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Game of Thrones: The Giant Crab of the Narrow Sea
Game of Thrones: The Sword King
Game of Thrones: From Bastard to Emperor
"Will the Ironborn actually come?"
Daeron asked the question out loud during the strategy session, just to be sure.
Truth be told, his knowledge of the Ironborn was limited. The few impressions he had were mostly of the brothers Balon and Euron Greyjoy—one cruel and cunning, the other cunning and cruel.
Ser Vortimer didn't answer directly. Instead he walked Daeron through the Reach's defensive layout.
The Reach was the largest single region in all of Westeros by area. The North was bigger on a map, but it was remote and half its land was worthless. The Reach had mild weather, black soil, and fed more people than anywhere else on the continent. It had also produced some of the most powerful noble houses in history.
Highgarden and House Tyrell sat at the top. Directly beneath them were two "second-tier" powerhouses: House Rowan of Goldengrove in the north, guarding the border with the Westerlands, and House Hightower of Oldtown with its massive port.
Then there were the fleets: the Redwyne fleet out of the Arbor and the Shield Islands fleet. When the Tyrells called, the two could combine into a force that rivaled even the royal fleet the Iron Throne paid through the nose to maintain.
Now the entire Reach was answering Daeron's summons. Tyrell, Rowan, Hightower, and Redwyne—all of them were mobilizing strong, well-equipped armies with no immediate threats on their own borders.
The Shield Islands were the exception.
The name itself told you everything: multiple lordly families sharing a chain of islands. The Ironborn had always raided the western coast. When a strong "King" united the Iron Islands, they would smash through the Shield fleet, sail up the Mander, and burn every village and town along the river.
That was why the Shield Islands had to stay put—they were the first and last line of defense.
Daeron understood. "The Seastone Chair is currently held by Quellon Greyjoy?"
"Correct," Ser Vortimer confirmed.
Lady Olenna's brow furrowed. She leaned in, voice sharp. "Quellon Greyjoy is… unusual for an Ironborn. He's the most cautious, most intelligent, and most dominant Lord Reaper since Aegon's Conquest."
In his youth he was a famous warrior, fighting slavers and pirates across the Summer Sea and carving out a fierce reputation. But once he took the Seastone Chair he preferred peace. He gradually abandoned the Old Way and tried to tie the Iron Islands closer to the green lands.
An Ironborn who acted like that was practically a heretic.
"I remember Quellon fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings," Daeron said.
He had a vague recollection that Quellon had helped the Crown and even received honors afterward.
Lady Olenna spoke calmly. "But he's old now. Power is slipping into his sons' hands."
Daeron understood at once.
Quellon's reign had been brilliant and almost impossible to repeat. His sons were pure Ironborn—they had no interest in following their father's policies. They wanted the Old Way back.
Ser Vortimer tapped the map. "Once the army is fully assembled, we should discuss concrete plans to guard against an Ironborn raid."
---
Pyke, the Iron Islands.
A tall, black-haired boy of twelve or thirteen wandered down a stone corridor. He caught fragments of his father and brothers arguing.
Aeron Greyjoy was handsome, the youngest of the brothers, and still too young to have reaved.
He had been invited to the discussion. He pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
---
"Father, the Seven Kingdoms are tearing themselves apart. The Iron Throne can't watch every shore. We should take our ships and pay the iron price."
Balon Greyjoy was in his prime. His thick black hair had already receded at the temples, and his stiff face gave him the perfect villainous Ironborn look.
Aeron glanced around. His father and two older brothers were there.
Quellon Greyjoy sat on the Seastone Chair, wearing salt-stained leathers and mail. One huge, calloused hand rested on the armrest; the other was shoved inside his tunic, rubbing his belly.
He was massive—six-and-a-half feet tall and built like a bull. His face was plain, but weathered and commanding. No one could ignore his authority.
Right now the Great King of the Iron Islands looked exhausted, forced to listen to his three grown sons' united petition.
Eldest: Balon.
Second: Euron.
Third: Victarion.
All three were full-blooded Ironborn, fierce and eager to prove their reaving skill.
Aeron moved to the left, standing beside his eldest and third brothers.
Across from the three of them sat Euron—pale skin, handsome features, black beard and hair, yet every inch of him radiated something twisted and wrong. His left eye was covered by a patch, earning him the name "Crow's Eye."
When Aeron entered, Euron fixed him with his one good bright-blue eye. His tongue flicked across his lips in open mockery.
Aeron paled and stepped behind tall, broad Victarion.
Then he remembered Victarion couldn't actually protect him from Euron and quickly hid behind Balon instead.
Euron's smirk only deepened.
"Euron, you have something to say?" Quellon's deep voice cut through the room. He wanted to hear his second son's differing opinion.
Balon stopped speaking. His emotionless eyes turned to the brother he hated most.
"My view is simple—return to the Old Way."
Euron had nerve. He spoke loudly. "But instead of the Seven Kingdoms, I say we look at the Stepstones."
The Triarchy pirates had returned, all for the special gems rumored to be on those islands.
They said the gems were worth a fortune. Pick up one and Pyke could eat for a year.
Quellon listened, then shook his head slowly. He didn't like his second son's ambition.
"Those are special gems," Euron snapped, annoyed at being opposed. "Warriors who have unlocked Vitality can absorb them and become far stronger."
Quellon's voice was calm. "If I gave you command of a fleet to the Stepstones, how many ships and men would you take? Could you beat the Triarchy pirates? And if you failed, how would you answer to the Ironborn?"
The questions struck like daggers, each one hitting the heart of the matter.
Balon scoffed, openly contemptuous of his brother's arrogance.
The Iron Islands had almost no farmland. They lived by reaving.
House Greyjoy's words said it plainly: We Do Not Sow.
In an environment where survival itself was a struggle, what you reaved didn't matter, and where you reaved didn't matter.
Only how much you brought back.
A successful raid meant enough iron price—no matter the cost.
A failed raid, or one that brought back too little, meant the harshest punishment the Ironborn could deliver.
Victarion's voice was a low rumble. "I stand with my brother. The Stepstones belong to the Free Cities. Reaving the green lands is easier and safer."
Euron's single eye burned with hatred, but he hid it well, lowering his head so no one would see.
"Reaving the Seven Kingdoms is no small thing. Have you made any preparations?"
Quellon asked the question coolly.
Balon and Victarion had already planned it.
The moment the Reach army marched north, the Ironborn would strike the undefended coast.
Oldtown, the Arbor, the Shield Islands—all prime targets.
"Fools!"
Quellon roared. The entire castle of Pyke seemed to tremble.
"The Iron Throne is still strong. They have the royal fleet, the finest in Westeros. Once the Targaryens put down the rebellion, what will become of the Iron Islands?"
He had seen the Crown's power firsthand. He knew the gap between them.
Balon's face darkened. His voice was hoarse. "Father, you made the Ironborn abandon the Old Way. They grumble behind your back and reave in secret."
"A golden opportunity stands before us, and you still want us to play the coward?"
Quellon stared at his eldest son, voice cold as the sea. "Balon, are you questioning your father? Are you already reaching for the Seastone Chair?"
Balon feared his father's authority too much to admit it.
But the resentment was clear on his face.
"Then get out, all of you whelps!"
Quellon's roar shook the hall.
Aeron followed his three brothers, practically fleeing.
Once they were gone, Quellon let his shoulders slump. He sighed heavily and rubbed his aching belly, trying to ease the burning pain.
He was getting old. A few years ago he had developed a stomach ailment that felt like fire eating him from the inside, day and night.
Only his mastery of Vitality and the special crops he took every few days kept him looking strong on the outside.
But he alone knew the truth—his massive frame was a hollow shell.
He could barely hold his sons in check anymore.
Another sigh.
Quellon's face twisted. He signaled the maester to bring the cup of milk of the poppy he kept hidden, anything to dull the pain.
While he could still move, he needed to choose an heir.
But all three of his sons wanted the Old Way back. They rejected every policy he had spent decades building.
If they led the Ironborn to reave the green lands, he doubted it would end well.
---
Pyke, a remote tower room.
"Crow's Eye" Euron returned to his quarters and slammed the door shut.
He hated noise. His room was the quietest place in the castle—like the silent deep sea, not a sound escaped.
"Damn old man. The older he gets, the smaller his balls."
Euron shoved aside the naked salt wife's corpse and sat on the bed. He pulled out his hidden chest.
Inside, special gems lay flat like coins.
Euron picked up a perfectly clear diamond and clenched it in his fist, absorbing its power.
He had taken these gems himself—leading a small fleet to steal them from Triarchy pirates.
Slave traders who dealt in the gems had told him each type had its own effect.
Red for strength.
Green for speed.
Sea-blue for precision.
Diamonds were the rarest. They revealed and enhanced whatever trait your body was naturally best at.
Most pirates never used them. They tested themselves with a diamond first, then chose the right gem afterward.
A long time later.
Euron opened his single eye. A flash of emerald green passed through the bright blue iris.
Speed. Or agility, if you preferred the term.
"When I'm strong enough, I'll lead the Ironborn to the Stepstones—and then to the eastern continent."
The corner of Euron's mouth curled upward. He rummaged through the chest, pulling out every emerald he had and absorbing them one by one.
At the very bottom of the chest lay a small glass vial.
Lysene Strangler.
---