The Icefyre Conquest 37

The hall on Pyke stank of pitch, salt, and fresh oil. The plunder—iron-bound chests, barrels of rum, sacks of coin, heaps of chain, bolts of rotting sailcloth—lay stacked in rough aisles like a market set up by crows. Men sat where they could, and those who could not fit in, occupied the rest of the Island as meat and rum flowed freely for the night. Armor creaked, and sand and shattered shale rasped under boots as servants and soldiers moved about, loud voices echoing around them.

At the head of the hall, on the throne made of Iron and wood, Robert Baratheon ate like a man trying to kill his plate. A leg of mutton vanished down his beard; he grabbed a trencher with the other hand and used it to pin a map sprawled before him on the table. “Where’s the damned squid?” he asked. Not a shout, Ned observed. But worse, flat and hot. “Pyke burns. The reavers are dead in their holes. Dozens of his Lords and Captains lay dead. Where’s Balon?”

No answer at first. It wasn’t the question. It was the stink inside it. Every Great Lord and his bannerman was flummoxed, angry at the deception Balon had managed to pull off. And Ned cursed himself even more, for not heeding the Ironborn’s words that he had heard on Mallister’s ship.

He set the trencher edge off the map with two fingers so oil wouldn’t smear the coasts. “Not here,” he said. The greatsword leaned between his legs and the table, black hilt, freshly cleaned and oiled edge. “Not on Harlaw. Not on Orkmont. Not on Old Wyk. Karstark and Greatjon, and Jon went to the Drum Island…there was no sign of Drumm’s heraldry or reavers there. Some minor Ironborn was holding command in the keep.”

Tywin Lannister didn’t bother with the meat. He ate bread in small bites and watched the board. Wine-cup for Lannisport. Bread end for Seagard. Iron spindle nail for Lordsport. “He’s not hiding,” he said. “He’s moving.”

Mace Tyrell dabbed grease from his lip and found none. “The Reach sent three thousand—”

“Not enough to keep thieves off your vineyards,” Oberyn Martell said, smiling without heat. “And we all saw what wasn’t here. Where were the Harlaw carracks? Where were the Blacktyde banners? Drumm? Goodbrother? Orkwood? Tawney? What fought us at sea and in these islands was nothing but a skeleton crew. Shabby, jumped-up thugs, not the seasoned raiders that the main houses hold. The rest have gone.”

Kevan Lannister tapped a knuckle on the map once for each name Oberyn set, sitting to Tywin’s right. “Greyjoy took the time to measure us. He was aware that he could not face us directly. Lord Baratheon has smashed his fleet before, and well all know that ironborn break in front of any Kingdom’s force, let alone all of them at once..”

Jon Arryn lifted his cup, thought better of it, and set it down. “Ask the question in plain terms. If Balon did not stand on the Isles, where does he stand? North? Riverlands? West? Or the South?”

Roose Bolton’s eyes were knives in milk. “Not the Neck. The marsh will drown him. Not with his numbers. The North’s west coast is fortified—Torrhen’s Square, Barrowton, Deepwood, the Moat.”

“Aye,” Greatjon snorted. “The squids are mad, not stupid. Only death and steel wait for them up North.”

“Not the West. I watched that water,” Stannis said, as severe as ever, frowning at the map and the makeshift symbols, “No ship slipped me, not one.”

“There is the fog,” Redwyne spoke up, drawing everyone’s attention as he tapped the southwest edge of the map, below the Iron Islands and far off from the coast, “the cold water from the North meet the warm currents from the Mander and the South, creating leagues of fog on the sea to our west as we were sailing northwards. It is possible, in a very unlikely event, that the Ironborn fleet gave us the slip that way. We would have had no indication of their movements or escape until we landed here, and by then,” he paused for a moment, uncomfortable, before continuing, “he can escape further South.”

Robert drank deeply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fine. We’ll not fight the wind. Every man takes stock. Count men. Count ships. Divide your plunder and partition a third of it for the Royal Treasury—” he slapped the nearest chest lid until the hinges coughed— “At dawn, we meet on my deck and point this hammer where it needs to fall.”

Agreement echoed amongst all, because there wasn’t anything else to do with the air as it was, and thus, the drinking and eating continued.

Servants carried out more barrels. Men ate and pretended to taste. Armor came off, got wiped, went back on. Outside, the wind rose and fell; ropes knocked wood; somewhere down the cliff, a bell rang twice then stopped as Robert announced an extra drink for every soldier in the throes of his inebriation.

Chuckling at his actions and slurred promises of a crushing victory over Balon and the other escaped Ironborn, Ned cast his eyes about the hall for his children before finding them seated together near a wall, silently eating and talking together. 

Robb Stark, Jon Snow, and Lyanna—black surcoats, wet hair, salt skin—kept to the side behind a stack of tarred coils. The wolves of the Stark, they were being called, especially Robb, for having defeated three Ironborn at once. Sighing as he met Lyanna’s eyes, he smiled at her and raised an eyebrow, getting a shake of her head in return as she patted her bandaged arm, giving him a reassuring smile in return

His children were safe and smiling, and suddenly, that pain in his leg didn’t matter much at all to him.

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“I miss Grey Wind,” Robb muttered under the clamor, raising his mug of rum in Garlan’s direction as the Tyrell knight sat with the other heirs, all sharing stories of their fights as maids and whores bustled about—he himself had already rejected two women…and a third seemed to be on her way, Robb realised with a sigh as he saw the thin, willowy woman give him a coy glance over her tattered clothes.

“I miss Dusk too,” Visenya said, dry as the meat they were eating. Leaning back against the chair,  “But they are safe in Winterfell with meat and no scorpions pointed at them.”

They’d wanted to bring them, but Ned had said no. Too young. No paws on iron decks, no wolves in torch-smoke and oar-benches and crowded gangways where one panic meant three dead men in the surf. The handlers had nodded, and even they had reluctantly agreed to the logic—even if Dusk’s howls had kept her up at night for hours, flashes of fur and barking invading her dreams as they had set sail.

“You fought well,” Robb broke her out of her thoughts, patting her shoulder, before he groaned as the wound over his arm was disturbed with the motion, “Fucking hell, Merlyn got me good.”

“Not as well as you, The Young Wolf they call you,” her brother saluted Robb, biting into the mutton, and she cringed as she watched him savagely rip off a chunk of meat. 

Uncouth as ever.

“It takes skill and power to swing around a greatsword,” Robb snarked, pointing at Nightfall that lay between the two brothers, “Not everyone has a valyrian steel sword that can cut though leather and limb.”

“Me thinks someone is just jealous,” he scoffed in turn, patting the longsword, before he sobered up in an instant—and not for the first time, she reflected on the similarities between her brother and her Uncle, beyond their similar looks. Sighing as he leaned back, Visenya smiled as her brother draped an arm over her shoulder, “I barely managed to run up the towers on Drum Islands, and the fucking Ironborn had the gall to be absent. I should not have been so cocky in Winterfell.”

“Well, I guess we would have to find him first, before someone else kills him off and claims Red Rain,” Robb shrugged, “Not much you can do about it. Besides, even if you do not give a valyrian steel sword, what harm will come of it…beyond your word being broken of course.”

“I am cocky Robb, but even I will not cross Tywin in such a direct way,” her brother muttered, and they all looked towards the Old Lion, the man engrossed in some kind of small talk with his brother, “I may be father’s son, but I am still a bastard for the realm. He did not care for the losses Westerlands had to incur due to the flooding of Castamere and the Reyne’s mines…I doubt he will care much if an arrow finds itself in my back.”

“Th-That’s…true,” Robb had almost jerked up from his place, his loud voice drawing everyone's attention for a moment, before sense seemed to kick in and he quieted down, glaring balefully at the Lannister men and turning towards them, “Remind me why you thought making a deal with Tywin was a good idea.”

Daeron didn’t smile. He set his cup down, fingers tapping once on the wood. “I don’t like leaving enemies at our back. Tywin has steel, coin, and memory—better he owes me than sharpens a knife for Winterfell. A Valyrian blade seals it in blood and gold both. Four hundred thousand dragons buys loyalty and silence if needed.” He leaned back, eyes half-shadowed in the firelight. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take the chance to bind a lion’s claws, Robb. I did what was needed. Better he remains thankful to us for a prized sword than show animosity for Robert offering Father the position of Hand.”

“That is not all that went through your head,” Robb narrowed his eyes, “You are planning something more, I can tell that much. No reason for you to personally check up on the women you rescued from Harlaw or today. You are a good man, Jon, but not that good unless you need something in return. And Father was offered to be made the Hand this week, not months ago in Winterfell.”

“He would have been the Hand one way or the other eventually,” Daeron shrugged, nodding in the direction where the Great Lords sat, discussing the plan forward, “He is old and ailing, and the King and the Hand argue more and more. Besides, you speak as if that’s a bad thing.”

“You speak true…and it’s not,” her auburn-haired cousin sighed, tired all of a sudden as he gave them both a glance, “It's just…something I do not understand. Don’t mishear me though. I love you both as dear as I ever have, but I know there is something you are hiding from me.”

Robb’s words hung in the air longer than he likely intended. He coughed into his cup, trying to pass it off as nothing, but Daeron met his eyes across the table, the torchlight catching faintly on the black surcoat.

“Thanks,” Daeron muttered, voice lower than usual, softer. He wasn’t one for saying much, not when it could be turned into jape or judgment by others, but the weight in it made Robb straighten slightly.

Visenya tapped the rim of her empty cup, then raised it in a quiet salute. “Aye. Thanks.” Her lips twitched as though she wanted to make it a jest, but the words stayed solemn, sincere for once.

Robb exhaled through his nose, shaking his head at them both. “Don’t make a bloody prayer out of it. We’re kin. That’s all there is to it.” His hand went to his mug again, swirling the dregs of rum before tossing them back in one gulp.

Around them, the hall carried on in its rough symphony: Mallister men dividing plunder with jeers and curses, a group of Ryswells sharpening their blades by the fire, Tyrell retainers laughing too loud at some half-drunken tale. A woman’s shriek of mock-protest cut across the noise as a man pulled her onto his lap, the scrape of a chair against stone chasing it. All of it pressed close, yet at the little corner of their table, the three of them seemed set apart—bound by quieter words.

Robb leaned closer, voice low enough to be nearly drowned by the din. “Tomorrow we march. Whether it’s the Westerlands or the Neck or the Reach itself, Father and the King will decide. But wherever Balon has run, we’ll find him. We’ll hunt him and the reavers down to the last salt-bloody man.”

Daeron snorted, a ghost of a smile breaking his grim face. “Aye. Good hunting then.”

Visenya let her head fall back against the chair, eyes shut for a moment as if tasting the promise. Then she looked between them both, voice softer than the noise around them but edged with something sharp. “Someday, soon… secrets won’t matter. Not between us. Not before what’s coming.”

Robb pushed himself up with a grunt, ignoring the twinge in his arm. “Get what sleep you can. No songs, no whores, no more bloody arguing.” He glanced between them both, letting the silence drive it home, then added with a crooked half-smile, “And if you’re late to muster, I’ll drag you myself.”

Daeron raised a brow. “Like you did this morning?”

Robb rolled his eyes, turning away, and Visenya chuckled low in her throat, watching him stalk off toward the door. For all his bluster, he looked older tonight, shoulders weighted not by chain or mail but by the quiet vow he’d just spoken aloud.

Silently clinking her mug against Daeron's, Visenya sighed and drank away the thoughts of guilt, wondering just what tomorrow and the days after would bring for them.

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The sky came up iron-grey and grudging, and the sea wore the same face it had worn for a week now. Men crowded the royal flagship’s deck until the planks complained, commanders and heirs standing with their lieges as the King walked out of his chambers, Jon Arryn at his shoulder. Behind them, the seagulls and vultures crowed through th morning air, thousands of them descending upon the Iron Islands to pick off at the bodies left behind. Men, women, children…anyone of reaver descent had been killed without question.

“Well, where do you think that squid has run off to?” he asked instantly, getting downt ot he heart of the matter as his squire presented him with a mug of mead, and Robert gulped it down like a htirsting man, one eyes looking at all ofthem over the rim, “Does anybody have any thoughts, or do we toddle around until a raven arrives?”

“He slipped South, that much we are certain of,” Stannis answered, “Balon knows we are going to end him once and for all, he is going to escape to the Stepstones, or the Pirate Islands further south-east. He will strike along the coasts and skirt over the villages along the shores. Ravens should be arriving any hour today with the news of his raids.”

“The West is garrisoned,” Tywin said. “Lannisport is stone and steel. He will not land.”

“The Dorne is also alert and ready for any raids from the Reavers and pirates,” Oberyn nodded, leaning against the mast, his spear in hand, “If he strikes at us, he will be bitten by snakes and buried in the sand.”

“And Lord Tyrell,” Jon turned towards Warden of the South, the man standing with his son and another knight at his shoulder, “Is the Reach sufficiently equipped to deal with any Ironborn threat until support arrives?”

“Yes,” Mace nodded, “Shield Islands are equipped with sufficient soldiers to hold off any force, and Old Oak stands close enough to the Mander to support them. Even if the Ironborn dare to attack them, Ravens will fly off before they can take more than a step, and the whole Reach will be ready with swords and spears.”

“That is a fool's wish,” he shook his head, bringing everybody’s attention ot himself, “The Ironborn do not rush into the attacks. They will sneak in using small rowboats first, to cut off any watchers and open the gates instead of committing to a full attack first. Unless your soldiers are on alert throughout the night, they have no chance of catching them first…especially with this southern fog that mires the view in the darkness.”

“The mouth of the mander is not a marsh or a forest like your North and Riverlands,” Mace shot back, puffing up, “There is no place ot hide in open sea, not from the knights of the Reach.”

“There are stone outcroppings aplenty to provide cover for anyone wishing t sneak up,” Stannis refuted, and Paxter’s slow nod said all there was to be said about Mace’s arrogant declarations. Turning towards his brother, the Master of Ships frowned, “...There is wisdom in Lord Stark’s words…the Ironborn could change their heading to turn west once the Royal Fleet had passed by them, but it would require careful timing and precise knowledge of the charts and winds.”

“If there is anything the Ironborn possess, it is that,” Robert grumbled, agreement echoing from everyone present. As the words flowed and plans to move South were made, a runner came from one of the ships, climbing up the ladder on the portside, huffing and half-wet from the sea.

“What is it, lad?” Barristan Selmy's voice stopped everyone cold as they turned with the Kingsguard to look at the young boy, who appeared no older than his own son.

“Forgive me, Ser Selmy,” the thin boy shook like a leaf in the wind under the gaze of every Great Lord and the King, raising a bloody parchment towards them, “a Raven was shot down by one of the men, it was carrying this.”

“Good work boy, now return to your post,” Robert grunted and nodded at one of the soldiers by his side, and the Baratheon man walked forward to take the letter, before handing it over to the King. Unfurling the paper, Ned saw Robert’s eyes tighten at the very first second, and his gut dropped a little, as for a moment, the thought that Balon had slipped Northwards gnawed at him, impossible though it was.

For a moment, silence reigned on the Fury, before Rbert clanehed the parchment into his fist and glared at them all.

“Letter out of Old Oak’s lands. Maester writes that Harren Drumm took the river by fog three nights past. Longships slipped past the Shield lights. Fires on the Mander. Crops torched. Men cut down. Boats seized. Drumm didn’t linger. He ran west with captives and barrels, left scorpions half-built and reavers to finish them. Greyjoy banners were seen beyond. The man calls it a feint here, a cut there. Says to come swiftly.”

Silence like a drawn string. Mace went white to the lips. Jon Arryn looked at the sea because it was easier than the faces. Tywin did not move, but his eyes narrowed once. Ned’s hands clenched on his biceps as he looked South, arms crossed.

“So they did go South then,” Tywin spoke, looking at Mace Tyrell, “Your protections did not hold, Lord Tyrell.”

“Enough, we can talk of that later,” Jon declared, imploring yet stern, that anger from days ago still clouding his voice, “The heading is decided, and we set sail as soon as possible. Balon is mad, he is not stupid. Now he has nowhere to run or to escape except for the Mander itself.”

Eddard was first. “We don’t strip the North further. A quarter of our swords go south with me. The rest return with the plunder of Harlaw and Drum Island. ”

Robert’s head came up like a bull at the gate. “A quarter? I want the lot. We smash him now.”

“And a quarter will do that,” he steeled his eyes, “He should have no more than six to eight thousand men left now. Every Ironborn other than those in the Reach has been killed down to the last man. Reach will mobilise its own forces too, won’t it? There is no need ot waste resources and coin on a large army when a small force will do the task.”

Jon Arryn nodded slowly. “Prudent. Each Lord should split smart. Garrisons up, columns down.”

Tywin had already begun to send his men with a gesture. “Ser Addam takes the bulk home to Lannisport and the Crag. They dig, provision, and watch. I take picked knights and foot south.”

Edmure coughed and got it over with. “The Riverlands abstain. I won’t apologize for it. We have to prepare for the winter.”

“Save your breath,” Robert said. It sounded like it cost him a coin to say it. “Stay then. I’ve no time to drag you. But if you are going to turn back, then you shall take every woman and man we have rescued, and provide for them until a council is convened for whatever is to be done.”

“The Faith’s decrees,” he muttered, and Robert nodded at his words, irritated.

After a moment, he turned, looked at the south as if he could dare it closer. “We march,” he said. “We sail. Dornish spears with me. Lannister steel with me. Northmen—your fourth with Ned. Redwyne meets us at the Mander. Oldtown’s ships come up the coast. We take the Shields back, choke that mouth, and then we pull the squid out by the beak.”

Barristan Selmy lifted two fingers. “Your Grace—supplies.”

“Plunder goes home now,” Jon Arryn said. “Every wagon that isn’t meat or bolt or bandage turns back with a strong escort. We carry only what we can kill with.”

Tywin’s men were already moving. Edmure’s scribes flapped like wet hens. Even Mace had found a voice—he was barking for riders to Longtable, to Cider Hall, to Goldengrove. His voice shook. He kept going.

Ned turned once. Found Robb, Jon, Lyanna on the ship adjacent, all three of his children together—and somehow, it reminded him of the tourney of Harrenhal, when Lyanna, he, and Brandon had watched a sunset together, laughing. He didn’t speak across that space. He didn’t have to. Robb answered with a single nod. Jon touched Nightfall’s hilt and said nothing. Lyanna flexed her bow hand until the knuckles went white and blood came back.

Clamor erupted across the ships and boats, and final chapter ot hte Ironborn’s history began.

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The Mander ran fat as a lord’s gut, gushing red as blood and bodies flowed in its currents.

Balon Greyjoy stood at the ramparts of Dunstonbury and let the kraken flags do the talking—black beasts on salt-stained cloth, iron nails glittering like teeth when the wind hit. Below, the bones of men lay in wet heaps where the first assault had gone up the ladders. Dunstonbury had not rolled over meek. Their knights had stood in the gatehouse and the yard like men bred to die hard. Their captain had even rallied the levy to the walls, driving iron into reaver bellies with a stubbornness that would be sung of if anyone survived. A score and half of Ironborn were cooling on the stones for it, another dozen with broken necks where ladders were hurled back into the moat.

But numbers and surprise had done their work. Fog off the river had cloaked his longships. Speed had carried his reavers through the town and over the outer wall before the cock crowed. And fire—always fire—had gutted the stubborn pockets before they could hold out till morning.

Now the keep was silent. Silent, save for the occasional shriek when some last chamber was forced open.

Blacktyde and Botley had that look reavers wore after the first twenty kills in a day. Orkwood and Tawney laughed like boys with a stolen loaf, their beards wet with drink and gore. Victarion and Dunstan were not here—they had their work at Old Oak and the Ocean Road, choking the south with corpses.

Balon walked through the blood-smeared doors of the great hall of Dunstonbury. The stench of smoke, iron, and fear hung thick as cloth.

Willas Tyrell knelt there, chained, pale, his breath sawing with pain. Beside him sat Lord Leygood, face slack from a blow, hands bound tight behind his back. Dunstonbury’s men, those who had fought longest, were a heap of broken armor at the foot of the dais—helms caved in, shields split, arms and legs hacked clean through.

Olenna Tyrell sat still in a chair as though she ruled the hall yet. Blood speckled her wrinkled cheek, though it was not her own. Her eyes were knives in an old woman’s face, and Balon, seeing the hate there, decided then he would pluck them out before the day was done.

And then came the prize he wanted most. Lady Leygood’s daughter-in-law, hauled forward by the hair, nightdress ripped, her thighs dark with spilled wine. She struggled, her muffled cries breaking against the gag, eyes wide as coins when she saw her lord bound beside the crippled heir of Highgarden.

Balon’s hand clamped down on her hip, squeezing the abundant flesh until she hissed through the cloth. He drank in the sight of her pale, trembling curves, the way her body bucked against his grip. He smiled, crooked and dark, and turned his eyes to Olenna.

“You’ll reap nothing from her,” Asha’s voice cut from the side as she entered, axe still wet and dripping, a handful of her crew behind her. She tossed a severed hand onto the pile of corpses without breaking stride, and her mouth twisted at the sight of her father pawing at the woman. “The keep is taken. The last of their men are ash. Dunstonbury is yours.”

“Good,” Balon muttered, not letting go of his grip. “Very good, Asha. Now we wait on one more detail, and then we march.”

Olenna’s tongue lashed at last, the old woman’s voice sharp enough to draw every eye. “Reaver trash. Salt-stinking vermin. You think this will hold? That burning a poor castle in the Mander makes you more than carrion on the waves? My son will grind your bones to meal when he returns. Your sons are already dead, your islands now barren. Now your accursed brother and you will end screaming on spikes!”

The hall froze.

Balon turned his head slowly, savoring the silence, then smiled, all broken teeth and cruelty. He did not bother to answer her words. He simply hefted Botley’s war hammer from the floor, weighed it once, and swung.

It broke her mid-sentence. Skull, jaw, and eye went with a wet crack. Blood sprayed, spattering Willas across the chest and cheek, warm and coppery. The old woman toppled, limp as a sack, her head a ruin of pulped brains and bone as a single eye popped out of her skull.

For a heartbeat, there was no sound but the hammer clattering on stone. Then Willas made a noise no man should—animal, raw. He tried to lunge forward, chains biting his wrists, his bad leg collapsing under him. Leygood cried out too, straining at his bonds.

The reavers laughed. A few winced. One boy turned aside and retched. Falia, bastard daughter of some Reach swine, giggled behind her hand like a girl at mummers’ farce.

Balon wiped his hand across his beard, unbothered. “Break his good leg,” he said, eyes fixed on Willas. “Then fetch a maester to keep the rot from setting in. I want him alive for when his father crawls home.”

The Tyrell heir sagged as guards wrenched his limbs, the crack of bone loud as a snapped oar. His scream echoed through the high beams.

Balon turned back to the woman in his grip. Her eyes had glazed with shock, yet her body still trembled under his palm. He pulled her close, the gag muffling her strangled sob, and let everyone see her pressed against him. “This one comes with me,” he said. “A lesson for her kin. A comfort for the march.”

Before anyone could speak again, bootsteps thundered at the doors. A reaver stumbled in, half-falling, chest heaving like he’d run a league. Blood streaked his arm from some wound, but it was his face—ashen, eyes wide as coins—that froze the room.

“Lord Reaver!” he gasped. “King’s Landing—” He swallowed, voice breaking. “Green fire. Everywhere. The Red Keep is gone. The Sept, shattered. The city—burnt. Euron…Euron was seen in the Blackwater, with Essosi ships. They say he lit barrels in the taverns, the cellars under the streets. The bay itself burned. And then he left.”

No one moved. Even the reavers forgot to breathe at the name.

“What?” Balon’s grip tightened, the girl in his hands whimpering as his nails dug into her hip. “Say that again.”

“He came, my lord. He came to the city and burned it. Wildfire. The whole city aflame. The Queen, the Small Council, all dead. Gone.”

Asha shut her eyes as though struck, then opened them black as the abyss. “He’s a madman,” she said. Not curse. Fact. “He’s damned us.”

“He’s damned himself,” Balon snapped back, though the words tasted foul even to him. The smug look on Willas Tyrell’s bloodied face told him enough.

But he would not let his brother’s madness unmake this victory. Not now.

“Listen well,” he barked, voice filling every stone of Dunstonbury’s hall. “We do not linger. Strip this place bare—gold, grain, steel, every last bloody chicken. Burn what we cannot carry. Granaries first. Leave their fields smoking and their wells fouled.”

He thrust the woman into Orkwood’s arms, forcing her captor’s sob into silence with a slap. “Keep her close. She rides with me.”

The reavers shifted, restless, drunk on victory. Some muttered about their dead comrades in the yard, about burial or pyres. Balon cut them off with a snarl.

“Your brothers died as Ironborn. That is all the song they’ll get. You want to honor them? Then fuck a greenlander woman tonight in the hall they took. Take the iron price in their name, and make them and the Drowned God proud! Take them all, every southern lady in the town and the keep, but mark me well—do not kill them. Alive they’re worth more coin than corpses.”

A low roar of approval rolled through the men, dark and hungry. Some grinned wolfishly, others spat on the floor in anticipation.

Balon lifted his hand and clenched it into a fist. “Tonight, this place is ours. Enjoy it. At dawn, we march.”

He turned then, eyes catching on the broken figure of Willas Tyrell chained to the pillar, his breath ragged, his face streaked with blood and tears. Lord Leygood slumped beside him, silent but watching.

Balon smiled at them both, a thin, cruel curl of the lips. “The Reach will come running when they smell smoke on the Mander. And when they come, they’ll find only bones and ashes.”

He looked to the rafters, to where the smoke already curled. Somewhere beyond, black plumes climbed the night sky. Whether it was Dunstonbury burning or King’s Landing, the realm would know soon enough.

And when it did, it would know the name Greyjoy.

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