"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."
...
The Reader gazed intently at Victarion a moment, then shook his head in agreement. "No, of course not."
"I promised the men gold and glory, Harlaw. Gold and glory. But I also need to ensure enough of us live to enjoy it. I was thinking... A raid on the Reach proper. Up the Mander, into the territories of Highgarden. Strip their fields bare. Scare the Boy King's little wife. Push them to make peace by threatening to do the same to Oldtown. I reckon the Old Lion's dislike of his old rivals to the south and the Tyrell weakness in the Reach should give us some room. All those Reachlords, eager for position, each waiting for their chance to rise and replace their overlords."
Harlaw frowned at that, brow furrowed deeply. "I can see why you might think that, but I don't agree."
Victarion snorted. "What would you say, then?"
"You're making the same mistake Balon made, all those years ago, when he attacked Lannisport. A raid on the Tyrell lands that does not touch Highgarden itself is more likely to enrage the Reachlords than scare them, to make them forget their squabbles. And Highgarden is almost as impenetrable as Casterly Rock, with its high walls and hedges.
Sailing up the Mander leaves our fleet vulnerable to being cut off - never mind the ships the Tyrells are massing in the river itself. Trapped, outnumbered, surrounded by angry peasants and lords, we would be swiftly slaughtered. The Reach is not the North. House Tyrell can muster the numbers to protect itself - and quickly."
"So we do nothing? Sit on our hands and wait?"
The Reader shook his head. "I didn't say that. If our goal is to make peace from a place of strength, we need to keep the pressure up as we negotiate. A raid - if successful - might get us gold and girls, but it does little for our strength. What we need is not loot, but leverage. Something we might use to secure good terms from the Iron Throne. A conquest of some sort. On land, the Reachlords have an advantage, but on the open ocean we are the masters."
Victarion cocked his head in consideration, quietly incredulous. "You mean the Arbor? The place that hosts the Redwyne fleet?"
"Better the Redwyne fleet than the armies of the Reach," Harlaw said. "Besides, I have good reason to believe that much of the Redwyne fleet is away at Dragonstone, and that Lord Paxter is with it, serving as the Boy King's Master of Ships. A sizeable force might remain, and I don't doubt it will be a hard-fought battle, but whatever fleet remains at the Arbor is almost certainly far smaller than the strength which we might be able to bring to bear. A captain of your skill should be able to win that battle.
Once that fleet is dealt with, and the smaller islands around the Arbor are secure in our possession, we will have an opening to ravage the coasts of the Reach with impunity, as King Qhored Hoare once did, thousands of years ago. And that will scare the Tyrells more than a few burning fields ever could. A mighty threat for us to wield in any negotiation."
It was that notion that was swimming around in Victarion's head the rest of morning as he wound his way through the keep to the quarters that Euron had so briefly laid claim. His body had already been taken away, though the bloodstained sheets were left on the bed. Euron's mongrels had wanted to spirit his corpse away somewhere secret to see to his last rites the day before, but Victarion had them stopped.
Euron had always spurned the Drowned God, always spat on the traditions of the Ironborn. Victarion would ensure his funeral would see him sent down to the Drowned God's watery halls. It was a grace Victarion was loathe to give, but he knew it would be necessary to win the favour of some of the more reluctant captains, and that Euron's welcome into the Drowned God's realm was likely to be a painful one, as he was forced to pay the price for his many heresies.
Victarion watched as the women worked, sewing Euron's body into sailcloth, ready for his watery grave.
The hours passed quickly, and before long the time for the funeral had come.
Victarion did not spare his brother many words, and part of him was tempted to go and piss on Euron's corpse. Nevertheless, he restrained himself, and watched as the little boat was pushed off the beach by a few ironmen, watched it bob in the water as it drifted away. He sounded the order, and watched as the flaming arrows arced overhead and struck their target, watched the barrow slowly catching fire. Watched as it slowly took on water, and the flames sank below the horizon.
He returned to Lord Hewett's hall in a circumspect mood, where the feasting had already begun. Any opportunity to drink, it seemed. But Victarion was of no mind to celebrate, eyeing his captains with a surly gaze as they made merry, celebrating the life and demise of the man he had hated with all his heart.
I won't simply be Euron's successor, he decided, midway through the feasting. I will be king in my own right, a king so great that no ironborn will remember the Crow's Eye in a generation's time. Men will sing my name as they sing of Qhored the Cruel and Ravos the Raper. Victarion took a bracing gulp of wine and rose to his feet. Few eyes saw him at first, but before long the tumult died and all the captains arrayed were gazing up at him, stood tall at the head of the hall.
"Ironborn! It was once said that ironmen could claim dominion wherever you could smell the salt of the water, hear the roar of the waves. But over the years the greenlanders have grown scornful of us, complacent in their safety. They have forgotten what it means to fear! Are we going to allow this?"
He paused for a moment, his gaze imperious, eyes burning like only a true reaver's could. A thunderous cacophony ensued, each captain declaring with all their heart that the greenlanders would soon learn the meaning of fear, banging their cups on the tables. Only Harlaw did not partake, watching with a curious eye.
Victarion went with the tumult of the crowd, roaring over the noise. "We are reavers! The descendants of men whose names still strike fear across all Westeros! The descendants of men who laid claim to all the shores - and then took them! We are reavers of the Iron Islands! We do not sow - we reap! We will remind the greenlanders the meaning of fear! The Drowned God demands it! So I ask you all to ready your ships, and sharpen your blades. For our next conquest is the Arbor!"
...
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