Whoosh ~ Whoosh ~
The salt-laden sea breeze poured through the ragged breach in the stone wall, sweeping through the Great Hall to wash away the stench of blood, burnt flesh, and other unspeakable odors that hung heavy in the air.
The ironborn stood as if enchanted, mute with shock and terror.
Osha approached the Seastone Chair, presenting Joffrey with a steel vial containing the kraken's blue-green blood and two curved teeth that had broken from its tentacles during the struggle.
Joffrey activated his rune reconnaissance, extending his consciousness far beyond the walls of Pyke.
The leviathan was moving westward through the depths, trailing a cloud of its own blood. A powerful jet of water expelled from its mantle propelled the creature forward at astonishing speed, like some monstrous crossbow bolt loosed from the hand of a giant.
"Euron Crow's Eye" lay cradled within one of the kraken's massive tentacles, his eyes tightly closed, his expression as serene as a sleeping child's.
West.
Kingsporth, the harbor nearest to Pyke, lay to the west.
Joffrey connected to the magical network.
The Security Bureau continued to report the movements of the Silence in real time. The infamous vessel remained quietly docked at Kingsporth, her decks crowded with mute crewmen who moved with purpose yet uttered not a single word among them.
Given the kraken's velocity, Euron could reach Kingsporth within half an hour. The Silence was poised for a swift escape.
Perhaps that is for the best.
Joffrey reconsidered his strategy. With a vessel as distinctive as the Silence serving as his quarry, the Security Bureau could monitor Crow's Eye's movements with relative ease. Euron could sail to the edge of the known world, and still he would not escape Joffrey's reach.
For now, the time had come to conclude the Iron Islands operation.
Joffrey cast a measured glance across the assembly in the Great Hall. His warlocks had already begun to repair the breached wall, the yawning gap gradually diminishing as stone flowed like water under their arcane manipulations.
Witnessing this display of power, the ironborn shifted uneasily, particularly those who had laughed alongside Crow's Eye when he seemed ascendant.
Who to kill and who to preserve?
Joffrey considered the matter briefly before arriving at his decision.
He looked toward the mutes abandoned by their master when Euron made his dramatic escape. "Those who wish to live, kneel immediately," he commanded. "The True God shall forgive your transgressions and bestow divine grace upon you."
"Five... four... three..."
The mutes—a diverse collection of men from across the known world—exchanged uncertain glances. Many could not even comprehend the Common Tongue of Westeros.
Yet the first to kneel conveyed his meaning clearly through action. Several Andal mutes followed swiftly, and then the remainder dropped to their knees in panicked haste, some going so far as to prostrate themselves fully upon the blood-slicked floor.
The countdown ended. Five mutes remained standing, defiant outliers amid their kneeling comrades.
Joffrey turned his attention to the ironborn. "Initially, you all might have emerged from this day unscathed," he observed coolly. "Yet look at what your actions have wrought. Stand forth now and acknowledge your treachery—do not force me to have you identified by your peers."
With trembling limbs, dozens of ironborn captains and lords separated themselves from the crowd.
The Holy Shield warriors moved among the remaining ironborn, identifying with unerring accuracy all those who lacked the courage to admit their disloyalty. These cowards among cowards were executed on the spot, their blood joining the growing pool upon the floor.
"Single combat or mass melee?" Joffrey inquired of the ironborn who had willingly stepped forward.
"Your opponents shall be these five loyal mutes. Do you prefer to face them one by one until one side is utterly vanquished, or in open battle?"
"Never!"
Aeron "Damphair" suddenly found his voice, rising to his feet with eyes ablaze. "You bastard false king, you dare use ironborn combat as sport for your amusement? The wrath of the Drowned God shall destroy all you hold dear!"
"I curse you and your—"
Joffrey's gaze shifted to Victarion. "Will you silence him, or shall I reduce him to ashes where he stands?"
Victarion remained statue-still, his face a mask that betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
Aeron continued his stream of curses while Asha grew increasingly anxious. She could see with perfect clarity that House Greyjoy had thus far escaped the worst of the king's wrath. They must not provoke his ire further.
"Uncle Aeron, forgive me."
Asha darted forward, striking the priest forcefully at the back of his neck with the hilt of her knife. The Damphair collapsed mid-curse, unconscious before he struck the floor.
Joffrey merely raised an eyebrow, unmoved by the display.
"Choose quickly," he prompted. "One against one, or all against all?"
The captains exchanged meaningful glances, each reading the others' intentions in their eyes.
Crow's Eye's abandoned crew were no lambs for easy slaughter—they were battle-hardened beasts who had voyaged to the edges of the map and survived horrors beyond imagining. In individual combat, none could guarantee they would emerge unscathed or even alive.
Thus decided, the ironborn swarmed forward as one...
Victarion, standing rigid as an oak, closed his eyes in wordless anguish.
The pride and dignity of the ironborn had been ground to dust beneath the heel of these shameful cowards. Where was the fierce spirit of the reavers now?
The outcome of the lopsided battle surprised no one.
The deaths of the five mutes cost the ironborn merely two fingers from a single man's hand.
Victory.
In a true reaving, such a result would have been celebrated as a glorious triumph.
But here in the Great Hall, under the cold gaze of the king, this victory tasted of ashes—it marked the defeat of the Iron Islands' spirit of resistance and their legendary, unyielding will.
What freedom? What courage?
Many ironborn lowered their heads in dejection, mourning the passing of something intangible yet irreplaceable.
"Asha," Joffrey sighed with feigned pity, "do you still aspire to queenship? Much blood has been spilled this day. Perhaps you no longer wish to pursue such ambitions?"
The ironborn regarded Asha with complicated expressions, expectations and judgments mingling in their weather-beaten faces.
In that moment, a torrent of images flooded Asha's mind.
Her father's aging features and bold proclamations. Fierce battles fought aboard longships cutting through storm-tossed seas. Sweet days and nights spent with lovers whose names she had half-forgotten. The vicious infighting among the captains and lords. The bitter, chaotic days of defeat nine years past, when Robert Baratheon's forces had crushed their rebellion.
Theon. Asha recalled her only surviving brother, remembering only the stubborn, frightened face of a boy before he was taken to Winterfell as a hostage.
What manner of man had Theon become?
Asha raised her head and stared directly at the king seated upon the Seastone Chair—this boy of two-and-ten years who commanded powers beyond comprehension.
Theon had reached manhood and should, by rights, possess greater maturity than King Joffrey. Yet he surely lacked the cunning and ruthlessness of this golden-haired youth, nor did he command such terrifying arcane abilities.
Asha bowed deeply, her decision made.
"Your Grace, Asha would never again dare harbor such foolish aspirations. With all gods and laws as witness, the Iron Islands shall forever remain under the dominion of the Iron Throne."
"Kneel," the king commanded.
Asha knelt respectfully upon both knees, lowering her head in submission.
But Joffrey was not finished. "Asha, in what capacity do you make this pledge? Who are you to speak for the ironborn?"
Asha's words caught in her throat.
Yes—the succession remains undetermined. What scheme does King Joffrey now set in motion?
Joffrey's lips curled in the faintest of smiles. "The Lord Regent of the Iron Islands shall oversee all internal affairs and taxation on behalf of the Iron Throne. The Commander-in-Chief of the Sunset Sea Fleet shall command the ironborn's naval forces. Both these positions are bestowed upon Theon Greyjoy."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the assembled ironborn before dying swiftly away.
Whatever their private thoughts, Theon remained of Greyjoy blood—the last surviving son of Balon. Perhaps, despite his years among the green lands, he still held the Iron Islands in his heart?
Asha held her tongue, calculating her position in this new paradigm.
The captains of the Iron Fleet looked to their commander. Iron Captain Victarion had long grown accustomed to silence.
For many years, he had fulfilled his duties as younger brother and loyal subordinate with perfect devotion—following orders without question, leading troops into battle, never insisting upon his own counsel, never dreaming of independence or kingship.
He executed rather than contemplated.
But now, everything had changed in the space of a single day. Balon was dead. Asha had nearly claimed the throne. Crow's Eye had returned with dark powers at his command. The Iron Throne had intervened with terrifying magic. A kraken of legend had risen from the depths!
What course to choose?
Should I determine the fate of the Iron Islands with my next words?
Victarion maintained his silence, a safe harbor in the storm.
Joffrey regarded the two remaining Greyjoys thoughtfully. "The positions of 'Duke Greyjoy' and 'Guardian of the Sunset Sea' remain vacant. As reward for your wisdom, you two may choose between them as you see fit."
Victarion clearly had no intention of speaking first.
Asha hesitated at length before finally responding with careful deference. "If Your Grace does not scorn me, Asha would be honored to inherit the title of Duchess Greyjoy, to guard the Iron Islands in your name and pacify the ironborn who dwell upon these rocks and isles."
Joffrey nodded once, the gesture carrying the weight of royal decree. "From this day forward, you shall be known as Asha Greyjoy, Duchess of the Iron Islands."
Asha prostrated herself with all the humility she could muster. "To serve Your Grace until my final breath."
"Qarl the Maid" was the first to raise his voice in acclamation: "Long live Duchess Asha! Long live King Joffrey!"
The other members of Black Wind's crew joined the chorus without delay.
Gradually, the ironborn added their voices to the growing clamor, until at last the Great Hall resounded with a unified declaration of fealty.
"Long live!" they cried, and none dared remain silent.
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