Chapter 498

Pyke was so ancient that no one could say for certain when it had first been built.

It was commonly assumed that, like the Red Keep and Storm’s End, it had originally been constructed as a defensive stronghold. Positioned atop a cliff that jutted into the sea, it was designed so that attackers could only approach from a single direction, forced to fight their way up.

A fine idea in theory—except that the cliffs of this island were not as firm and unyielding as those of the mainland. Over the centuries, relentless waves had eroded the rock supporting Pyke’s foundation. What was once an ordinary promontory had gradually crumbled, earning the infamous moniker of the Broken Horn. The once-unified fortress had fractured into a scattering of isolated towers, precariously perched on lonely islets.

The largest section, still connected to the mainland, was enclosed by towering walls and served as the primary stronghold, housing the stables, kennels, and most of the island’s supplies. A stone bridge linked it to the main keep, which in turn was connected to the guest tower and kitchen tower by a series of enclosed arched walkways and swaying rope bridges. And furthest from all, standing alone in the sea, was the lonely Sea Tower.

Though the fortress had long been visible on the horizon, the nature of its geography made it impossible to simply dock beneath its walls and walk ashore. Instead, all ships had to anchor at the nearby port of Lordsport, forcing travelers to take the long route inland—the only viable path to the castle, which was also, naturally, the only avenue by which it could be assaulted by land.

Riding along the road she had traversed countless times before, Asha made her way toward the fortress. Passing through the walled promontory, she left her mount in the stables, crossed the well-worn stone bridge she had walked a thousand times, and finally set foot on the main isle of Pyke. There, she was met by a mute servant who had evidently been awaiting her arrival. Without a word, he turned and led her into the keep where she had once played and grown.
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The great hall was thick with smoke and filled with unexpected noise.

The harsh screech of fiddles and the pounding of drums created a cacophony of sound, devoid of beauty or harmony. The benches were packed with familiar yet distant faces—warlords, ship captains, and their attendants. With just a single glance, Asha spotted Longface Jon Myre, Browntooth Torwold, Left-Hand Lucas Codd, and Gylmund Botley among them. Slaves and servants scurried between the tables, refilling tankards and serving plates of roasted fish and hard bread.

In a cleared space near the center of the hall, a group of burly sailors had gathered in a tight knot, playing a game found only in the Iron Islands—Finger Dance.

As an ironborn and a former captain, Asha knew the game well. The rules were simple: the contestants stood in place, forbidden from moving their feet, as short-handled throwing axes were hurled back and forth between them. A man who wished to show off his strength and speed would catch the axe by its haft before launching it toward another player. The more cautious ones would simply lean to the side, dodging the incoming axe rather than catching it.

But dodging was frowned upon—it reduced the number of axes in circulation and disrupted the game, placing the dodger at the bottom of the unspoken hierarchy. If neither hesitation nor avoidance broke the game, it would only end when someone inevitably lost one or more fingers. Hence the name—Finger Dance.

At the very front of the hall, seated upon the Seastone Chair, was the man who now ruled the Iron Islands.

Euron Greyjoy.

His uncovered eye gleamed with amusement as he fixed his gaze upon the doorway, watching his niece’s entrance with a smile that sent a shiver down the spine.

Every head in the room turned.

The sailors, who had been accompanying Asha, flanked her as she stepped inside. The game continued, though only its players remained focused on the whirling axes.

Euron had not called the lords of the Iron Islands together to celebrate his niece’s return. No, every man in this hall was here for one reason—they were the ones who had bent the knee to him the moment he returned to Pyke. They were here to witness her humiliation.

(I have no friends in this room.)

With that understanding, Asha suppressed her usual air of confidence. She lowered her gaze, sharpened her focus, and walked with careful, measured steps toward the center of the hall.

She had barely passed the first column when it happened.

Whether it was a deliberate test or an orchestrated display of power, one of the men playing Finger Dance let loose an axe.

It hurtled toward her.

In the past, Asha would not have hesitated—her instincts, honed through dozens if not hundreds of games, would have taken over. She would have spun, caught the axe in midair, and flung it back with a curse.

But not today.

Today, she fought every impulse, keeping her hands still at her sides. She didn’t even spare the axe a glance. Instead, she stopped, leaned back just enough to let it pass, and allowed the weapon to whistle past her cheek, stirring her hair before embedding itself deep into a wooden beam.

Then, as if nothing had happened, she resumed her path toward the Seastone Chair.

When she reached the base of the throne, she bent her knee and lowered her head.
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“Uncle.”

“Welcome home, my dear niece.”

Euron’s voice was smooth, his lips curling into a wicked grin. In the dim light, his lips looked darker than before—Nightshade, no doubt. Who knew how much of it he had consumed this time?

“Oh, but wait,” he added, his smile widening. “This isn’t your home anymore, is it?” He gestured vaguely toward the side of the room. “Your new family is waiting over there—to take you back to your husband.”

The hall erupted in laughter.

But Euron wasn’t lying.

After seizing the Seastone Chair and securing his crown, he had learned that his niece had fled the Iron Islands for Deepwood Motte. In retaliation, he had invoked his authority as both uncle and king, arranging a marriage for her in absentia.

A proxy wedding—her groom represented by a seal.

Her new husband? Erik Ironmaker—a decrepit old man, lord of House Ironmaker, and nearly ninety years old.

And under ironborn law, the king had the right to arrange such a match. If the marriage was valid, then by all rights…

She was no longer Asha Greyjoy.

She was Asha Ironmaker.

A princess of House Greyjoy, reduced to a wife of an aging bannerman. The claim she once held to the Seastone Chair had been all but erased.

A masterful move.

Not only had Euron secured the loyalty of House Ironmaker, but he had simultaneously neutralized a threat to his rule.

The laughter in the hall swelled.

Asha followed the sound to its source. A group of men had risen from their seats, waving at her with exaggerated cheer.

Her new husband’s grandsons. Or perhaps his great-grandsons. Or both.

She swallowed back every insult and biting retort, forcing herself to remain silent. Instead of acknowledging them, she turned her gaze downward, fixing her eyes on the cold stone floor.

She was Balon Greyjoy’s daughter. By some laws, her claim to Pyke was stronger than her uncle’s.

So long as she lived, she was a threat.

And the only thing stopping Euron from having her executed or dragging her in chains to her new husband’s bed…

…was convincing him that she was no longer a threat.

She bowed lower.

“Your Grace, forgive your foolish niece,” she said, forcing humility into her voice. “I was blinded by ambition, refusing to accept the will of the Kingsmoot. I have made grievous mistakes, but I am ready to accept my punishment.”

Euron’s one eye gleamed with interest.

“Go on.”