Interlude: Of Crowns and men

A taste of victory

The first signal that something was not right, was the green light coming from the west. Then there was the sound. Davos would never forget the sound of wildfire exploding. It was like a lightning storm in the open sea, only closer, and with the power to split open a mountain.

He felt the ground rumble before a sudden gale blew a few pennants away.

And then. Green flames rose in the distance, followed in short order by more explosions. Apparently the desperate defenders were using wildfire to fend off Renly’s assault, so the first explosion sealed everyone’s fate.

That could have been us. Dale, Allard, Mathos… Could he be able tell his wife if he lost his boys that way? The mere thought, made him shiver under the sun.

Wildfire, Davos learned, could keep burning for hours on end in that infernal green hue if left alone. Impossible to extinguish with mere water, the flames could only be smothered with sand, and even then, only if the fire was small.

The fires in the western districts… were not small.

Cold horror seeped into his soul. Those poor people, Davos thought.

He, and many more were shocked stone cold.

And then, their king spoke, “Move! Tear down the houses close to the fires so they won’t spread!”

“Your Grace,” a timid Ser Imry Florent spoke. “Is that wise? We could lose—”

“I will not be the King of Ashes, ser,” Stannis hissed, rage barely contained. “Move the common folk away from the flames and follow me!”

Stannis didn’t even look back as he walked west to the green inferno with an axe in hand.

That was the king Davos chose to follow. “Dale! Allard!” he called his boys. “Pick up an axe and a bucket. Our king has spoken.”

It was dangerous, he knew. But the thought of standing back while his king fought the flames was unbearable.

Davos touched the little pouch that hung around his neck, and murmured a little prayer to the Warrior, for he was about to step onto a battlefield like no other.

One step at a time, lords, knights and soldiers got closer to the raging fires. The smell of burnt meat made him, and many more retch in disgust. His boys barfed when they saw their first burnt body. Davos offered a silent prayer, but stopped himself from more. His king needed him, and the green flames wouldn’t wait.

Soon, the red woman arrived to Stannis’ side. And for the first time, Davos was glad she did. She was able to douse the most pressing fires before exhausting herself.

Stannis tirelessly swung his axe to cut the path of the green flame, and kept working harder than everyone else. His voice cracked like thunder when giving fast orders. The people of King’s Landing, fearful at first, joined them in the battlefield against the inferno that threatened to consume the city.

It was them, the common folk, clobbers, masons, seamstresses and whores, the ones who destroyed the trebuchets on Visenya’s Hill and then trashed the crew of fools manning them. Mayhaps, if someone brought the matter to Stannis’ attention, he would dole justice to the killers, but justice had already been doled, so no one did.

Late into the night, they had carved a line just west of the Street of Steel to stop the fires in their place. Some men had died horrific deaths, King Stannis singed his eyebrows and beard, and had a red and angry scar on his left arm, but they had done it. They had stopped the wildfire from consuming it all.

The fires did not stop, however. They burned through the night until midday of the next day. But by then, they had other worries.

From outside the walls, a part of what once were Renly’s swords bent the knee to Stannis. From them, they learned what had happened to the younger Baratheon brother.

Away from curious eyes, Stannis said, “A thief and a usurper he may have been, but he was mine brother. I was prepared to face him in battle, Davos. I used to think I would be pleased to hear of his passing… But all I feel now is… emptiness.”

With more soldiers joining them, they marched to their last objective in the city. The Red Keep stood tall with its massive walls and crenellations. It was an unassailable fortress sitting atop Aegon’s Hill, and with every step forward, the fear of facing the horrors of wildfire kept hammering at his mind.

It matters not.

His King had commanded them to take the fortress, and so they would.

Davos sent his boys to the back, to keep their crews sharp in case they needed reinforcements. If things went poorly, they could go back to Marya to tell her of his fate.

Battering rams, ladders and arrows, all necessary for a siege. All delaying their march through the swirling roads of the capital. Thankfully, they didn’t have to fight their way through every street and corner; hopefully that wouldn’t change. The city took King Stannis as a hero after the wildfire flames doused, Davos wanted to keep it that way.

Stannis’ choice to first stop the flames was the right one, of that, Davos was certain. Saving half a city from burning to cinders would always be the right choice. Even if it costed them.

They lost men, loyal men, while fighting the fires, but the loss that troubled Stannis most, was Lord Tywin Lannister slipping out of the city in the chaos. Gravely injured, the Antler men assured, but alive still.

His king gnashed his teeth and sent a score of knights to go after him, and tasked Lord Velaryon with recovering Prince Oberyn remains. “I don’t know what the prince was doing so far from Dorne, but I will not have his death blamed on me.”

With that solved, they got close enough to the castle to see the walls up close, and the first thing Davos saw… was nothing. Or, to be more precise, he saw no one. No one manning the walls; no one to hold the Lannister banners. No one to offer them resistance.

“The Lord of Light favors his champion!” the red woman shouted. “R’hllor was pleased with our offerings. O my Lord, light the fire in our hearts and guide us.”

The queen’s men echoed the prayer. It only made Davos wary of a hidden trap. So he sent his men to look around for signs of a hidden ploy.

“Prepare the ladders,” Stannis said unmoved. It was enough to wake up the lords and knights out of their stupor.

The memories of a green inferno gripped Davos’ heart like the cold hands of the Stranger. Before he could voice his fears to his king, the gates opened.

Swallowing his fears, Davos looked straight at the knights beyond the gate. There, between them, a bound and gagged Cersei Lannister glared at the world, her eyes burning red in fury.

The knights fell to their knees, “The Red Keep is yours, Your Grace!”

The Iron Throne had its rightful king once more. It was done. They had won.

Between the red woman’s prayers, the turncloaks and memories of a green inferno, it didn’t feel that way.

A scholar’s woes

Once again, Qyburn was on the road.

If he were the same man the Citadel had turned its back on, he would be irate. He would be cursing those who pushed him away from his studies.

Ahh, the inexperience of youth, he thought, a fond smile on his face.

If he could go back to give his younger self advice, he would say, “Patience and hard work, young man, will help you achieve your ambitions.”

Not that he had achieved all of his ambitions, but he now knew it was only a matter of time to achieve them. One step at a time. One more secret of nature uncovered. He would find exactly what he had been looking for ever since his days under Archmaester Ebrose.

All he needed was time.

And gold. Many brilliant minds hadn’t achieved all they could due to a lack of gold.

It was the reason for this trip. Qyburn needed a new patron. Preferably someone with vast wealth, and easy to please. Hopefully with an appreciation for knowledge, but, unlike his younger self, he could compromise.

He was relatively certain he could find a somewhat wealthy patron soon. Lords, and especially lords in the midst of a war, had great appreciation for the healing arts. And Qyburn was the best healer this side of the Narrow Sea.

However, he was aiming higher. And it was all thanks to his unwilling companion. Lord Baelish had a value beyond gold to one king in the realm. Qyburn didn’t like the cold, but as always, his studies were far more important than petty comforts.

“My lord, do you think the Wolf King will take us?” Dontos Hollard, one of his chosen companions, spoke.

Qyburn closed his eyes for a heartbeat. The ever-present creak of the cart beneath him grounding him in the present. He turned left to see the anxious man. He almost sighed. His patience was going to be tested throughout this journey.

Dontos was an unremarkable knight. Marked for death, and saved by the Lady Sansa Stark. Qyburn gave the drunkard man a few kind words, and healed his wounds once or twice. He had a flimsy loyalty, but it would serve for the time being.

“My lord?”

He offered him a kind smile. “Robb Stark is a honorable and just man. Ser, you shielded the Lady Sansa from the excesses of Joffrey, did you not?” Qyburn waited for the disgraced knight’s nod before continuing. “From what I heard, the King in the North has sharp eyes for talent and bravery, ser.”

Dontos gave him a satisfied nod in response and straightened his back. “Thank you for your words, my lord.”

In all honesty, Qyburn didn’t know if Robb Stark would take Dontos. The man did shield Lady Sansa from Joffrey, but that was once, maybe twice. Was that enough for him to take the disgraced knight into his service? He didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to say that to Dontos, was he.

With that settled, Qyburn looked to his right side. There was his other companion, the one the Spider pushed onto him.

Gareth of the Blackwater, unlike Dontos, was a well built man. His face was something only a mother could love. Tall, with powerful arms that could choke the life out of a careless knight. Ah, the poor Lannister knight realized his mistake too late.

Qyburn didn’t like him. He didn’t trust Lord Varys, and he wouldn’t trust Gareth. But the circumstances (a suspiciously ill-timed death), left him without the man he had in mind for his third companion. Then, an entirely coincidental encounter with Lord Varys left him with no choice but to accept Gareth for companion.

He wouldn’t die in his hands, Qyburn was certain of that at least. Mostly because Gareth could have killed him the moment they met. Dontos wouldn’t have been able to do anything to stop him, not like he would even try.

So, Qyburn could only guess the reasons for Gareth to follow. He had a guess, Varys wouldn’t have sent someone as simpleminded as Gareth if he had some great and complicated plan. The moment Qyburn found a new patron, he would reveal everything. About Gareth, about Varys, about his suspicions. Hopefully that would be enough for his new patron to kill Gareth, preferably far away from him.

Now, under the warm sun of the Crownlands, the issue plaguing Qyburn’s mind was reaching Robb Stark. The last thing he heard, was that the Young Wolf was in Riverrun. He could arrive to Riverrun. It would take a long time, involve one or two encounters with bandits, and, given his companions, would test his patience in ways it hadn’t been tested until now.

Oh, what would he give for more stimulating company.

Lord Baelish stirred up on the back of his cart.

If the circumstances were different, the emaciated lord would have been an acceptable conversation partner. Sadly for him, Qyburn wasn’t a man to, as the youths say, put all his eggs in one basket. And as such, he could not afford the man accusing him of torturing him, could he. Not if Lord Edmure Tully still had positive feelings on his old childhood companion.

He wanted a king for patron, because who wouldn’t? But he could settle for a great lord. Oh, the sacrifices he was willing to make for his studies…

That line of thought pulled him back to the road and his current destination, Duskendale. There, he would find a secure escort toward Riverrun, or convince Lord Tully to take him as a healer.

Baelish groaned loudly. Qyburn gave a look at the shadows of the trees, and realized it was time for a little Milk of the Poppy for the pained lord.

He stopped the cart and his companions. The wood creaked with his weight as he moved to Lord Baelish’s side.

“Stick out your ton—” Ah, a slip of the mind, Baelish didn’t have a tongue anymore. “Open your mouth, my lord,” he corrected himself.

With that out of the way, Qyburn resumed his journey.

There was a piece of advice Lord Varys gave him right before vanishing into thin air. “The Lady of the Vale would pay any price for our mutual friend Lord Baelish. No one in the realm would pay as high, that I can assure you.”

Tempting. But he would be a fool to trust the Spider on anything.

He already had a course set. It just so happened that the Valemen were sharing camp with Lord Tully. How vexing.

Ah, well. It would be a long journey, but if it took him away from Varys’ plans, Qyburn would choose going straight to Riverrun (and suffering a couple bandits on his way) every time.

He only needed to shush his companions, and go through the toll collectors near the camp. He swiftly prepared the coin for the ‘gift’ needed for swift passage, put on his grandfatherly smile, and kept his leisurely pace. Nervousness would only raise suspicions.

“Well met, good ser,” Qyburn said to the toll collector.

The knight was slender, with shoulder-length hair and eyes full of disdain, as if he was too important for the lowly job of a toll collector. Perfect.

“You’re carrying someone in that cart, old man?” the knight asked, and stepped closer to the cart, as if to see if his unwilling companion still drew breath.

Qyburn had danced this dance before. The proud knight would receive his answer, together with his little ‘gift’ and let them through.

“Aye, good ser. This is—”

“Lord Baelish?” The knight said.

…Somehow, someway, Qyburn knew Lord Varys was laughing right now.

“Aye, we were able to escape King’s Landing thanks to my lord’s bravery and wit.” He shot a meaningful glance at Dontos and Gareth… except Gareth wasn’t there. Of course. “Could you bring us to Lord Tully, good ser?”

The knight looked a bit puzzled, but picked up two more knights to serve as escort. “Follow me.”

As they say, no plans survive the first toll.

Turned out, Lord Varys was right. The Valemen came this far south to ‘retrieve’ Lord Baelish. There was something Qyburn was missing, but overall, the Vale lords didn’t really care about Lord Baelish’s well-being.

Other than a promise of reward for him and Ser Lyn Corbray (the toll knight), the Vale lords didn’t say much. On his part, Qyburn just had to tell them of his prowess as a healer to let him stay close to Lord Baelish to keep his role as his primary caretaker.

It wasn’t ideal, but at least he was sitting in a comfortable tent, resting from the rigors of the road. He let a deep sigh, hopefully he would never meet Gareth again.

As for Dontos… Well, the knight could do whatever he wanted. Qyburn didn’t need him any longer.

It was amusing, in a way. His luck seemed to turn the moment Varys creature vanished. It only costed him his heart stopping cold for a second.

He arrived at Duskendale to find Lord Tully to mayhaps find a way into Robb Stark’s service. And now, being closer to the middle of the camp, he saw the Stark banner.

He was certain that wasn’t Robb Stark, but, last he heard, a brother of his took Maidenpool. Now, Qyburn had a more direct path to his goal. He just needed to be patient, and follow the same song and dance. He was a healer, and he would heal his way to a meeting with the King in the North.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Lord Baelish?” he asked his sedated companion. “I’m sure you can appreciate when a stroke of luck aids you in your plans.”

Baelish, predictably, didn’t answer.

“Heh. Not that you would know of luck, my lord.”

Ah. He could almost see it. A nice and quiet room surrounded by Robb Stark’s chained enemies. His tools, clean and ready to unveil the secrets of the natural world. And ink and parchment for his notes and discoveries.

“My lord?” the shy voice of a girl reached him. The girl peeking from behind the flaps of the tent.

The girl was young. Twelve, mayhaps thirteen name-days. Her dress was blue, finely made and recently refitted for the young lady. Two tall men in plate followed her. Guards. A noble girl. An important noble girl, he concluded.

“Yes, my lady?” he said. His smile grandfatherly and warm.

“I heard Lord Baelish is here?” Her voice trailed off at the end.

Not just any noble lady. From how fast she learned of Lord Baelish whereabouts, she must have been close to the inner camp, close to someone important.

“Yes, my lady. Lord Baelish is here. Come closer so you can see him.” Qyburn would humor the girl. Who knows, mayhaps he’ll meet Lord Tully or the Stark in camp that way.

The girl entered the tent and slowly stepped forward. Then she stopped cold when she saw the state of Lord Baelish.

Seven Hells, he cursed himself. How could his mind slip this badly? The sight of Lord Baelish’s wounds and scars turned the stomach of many grown men (as the girl’s guards demonstrated). A young girl would react poorly.

“My lady, I’m terribly sorry you had to—”

The eyes of the young lady weren’t horrified. In fact, they seemed a bit… curious?… giddy?

Huh. Northern girls are something else.

“My lady?” Qyburn murmured, breaking the girl from her thoughts. “Can I offer you tea?”

“Aye, that would be lovely.”

Jeyne Poole was a nice girl, and had the gift of curiosity. She started asking about every scar and wound marring Lord Baelish’s flesh. Qyburn, starved of intelligent conversation, answered all of her questions with as much detail as the girl wanted.

“As you can see, my lady, Lord Baelish won’t be able to walk again due to his heel cords being cut.”

Jeyne’s eyes were bright. “Who could do something so horrible to him?”

“Lord Baelish was in custody of Lord Tywin.” Qyburn sipped from his cup of tea. “I fear… he was tortured to the edge of madness for days on end.”

And there, the girl’s lips curved for less than a heartbeat before she forced it down. “How terrible,” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

Qyburn was beginning to understand. Jeyne Poole hated Lord Baelish. He didn’t quite know why, and he didn’t particularly care. From the few things he was able to pry from the petty lord, he had done many hateful things.

Well, he wanted to be on the lady’s graces, but he didn’t want to scare her. So, instead of taking one of his tools from his satchel, he took a white linen cloth from it. The sound of warm water pouring onto a wooden basin made made the girl turn to him.

He gave her a kind smile. Time to test how deep the girl’s resentment run. “It’s time to clean Lord Baelish’s wounds, my lady.”

Qyburn put a generous amount of vinegar on the basin and slowly mixed.

“Is that vinegar?” the girl asked, scrunching her face.

“Aye. It can be used to clean wounds to stop the corruption from setting in.”

“Oh.” She paused for a few breaths. “Does it hurt.”

There it was.

He sighed in sadness. “It hurts terribly, but it’s better than the alternative.” Qyburn stepped closer to the sitting Baelish, and started tying the petty lord’s hands to the chair. “I have enjoyed your company, my lady, but this is no sight for a young girl.”

“I-I…” Qyburn muzzled Baelish. “Can I stay?”

Heh. The girl reminded him of the himself of many years ago, back in Oldtown when he started helping Archmaester Ebrose. Back then, he’d been but a boy who wanted to heal all the ailments in the world. Ah, to be a young dreamer again.

He turned to Jeyne, his eyes kind but firm (the way Ebrose did with him). “Let me be clear, my lady, only healers and grown men should be on this tent.” The girl wilted under his gaze. Perfect. “Are you a healer?”

The girl blinked rapidly until understanding hit her. She stole a glance at Lord Baelish. Determination (and giddiness) filled her eyes. “I am a healer.”

Qyburn gave her a kind smile, this time for real. “Well then,” he said, giving her the cloth he had and producing another from his satchel. “We have to be thorough, my lady, the vinegar has to penetrate the wound to stop the corruption from spreading. Follow my lead.”

He tied Baelish’s left leg to the chair, the petty lord did soft muffled sounds from that. He was waking up from the Milk of the Poppy right in time. Qyburn took an empty sword rack, sat down on it and tied Baelish’s other leg.

The cut Qyburn had done on the heel cords were a rushed job. As such, they were anything but neat. In his defense, he was hard pressed by time and needed his greatest leverage to be unable to escape.

He submerged a part of the cloth in the vinegar solution. “This is how deep wounds ought to be cleaned,” he said, gently cleaning the gash.

Baelish made muffled sounds through his muzzle, his hands straining against the rope. New blood stained the white cloth as the petty lord tensed his leg and struggled against Qyburn’s gentle hands.

Lady Jeyne gaze followed the whole process without looking away. Baelish’s tears and struggles curving her lips, little by little. Her guards, on the other hands, looked grimmer and grimmer, mayhaps reminding their own wounds being treated.

Qyburn finished with the cleaning, lightly untied the sword rack from the lord, and turned toward the noble lady.

“A healer has to do what they must to save the sick,” he said sternly, tying Baelish’s clean leg to his chair. “No matter how much discomfort it causes.”

Lady Jeyne gave him a serious nod in response.

“Now, my lady,” Qyburn said untying Baelish’s left leg from the chair. “Put that leather apron on. I’ll guide you through the process.”

Lady Jeyne had steady hands, a little rough, but seeing as she was a novice healer, that could be forgiven. Lord Baelish didn’t seem to agree, however. Mayhaps he’ll learn to appreciate Qyburn more.

“You did splendidly, my lady,” he said.

“I did?” Lady Jeyne said, wiping the smile from her face.

Heh. She may not believe it, but it was the truth. Qyburn has seen many acolytes retch from shallower wounds. Compared to them, Lady Jeyne did rather well.

“I admit, I’ve seen a few acolytes doing a better job, but I’ve seen worse too, my lady,” Qyburn said as he put the reddened linen cloths and basin away. “But acolytes with your focus and steadiness? I can’t remember one.”

The young lady seemed content with the praise. Her previous smile returning to her face.

“Now,” he said, picking up the mouth iron from his luggage. “We need to clean Lord Baelish’s mouth wounds. Can I rely on your help, my lady?”

“Yes!” she replied in an instant.

“I’ll let you turn the screw, my lady,” he said, and Lady Jeyne’s smile brightened the tent. “It is important for a healer to know this, after all.”

Ah. To think teaching could be this fulfilling. It was a shame Lady Jeyne was a woman. Women couldn’t be…

Qyburn almost hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. He wasn’t a maester, why would he care about those grey sheep’s tradition?

If Lady Jeyne was willing, Qyburn would make her the best healer in the Seven Kingdoms. If she took to his lessons with the enthusiasm she had for tormenting Lord Baelish, she would easily reach those heights.

And it would annoy the maesters in the Citadel. That was good too.

The one who knows

“Balon is dead! The iron king is dead!”

With those words, her uncle Aeron started the kingsmoot. The man was a devout priest of the Drowned God. Dour, humorless and blinded by devotion, as priests usually are, he called a kingsmoot after her father Balon fell to his death. And so, she was now in a bloody kingsmoot.

Forty-four pillars of stone rose on the sides of Nagga’s Hill like an incomplete crown. The most sacred place in the Iron Islands, according to the drowned men at least. From where Asha stood, it all looked like old pillars of stone and nothing more.

“What is dead, may never die!” Aeron the Damphair continued his speech.

His words had a certain cadence to them, he must have practiced them at length. She almost scoffed when he called Balon ‘blessed’. Her father was many things—strong, mad and a fool—but blessed he was not.

Asha looked around, she was able to secure allies from Harlaw, but that wouldn’t be enough. She tried to get more allies when she arrived, and was met with success and failure in equal measure. The most important of them all, was her uncle Victarion who she failed to convince. He wanted to be proclaimed king, on this kingsmoot.

Queensmoot. Asha corrected to herself.

The queensmoot allowed any captain with a ship to push forward their claim. In reality, Asha had only two rivals. Both family, both trying to usurp her. Both brothers to her father.

Theon didn’t even count. He had been gone for far too long, and was a loyal man to the Wolf King in the North.

The message had been sent, but everyone knew he wouldn’t be coming. Perhaps the Wolf King would give his loyal lapdog a small patch of land, perhaps Theon had grown so soft that he’d accept. It wasn’t her problem.

But it is. Her mind corrected. He is the heir.

No. Her lord father made her his heir. She would give Theon a piece of land, and be done with it. Perhaps in Harlaw even, seeing how her brother liked the frigid North as much.

“Who shall rule this holy isles? Who shall be king over us?” Aeron finished.

The crowd stirred. Men looked at each other. Waiting. Expecting.

They can keep waiting.

The first one to talk was doomed to fail. She knew it, her uncle Rodrik had reminded her. Captains wouldn’t settle for the first, they would want to sample the claimants, and the first king-to-be was fated to be forgotten under the next claimants.

Asha flicked her gaze to Victarion, his eyes were locked on the center of the gathering, his face severe. As expected, he was content to wait. Then, her gaze turned to Euron, he noticed at once and gave her a confident grin. His blue eye glinting.

“The ironborn must have a king,” Aeron insisted. “I ask again. Who shall be king over us?”

Who was going to be the fodd—

Cold as death, the sound of a horn responded.

One of Euron’s men blew the horn. A big, swarthy and shaved man with a blood red tattoo was sounding the horn.

By the second blow, the horn’s Valyrian glyphs glowed red.

By the third blow, the man looked ready to keel over. The blood on the tattoo became real, and the man looked pale.

The Crow’s Eye climbed the hill. Slowly and with unbreakable confidence. His visible eye singing in victory, and his hidden eye… somehow she could feel it. Looking at them, looking past them. Looking through them.

What possessed him to go first? What was his plan?

The Damphair’s eyes were unfocused. Victarion seemed equally lost.

“IRONMEN,” Euron said. “Let’s not waste time. Balon wanted revenge on the North and had you gathering your men for long. What does the North have for us?”

Pebbles, and wood. She knew her father wanted to carve himself a kingdom, but taking the North would test the fealty of his vassals to its limits. And the strain in their coffers would be no less.

She couldn’t answer, she had an inkling of where the Crow’s Eye was going.

“I can answer for you.” Euron said, his blue lips stretching into a wider smile. “Nothing. The North has no value for us. Brave ironmen dying alone in the cold, widows weeping their husbands and sons. For what? Pelts? Frigid women? Snow?”

“The North shamed us! The Iron Islands need revenge!” Victarion roared.

People raised their voiced, echoing her uncle’s call. “Revenge! Revenge!” they chorused.

The Crow’s Eye smirk never faltered. “REVENGE?” He swiped around, his blue lips twisted in a knowing smile. “Wasn’t Stannis the one who smashed your Iron Fleet brother? Wasn’t Tywin the one who burned our lands and raped our women? Wasn’t Robert who broke Pyke’s walls?”

“The North sent their armies,” Asha said, when it was clear Victarion was losing. “And they took Theon as their hostage.”

The Crow’s Eye turned to her, and she felt the weight behind his hidden eye. She didn’t lowered her gaze, and Euron let out a huff, before turning his gaze.

“My sweet niece speaks true,” Euron said.

What was his aim? Asha narrowed her eyes.

“We will get our revenge on the North, in due time.”

“Revenge! Revenge!” the calls from before resumed.

“I hear you ironmen! My brothers humiliation galls me too. We are the ironborn, and once we were conquerors. Greenlanders used to pray to their gods and hide their daughters and wives whenever they saw a longship in their waters. The Riverlands used to be our garden, always ripe for the taking. So I say, we take it all!”

Madness. The Crow’s Eye must have left his wits at Asshai. He was spouting sweet nonsense and nothing more.

“Crow’s Eye,” she called. “Did your fools and wizards stole your wits? My father couldn’t win the Seven Kingdoms, nor can you.”

“Oh, but I can, and will. Just the way Aegon the Conqueror earned his crown. With dragons.”

The fool had gone mad.

She laughed aloud. “There are no dragons and you are not a Targaryen, Crow’s Eye.”

“So you didn’t know, girl. There are three dragons in the East, and I will bind them with the horn I found in the ruins of Valyria. The same horn you all heard. You felt it didn’t you? You felt its call and saw the enchantments it has. With that horn I can bind dragons to my will.”

“EURON!” Gylbert Farwynd shouted.

“EURON!” echoed the fools swayed by a wet nurse’s tale.

Before she could stop the madness, the Crow’s Eye raised his voice. “We’ll first complete the task I started a decade ago,” the Crow’s Eye said. “In the name of my dear nephew, we’ll take revenge on his killers first.”

What?

The Crow’s Eye turned his hidden eye on her. “Westerlanders killed Theon, and for that we’ll bleed them dry and take their gold.” He opened his arms, and his crew emptied coffers full of gold, gemstones and Valyrian steel daggers as gifts to the crowd.

“EURON! EURON!” More people sang.

“EURON! THE CROW’S EYE! EURON KING!”

Captains and priests filled their hands with gold. The chorus turned louder and louder.

“EURON! EURON! EURON!”

The cry rumbled Nagga’s Hill and turned her insides. Euron’s hidden eye crushing her under its weight.