Even though the ironborn reavers had always called their greatest captains "kings"—Dalton the Red Kraken, Dagon the Drunken Kraken, Qhored the Cruel—only one man had ever knelt on the holy shore of Old Wyk, let the Drowned Priest pour seawater over his head, and walked away wearing the driftwood crown as Iron King, independent of the Seven Kingdoms.
That man was Balon Greyjoy.
His name would carry the loudest, and later he would bleed the hardest.
After the ceremony, King Balon strode up the scrub-covered hill with his brothers, his sons, and the chief lords of the Iron Islands at his back. He stared out at the restless black sea.
"We will revive the glory of the Grey King," Balon declared, voice thick with faith. "What is dead may never die. We take what is ours. Strong hands take. Weak hands plow."
"What is dead may never die!" Victarion roared in answer.
"What is dead may never die!"
"King Balon!"
"King Balon!"
House Greyjoy's prestige still burned bright. After all, they had been chosen to rule the islands once Black Harren went up in dragonflame, and their blood ran thick with the Old Way.
The first families of the ironborn had been the Greyirons, the Hoares, and now the Greyjoys. Every ironborn house claimed descent from the Grey King and his sons—except the Goodbrothers, who liked to say they came from the Grey King's loyal older brother.
Back when kingsmoots still decided things, only the Greyirons and Goodbrothers had produced more kings than the Greyjoys. The Greyirons had boasted twice as many royal lines as anyone else. But the Greyirons were gone now, wiped out by a coalition of Orkwood, Drumm, Hoare, and Greyjoy longships backed by Andal sellswords and pirates. Ironborn didn't care about ancient blood when it was time to kill.
"Father, now that you wear the crown, once we burn Lannisport the whole green world will tremble," Prince Rodrik said, eyes shining.
"That's right," Maron agreed.
Crow's Eye watched his two young nephews and smiled inside. They were still boys. The Drowned God had never been gentle with children.
If the two little krakens died, Euron would not shed a tear.
"It won't be that simple," the Reader warned again, calm as ever. "The Iron Throne has two great fleets—the Redwyne fleet and the royal fleet—and far more ships than we do."
"The dragons are gone," Victarion cut in, optimistic as always. "Robert won his throne with a warhammer. All we need is one spark. The Reach, Dorne, the Crownlands, the Riverlands—everything will burn."
"Exactly," Balon said, nodding with satisfaction. Victarion was the perfect son—strong, loyal, and simple. He was everything Balon wanted in an heir.
Crow's Eye, on the other hand… Balon always felt like those mismatched eyes were laughing at him. Euron wanted more than just to be a tool.
"The Iron Islands and the Iron Throne are not evenly matched," Rodrik Harlaw pressed. "The green lands are richer and more populous. And those old royalist lords may hate Robert, but they hate us even more."
"Enough, Lord Harlaw," Balon snapped, clenching his fist. "Many things are not about whether we can, but whether we dare. I believe the ironborn's natural courage will let us conquer the green lands and shake the Seven Kingdoms."
"The Iron Fleet sails at first light," Crow's Eye said smoothly. "We strike the lion's arm, burn their fleet in harbor, sack Lannisport, and give the captains a taste. Once that's done, the Riverlands and the Westerlands lie open."
"So be it," Balon said. "Move fast. I've banned all merchant ships from leaving the islands, but word may still slip out. We hit them before they can wake."
"Then we wait for Uncle's plan to work," Rodrik said cheerfully. "Once the Westerlands fleet is ash, those soft Riverlanders won't stand a chance."
Balon's plan was simple. Euron, Victarion, and Aeron would take the Iron Fleet and strike the Westerlands. His two sons would sail their own longships into the Riverlands.
Even the division of forces showed how little Balon thought of the Trident. The Riverlands were rich, but they had no great fleet and few real knights. Balon wanted his boys to blood themselves properly. An iron king who couldn't burn and reave would never sit the Seastone Chair for long.
Victarion was the bull. Crow's Eye was the raven.
Dawn broke over Lannisport. The harbor had just opened, the morning mist still clinging to the water like cold breath.
Then the sea changed.
A black wall of sails rose from the fog—hundreds of them—golden krakens glaring from every canvas. The Iron Fleet had come.
The ironborn had timed it perfectly. The Lannister fleet sat fat and lazy at anchor, crews mostly ashore.
"Enemy sails!" the watchmen screamed, ringing the alarm bells. "Enemy sails!"
Lannisport's garrison was well trained—better than the City Watch of Oldtown or King's Landing, or so they liked to boast. But ironborn were born raiders, and this was no fair fight. This was a surprise attack.
"Enemy sails!"
"Enemy sails!"
Sailors and soldiers on shore could only watch in horror. Most of the golden fleet's crews were still in taverns and brothels. The red-cloaked Lannister guards couldn't swim out to their ships.
Fire-scorpions spat flaming bolts. Catapults hurled barrels of pitch and boiling oil. The ironborn galleys—lean, fast, and reinforced—slipped between the heavier Lannister warships like wolves among sheep.
One by one the proud golden lion ships burst into flame. The Sunset Sea itself seemed to burn.
"Kill them all!" Victarion roared from the deck of his flagship. "Fire and steel for the Drowned God!"
He wore full plate even on ship, axe in his mailed fist. Victarion thought going into battle without armor was for cowards.
His longship rammed a golden war galley with a bone-jarring crash. Grappling hooks flew. The boarding fight was brutal, short, and completely one-sided.
Victarion leaped across, axe swinging. A golden-haired captain tried to meet him with a sword; Victarion's axe sheared the man's sword hand clean off. One shove and the screaming captain went overboard, armor dragging him straight to the bottom.
The Iron Fleet commander was a bull in battle. The Lannister sailors wore almost no armor. They died where they stood.
More ironborn poured across. They laughed as they killed, happy to bring pain.
They wasted nothing. Rings, necklaces, golden breastplates, jeweled weapons—everything of value came off the dead. They even hacked the golden figureheads from the prows. A good day's reaving.
"It's over," the garrison commander groaned from his watchtower, watching the pride of the Westerlands go up in smoke. "Everything is finished."
The Westerlanders had grown complacent. Tywin Lannister was the King's father-in-law, a great lord feared across the realm. Who would dare touch his fleet?
And old King Quellon had kept the peace for years—no private reaving, maesters and septons allowed ashore. The lions had forgotten what ironborn truly were.
Victarion stood on the burning deck, chest heaving, satisfied. "Back to the ships!"
With their fleet destroyed, Lannisport had no way to chase them.
The ironborn had won. Every man carried loot. The Sunset Sea was theirs.
Next they could raid the coastal towns of the Westerlands at will—or sail straight for the Riverlands.
The sea glowed red with fire and blood.
Crow's Eye watched the flames from his own deck, listening to the screams inside them. He loved slaughter. He loved it more than anything.
I have brought chaos, Euron thought with deep satisfaction.
Except for the handful of ships still under repair in the Casterly Rock shipyards, the entire golden fleet was gone—screaming as it burned.
Flames licked from hull to hull until the pride of Lannisport was nothing but smoke and ash.
Blood and fire had returned to Westeros.