Authors: George R. R. Martin
“The Damphair has not japed since he was drowned. And the other priests have taken up the call. Blind Beron Blacktyde, Tarle the Thrice-Drowned . . . even the Old Grey Gull has left that rock he lives on to preach this kingsmoot all across Harlaw. The captains are gathering on Old Wyk as we speak.”
Asha was astonished. “Has the Crow’s Eye agreed to attend this holy farce and abide by its decision?”
“The Crow’s Eye does not confide in me. Since he summoned me to Pyke to do him homage, I have had no word from Euron.”
A kingsmoot. This is something new . . . or rather, something very old.
“And my uncle Victarion? What does he make of the Damphair’s notion?”
“Victarion was sent word of your father’s death. And of this kingsmoot too, I do not doubt. Beyond that, I cannot say.”
Better a kingsmoot than a war.
“I believe I’ll kiss the Damphair’s smelly feet and pluck the seaweed from out between his toes.” Asha wrenched loose her dirk and sheathed it once again. “A bloody
kingsmoot!
”
“On Old Wyk,” confirmed Lord Rodrik. “Though I pray it is not bloody. I have been consulting Haereg’s
History of the Ironborn.
When last the salt kings and the rock kings met in kingsmoot, Urron of Orkmont let his axemen loose among them, and Nagga’s ribs turned red with gore. House Greyiron ruled unchosen for a thousand years from that dark day, until the Andals came.”
“You must lend me Haereg’s book, Nuncle.” She would need to learn all she could of kingsmoots before she reached Old Wyk.
“You may read it here. It is old and fragile.” He studied her, frowning. “Archmaester Rigney once wrote that history is a wheel, for the nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. What has happened before will perforce happen again, he said. I think of that whenever I contemplate the Crow’s Eye. Euron Greyjoy sounds queerly like Urron Greyiron to these old ears. I shall not go to Old Wyk. Nor should you.”
Asha smiled. “And miss the first kingsmoot called in . . . how long
has
it been, Nuncle?”
“Four thousand years, if Haereg can be believed. Half that, if you accept Maester Denestan’s arguments in
Questions.
Going to Old Wyk serves no purpose. This dream of kingship is a madness in our blood. I told your father so the first time he rose, and it is more true now than it was then. It’s land we need, not crowns. With Stannis Baratheon and Tywin Lannister contending for the Iron Throne, we have a rare chance to improve our lot. Let us take one side or the other, help them to victory with our fleets, and claim the lands we need from a grateful king.”
“That might be worth some thought, once I sit the Seastone Chair,” said Asha.
Her uncle sighed. “You will not want to hear this, Asha, but you will not be chosen. No woman has ever ruled the ironborn. Gwynesse
is
seven years my elder, but when our father died the Ten Towers came to me. It will be the same for you. You are Balon’s daughter, not his son. And you have three uncles.”
“Four.”
“Three kraken uncles. I do not count.”
“You do with me. So long as I have my nuncle of Ten Towers, I have Harlaw.” Harlaw was not the largest of the Iron Islands, but it was the richest and most populous, and Lord Rodrik’s power was not to be despised. On Harlaw, Harlaw had no rival. The Volmarks and Stonetrees had large holdings on the isle and boasted famous captains and fierce warriors of their own, but even the fiercest bent beneath the scythe. The Kennings and the Myres, once bitter foes, had long ago been beaten down to vassals.
“My cousins do me fealty, and in war I should command their swords and sails. In kingsmoot, though . . .” Lord Rodrik shook his head. “Beneath the bones of Nagga every captain stands as equal. Some may shout your name, I do not doubt it. But not enough. And when the shouts ring out for Victarion or the Crow’s Eye, some of those now drinking in my hall will join the rest. I say again, do not sail into this storm. Your fight is hopeless.”
“No fight is hopeless till it has been fought. I have the best claim. I am the heir of Balon’s body.”
“You are still a willful child. Think of your poor mother. You are all that Lanny has left to her. I will put a torch to
Black Wind
if need be, to keep you here.”
“What, and make me swim to Old Wyk?”
“A long cold swim, for a crown you cannot keep. Your father had more courage than sense. The Old Way served the isles well when we were one small kingdom amongst many, but Aegon’s Conquest put an end to that. Balon refused to see what was plain before him. The Old Way died with Black Harren and his sons.”
“I know that.” Asha had loved her father, but she did not delude herself. Balon had been blind in some respects.
A brave man but a bad lord.
“Does that mean we must live and die as thralls to the Iron Throne? If there are rocks to starboard and a storm to port, a wise captain steers a third course.”
“Show me this third course.”
“I shall . . . at my queensmoot. Nuncle, how can you even think of not attending? This will be history, alive . . .”
“I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.”
“Do you want to die old and craven in your bed?”
“How else? Though not till I’m done reading.” Lord Rodrik went to the window. “You have not asked about your lady mother.”
I was afraid.
“How is she?”
“Stronger. She may yet outlive us all. She will certainly outlive you, if you persist in this folly. She eats more than she did when she first came here, and oft sleeps through the night.”
“Good.” In her final years on Pyke, Lady Alannys could not sleep. She would wander the halls at night with a candle, looking for her sons.
“Maron?”
she would call shrilly.
“Rodrik, where are you? Theon, my baby, come to Mother.”
Many a time Asha had watched the maester draw splinters from her mother’s heels of a morning, after she had crossed the swaying plank bridge to the Sea Tower on bare feet. “I will see her in the morning.”
“She will ask for word of Theon.”
The Prince of Winterfell.
“What have you told her?”
“Little and less. There was naught to tell.” He hesitated. “You are certain that he is dead?”
“I am certain of nothing.”
“You found a body?”
“We found parts of many bodies. The wolves were there before us . . . the four-legged sort, but they showed scant reverence for their two-legged kin. The bones of the slain were scattered, cracked open for their marrow. I confess, it was hard to know what happened there. It seemed as though the northmen fought amongst themselves.”
“Crows will fight over a dead man’s flesh and kill each other for his eyes.” Lord Rodrik stared across the sea, watching the play of moonlight on the waves. “We had one king, then five. Now all I see are crows, squabbling over the corpse of Westeros.” He fastened the shutters. “Do not go to Old Wyk, Asha. Stay with your mother. We shall not have her long, I fear.”
Asha shifted in her seat. “My mother raised me to be bold. If I do not go, I will spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I had.”
“If you do go, the rest of your life may be too short for wondering.”
“Better that than fill the remainder of my days complaining that the Seastone Chair by rights was mine. I am no Gwynesse.”
That made him wince. “Asha, my two tall sons fed the crabs of Fair Isle. I am not like to wed again. Stay, and I shall name you heir to the Ten Towers. Be content with that.”
“Ten Towers?”
Would that I could.
“Your cousins will not like that. The Knight, old Sigfryd, Hotho Humpback . . .”
“They have lands and seats of their own.”
True enough.
Damp, decaying Harlaw Hall belonged to old Sigfryd Harlaw the Silverhair; humpbacked Hotho Harlaw had his seat at the Tower of Glimmering, on a crag above the western coast. The Knight, Ser Harras Harlaw, kept court at Grey Garden; Boremund the Blue ruled atop Harridan Hill. But each was subject to Lord Rodrik. “Boremund has three sons, Sigfryd Silverhair has grandsons, and Hotho has ambitions,” Asha said. “They all mean to follow you, even Sigfryd. That one intends to live forever.”
“The Knight will be the Lord of Harlaw after me,” her uncle said, “but he can rule from Grey Garden as easily as from here. Do fealty to him for the castle and Ser Harras will protect you.”
“I can protect myself. Nuncle, I am a kraken. Asha, of House
Greyjoy.
” She pushed to her feet. “It’s my father’s seat I want, not yours. Those scythes of yours look perilous. One could fall and slice my head off. No, I’ll sit the Seastone Chair.”
“Then you are just another crow, screaming for carrion.” Rodrik sat again behind his table. “Go. I wish to return to Archmaester Marwyn and his search.”
“Let me know if he should find another page.” Her uncle was her uncle. He would never change.
But he will come to Old Wyk, no matter what he says.
By now her crew would be eating in the hall. Asha knew she ought to join them, to speak of this gathering on Old Wyk and what it meant for them. Her own men would be solidly behind her, but she would need the rest as well, her Harlaw cousins, the Volmarks, and the Stonetrees.
Those are the ones I must win.
Her victory at Deepwood Motte would serve her in good stead, once her men began to boast of it, as she knew they would. The crew of her
Black Wind
took a perverse pride in the deeds of their woman captain. Half of them loved her like a daughter, and other half wanted to spread her legs, but either sort would die for her.
And I for them,
she was thinking as she shouldered through the door at the bottom of the steps, into the moonlit yard.
“Asha?” A shadow stepped out from behind the well.
Her hand went to her dirk at once . . . until the moonlight transformed the dark shape into a man in a sealskin cloak.
Another ghost.
“Tris. I’d thought to find you in the hall.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“What part of me, I wonder?” She grinned. “Well, here I stand, all grown up. Look all you like.”
“A woman.” He moved closer. “And beautiful.”
Tristifer Botley had filled out since last she’d seen him, but he had the same unruly hair that she remembered, and eyes as large and trusting as a seal’s.
Sweet eyes, truly.
That was the trouble with poor Tristifer; he was too sweet for the Iron Islands.
His face has grown comely,
she thought. As a boy Tris had been much troubled by pimples. Asha had suffered the same affliction; perhaps that had been what drew them together.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” she told him.
“I grieve for yours.”
Why?
Asha almost asked. It was Balon who’d sent the boy away from Pyke, to be a ward of Baelor Blacktyde’s. “Is it true you are Lord Botley now?”
“In name, at least. Harren died at Moat Cailin. One of the bog devils shot him with a poisoned arrow. But I am the lord of nothing. When my father denied his claim to the Seastone Chair, the Crow’s Eye drowned him and made my uncles swear him fealty. Even after that he gave half my father’s lands to Iron Holt. Lord Wynch was the first man to bend his knee and call him king.”
House Wynch was strong on Pyke, but Asha took care not to let her dismay show. “Wynch never had your father’s courage.”
“Your uncle bought him,” Tris said. “The
Silence
returned with holds full of treasure. Plate and pearls, emeralds and rubies, sapphires big as eggs, bags of coin so heavy that no man can lift them . . . the Crow’s Eye has been buying friends at every hand. My uncle Germund calls himself Lord Botley now, and rules in Lordsport as your uncle’s man.”
“You are the rightful Lord Botley,” she assured him. “Once I hold the Seastone Chair, your father’s lands shall be restored.”
“If you like. It’s nought to me. You look so lovely in the moonlight, Asha. A woman grown now, but I remember when you were a skinny girl with a face all full of pimples.”
Why must they always mention the pimples?
“I remember that as well.”
Though not as fondly as you do.
Of the five boys her mother had brought to Pyke to foster after Ned Stark had taken her last living son as hostage, Tris had been closest to Asha in age. He had not been the first boy she had ever kissed, but he was the first to undo the laces of her jerkin and slip a sweaty hand beneath to feel her budding breasts.
I would have let him feel more than that if he’d been bold enough.
Her first flowering had come upon her during the war and wakened her desire, but even before that Asha had been curious.
He was there, he was mine own age, and he was willing, that was all it was . . . that, and the moon blood.
Even so, she’d called it love, till Tris began to go on about the children she would bear him; a dozen sons at least, and oh, some daughters too. “I don’t want to have a dozen sons,” she had told him, appalled. “I want to have
adventures.
” Not long after, Maester Qalen found them at their play, and young Tristifer Botley was sent away to Blacktyde.
“I wrote you letters,” he said, “but Maester Joseran would not send them. Once I gave a stag to an oarsman on a trader bound for Lordsport, who promised to put my letter in your hands.”
“Your oarsman winkled you and threw your letter in the sea.”
“I feared as much. They never gave me your letters either.”
I wrote none.
In truth, she had been relieved when Tris was sent away. By then his fumblings had begun to bore her. That was not something he would care to hear, however. “Aeron Damphair has called a kingsmoot. Will you come and speak for me?”
“I will go anywhere with you, but . . . Lord Blacktyde says this kingsmoot is a dangerous folly. He thinks your uncle will descend on them and kill them all, as Urron did.”
He’s mad enough.
“He lacks the strength.”
“You do not know his strength. He’s been gathering men on Pyke. Orkwood of Orkmont brought him twenty longships, and Pinchface Jon Myre a dozen. Left-Hand Lucas Codd is with them. And Harren Half-Hoare, the Red Oarsman, Kemmett Pyke the Bastard, Rodrik Freeborn, Torwold Browntooth . . .”