Game of Thrones White Wolf

Chapter 213 215: Euron’s Return to the Island

Pyke was the heart of Pyke Island, but decades of salt spray and howling sea winds had chewed the castle half to pieces. The main keep, the Hall of Kings, the kitchens, the study—every building sat linked by covered passages where they were close. Farther apart, they hung from swaying iron chain bridges that creaked and groaned like old bones.

Right now those chains outside the Hall of Kings were rattling hard in the gale, the whole bridge clanking like the world itself was coming apart.

"Not a single ship came back? That's impossible!" Lord Rodrik Harlaw's voice cracked with disbelief, like someone had just told him the sun rose in the west.

House Harlaw ruled the biggest island in the whole damn Iron Islands. They'd sent the most ships and men this time—fifteen war galleys and a hundred and eighty longships—because they sat closest to the North. The loss had gutted them.

He was glaring at Euron, but the question was really meant for Balon.

High on the Seastone Chair, Balon just sat there, face like a thundercloud, saying nothing.

"Where are they?" another lord snarled. He had a carefully trimmed half-foot beard—Gorold Goodbrother. "You came back alone? What about the rest of them?!"

He'd sent all three of his triplet sons with Euron, figuring they'd come home heroes after taking Winterfell. Now they were gone. All three. He couldn't wrap his head around it.

"More than eight thousand ironborn—wiped out?!" The man speaking wore the Hoare heart sigil on his chest. House Hoare—the same blood as Black Harren, the man who built Harrenhal.

"You've got some nerve showing your face here at all."

In the middle of the Hall of Kings, Euron stood alone while the lords of the Iron Islands hurled every insult and accusation they could think of. The words poured over him like sewage. This was the same man who saw himself as a god. He kept his head down so they wouldn't see the murder in his eye, but every name, every voice, he memorized. They'd pay later.

He had no choice but to take it. The Iron Islands had just suffered their worst defeat in living memory. Eight thousand veteran reavers—gone. Thirty-odd galleys, three hundred longships—nothing but splinters and ghosts. Not even an oar had washed ashore.

Asha watched her uncle with a cold knot in her stomach. Victarion had always been the kindest of her uncles, and now he was dead. Even when Balon's last rebellion failed, Victarion had survived. This time… nothing.

Aeron looked just as stunned. Eight thousand men. You could lose a couple thousand and shrug it off—sometimes ships sank, sometimes men drowned. But eight thousand? That wasn't bad luck; that was annihilation. Even eight thousand pigs wouldn't vanish that clean.

But Euron was the one person Aeron feared more than the Drowned God Himself, so he kept his mouth shut and glanced sideways at Balon. Balon was king. He sat the Seastone Chair. He had to answer for this.

The hall buzzed with anger—fear for the future, grief for lost ships and sons. Finally Balon cleared his throat. The noise died like someone had cut a throat.

"Euron returned to fight for the ironborn—to make us masters of our own fate," Balon said.

A few lords shifted, unhappy. Sounded like Balon was about to go easy on his brother.

"But the defeat was total," Balon went on, voice flat. "Victarion died leading the charge. Euron, as second-in-command, shares the blame. Still… the enemy is at our gates. If you're still a kraken, Euron, then fight like one. Die on the deck of a longship if you have to."

Euron lifted his chin. "I will die fighting, Your Grace."

Balon's eyes narrowed. "And if we win and you somehow live… the punishment will still come."

That was enough to quiet the worst of the grumbling. Balon waved Euron away before anyone else could speak.

Aeron and Asha exchanged a quick look. This wasn't the Balon they knew. The strongest kraken of House Greyjoy had never been one to show mercy—especially not to Euron. Yet here he was, shielding the man who'd just lost the entire fleet.

The defeat was brutal, sure, but the Iron Islands weren't dead yet. Victarion was gone, so the other lords swallowed their rage and moved on to the next order of business: rebuilding.

"We need more weapons, more ships, more men," Rodrik Harlaw said. Harlaw Island had the most people—hundreds of plantations and tens of thousands of thralls. They could supply bodies.

"House Goodbrother will send extra iron ore," Gorold muttered, still hollow-eyed.

A big, rough man from House Drumm spoke up. "We've got more than thirty thousand souls on these islands and over half are thralls. We'd better keep those bastards in line."

Everyone knew what that meant. The Iron Islands ran on slaves—captured sailors, smallfolk snatched from the mainland, wildlings dragged south. Pretty women became salt wives. Strong men hammered iron or died in the mines. Ugly or barren women got the same treatment. It had always been that way. But now, with the green lands closing in, they'd have to squeeze those thralls twice as hard.

Rebellions would follow. Everyone understood that. Nobody cared.

The meeting ended with a plan: crank out weapons, build new longships, bulk up the army, crush any slave uprisings, and sit tight behind strong defenses until the moment was right.

Afterward Aeron headed for the shore to pray to the Drowned God for the islands' protection. Asha caught his sleeve.

"Uncle."

"What is it, Asha?"

"Father… something's wrong with him lately."

Aeron frowned. "You think the king is ill?"

"No." Asha glanced around, then leaned in and dropped her voice. "He's… different."

She told him how Balon had seemed slow and foggy in recent conversations. At first she blamed age. But today in the hall he'd been sharp, clear, ruthless as ever. And when he heard Victarion was dead… almost no reaction. The Balon she knew had loved his brothers. He'd banished Euron partly to stop them from killing each other.

Asha was his daughter. She noticed things.

"Asha, that doesn't prove anything," Aeron said, but he sounded uneasy. "A king can't show weakness."

"Uncle, remember when Euron first came back? He gave Father a lamp. Father lights it even during the day. What if—"

"It's just a lamp," Aeron muttered, but his eyes flicked away. He felt it too. Something was off. Mentioning Euron still made his guts twist with fear.

"Uncle, we should talk to Euron. The story of the battle is too vague. Father didn't even press for details. Eight thousand elite ironborn wiped out and he barely blinked. That's not right."

"Asha, our enemy is the Iron Throne. We can't turn on our own—"

Asha's face hardened. She'd hoped the priest who'd been drowned four times would have more spine. Apparently not.

Fine. If Aeron was too scared, she'd handle it herself. She'd investigate Euron personally while they rebuilt.

Neither of them noticed the raven perched on the pillar above them. Its eyes glowed a deep, unnatural red. It watched the sea for a long moment, then flapped away, carrying every word straight to its true master.

The storm was only beginning.