"I don't have any horn, nor any letter. I have naught but the strength of my arms, and the blessings of the Drowned God. And if you feel yourself stronger, then stand and test your might against the kraken!"
...
There was a long silence. None dared speak. Victarion wondered if someone might muster the courage, but nobody did. Eventually, he drew his axe and raised it defiantly in the air, "I offer you victory, ironmen! Are you with me?"
"Victory! Victory!" the discordant cries rang out, one after the other, deafening in the hall. The captains banged their fists in the tables, stamped their feet on the flagstones. The cries soon gained a life of their own, and before long all his fellow ironmen were chanting in unison, "Victarion! Victarion! King Victarion!"
It was a glorious moment; the realisation of all his hopes and dreams. Victarion could not help the grin that threatened to split his face. After all his struggles and stumbles, after watching his hopes sink like an iron lump with Euron's ascension, it was as though the Drowned God had rewarded him; had dropped the Driftwood Crown into his lap. Yet though he was now king, that did not mean his position was secure. Beyond the risk of assassination, he had yet to reign in Euron's wizards and mongrels, to form a true plan of attack for the Reach, to plan for a future beyond his own ascension to the throne.
That night, Victarion retreated again to his ship, fearing for his own life within the bowels of Lord Hewett's keep - not that he would ever admit to such fears. He was tempted to turn to the dusky woman for comfort, and though he allowed himself a moment's indulgence, he did not allow pleasure to become distraction. After he was done, he pushed the girl aside and set to work. Across a table in his cabin he laid a map of the western shores of Westeros, eyeing the approaches. The Arbor seemed the most tempting target for attack, separated from the mainland. Yet it was a good deal south, and required the fleet to sail past both Highgarden and Oldtown.
On the open oceans we hold the advantage, Victarion knew. But then our raids become battles, and our losses mount. The Redwyne fleet - even just half of it - was a formidable foe to make battle against, and it would almost certainly have the core of its strength hosted at the Arbor. In his experience, naval battles were rarely anything other than decisive. They might sweep the Redwyne fleet aside, and leave the entire western shore open. Or else they might themselves be swept aside.
On land we can cut and burn, reaving and raping as we please, but we cannot stay still in any place. If they opted to sail up the Mander, to make their presence known through the Old Way, to pay the iron price for their victories, then gold was almost certainly guaranteed. But that did not mean the Old Way was without risks. Even flower knights will fight fiercely for their homes.
It was a difficult decision to take, but a necessary one. Victarion knew his captains would not accept waiting much longer. The relatively bloodless taking of the Shields had emboldened them, made them eager for more. Yet without Euron's promised dragons, conquest was out of the question. One ironman may have been worth ten greenlanders, but the greenlanders outnumbered them by more than that.
And then there was the question of trickery. Euron had not died in battle, or by happenstance. He had been murdered. And though suspicion had been directed upon the greenlanders, Victarion knew it was just as likely that the Crow's Eye had died at the hands of one of his captains.
In any event, he decided, Euron's mongrels go first. Let their blood wash the greenlander blades.
The whole night, Victarion pondered his choices, nursing a cup of wine in his hands as he did so. Hidden dangers and plots seemed to obscure every path. Land or sea, peace or war. No room for error now.
By the time morning came, Victarion knew only one certainty. We cannot win. The Iron Throne has ships, soldiers, lands to spare. We don't. Victarion might try to undermine the Boy King's reign, but Harlaw was likely right. It wasn't going to work. The greenlander hatred for them was too strong. And though showing the Boy King to be a weakling might shame him, might sow doubt in the minds of vassals, any further conquest was still likely to provoke a strong reaction.
The Old Lion could not afford to allow his grandson's regime to look weak.
We need to make peace from a position of strength, he knew. To play on the Boy King's softness. To play on the worst fears of his Tyrell wife. And to do it all quickly, before the Boy King defeats his other foes and develops an appetite for conquest.
With that thought in his mind, he left the Iron Victory bright and early, trekking up the road to the keep with his plate gleaming with the light of dawn, marching like a king with his men at his flanks. Yet though he kept his back straight, and held his head up high, Victarion could not help but feel tired and small. Who knew the Seastone Chair was so much work? The Victarion of old had lived for conquest, for the thrills of blood and battle. But a new life seemed to threaten him, a life of fretting and worrying like a woman. A life bereft of thrills. Even as he pondered its inevitability, he knew he didn't like it.
And so it was in a sour mood that Victarion stalked up to Lord Hewett's castle, found and cornered the Reader in his rooms. Harlaw had abandoned the Sea Song the night he'd made landfall, opting to spend his time perusing Lord Hewett's meagre library. It was difficult to tell if the Reader's love of books had overcome his brains - forced him to stay in a place where a cutthroat might be lurking - or whether his balls weren't as shrunken as Victarion had first imagined.
Then again, Rodrick Harlaw was not exactly a young man. Who knew how much care he placed on his own life?
"Your Grace?" the old man asked as he looked up at Victarion. He seemed surprised - half dressed in a tunic that fell about his knees, thin grey hair rumpled from bed. Books were strewn across his chosen chambers, papers stacked high on a table in the corner. There was a wariness in his look, a deep suspicion. In all likelihood, Lord Rodrick was one of the few captains awake. Most of the others would still be nursing headaches from a night's heavy drinking, entertaining stolen women in stolen beds. In truth, Victarion had expected to find him with them, still asleep. "What brings you to my chamber at such an early hour?"
"We need to talk," Victarion declared.
"I see," Harlaw said. "Would you like a seat?"
"No," Victarion said. "I won't be long. I just have a few questions."
The Reader seemed almost impressed, brows climbing up his forehead. Both Balon and Euron had spurned the old man's council. "By all means."
"Asha."
Harlaw sighed. "I already told you, Your Grace, I don't know where she is."
"Perhaps, but I think you know well enough where she went, even if you don't know where she wound up. I can guess myself, but it'd help to get some assurances."
"I... I didn't ask too many questions of her. But from what I could surmise, Kings Landing was her aim. After that, I know nothing."
Victarion nodded. "Do you think, if you spoke to her, you could convince her to work with me? To try for peace?"
"If I could find her, perhaps."
"And if you couldn't find her, or convince her?" Victarion questioned. "Do you think you could speak to the Iron Throne on my behalf?"
"Aye," the Reader said, "I could speak to them. Whether they will listen..." He shrugged.
"Yet you say that I would do better to sue for peace than pursue this campaign."
"You would," the Reader insisted. "Though it might wound all our pride to admit it."
"I was not chosen by a Kingsmoot," Victarion pressed. "I cannot afford to look weak, not even for a moment. My power rests on my promises. Should I fail the captains will cast me aside."
...
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