Chapter 140 137

The Iron Islands. Pyke. 299 AC.

Lord Balon Greyjoy.

The Iron Islands were one of the Seven Kingdoms' harshest corners. A broad stretch of water known as Ironman's Bay separated the islands from the mainland, while the Sunset Sea battered them from the west. It was a poor, unforgiving land that could barely feed its own people, where every day was a fight for survival. Such a place forged the most dangerous sailors the world had ever seen. The ironborn were now known across the known world as fierce, freedom-loving pirates who bowed to no authority but their own.

With the Drowned God's blessing, the people of the Iron Islands had long raided the shores of Westeros, and at the height of their power had ruled vast stretches of the mainland. Those were the days of the ironborn's greatest glory. Young Balon had idolized that era with every fiber of his being and had spent his life trying to call it back.

From childhood, the heir to Quellon Greyjoy had been exceptional. At ten he was scaling the Flint Cliffs to the cursed tower; at thirteen he was pulling an oar and dancing the finger dance as well as grown men, and had kept all his fingers to prove it. At fifteen he was already raising hell on the Stepstones alongside Dagmer Cleftjaw, and at seventeen he had his own ship with a crew loyal to him alone.

For Balon, his father, Lord Quellon, had been a coward who wanted no part in Robert Baratheon's rebellion, and when he finally changed his mind, he died at the mouth of the Mander. Balon understood the decision had come too late to matter, so he brought the ironborn home to Pyke and did not look back.

For five full years, the new Lord Greyjoy built his fleet, gathered every pirate from both sides of the continent under his banners, and drove reforms that pushed his people back toward the Old Way. He misjudged Baratheon for a weak man with thin support among the lords, and in 289 AC he launched a rebellion that ended in ruin.

It began well enough, then unraveled quickly. The Iron Fleet was smashed by Stannis Baratheon, and King Robert himself took Pyke by storm. Balon lost two sons and surrendered the last as a hostage, yet he felt no hatred toward Robert, only a deep and genuine respect. The Baratheon king had seized the Iron Throne at great cost, had broken the ironborn, and then shown mercy to the defeated when others, the Old Lion foremost among them, had urged him toward a more permanent solution. From that day on, the Lord Reaper of Pyke had been King Robert's most loyal vassal, for such was the judgment of the Old Way.

For many years Balon had kept himself apart from the politics of the green lands, so the news of the elder Baratheon's death and the opening of the war for the throne caught him entirely unprepared. The Iron Islands had barely recovered from the last rebellion and were not ready to hurl themselves into a new one at a moment's notice. He had one advantage no other lord of the green lands could claim: he had not fought anyone, and no one could reach him on his islands.

Over the course of half a year, the ironborn gathered at Pyke and, with his permission, occupied themselves with their favorite pastime: plunder and slaughter. He let the raider fleet off its leash, and the western shores of the Sunset Sea burned. Hundreds of villages, trade caravans, and septs were sacked, dozens of minor castles razed, and thousands of captives replenished the thrall stock that had grown lean over the years. The Iron Islands had not seen such rich spoils in decades.

Every septon drowned, the Old Way restored, the treasury groaning with wealth. The Iron Islands rode higher than they had in living memory, and still Balon turned a single problem over in his mind. Succession was a wound that had never fully closed, and it bit deeper with every passing year. His only remaining son was a captive in Stark hands. Asha was a woman and the islands would not accept her. Victarion was a simple brawler with no appetite for power. Aeron had taken priestly vows and renounced his claim. And Euron was a madman to whom Balon would not trust a single copper groat.

That morning a rider had brought word that someone calling himself Theon Greyjoy had come ashore at Lordsport. Balon was not yet sure what to make of it. His son had been taken for "fostering" nearly ten years ago. In that time, the honorable Ned Stark had surely had ample opportunity to wash a foolish boy's mind clean, to turn a kraken into a landlocked weakling. He had sworn to himself that he would sooner break with tradition and hand the Seastone Chair to his daughter than let a soft man who had forgotten the ways of the ironborn sit upon it.

Balon had sent Aeron Damphair to meet his nephew and find out whether the boy still remembered his home, his faith, and his spirit. It would be a small test, simple enough on its surface, but the most important one he could devise. If his younger brother came away displeased, Theon would be counted among the green men. If not, there was still a chance.

After an hour of work, the ruler of the Iron Islands allowed himself a rest. Balon was no longer young. He could not stand a punishing watch or endure a long voyage at sea. The gods had left him strength enough for neither. The strong sea-reaver he had once been had wasted away into a skeleton wrapped in skin, his hair gone grey, his body growing weaker with every month that passed.