The sea did not forget.
It only waited.
On the Iron Islands, the wind never stopped. It tore against cliffs, howled through broken towers, and carried salt deep into the bones of men raised on stone and storm. The waves struck Pyke like war drums, relentless and patient.
Peace had come to Westeros.
The Ironborn did not trust it.
Inside the Great Keep of Pyke, torches burned low against damp stone walls. The Driftwood Throne stood carved from the wreckage of ships, ancient and dark, crowned with the bleached bones of long-dead captains.
Upon it sat Yara Greyjoy.
She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, listening as captains argued below.
"We bent the knee," one growled, scar splitting his lip. "We swore to the Dragon Queen. She is dead."
"Dead queens make weak alliances," another replied. "The mainland fights over grain and rumors. We fight for survival."
Yara's gaze cut through them. "You fight for plunder."
Murmurs followed.
A younger captain stepped forward. "The realm is distracted. The North watches the sea. King's Landing whispers of dragons. This is our moment."
"Our moment for what?" Yara asked sharply.
"To take back what was promised."
"And what was promised?"
"Freedom."
The word echoed in the chamber.
Yara stood slowly. "We have ships. We have autonomy. We govern our islands without southern interference."
"That is not freedom," the older captain spat. "That is permission."
The torches flickered as wind forced its way through cracks in the stone.
Yara descended from the throne, boots striking hard against the wet floor.
"You think I fear war?" she said quietly. "I was raised in it. I bled for it."
"Then why hesitate?"
"Because war with dragons is not war with men."
The room stilled.
One captain laughed roughly. "Rumors."
"Rumors burn fleets," Yara answered.
Another captain stepped forward. "If the Dragon Queen lives, we align with her again."
"And if she does not?" Yara asked.
"Then we carve our own path."
Yara studied their faces. Ambition. Hunger. Restlessness.
The sea had raised them this way.
"King Bran sits quietly in his city of ash," the younger captain said. "He does not threaten us."
"Not openly," Yara replied.
"You trust him?"
"No."
"Then why obey him?"
Yara's eyes hardened. "Because survival is not always rebellion."
The older captain struck his fist against the table. "We are not farmers. We are Ironborn."
"And Ironborn drown when they mistake pride for strength," Yara shot back.
Silence.
The wind screamed outside.
One of the quieter captains finally spoke. "There are reports of ships vanishing east of the Stepstones."
Yara turned sharply. "Vanishing how?"
"Burned."
The chamber grew still.
"No survivors," the man continued. "Charred wreckage found drifting."
A heavy pause followed.
"Dragonfire?" someone whispered.
"Perhaps."
Yara walked toward the narrow window overlooking the sea. Dark water churned below, moonlight fractured by waves.
"If Drogon lives," she said quietly, "then the balance shifts."
"Toward whom?" a captain asked.
Yara's voice was low. "Toward chaos."
The younger captain stepped closer. "Then we must strike before chaos chooses for us."
Yara turned slowly.
"You want war because it feels familiar," she said. "You mistake noise for power."
"And you mistake caution for wisdom," he replied.
For a moment, the air felt as though it might ignite.
Then Yara spoke evenly.
"We will send scouts."
Murmurs of dissatisfaction rippled through the chamber.
"We will not raid," she continued firmly. "We will not provoke."
"And if the mainland weakens further?" the older captain pressed.
"Then we take advantage," Yara said. "But not before."
The captains exchanged glances.
"We are Ironborn," the younger one muttered.
"Yes," Yara replied. "And Ironborn survive storms. They do not charge into them blindly."
The meeting dissolved slowly, tension lingering like salt in the air.
Later that night, Yara stood alone along the cliffside. The sea wind tore at her cloak.
She remembered Daenerys.
The fire in her eyes.
The certainty.
She had believed in her once.
Now belief felt dangerous.
Footsteps approached behind her.
It was the quiet captain who had spoken of burned ships.
"You think she lives," he said softly.
Yara did not answer immediately.
"I think," she said at last, "that if she lives, she will not return quietly."
"And if she does not?"
"Then someone else will rise in her name."
The captain nodded slowly. "The sea grows restless."
"So does the realm."
He hesitated. "If King Bran demands loyalty again?"
Yara's lips curved faintly.
"He already has it."
"And if he demands more?"
Yara looked toward the dark horizon.
"Then he will learn what it means to ask the Iron Islands for more."
The captain left her alone with the wind.
Far out across the water, lightning flickered on the horizon.
Or something else.
Yara narrowed her eyes.
For a moment, she thought she saw movement against the clouds.
Too large.
Too deliberate.
She did not speak of it.
The sea did not forget.
It stirred.
And when the Iron Islands stirred with it, the rest of Westeros would feel the tide shift beneath their feet.