A New World- Chp- 39 (Patreon)

Harry stood tall upon the platform of the Iron Throne, the seat made of jagged metal, of kings loomed behind him like a shadow. Below him, the Great Hall of the Red Keep was packed with the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms, their whispers a constant drone that ceased the moment the King drew breath.

The King looked down at his uncle, his expression unreadable.

This was perhaps the first court he had held after taking the throne, or perhaps the first after his father. Joffrey's reign had been short, and he had rarely held a court, if any.

To the side, Lady Selyse and young Shireen stood under heavy guard. The mother's face was pale white, while his cousin, who looked small, fragile, and marked by the grey scales of her affliction, trembled with a nervous energy.

"You stand before me accused of high treason, Lord Stannis Baratheon," He said, his voice echoing off the high stone rafters.

His uncle looked up, his face defiant despite the heavy iron manacles at his wrists.

His months spent in the Red Keep as a captive had stripped him of his usual groomed asceticism. He had allowed his beard to grow into a thick, square hedge of black hair shot through with aggressive streaks of white.

In the flickering torchlight, the resemblance to the late King Robert was there, yet where the late King had been a man of boisterous fire, his captive brother was a man of cold, unyielding iron.

"You dared to rise against your rightful king, amassing an army and a fleet to besiege the capital," Harry continued, his green eyes locking onto his uncle's uncaring gaze. "How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," Stannis said, the words ringing out with a clarity that silenced the remaining whispers in the court. "I rose against the absurdity of a bastard being hailed as a King after my brother's death. I rose because the crown, by the laws of men and the ancient decrees of the gods, belongs to a Baratheon. I did not seek a throne; I sought the law."

"And that Baratheon was to be you? Not me? You claim Joffrey was a bastard, and by extension, you cast the same shadow over Tommen and Myrcella." Harry scowled, leaning forward slightly. "But even by your own logic, Uncle, you were not the heir. If the Queen's elder children were illegitimate, then I, the firstborn of Robert Baratheon, was the rightful King the moment my father breathed his last."

From the side, Lady Selyse could no longer contain herself. She stepped forward, her pointed chin trembling. "And did you rise for your claim, nephew? No. You sat in the shadows, influenced by that whore of a mother and this misshapen, evil imp!" She jabbed a finger toward Tyrion, who stood at Harry's side.

"This entire defence relies on an assumption that was never proven," The King countered, his voice rising to drown out his aunt's thin voice. He turned back to Stannis. "You failed to prove Joffrey's illegitimacy to the realm, Uncle. Instead of seeking a council or a trial of truth, you gathered men and a fire priestess and marched on the capital to seize the crown by force."

"We both know what he was," His uncle replied, his voice low. "You and I discussed the inconsistencies of his birth long before the first bird flew."

"I never claimed Joffrey to be a bastard," He said firmly, aware that the eyes of the court were searching for any crack in his legitimacy. He could not allow his mother's name to be dragged through the mud after her death, regardless of the secrets he held in his own heart. "What we discussed was the suspicious death of Lord Arryn. You suspected my mother's hand in it. I, however, have come to know the truth: it was the work of Petyr Baelish, a man who thrives on the chaos you so eagerly provided."

"Do you have proof of this, or is this merely the word of a King who wishes to shield his house?" Selyse snapped.

The King felt a surge of genuine annoyance. This was a trial for the fate of a realm, not a bickering match between kin.

Before he could speak, Tyrion cleared his throat.

"We are straying from the point of these proceedings," His Hand said, his voice dry and authoritative. "This trial is to conclude whether Lord Stannis waged a war of aggression without a legal claim. The parentage of the late King Joffrey is a matter for the history books."

"Exactly," Harry said with finality. "Even using your own logic, Lord Stannis, I was the next in line. My decision to allow Joffrey to reign did not transfer my birthright to you by any law. You were a pretender, seeking to jump the line of succession through blood."

He leaned back, his gaze cold. "Am I right or wrong, Uncle?"

His uncle stood silent for a long moment, his jaw grinding. He looked at the floor, his shoulders slumping just an inch. He did not answer, and in that silence, the court found its verdict.

"I find you guilty, Lord Stannis," Harry declared. "And as such, I sentence you to the Wall."

Stannis looked up, his eyes wide. "I am entitled to a choice. The sword or the black."

"No," He replied, his voice brooking no argument. "I will not give you a choice, Uncle. You are a rebel and a pretender, but you are still my kin. I will not be a kinslayer, directly or indirectly. I will not have your blood on my hands or the hands of my headsman."

The King continued, "You will be sent to the Night's Watch, where you will serve the realm you claimed to love for the remainder of your days. You are a commander of great skill; the Wall needs men of your iron. Perhaps there you will find the duty you spoke so much of."

His uncle looked defeated, the fire finally going out of his eyes. He looked toward his family. "And what of my wife and Shireen? Will they pay for my war as well?"

Harry looked at Shireen, whose small hand was clutching her mother's gown. He softened his voice. "Lady Selyse will remain under house arrest at Storm's End. Shireen, however, will remain here at the Red Keep as my royal ward. To ease your mind, I will inform you that Uncle Renly has agreed to name Shireen his heir until such time as he has a child of his own."

"And if he has a son?" Selyse asked, her face a mask of stone.

"Then the boy shall be betrothed to Shireen to unite the claims," He explained. "If he has a girl, Shireen remains the heir. Should the age difference be too vast, Shireen will be married to a high lord of my choosing, and her firstborn shall marry Renly's descendant."

Stannis took a deep breath and nodded slowly. "I accept these terms, Your Grace."

"That was one hell of a trial, Harry," Tyrion said, his voice echoing slightly in the expanse of the Small Council chamber. He let out a weary sigh as he hauled his diminutive frame into the heavy oak chair designated for the Hand of the King.

The room felt large and unnervingly quiet; the usual bustle of advisors and suckups had been stripped away by war and treachery, leaving the council table a group of empty seats.

Only three other men occupied the room.

Pycelle was hunched in his chair, his long, snowy beard spilling over the table like a pile of old snow. The old man was currently feigning sleep, his folded eyes fluttering shut as he acted to be a harmless, doddering coot.

A performance Tyrion knew well.

Across from him sat Jaime, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

His brother looked like a man who had been dragged through the seven hells and back. Dark, discoloured circles hung under his eyes, and his golden plate was stained and buckled, put on with a sloppiness that would have made their father weep.

His golden-blonde hair was a matted, messy nest. Tyrion knew the truth of his brother's condition; Jaime had spent the last moons drowning in wine, unable to surface from the crushing weight of Cersei's death.

Since Harry's absence from the capital, the daily duties of the Kingsguard had been managed by Ser Barristan, and more recently by Ser Arys, while the Lord Commander existed in a state of functional catatonia.

The King sat at the head of the table, his features sharp and his eyes cold. He had already reserved a seat for Renly Baratheon, inviting the Lord of Storm's End to return as Master of Laws to bridge the gap between their houses.

It left three seats out of seven empty, not an ideal situation for a realm in recovery, but better than the chaos Harry had inherited.

The King looked at Tyrion, giving a curt nod. "What about Aurane Waters?"

"Lord Monford Velaryon has been summoned to the capital," Tyrion replied, shifting to find a comfortable position. "He is to take full responsibility for his brother's conduct. The Velaryons are prideful, but they are not suicidal; We will put sanctions on them and take command of the navy for now."

Harry ignored Jaime entirely as he spoke. He noticed it, as he noticed everything.

His nephew avoided his Kingsguard uncle like a plague-bearer, and vice versa. There was a celar hostility between the two, a lack of favour that made the air in the room feel thin.

"Good," Harry said, his voice light but dangerously distracted. "We need to look to the White Swords. Ser Loras is gone, abducted by gods know whom. That leaves us with only four members of the Kingsguard, and one of those is currently wallowing in grief rather than duty."

Jaime's head snapped up at that, the insult cutting through his alcoholic fog.

A dark, ugly sneer twisted his handsome features. Tyrion felt the temperature in the room drop. He recognised that look, it was the hostility of a man who had lost everything and had nothing left to protect but his pride.

"And you are not," his brother spat, his voice chafing from disuse. He glared at the King with an almost visceral hatred.

The distracted, regal mask Harry wore vanished instantly. He turned toward Jaime, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Pardon me? Did you just—"

"Yes, I did," His brother snapped, interrupting the King with a careless lack of caution. "I said you are barely grieving. You sit there and discuss shipmasters and levies as if Cersei's death doesn't even matter to you. As if she weren't your own mother."

Tyrion noted that Jaime had failed to mention Joffrey. Even in his rage, his brother knew which ghost to summon and which to keep buried.

"And you would know the depth of my grief, would you?" The King asked. He didn't raise his voice, but the steel in it was enough to make the Grand Maester's eyes pop open in sudden, genuine terror.

"I see it!" The blonde Kingsguard shouted, pushing himself up on unsteady legs. The chair screeched against the floor. "Not a day after she was cold in the ground, you were gallivanting off to search for that Stark girl."

"And my siblings," Harry corrected, his voice dropping. "I went to secure my siblings, too. My mother's death does not absolve me of my responsibility to Tommen and Myrcella, or to my wife, or to the millions of people in this realm who rely on a King who doesn't lose his mind to a flagon of wine."

"As if you care for anyone but yourself," Jaime sneered, leaning over the table. Pycelle was fully awake now, his head glancing between the two men like a viewer at a tournament. "That throne belonged to Joffrey. He was the King. You're just a scavenger picking through the ruins."

That was the breaking point. Tyrion saw it a second before it happened.

The King surged forward with a speed that was entirely his. He was known for being lightning fast despite being in metal armour.

He crossed the distance in a blur, his hand lashing out to grasp the top of Jaime's golden cuirass. Because Harry was several inches taller and wider than the worn-down Jaime, he physically loomed over him, forcing the Lord Commander back.

"Your bastard?" The King roared, his voice shaking the very walls of the chamber. He was beyond caring that Pycelle was listening; the secret was a festering wound, and he finally tore it open. "The throne belonged to your bastard?"

His brother's face went from flushed red to a deathly, chalky pale. He sputtered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "What—how—"

"Did you truly think I would not know?" Harry snarled, his grip tightening until the metal of Jaime's armour groaned. He shoved the Kingsguard back toward the table, pinning him with his gaze, his fingers still on the armour. "I am not my father, Kingslayer. I see what is in front of my face. I knew. Mother knew that I knew. I kept my silence for her sake, I deceived my father for her sake, and you have the audacity to think I didn't love her?"

Jaime looked down, the fire in him extinguished by a deluge of pure, unadulterated guilt. He looked small, broken, and utterly defeated.

"I saved your damn life!" His nephew continued, looming over him like a wrathful god. "By not uttering the truth to my father, I kept your head on your shoulders and hers on hers. He would have slaughtered the both of you and put that insipid, cruel bastard of yours to the sword. I bore the weight of your sin, and you dare question my grief?"

The King took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly forcing his mind back into a cold, analytical state. He stepped back, releasing his grip on the blonde Kingsguard armour.

The Lannister knight slunk back into his seat, his head bowed.

"You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," His nephew said, his voice now flat and icy. "Yet you spend your days floundering in cups. I do not have the luxury of your self-pity. I have a realm to secure, and I cannot do it with an ousted commander performing your duties. I have decisions to make. Stay out of my way, or I will find someone who can carry the weight of a white cloak without falling over."

Jaime nodded silently, staring at the grain of the wood on the table. He didn't speak again.

Tyrion frowned internally. His brother had been monumentally stupid.

Harry's patience was already as thin as paper, drained by the death of his mother, the loss of his wife, and the burden of banishing his own uncle.

"Now," The King said, returning to his seat as if the explosion had never happened. "Back to the Kingsguard. I intend to add Ser Robar Royce to the order."

"The second son of Bronze Yohn?" Tyrion asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the safety of politics.

Harry nodded.

"His name was suggested before, Your Grace," Pycelle said in a weary, trembling voice, his act of sleep long forgotten. "But Queen Cersei rejected it."

"I know that, it was I who suggested him. A mistake on mother's part," Harry said. "The Royces are the second most powerful house in the Vale. Naming Lord Royce's son to the Kingsguard will bind them to the crown in a way that Lady Lysa cannot easily undo."

"Considering Lady Arryn's insistence that Lannisters were responsible for the death of her husband, it is a wise move," Jaime said quietly, his voice hollow but steady.

The Hand was surprised his brother had the courage to speak up so soon after being chastised, but perhaps the shock had sobered him.

His nephew acknowledged the point with a curt nod. "Send the invitation, Pycelle. Tell Lord Royce his son is wanted at the capital."

"I would like to propose another name," Tyrion said. He had been nursing this idea for weeks. It was a move that would connect the crown directly to the Riverlands, bypassing the North's influence.

The King gestured for him to proceed.

"Ser Brynden Tully," Tyrion said.

The name hung in the air. His brother frowned. "The Blackfish? He's a legend, but he's aged, and he's never been fond of the capital."

"He was one of the most effective commanders in the Greyjoy Rebellion," The dwarf reminded them. "He led the Riverland forces at Lord Hoster's behest. He's a veteran, but an able knight."

"He's also currently in the Eyrie, isn't he? Serving at the Bloody Gate?" Jaime asked.

The Dwarf shook his head. "No longer. When Robb Stark marched, the Blackfish returned to Riverrun to lead his nephew's vanguards. I've had reports from Uncle Kevan—Brynden Tully gave our forces a hell of a chase."

Jaime's expression shifted to one of grudging respect. Kevan Lannister was an able commander; making him flee was no small feat.

"He stays at Riverrun now," Tyrion continued. "Since the death of Lord Hoster, he has been acting as the Master-at-Arms for his nephew, Edmure. He's a Tully through and through, but he's a man of duty. If the King calls, and the offer is a white cloak, he may see it as the ultimate way to protect his family's interests in the capital."

"Send him a letter," The King ordered. "He's a formidable swordsman and an even better strategist. We need both."

Tyrion nodded, satisfied. Tying the Vale through Royce and the Riverlands through Tully was a masterstroke. The realm was still broken, but piece by piece, Harry was rebuilding the frame.

"And Grandmaester, if I hear any of what was discussed here from someone's mouth. Your head will be mine," His nephew said, with a tilt to his head, his cold eyes on the Grand Maester.

The Old Maester nodded, his face pale, and his hand trembling.

Arya shifted her weight, the rough bark of the weirwood tree biting into her palms, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to feel, as she peered through the pale, spindly branches. Her body leaned into the trunk, seeking the view ahead.

In front of her, in a small clearing where the snow was trampled into a grey slush, the southern knight in the half-mask was moving with a swift, uncanny grace. He was guiding Bran through a sequence of sword forms, but even to Arya's trained eyes, it seemed remarkably unfamiliar.

The sword style of the North was a blunt tool, less a dance and more of a sharp weapon for survival. It was built for men wearing thick furs and boiled leather, focused on the brutal task of slaying a foe rather than the extravagant flourish of a tourney knight.

She had watched Robb and Jon spar in the yard for years; they were better killers than any knight she had seen in the south, moving with a rough, wolfish urgency.

Her thoughts drifted to her brother still in the Capital. In the training yards of Winterfell, the men now spoke of him in hushed, reverent tones, using a name that made her mother's face turn to stone: the Red Wolf.

The rumours of the war in the King's Landing against Stannis had crossed the Neck like a sea breeze. It was whispered that when the fighting was done and the rebellious King had been broken, Ser Jon was so saturated with the blood of his enemies that his very shadow seemed stained red.

His armour had been untouched, and his sword had tasted bloods of a hundred knights that day.

The King, Haridon, was cut from the same dark cloth. Arya remembered him as a man of fewer words and more action. She would always be grateful to him; he had saved her father's head from the block and her own life from the chaos of the capital.

He was a Baratheon who didn't waste time on alcohol, banquet or women, and she respected that.

She turned her focus back to the clearing. The masked knight was using a style that felt southern, perhaps even further south than the Reach, something dusty and sharp. Bran, however, was struggling to adapt.

Her brother's movements were still landed in the Northern way, reminiscent of Robb's heavy-handed strikes. The Godswood remained a place of eccentric calm around them.

Usually, only her father came here to find peace. Robb preferred to work out his frustrations in the yard, battering training dummies and knights until his tension bled out.

Arya felt a phantom weight at her hip where Needle rested. Her own training was nearing a transition. Master Syrio had taught her that the Water Dance was not a style of many tricks, but one of unconditional practice.

Mastery came not from learning a thousand steps, but from perfecting the ten that mattered. He was still in Winterfell, though it was clear the First Sword of Braavos was losing his battle with the Northern climate.

The man shivered even by the hearth, and Arya knew that sooner or later, he would follow the sun back to the south or across the Narrow Sea.

He remained for now because of the "buzz." It was a low-frequency hum of anxiety that had permeated the castle walls over the last few days.

Arya felt it in the way the guards sharpened their spears and the way the kitchen maids whispered over the dough.

Her return to the North had been a sequence of surprises, the first being the wolves. Nymeria had found her way home, but she hadn't come alone. She had brought Lady. She had been fearful when she had run her away, thinking her wolf would lose its way to her home.

Arya had cried when she saw the direwolf, hugging the silver-grey fur until her face was moist. She had never been close to Sansa's wolf; they were as different as she and her sister were, yet Lady had gravitated toward her in the absence of her mistress.

Her mother, at first, had been wroth with her endeavours to learn the swordsmanship. Her father had been the one to support her training. After seeing what "southern manners" and courtly life had done to Sansa, Lord Eddard had cast aside the Septa's curriculum for his younger daughter.

He had argued fiercely with her mother, asserting that Northern ladies were barred from nothing.

If her combat skills made her unmarriageable in the delicate, golden South, then he would find her a husband in the North, where women were expected to know the weight of a blade. A lot of Stark women had found their husbands in the North and led fruitful and happy lives.

That friction between her parents had reached its zenith when the news of Sansa's abduction arrived.

Her mother had wept and insisted that Petyr Baelish would never harm a Stark, that he was a "dear friend" of hers.

Arya remembered the man's oily smile and the way his eyes lingered on things they shouldn't; she agreed with her father. Baelish was a snake in silk. He had been beside the King when her father had been dragged to the court, and had supported Joffrey when talks of her father's execution arose.

But the current buzz was different. It had started when Uncle Benjen arrived from the Wall, accompanied by two black brothers who looked as if they had seen the gates of the seven hells.

Immediately, a closed-door council had been struck.

Her father, her uncle, Robb, and even Bran had been locked in the solar for hours.

When the doors finally opened, the ravens had flown. The banners were being called.

The closer houses—Cerwyn, Tallhart, and Hornwood—had already arrived, their retinues turning the white fields outside Winterfell into a city of grey and brown tents.

The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and horse manure. Winter was officially here, meaning the lords couldn't bring their full strength without starving their own lands, but the force gathering was formidable nonetheless.

Arya gripped the tree trunk harder, her eyes narrowing as she watched the masked man disarm Bran with a flick of his wrist. Something was moving in the deep dark of the North, something that scared even the men of the Watch.

She needed to know what was said in that solar. She would find out soon; a wolf didn't need an invitation to hear the truth.

The moon was out of the clouds in the sky as Arya slunk into her father's solar.

She had always been discreet, as far as she could remember. Her slight frame and short stature were her greatest tools; she had used them to disappear from Septa Mordane's endless lectures, to evade her mother's sharp rebukes, and to avoid her father's gentle but firm scoldings.

As a child, she had hidden in the crypts with Jon to jump out at a terrified Robb, or tucked herself behind tapestries with both of them to watch Sansa's face turn white with a well-placed ghostly moan.

Hiding was not just a game; it was her nature. She used that instinct now, slipping through the heavy oak door and closing it with a click so faint it was lost to the wind howling outside the battlements.

Her father was a man of early mornings, preferring to break fast as the sun touched the snow rather than burn the midnight oil. Yet, as she stepped into the room, she saw a slumped frame in the Lord's chair.

Her father sat with his hands flat on the desk, his forehead resting against them in a posture of total exhaustion. He was asleep, the flickering hearth casting long, weary shadows across the wall.

Arya winced, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't want to disturb him.

She turned to exit on the balls of her feet, but the edge of her boot caught a discarded wooden pin on the floor. It rolled across the stone with a hollow, echoing thrum-clack that sounded like a war drum in the silence of the night.

"Arya?"

The voice was thick with sleep and heavy with the weight of the North. She froze, then turned slowly to see her father rubbing the grit from his eyes.

He looked older than he had a moon ago.

"What are you doing here so late? Did your mother send you?" he asked, blinking as he tried to find his bearings.

"No," Arya said. She was a proficient liar when it came to the Septa or the kitchen staff, but under the steady, sincere gaze of her father, her tongue felt heavy. She wouldn't lie to him.

"Come, sit," he said, stretching his shoulders until his joints popped.

She nodded and moved to the chair opposite him, feeling small in the presence of the maps and ravens' scrolls that littered his desk.

"Why were you here, Arya?"

"Something is happening," she said, her voice small but tight.

He frowned, but she pressed on before he could dismiss her. "I saw the meetings. You, Uncle Ben, Robb, and Bran had. If Bran is old enough to know, then I am too. You didn't tell me, so I came to find out for myself."

Her father scowled, but there was no real heat in it, only a tired sort of resignation. "And for that, you broke into my office?"

"I have to know," she insisted stubbornly.

Her father eyed her for a long moment, the flickering firelight reflecting in his grey eyes. Finally, he let out a long, heavy sigh and leaned back into the furs of his chair. "You lot are troublesome. I should have known better."

He leaned forward, his expression turning grave. "Fine. I will tell you. But this does not leave this room until the last of the lords arrive, and I have had words with them. Do I have your word?"

Arya straightened her back. She nodded once. She was a Stark, and a Stark knew how to keep a secret.

"And you tell the truth, don't you, my servant?" Euron said, a chilling smile carving through his features as his right hand clamped onto the cheeks of his messenger.

Hotho Harlaw could only nod, his eyes fixed on Euron's single blue eye, glazed with a primal, choking fear.

The Captain of the Silence smiled, his blue, shade-of-the-evening stained lips peeling back to reveal teeth of a stark, predatory white. "So, all of them are dead?" he asked, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates.

Harlaw swallowed hard, nodding again. "As it seems, my lord. The Iron Islands are a graveyard of kings."

"Lord Balon was said to die from falling—blown off a bridge by the storm—and Lord Victarion was seen slain by Lord Aeron 'Damphair'," his messenger recounted dutifully, his voice shaking as he spoke of the kinslaying.

Euron chuckled, an empty sound that carried no joy. "Aeron? The pious fool killed Vic?"

Harlaw nodded quickly. "My brother saw it happen with his own eyes."

The Crow's Eye narrowed his gaze, his presence blackening. "And he did nothing to stop it?"

Hotho did not offer a refusal. "The boy had him under his control, my lord. He and any other captain of import. Saltcliffe, Blacktyde—everyone follows the boy now."

Euron waved an arm dismissively, turning his back. "Blacktyde is no reaver. A soft Greenlander, that one."

Hotho nodded, desperate to please the monster before him. The Crow's Eye walked toward the edge of the deck, looking down into the black water.

Suddenly, a massive rumble moaned through the hull of the ship. Hotho lunged for the railing, grabbing the wood until his knuckles turned white. These tremors had been constant since he arrived on the Greyjoys' Ship.

What caused them beneath the waves, he knew not, and he dreaded to find out.

Euron was scary, a man whose presence felt like a gathering storm on the horizon, yet Hotho Harlaw knew that the Crow's Eye was as rewarding as he was cruel.

In the culture of the Iron Islands, plunder was the only true currency. Most captains were frugal, clutching three-fifths of every haul for themselves before tossing the scraps to the men who had bled for it. Euron was different.

He took only two-sixths of the loot, a gesture that ensured his crew was the wealthiest and most passionate on the Sunset Sea.

Even in the matter of saltwives, the Crow's eye habits set him apart. Traditional reavers claimed the first right to the finest women, hoarding the beauties and leaving the plain or the broken for the crew.

Euron followed the tradition in name, but he rarely took more than one or two for his own cabin, allowing his men to indulge in the spoils of war. It was a strategy that bought him a frightening devotion, a dedication rooted in both riches and carnal desires.

Hotho's cousin had never been familiar with the wayward brother of the late Lord Balon. But Hotho, often called "the Humpback" by those who dared, was far more acquainted with Euron.

He had seen the way the man moved, like a shadow cast by a flickering candle, always deviating, always unsettling.

"This boy," Lord Euron said suddenly. He remained at the railing, his back to Hotho as his gaze swept across the churning, charcoal-colored waves. His hands, scarred and steady, gripped the wood with strength. "How does he look? Give me the measure of this 'Greyiron' pretender."

He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from wavering. "Tall, my lord. He does not possess the width of Lord Victarion, but he carries himself with a certain weight. His hair is the colour of grey, and his eyes... they are a light yellow. When he first appeared at the Kingsmoot, the rumours said he was hunched, but that vanished the moment Lord Balon was dead."

"And he claims the blood of my sister and those Greyiron scums," Euron mused. His voice carried a hint of disdain that Hotho identified; the age-old feud between the Greyjoys and the Greyirons was etched into the very marrow of the both families.

There had been enough blood spilled between the two houses over the ages to fill the Ironman's Bay twice over. To claim a union between them was an affront to every ghost in the Pyke. They were unofficially in a blood feud since the day the Grey King had died.

"Does he work alone?" the Crow's Eye asked, still refusing to look back.

"No, my lord. He has an army, men whose loyalty is unending and to him. No one has seen their faces beneath their helms, but they work on his command. It is how he seized the islands so quickly. His men were already there, hidden like serpents on every ship of Lord Victarion's Iron Fleet."

"And Victarion had the largest fleet after my exile, yes. I can see it," Euron muttered, finally turning around.

He leaned back against the railing, the wind catching his dark hair. The silence of the crew around them was absolute; they moved like ghosts, their tongues long ago harvested by their master. "What of Balon's true-born brood? The girl and the boy?"

Hotho frowned, trying to recall the latest whispers from the docks. "The Greyiron boy married Asha Greyjoy to solidify his claim. She stands by his side. As for Theon... he remains with the Greenlanders. The Starks hold him still."

"He is no more a Greyjoy then," Euron said, his blue-stained lips curling into a sneer. "It seems my brother lost all his sons to the North. Two to their swords, and the last was a craven who hadn't the stomach to murder Ned Stark's son and flee home. He is a dog on a Stark leash."

Just as the words left his mouth, another tremor rocked the Silence. This one was more violent than the rest, a tectonic heave that nearly threw Hotho from his feet.

The water alongside the ship began to boil and froth, turning a violent, frothing white.

Suddenly, a long, serpentine shape crested the surface. Hotho gasped, watching as a sleek, muscular length of scales rose from the depths. Euron didn't flinch; instead, he smiled viciously.

He walked toward a heavy iron-bound chest sitting beside the stairs that led into the belly of the vessel. Reaching inside, he fished out a shark—a reef shark of notable size, its grey fins and white underbelly shimmering.

With an effortless heave that spoke of a strength far beyond a normal man, the Greyjoy hurled the predator into the air over the side of the ship.

A massive head exploded from beneath the hull to catch the offering. Hotho scrambled backwards, his boots sliding on the wet deck, a cold shiver racing down his spine.

The creature was a deep blue, with bone-white protrusions extending from its cheeks like jagged horns. It unhinged its jaws, revealing rows of dagger-shaped teeth that could snap an oak mast like a dry twig.

Every Iron Islander grew up on stories of the Sea Dragons. They had all seen the gargantuan ribs of Nagga on Old Wyk and knew that, in the Age of Heroes, these beasts had ruled the depths.

The Maesters in Oldtown might write their sceptical scrolls doubting the existence of such monsters, but the reavers knew better. Yet, the common belief was that they had been wiped out by the dragons of the Targaryens or lost to the cooling of the seas.

Hotho was looking at living proof that the stories were true; they were as dead as the dragons beyond the narrow sea. He had heard the rumours: Dragon queen, three dragons and a Dothraki Khalasar. Interesting bunch, if he were to be honest.

The beast was not as large as the legendary Nagga, though, perhaps the length of three large bull sharks lined head-to-tail. Its head was wider than its body, and its belly was a pale, sickly yellow.

Most unsettling of all were its eyes—they were coal-black, reflecting the same dark gleam found in the cursed gaze of its master.

The creature let out a low, vibrating hum, a sound that resonated through the deck and into Hotho's very bones. It sounded like a leviathan's call, a deep-sea moan that suggested it could easily swallow a young whale.

The monster dived back into the depths, and a massive, barnacle-encrusted chain tied to the ship's prow began to crank and groan.

Suddenly, the Silence lurched forward, its speed doubling as the dragon began to pull the vessel through the waves.

"Do you see that, Harlaw?" the Crow's Eye asked, his voice taunting and grand. "That is what I bring back to the Iron Islands—a Sea Dragon. Live, all-powerful, and hungry. My reign will start with blood, but it will end with Iron. I am the storm that has returned to wash away the pretenders."

Hotho saw the madness then, glowing in Euron's eyes like a baleful star. The man was as insane as the stories suggested, perhaps even more so than the Mad King Aerys had ever been.

Yet, he had brought a power back to the islands that was unmistakable. With such a beast at his command, they might not only reclaim the islands but the very shores of the Greenlanders themselves.

Hotho dropped to his knees, his forehead nearly touching the salt-stained wood. "I am your servant, Your Grace. I came to you when the winds shifted. I am loyal to the true King of the Isles."

He heard the soft thud of footsteps approaching. Suddenly, a hand clamped into the back of his hair, yanking his head up with bruising force.

He found himself face-to-face with Euron. This time, the leather eye patch was pushed up onto his forehead. Both eyes, one a sharp, predatory blue and the other a dark, cursed black, stared directly into his soul.

"You're not loyal to me, Harlaw," the man said, a sharp click of his tongue punctuating the sentence.

He felt a pit of pure dread open in his stomach. He tried to speak, but his throat had gone dry.

"It isn't loyalty," The Crow's eye whispered, his blue lips peeling back in a cackle that sounded like breaking glass. "It's fear. Pure fear. And that... that makes it so much better. Fear me, Harlaw. For I am the god of this sea now. I will rule the throne with this fear,"

Hotho nodded frantically, unable to look away.

He realised then that Euron was indeed senile, possessed by a god-complex that defied reason. Yet, as the ship rushed forward through the deep sea, pulled by a monster of myth, he knew he would follow this madman to the ends of the earth.

Euron Greyjoy was perhaps the most powerful and dangerous creature in the known world now.