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Chapter 264: The Fractured Iron Islands
🕑 Added 2025-04-12 11:00:33 +0000 UTC“Dwarf, what made you think of coming aboard my ship? Do you not understand the relationship between the Ironborn and the Westerlands? Tywin might not like you, but you’re still the sole heir to the Lord of Casterly Rock. He’d be willing to pay a hefty ransom for you,” Asha Greyjoy said, flashing a wicked smile as she looked at the Imp standing before her.
Tyrion, unfazed by her taunts, smiled. “Asha Greyjoy, I still remember how pitiful you looked at that banquet in Lannisport. I never expected that after a few years—”
“Enough, Tyrion,” Asha cut him off. “State your business, or I will take you hostage and make Tywin pay for your release.”
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “If you were still Asha Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, I might believe you. But right now, you're one of the Three Sea Krakens of the Stepstones. I doubt Lord Lynd would allow you to do that, don’t you think?”
Asha snorted. “Baelor, toss him overboard.”
Without hesitation, Baelor grabbed Tyrion by the collar and started hauling him toward the side of the ship.
Realizing that Asha wasn’t joking, Tyrion quickly protested. “Wait, wait! I was wrong! I was wrong!”
“Baelor, hold on.” Asha stopped him, then turned her gaze back to Tyrion. “Speak. Why are you really here?”
Tyrion immediately answered, “I just want to accompany you to the Iron Islands and witness how you take them.”
“That’s it?” Asha frowned, skeptical.
“Of course,” Tyrion nodded. Then, as if something else had come to mind, he pointed upward. “And perhaps get a closer look at that big bell of yours—the one that can disperse storms.”
Asha laughed, and Tyrion, sensing an opportunity, chuckled along with her. He thought he had convinced her.
But just as suddenly, Asha’s smile disappeared. Her expression turned cold. “Throw him over.”
Before Tyrion could process what was happening, Baelor lifted him off the deck. He barely had time to protest before he was soaring through the air and splashing into the sea. Fortunately for him, the boat that had brought him to the Black Wind had not yet departed. The crew fished him out and returned him to Lannisport.
...
Back inside the Black Wind's cabin, Asha cursed under her breath. “What is wrong with these nobles? Do they seriously think they can just show up to watch a sea battle? What are we—court jesters for their amusement?”
Baelor, now back in the cabin, remained calm. “You shouldn’t have treated him like that. He’s a friend of Lord Lynd, and from what I hear, Lord Lynd values him greatly.”
Asha lifted her chin defiantly. “This is my ship. Even if Lord Lynd were here, I’d have given the same order.” She hesitated for a moment before adding, with less certainty, “Besides, Lord Lynd is magnanimous. He wouldn’t punish his trusted subordinates over something so trivial. And anyway, I wasn’t the one who threw him overboard.”
Baelor simply stared at his friend, unimpressed.
...
The brief incident didn’t disrupt the fleet’s plans. After securing ample supplies from Lannisport, the ships slowly set sail, leaving the bay behind as they charted a course for the Iron Islands.
Not long after the Three Sea Monsters’ fleet departed, other ships began following in their wake—merchants, bold enough to bet on what was to come.
They had correctly surmised that the fleet’s destination was the Iron Islands, and that a struggle for power was imminent. Regardless of who emerged victorious, the losing side would inevitably seek out merchants to trade their spoils. These traders saw an opportunity to turn a profit. The risk of being caught up in the war itself? That was a concern for another time.
As the fleet passed Fair Isle, word of their approach had already reached the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy wasted no time—he summoned the lords of the isles to Pyke, calling for a council to decide their next move.
“Where are the men of Blacktyde, Harlaw, and Great Wyk? Have they all died?” Balon Greyjoy sat on the Seastone Chair, his expression dark as he scanned the gathered lords and captains in the hall. His face was grim, his temper fouler than the storm brewing outside.
“I don’t think they’re coming,” said the head of House Sunderly from Saltcliffe. “They’ve made it clear that they will not intervene in House Greyjoy’s internal conflict.”
“Internal conflict? Ha! What a convenient excuse! What a damn convenient excuse!” Balon let out a bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it—only rage.
“I’ll take men to Great Wyk,” Victarion Greyjoy said in a deep voice.
Balon shot his brother a furious glare. “Shut up! Do you have any idea what’s happening? If you take the Iron Fleet away, what happens to Pyke? Do we just let that girl Asha land unopposed?”
Gorold Goodbrother of Hammerhorn, who had a decent relationship with Victarion, stepped in to shift the conversation. “My contacts in Lannisport have counted the ships Asha and Baelor have brought with them—four hundred and thirty longships, one hundred and fifty armed sailing ships, seventy two-masted warships, and two three-masted warships.”
The hall fell into a heavy silence.
The Iron Fleet barely had over a hundred ships, most of them old, patched-up vessels salvaged after the last war. There were fewer than forty new ships among them. Even if every other island contributed its ships, their total count barely reached three hundred—nowhere near enough to match Asha’s fleet.
Worse still, the Ironborn had never truly recovered from their past defeats. Many of their best sailors were lost in battle, and Euron’s raids had only worsened the situation. There simply weren’t enough trained men to crew their ships. Asha’s fleet, on the other hand, was manned by veteran warriors who had fought beside her across the Summer Sea. The difference in skill and experience was staggering.
Then, Alyn Orkwood of Orkmont spoke up. “Don’t forget—Asha’s fleet carries the Storm God’s artifact. My men say it can control storms.”
Alyn Orkwood had once feared and respected Euron Greyjoy, and for that reason, he had supported him. When Euron had fled back to the Iron Islands, it was Alyn who had provided men to aid his raids.
But now?
Now, Euron was defeated, humiliated—hunted down like prey by Asha. And just as his fear had once been directed at Euron, it had now shifted to Asha. He fully intended to support her claim to the Seastone Chair but had concealed his allegiance, waiting for the right moment to reveal himself as her ally.
The moment Alyn mentioned the Storm God’s artifact, murmurs filled the hall.
Everyone here understood the power of controlling storms at sea. Asha’s forces already had superior numbers, better ships, and more experienced sailors. If she truly had a relic that could manipulate the weather, there was no chance of victory for the Iron Fleet.
“The Storm God is the eternal enemy of the Drowned God!” Wet-Haired Aeron suddenly stood up, his voice booming through the hall. “We must not allow his followers to set foot on our lands! This is not just a war for the rule of the Iron Islands—it is a war between the Drowned God and the Storm God! We must—”
“Enough!”
Aeron’s speech was cut off by a mocking voice. “The Storm God has given Asha an artifact that controls the storms, a gift to aid her in battle. Tell me, Aeron, what has the Drowned God given us? Will he send krakens to fight at our side?”
The one who spoke was Sawane Botley, the lord of Lordsport. He wasn’t Asha’s ally, nor was he particularly concerned about the Greyjoy family feud. His words weren’t meant to support Asha but to attack Aeron himself.
Years ago, when Robert Baratheon had burned Lordsport, Sawane had wanted to rebuild the city. But instead of getting the men and resources he needed, Aeron had taken them—ordering them, in the name of the Drowned God, to rebuild Pyke instead.
And so, Lordsport remained in ruins, and Sawane had earned the mockery of being called the Lord of Ruins.
He despised Aeron for it. And by extension, he resented House Greyjoy’s endless internal squabbles. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t matter who won this fight. In the end, a Greyjoy would still rule the Iron Islands, and nothing would change.
Most of the lords in the hall shared the same sentiment. No matter how this war ended, the victor would still be a Greyjoy. Their own lives would remain unchanged—except that if they chose the wrong side, they would be the ones suffering the losses.
“Can’t you hear the waves? That’s the Drowned God’s fury! It’s—” The Damphair Aeron bellowed.
“That’s just the sound of the sea. Nothing more,” Sawane Botley replied, watching Aeron’s outrage with clear amusement. “And who are you to speak for the Drowned God?”
The hall fell silent. Every eye turned toward Botley, surprised by his words. After all, Aeron was widely recognized as the Drowned God’s priest.
“What did you just say?” Aeron’s expression twisted with madness as he stormed up to Botley, pressing his forehead against his. “How dare you question me—”
“I’ve never questioned your faith in the Drowned God,” Botley interrupted him for the third time, standing his ground. “But I do know someone far more suited to interpret the Drowned God’s will—Dagon Harlaw. Don’t forget, he has the Drowned God’s chosen beast at his side, a gift granted to him. He’s the one truly blessed by the Drowned God. And you? You’re nothing but a deluded madman.”
“No! I am the Drowned God’s priest! I am the one under his favor!”
Aeron snapped, his reason fully shattered. He lunged at Botley, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing.
The surrounding lords and captains immediately rushed forward to pull him away, but Aeron’s grip was like iron. No matter how they struggled, they couldn’t pry him off. It was only when Balon Greyjoy stepped in—landing a brutal strike that knocked Aeron unconscious and snapping his fingers back to free Botley—that the madness ceased.
By then, Botley’s face was pale, his eyes rolling back. Someone pounded his chest a few times before he finally gasped for breath.
What had started as a war council had devolved into a disgraceful spectacle.
Even though Aeron had long abandoned his family name in devotion to the Drowned God, he was still a Greyjoy. And now, in full view of their peers, a Greyjoy had tried to strangle a fellow lord. This was no longer just a petty squabble—it was an outright scandal.
House Greyjoy had to provide an explanation. If Aeron Greyjoy could nearly kill Sawane Botley today, what was stopping him from doing the same to anyone else tomorrow?
But Balon would never punish his own brother. Not only because Aeron was a priest of the Drowned God, but because Botley had been deliberately provoking him. To Balon, this reeked of a setup—an attempt to bait House Greyjoy into showing weakness. If he punished Aeron now, he would only confirm what they wanted: that Balon Greyjoy had lost his edge.
With that in mind, Balon cut off any further debate before it could begin. His voice rang out, commanding and unyielding.
“All of you—return to your islands. Ready your ships. At dawn, gather at the Iron Fleet. We will face Asha in battle on the open sea.”
A stunned silence followed his words.
They had been summoned here for a war council, yet no strategy had been discussed. No plans had been laid. They hadn’t even agreed on formations or logistics. And now, just like that, they were being sent to war.
“What? Do you have objections?” Balon’s sharp gaze swept over them.
No one dared to argue. One by one, they swore to gather their fleets and left the hall.
...
Once the lords were gone, Victarion spoke up without hesitation.
“They won’t fight properly. Dragging them into this will only be a liability for the Iron Fleet.”
“I know.” Balon exhaled, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Do you think we can win?”
Victarion hesitated.
For the first time, he saw Balon not as the ruthless ruler of the Iron Islands, not as the man who had once stared down storms and commanded the seas—but as an old man. A man burdened by the weight of years and war.
Victarion pushed the thought aside and answered, his voice steady.
“Asha may have the numbers, but we’re not without options. If we sink her flagship, her fleet will fall into disarray. Without command, they’ll collapse, and we can turn the tide.”
Balon was silent for a moment before asking, “And does her fleet follow only her orders?”
Victarion stiffened. He understood immediately.
Yes, Asha was their commander—but she didn’t own those ships. She was only the one leading them. The true master of her fleet was Lynd Tarran, the man many called the avatar of the Storm God. He was the real power behind this armada. Even if Asha’s flagship was destroyed, another commander would take her place. Her fleet wouldn’t crumble the way Victarion had hoped.
Balon, too, seemed to reach the same conclusion.
Rising from his throne, his eyes burned with renewed determination.
“I want to see it for myself—the strength of the Sea Witch who chased Euron like a hunted dog.”
