Chapter 235

The Stormlands. The Cape of Sunken Ships. 301 AC.

Jon Connington.

Two hundred elite soldiers stood at the appointed time, waiting for something none of them could quite name. Unlike the region’s usual weather, all storms, this stretch of coast lay quiet, with nothing suspicious to report. Sentries had been posted for tens of kilometers around, meant to give warning of any uninvited guests, but there was nothing. And just as Jon had started to write the letter off as nothing more than a distraction, a ship bearing a golden kraken appeared on the horizon.

Euron Greyjoy’s reputation could be summed up simply: an utter madman. It would have been easier to name the handful of people who did not hate the pirate than to list every one of his enemies. Magisters, archons, virtuous lords, powerful merchants, ancient bloodlines, gods themselves, even representatives of the Golden Empire of Yi Ti had put a considerable price on his head, and yet the pirate still kept it firmly attached to his shoulders. Watching the ship’s approach, Jon noted to himself that Greyjoy was, without question, a madman.

The Cape of Sunken Ships hadn’t earned its name for nothing; countless vessels rested on the seafloor beneath it, and precious few had ever avoided joining their wooden brothers there. And yet this man had sailed a ship straight through a raging storm, dropped anchor with perfect success, and scaled the steep cliff face, losing only two men in the process. Why Greyjoy had bothered pulling off such a stunt was entirely beyond Jon, but it was plain enough that something in the pirate’s head simply didn’t work right.

Jon Connington was startled, but the pirate’s appearance struck him even harder. Greyjoy’s reputation was fearsome enough that Jon had subconsciously expected some wild, unkempt savage, but that wasn’t what stood before him at all. Euron looked, if anything, quite presentable: tall, dark haired, a neatly trimmed beard, and clothing as tidy as the weather would allow. Not a single wrinkle marked his smooth face, and not one grey strand ran through his black hair; Greyjoy looked considerably younger than his true age.

“Heh, forgive the delay, Your Grace, but you can see the weather for yourself.” As if summoned by his words, thunder cracked, and an especially large wave struck the cliff, spraying them with mist even from that height.

“Think nothing of it, I’m glad you made it at all, Lord Greyjoy,” Aegon said, with a somewhat strained smile.

“Lord Greyjoy… Ha! It’s been a long while since anyone’s called me that!” Turning to one of his companions, the pirate ordered, “Guido, say ‘Lord Greyjoy.’ Go on, say it! Ah, you can’t? No matter. No, Your Grace, I’m not ‘Lord Greyjoy’ just yet, but with your help, I mean to fix that particular shortcoming.”

“Very… direct of you,” Jon cut in.

“I see no reason to dance around it. My brother sits in some fantasy of his own where he beats every last man alive, restores the Hoare kingdom, and sets about terrorizing Westeros. In reality, all he’s managed so far is sucking on a great big lion’s cock. Balon is steering the Iron Islands nowhere, and I want no part of that. This is my home, and I wish it nothing but the best.” A lie, and it took no thought at all to see it; Euron cared nothing for anyone but himself.

“And the Iron Islands would fare better with you at the helm,” Jon said, not a question but a statement.

“A Greyjoy as Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands, loyally serving the one true Targaryen. That’s how it’s stood for three hundred years, and, gods drowned willing, fifty more besides.” Given his particular line of work, and the fact that Euron himself was pushing forty, that made him something of an optimist.

“And you’re willing to go to war against your own brother for the Seastone Chair?” Jon despised traitors, but he despised even more a man willing to spill his own family’s blood for power.

“And aren’t you doing precisely the same thing?” A brazen smile spread across Euron’s face. “Aren’t the dragons tearing at each other’s throats over the Iron Throne too? Viserys Targaryen lands and names himself king, then Rhaenys Targaryen names herself queen, now you’re naming yourself, and let’s not forget Daenerys and her little spawn besides. Every last dragon wants his own arse on that Iron Throne, and not one of you gives a damn about ‘shared blood.'”

Enduring the sea raider’s insolence proved more than Jon could bear. Fury clouded his mind, and before he even realized it, his sword was in his hand. A moment longer and the negotiation would have turned into a bloodbath, but Aegon stepped in just in time. A single word from the king was enough to settle everything back into place. The cutthroats on both sides lowered their weapons, though the tension in the air refused to lift. Euron alone remained entirely at ease.

“You want the Iron Islands, fine, but you’ll need to bring something substantial to our cause. One ship, however fine, isn’t argument enough on its own. Do you have anything more?”

“I knew we’d get along!” The pirate seemed positively delighted by the whole exchange. “I’ll have to work a bit to earn your favor, then. Hm… I hear the Velaryon ships have been giving you trouble.”

“And what will you do about that with your one ship, sack Driftmark?” Jon let his irritation show.

“Not a bad idea, but no.” Euron seemed to take real pleasure in provoking the Hand, which only made Jon angrier still. “Your Grace, in honor of this occasion, I’d like to offer you a gift. Unfortunately it’s still aboard the Silence, but with your leave, it can be brought up quickly.” Aegon nodded, and Euron blew into a horn, its blast somehow cutting clean through the rolling thunder.

Unlike Euron’s earlier and entirely unnecessary display of madness, that climb up the steep, rain slicked cliff face, the second boat, though it very nearly capsized, landed at a far more forgiving stretch of the cape and made its way up to them calmly over the next twenty minutes. Ten men who looked every bit like typical Greyjoy pirates climbed with it, but the last of them stood out sharply from the rest. A weathered man of middle years with the unmistakable features of Valyrian blood would have raised no eyebrows on his own, but dressed in silk the color of a seahorse, that was another matter entirely. Jon narrowed his eyes, straining to place where he’d seen the man before, and memory obligingly supplied the answer.

“Monford Velaryon,” fell from Jon’s lips.

“Oh, you know him? Not surprising, I suppose.” A moment later the pirate’s attention swung back to Aegon. “Your Grace, allow me to introduce Lord Monford Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, master of Driftmark.” The instant the pirate pulled the gag from Velaryon’s mouth, the man exploded with fury.

“Pah! Pretender! Kill me if you like, but I’ll not stain my honor swearing fealty to a Blackfyre! You vile spa…” For the first time, Greyjoy did something Jon genuinely approved of, silencing Velaryon with a single blow and shoving the gag back in.

Velaryon’s behavior made it painfully clear there would be no winning him over to their side. That was unwelcome news. The Velaryons had been among House Targaryen’s most steadfast historical supporters, and their fealty to Aegon would have set exactly the right tone among the other great houses of the Narrow Sea and the Crownlands.

“So that’s why the Velaryons stopped sinking our ships. They’re thrown into disarray over their missing lord and scrambling to find him,” Aegon said thoughtfully. “I’m grateful for such a ‘gift,’ and I accept you into my service, Lord Greyjoy. Unfortunately, the needs of the realm allow for no delay, and I have need of your particular talents.”

“I’m ready, Your Grace.”

“We have an excellent chance now to return my ancestral castle to its rightful owner.”

Greyjoy’s smile had never looked quite so unsettling as it did in that moment.