my own late condolences, Your Grace, for the deaths of your family. Prince Rhaegar, Princess Elia, Princess Rhaenys. Such terrible losses." She paused, her eyes never leaving Aegon's face. "Though I confess, the circumstances of your survival remain something of a mystery. How fortunate that you alone escaped the Sack of King's Landing."
Here it comes, Jon thought. He had prepared for this, rehearsed the story until it was as smooth as polished stone.
"Prince Rhaegar entrusted his son to loyal servants," Jon said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Varys the Spider arranged for a common child to be placed in the royal nursery while the true prince was spirited away to safety in Essos. I myself did not learn of Aegon's survival until years later, when Varys revealed the truth."
Margaery's eyes flicked to him, assessing. "How very convenient. A secret prince, hidden for years, appearing just when the realm tears itself apart."
Jon's jaw clenched. The girl had nerve, he would give her that. "The truth often appears convenient to those who refuse to accept it."
"Does it?" Margaery turned back to Aegon, her smile never wavering. "Forgive my skepticism, Your Grace, but the realm has seen many pretenders. Many men claiming royal blood."
Garlan leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. "If I may, Your Grace, there is a simple way to prove your heritage. Daenerys Targaryen has three dragons. If you are truly Prince Rhaegar's son, surely one of those beasts would recognize you. Claim a dragon, and no one could question your blood."
Jon felt heat rising in his chest, anger threatening to break through his careful control. "You question His Grace's legitimacy? Here, in open hall?"
"We speak only among ourselves," Garlan said mildly, gesturing to the high table. "The smallfolk cannot hear us."
"That is not the point." Jon's voice was tight. "These questions should be raised in private, if at all. To doubt Aegon's heritage publicly—"
"What do you want, Lady Margaery?"
Aegon's question cut through Jon's building tirade. The young king's voice was calm, almost gentle, but his eyes were hard as amethysts.
Margaery blinked, caught off-guard. Then she smiled, and this time it was genuine. She leaned back in her chair, and the movement made her wince. Her hand flew to her neck, pressing against the bandages.
Jon watched the mask slip. Saw the girl beneath the courtier, the survivor beneath the rose.
"You want the crown," Margaery said quietly. "You picked the perfect time to invade, I will grant you that. The realm is fractured, weakened. Cersei has destroyed herself with wildfire and madness. The North fights its own wars. The Riverlands are broken. The Vale stands apart. The perfect moment for a Targaryen restoration."
She paused, her fingers still pressed against her burns. "But even with your army, even with the Golden Company at your back, it will be difficult to reunite all of Westeros. There is too much resentment toward your house, too many who remember the Mad King. And your claim is in doubt, that you do not even have Dorne on your side."
Garlan made a small gesture, trying to catch his sister's attention. A warning, Jon realized. Careful, sister. Grandmother is not here to guide you.
Margaery ignored him.
"I can help with that," she said, her eyes locked on Aegon's. "I can give you the Reach's full strength, not just our swords but our grain, our gold, our influence. I can help you win the smallfolk's love, teach you how to be the king they need. In exchange for one thing."
"What is it you want done?" Aegon asked.
The hatred that crossed Margaery's face was naked and raw. Jon had seen that expression before, on the faces of men who had lost everything and wanted only vengeance.
"Cersei's head," Margaery said, her voice soft and deadly. "I want Cersei Lannister dead. I want her to pay for my father, for my cousins, for the thousands she burned. I want her head on a spike above the Red Keep's gates."
Aegon nodded slowly. "That can be arranged."
Jon stared at his king, then at Margaery, unable to believe what he was hearing. That is it? That is the bargain? No demands for marriage, no insistence on titles or lands. Just one simple request: Cersei's death.
Which they would have given her anyway.
"Then we have an accord," Margaery said. She lifted her wine cup, though her hand trembled slightly. "To justice, Your Grace."
"To justice," Aegon echoed.
Jon raised his own cup, his mind racing. The alliance was made, sealed with wine and a promise of vengeance. It felt too easy, too simple. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps Margaery Tyrell understood that in this new world, where wildfire consumed kings and queens alike, the old games of marriage and alliance meant less than they once had.
Or perhaps she is simply smarter than her father, Jon thought. Smart enough to see which way the wind blows.
Jon's chambers were well-appointed, with a feather bed and a writing desk overlooking the river. He locked the door behind him and moved deeper into the room, his hand already reaching for his sword. The greyscale made drawing the blade awkward, but he managed it.
He spun, steel gleaming in the candlelight.
Varys stood in the corner, his hands folded in his sleeves, a slight smile on his round face.
"My, my," the eunuch said, his voice high and amused. "You have not lost your speed in all these years, my lord. Most impressive."
Jon lowered the blade but did not sheath it. "I see you managed to escape King's Landing. How fortunate for you."
I wish you had burned with the rest, Jon thought savagely. I wish the wildfire had taken you, you wretched spider.
"Fortune had little to do with it," Varys said, his smile widening. "I simply recognized when my work was complete."
"Your work." Jon's voice dripped with contempt. "You mean the murder of Kevan Lannister and Grand Maester Pycelle."
"Among other things, yes. I saw no point in remaining once Cersei decided to embrace the Mad King's legacy." Varys tilted his head. "Wildfire is such a dramatic solution, do you not think?"
Jon felt rage building in his chest. "You knew. You knew she planned to burn the Sept, and you did nothing to stop it."
"Why should I?" Varys's voice turned cold, all pretense of amusement gone. "Cersei destroying herself is precisely what we need. Every atrocity she commits drives more lords to Aegon's cause. Every act of madness proves that the Lannister dynasty was a mistake."
"Thousands died." Jon's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "Innocent people. Septons and septas. Smallfolk who came to see a trial."
"And their deaths serve a greater purpose." Varys met his eyes without flinching. "The realm needs a worthy king, Lord Connington. Sometimes that requires sacrifices."
Jon wanted to run him through. Wanted to drive his blade through that smug, round face and watch the spider bleed. But he knew better. Varys was still useful, still necessary. For now.
"Is there a reason you are here?" Jon asked through clenched teeth. "Or did you simply wish to gloat?"
"I came to inform you and His Grace of new developments from the North." Varys's tone shifted, becoming serious. "Developments that may complicate our plans."
The change in Varys's voice pulled Jon from his murderous thoughts. "The North? What could the North be doing? Last I heard, they were still fighting their civil war."
He paused, memory stirring. "Has Roose Bolton won yet?"
"Quite the opposite, I am afraid." Varys moved from the corner, his slippered feet silent on the stone floor. "Jon Snow has won the North."
Jon blinked. "Snow? Ned Stark's bastard?"
"The very same. And it appears the Vale has thrown its support to the Starks. With Stannis Baratheon dead, his remaining forces likely joined Snow's cause as well. There are other… strange reports from the North but I don't have enough ears to verify the absurd claims."
Jon felt a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. He pressed his free hand to his temple, trying to process the implications. The North united under a Stark. The Vale's armies marching south. Another claimant, another complication.
"Is there anything else?" Jon asked wearily. "Did the Wall fall while we were not looking?"
"No, though that may yet come in these complicated times." Varys paused, and Jon caught something unusual in his expression. Distaste. Perhaps even fear. "Euron Greyjoy continues to terrorize the coasts. His raids grow bolder, more destructive."
"The Ironborn have always been raiders. That is hardly news."
"These raids are different." Varys's voice dropped lower. "I have heard disturbing rumors, my lord. Whispers from sailors and merchants. They say Euron Greyjoy is using magic."
Jon stared at him. "Magic?"
"Dark sorcery, according to the tales. Storms that appear from clear skies. Ships that sink without cause." Varys's face was grave. "I do not know what truth lies behind these stories, but I know enough to be concerned. Euron Greyjoy is not like other Ironborn. He is something worse."
Jon sheathed his sword slowly, his mind churning. Jon Snow in the North. Euron Greyjoy and his dark magic. And here they sat at Bitterbridge, making alliances with turncoat roses.
The realm is coming apart, he thought. And we are trying to hold it together with promises and steel.
"Tell Aegon in the morning," Jon said finally. "Let him have one night of peace before we burden him with more problems."
Varys inclined his head. "As you wish, my lord. Though I suspect peace will be a rare commodity in the days ahead."
The eunuch moved toward the door. "Varys."
The spider paused.
"Next time you have enter my quarters unannounced, expect something sharp in your gut."
Varys smiled. "But where would be the fun in that?"
And then he was gone, slipping through the window like smoke.
Jon stood alone in the chamber, his hand throbbing, his head aching, his heart heavy with the weight of all they still had to do. He moved to the window and looked out over Bitterbridge, at the river flowing dark and silent beneath the stars.
We are running out of time, he thought. The realm is bleeding, and we are still gathering our strength.
But there was nothing for it. They would court the Tyrells, win their support, and march on King's Landing. They would deal with Cersei, and then with whatever other threats emerged. Jon Snow, Euron Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen. They would face them all.
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The Summer Sea
The horizon stretched before Euron like a promise written in blood and salt. Ten ships sat motionless against the dying light, their sails furled, their hulls dark against the crimson sky. Behind him, the Iron Fleet spread across the water like a swarm of carrion birds, hundreds of longships and war galleys waiting for his command.
Euron stood at the prow of Silence, one hand resting casually on the shoulder of the naked, bloody thing that had once been Loras Tyrell. The Knight of Flowers. How prettily he had screamed when Euron's men peeled away the bandages from his burns, exposing the ruined flesh beneath. How sweetly he had wept when Euron traced the scars with a blade still warm from another man's blood.
"They are not moving toward us," Euron observed, his voice carrying the faint amusement of a man watching ants attempt to build kingdoms. "How curious. How obvious."
Loras made a sound that might have been a whimper. The boy's legs had given out an hour past, but Euron's grip kept him upright, displayed like a trophy at the dragon's head carved into Silence's prow. The wood beneath them was still sticky with the blood of the Redwyne crews. Seventy-three men, and cabin boys. Euron had counted each one as they died, had watched the crown pulse brighter with every offering.
The taking of the three ships had been disappointingly simple. They had sailed fat and slow, carrying their precious cargo of burned flesh and broken pride back to the Arbor. The sailors had fought well enough, for Reachmen. Euron had let them bleed out slowly, had asked them questions between screams. Most knew nothing useful. But one, a grizzled captain with salt in his beard, had whispered something interesting before Euron opened his throat. The Tyrell corroborated so it's not a random rumor.
Pirates in the Stepstones. A new Lord of Waters, claiming dominion over the rocks and reefs near Torturer's Deep.
Euron had laughed then, a sound like breaking glass. Had laughed until the crown throbbed against his temples, until he couldn't laugh anymore.
"Tell me again," Euron said, his fingers tightening on Loras's shoulder until the boy gasped. "About this Lord of Waters."
"I told you." Loras's voice was a ruined rasp, barely human. "Everything. Please."
"Humor me, flower. You have so little else to offer now."
The boy shuddered beneath his hand. Euron felt the tremor run through the burned flesh, the damaged muscle. Such a waste. Loras Tyrell had been beautiful once, they said. Now he was simply meat, waiting for purpose.
"A pirate," Loras whispered. "The sailors talked about him. Said he took Torturer's Deep three moons past. Calls himself the Lord of Waters now. Commands ten ships. Maybe twelve."
"And what does this Lord of Waters do with his little kingdom?"
"Takes tolls. Raids merchant vessels that belong to the Lannisters or their allies. The usual." Loras coughed, and blood flecked his lips. "They say he is ruthless. That he leaves no survivors."
Euron smiled. "How charming. He learned something from me, at least."
The crown pulsed, and for a moment Euron saw the ships ahead through a dozen different eyes. Saw them as they would be in an hour, shipwrecks. Saw them as they had been yesterday, whole. Saw them as they might be tomorrow, if he chose to let them flee. The visions fractured and multiplied, each one sharp as broken glass, each one true in its own way.
He blinked, and the world settled back into singular focus.
"My King." Red Ralf Stonehouse approached across the deck, his boots squelching in the blood that had pooled between the planks. "The fleet awaits your command. Shall we advance?"
Euron studied the distant ships. Ten vessels against hundreds. The mathematics were almost insulting.
"Signal the fleet to hold position," Euron said. "I will take five ships forward."
Red Ralf's scarred face twisted in confusion. "Five ships, Your Grace? But we have the numbers to crush them like—"
"Did I ask for your counsel, Ralf?" Euron's voice remained pleasant, conversational. "Or did I give you a command?"
The captain's jaw worked. "Forgive me."
"Of course." Euron waved his free hand in dismissal. "Now signal the fleet. And have Maiden's Bane, Grief, Reaver's Kiss, and Woe ready to sail with us. The rest stay back."
Red Ralf departed, shouting orders. Within moments, signal flags ran up the mast, and the message rippled across the Iron Fleet. Hundreds of ships slowing, holding their positions. Five breaking away, cutting through the water toward the waiting vessels on the horizon.
Loras made a sound that might have been a laugh. It came out as a wet, painful cough.
"Something amuses you, flower?" Euron asked.
"You are a fool." The words were hoarse, barely audible. "You have hundreds of ships. You could destroy them without risk. Instead you give up your advantage. You sail into their trap with five ships against ten."
Euron's smile widened. He shifted his grip on Loras's shoulder, turning the boy to face him. The burned side of Loras's face was a ruin of melted flesh and exposed bone. The eye on that side had cooked in its socket, leaving a weeping hollow. The other eye, still green and bright, glared up at Euron with all the impotent rage of the defeated.
"Watch and learn, pretty flower," Euron said softly. "Though I suppose 'pretty' is no longer the word, is it? What shall we call you now? Ser Loras the Cooked? The Crispy Knight?" He laughed. "No, I have it. Ser Loras Half-Face. Yes. That has a certain ring."
Loras tried to spit at him. The effort produced only a thin dribble of bloody saliva that ran down his chin.
Euron released him, and the boy collapsed to the deck like a puppet with cut strings. He lay there, naked and shivering, while Euron turned his attention to the approaching ships.
They were closer now. Close enough that Euron could make out details. War galleys, each one flying a black flag with a white skull. How original. The Lord of Waters clearly lacked imagination.
"They are moving to intercept," called the lookout from above. "Ten ships, my lord. Coming about to meet us."
"Excellent," Euron murmured. "They have some courage, at least."
The five ironborn ships cut through the waves, their oars beating in perfect rhythm. Silence led the way, her black sails drinking the dying light. Behind her came the others, each one crewed by men who had sailed with Euron through stranger waters than these. Men who had seen him do impossible things. Men who feared him more than they feared any pirate king.
The enemy galleys spread into a line, preparing to engage. Euron could see figures moving on their decks now, could hear the faint shouts of captains calling orders. They thought they had a chance. They thought ten ships could defeat five, if they fought cleverly enough.
Fools.
The crown whispered against his temples, eager. Hungry. It had fed well on the Redwyne crews, but it always wanted more. Always demanded more.
He closed his eye. The world did not disappear. Instead, it multiplied. He saw the ships from below, from a dozen angles at once. Saw them as they were and as they would be. Saw the men aboard them, their hearts beating, their blood pumping, their lives burning like candles in the dark.
He reached out with the part of himself that was no longer entirely human. Reached down into the depths where things older than men slumbered in the black. Called to them in a language that predated words.
And they answered.
The water around the enemy galleys began to churn. Massive shapes rose from below, tentacles thick as tree trunks breaking the surface. The krakens were smaller than the one he had summoned at Oldtown, but there were more of them. Four beasts, each one drawn by the crown's hunger and Euron's will.
The screaming started immediately.
Euron kept his eye closed, listening to the symphony of destruction. Wood splintering. Men shrieking. The wet sound of tentacles crushing flesh and bone. The hiss of water rushing into broken hulls.
It was beautiful.
When he opened his eye again, four of the ten ships were gone. Simply gone, dragged beneath the waves by the krakens. The remaining six had broken formation, their oars churning frantically as they fled back toward Torturer's Deep.
"My lord!" One of his captains, a man named Torwold Browntooth, rushed forward. "Permission to pursue! We can take them all!"
Euron turned to face him, and the captain stumbled back a step. Euron wondered what he saw in his face. Wondered what the crown's power looked like, reflected in human eyes.
"Permission denied," Euron said.
"But my lord, they are fleeing! We could—"
"Where is the fun in that?" Euron's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Let them run. Let them reach their little fortress and tell their Lord of Waters what they witnessed. Let him know that something worse than any storm is coming for him."
He walked to the rail, watching the retreating ships grow smaller against the darkening sky. Behind him, Loras Tyrell lay curled on the deck, weeping quietly.
"Do you understand now, flower?" Euron asked without turning. "This is what power looks like. Not your tourneys and your songs. Not your pretty armor and your prettier words. This." He gestured at the water where the ships had been. "The ability to unmake the world and remake it in your image."
Loras said nothing. Perhaps he had finally learned wisdom.
Euron breathed in the salt air, tasted the blood on the wind. The crown pulsed against his temples, satisfied for the moment. The voice had retreated to a whisper, sulking in the corners of his mind.
Let it sulk. Let the Lord of Waters cower in his fortress. Let all the little kings and pirates and would-be conquerors learn what it meant to claim dominion over Euron Greyjoy's domain.
The Stepstones were his. The seas were his. Soon, the world would be his.
He turned back to his crew. "Signal the fleet. We sail for Dorne at dawn. And someone bring me wine. All this screaming has made me thirsty."
Red Ralf bowed and hurried away. The other captains dispersed to their duties, leaving Euron alone at the prow with his broken trophy.
He looked down at Loras Tyrell, at the ruin the Tyrells had tried so hard to save. Such effort. Such expense. Three ships and their entire crews, all to carry one burned boy home to die in comfort.
"You should have let them leave you at Dragonstone," Euron said conversationally. "You would have died there, yes. But it would have been a cleaner death. Quicker."
Loras's remaining eye found his face. There was still defiance there, buried beneath the pain and terror. Still some spark of the knight he had been.
"You will not break me," Loras whispered.
Euron laughed, a sound like waves breaking on rocks. "Oh, flower. I shall leave that pleasure when I have your family to witness it."
He left the boy there, shivering on the blood-soaked deck, and went below to his cabin. There was wine to drink and visions to chase. Tomorrow they would teach the Lord of Waters the price of blasphemy. Tonight, Euron would dream of dragons and ruined cities, of crowns and thrones and the ashes of the world.
He drank again, and smiled.