In the Great Hall of Pyke, cups clinked and voices mingled in a surreal echo of normalcy.
In their collective daze, it felt as though they had somehow returned to yesterday's lively banquet, before death had claimed their king and blood had stained the ancient stones.
The main doors had been reopened, the signs of battle and slaughter erased through arcane means.
Thralls from Pyke moved among the tables, serving pickled fish and salt-crusted roasts, ensuring that every goblet remained brimming with strongwine.
Nearly two hundred captains and chieftains sat once more at the long tables. Their numbers remained substantial, though noticeably diminished from the previous evening's gathering.
The finger dance demonstration had been canceled—no man present wished to witness blades thrown between companions after the day's horrors—but melodious music filled the hall nonetheless.
These songs came not from the musicians of Pyke, but emanated from a strange gemstone that pulsed with inner light. Yet another display of the king's uncanny power, a reminder of what they had witnessed earlier.
Fortunately, the music masked the guests' unease, preventing it from becoming too evident. Yet it simultaneously stirred the thoughts of all present, for the choice of melodies seemed deliberate and laden with meaning.
When the notes of "The Blood Cup" echoed from the gemstone, the ironborn exchanged wary glances. It was, after all, a ballad celebrating the ancient reavers who had terrorized the coasts of Westeros.
What message did King Joffrey intend to convey through this particular selection?
The captains cast surreptitious glances toward the dais, where the king sat upon the Seastone Chair, flanked by Victarion Greyjoy and the newly-elevated Duchess Asha.
The king wore a faint smile that never reached his eyes.
After "The Blood Cup" faded, the melodious yet somber notes of "The Rains of Castamere" filled the hall.
The captains couldn't suppress a collective shiver.
The Lannister lion of Casterly Rock and the kraken of the Iron Islands had been bitter enemies for centuries uncounted.
Ironborn longships had raided Lannisport more times than any man could remember, and in return, the lions had played "The Rains of Castamere" several times in their own fashion, inflicting grievous wounds upon the Iron Islands.
The king was half golden lion by blood, the captains reminded themselves, swallowing nervously.
Next came "The Misty Morning."
Some among them knew the song's melancholy history—it told of a mother who searched a dawn-shrouded battlefield after a bloody engagement, seeking her only son among the fallen.
The sorrowful voice of a mature woman sang words that struck too close to the day's events:
"Oh, have you seen my son, good ser?
His hair is the tawny brown of autumn.
He promised me he would return one day,
Our home is on Wendwater Street."
The captains looked around the hall with haunted eyes.
The corpses and spilled blood that had defiled the long hall mere hours before had vanished without trace, as though they had never been.
But whose sons were those familiar dead men?
The living knew them well, even knew their mothers who would soon receive the bitter tidings.
They were dead all the same—dead by sword and scalding steam, dead by the tentacles of the sea monster, dead by the hands of their fellow ironborn.
The Drowned God would surely be angered by such kinslaying.
But when would his wrath manifest? And how would it compare to the terrible power that resided in the king's slender hands?
The music shifted once more to "Maiden, Mother, and Crone," a hymn praising the Seven Gods of the green lands.
Following closely came the similar "Song of the Seven":
"The Father's face is stern and strong, He rights the wrongs and judges true,
...
Seven gods made us to be, Hear our prayers and heed our plea,
Close your eyes, no more to fret, The gods watch over you, little one."
What soft and feeble lyrics, thought many, how could such pallid sentiments inspire true awe or fear?
And yet...
Was it the Seven who had granted the king such terrifying powers?
The captains cast meaningful glances toward Baelor Blacktyde, Lord of Blacktyde.
Since King Balon's failed rebellion nine years past, the septs and shrines to the Seven on the Iron Islands had all but vanished. Only this one lord still openly worshipped the gods of the green lands.
Perhaps that explained why House Blacktyde alone had emerged entirely unscathed from the day's bloodletting.
What enviable fortune.
The captains couldn't help but wonder if they too should convert to the Faith of the Seven to earn King Joffrey's favor and revitalize their diminished houses.
The music shifted once more to "The Dance of the Dragons."
This suite comprised many narrative verses, describing the Targaryen civil war that had engulfed the realm in dragonflame and given birth to countless glorious and terrible battles.
The captains seemed to relive the blood and fire of those ancient days through the music.
In that tumultuous era, the Iron Islands had been led by Dalton Greyjoy, remembered in song and story as the "Red Kraken." He had sailed his longships to sack Lannisport in its entirety, carrying off countless women, burning the great port to cinders, and conquering Fair Isle in the name of the ironborn.
For two full years, the reavers had plundered the coast of the Westerlands at will, taking what they desired with impunity.
If the Red Kraken's throat hadn't been slit by a salt wife as he slept, perhaps the lions would never have regained their strength and landed upon the Iron Islands to exact their terrible vengeance.
If only...
But "if" was a word for weaklings and dreamers. The cold truth remained that the Iron Islands had suffered terrible retribution—thousands slaughtered or starved, and their proud longships burned at anchor in their own harbors.
The present situation was graver still.
King Balon had gathered nearly all of the Iron Islands' captains for his feast, four or five hundred men commanding an equal number of longships.
Yet in the space of half a day, more than half of those longships had lost their masters to sword, steam, and monster.
As they pondered this grim reality, the captains discovered—with either horror or barely concealed excitement—that the lords and captains of Pyke, Harlaw, and Blacktyde had emerged almost unscathed from the bloodletting. Yet those hailing from Old Wyk, Great Wyk, Orkmont, and Saltcliffe had suffered catastrophic losses!
The terrified realized they had become like beached fish, struggling for breath upon the shore.
The opportunistic smelled something rich with promise.
Yet whether they might feast upon these fish depended entirely upon King Joffrey's inscrutable will.
After all, none had yet departed the Great Hall, and those strange warriors emblazoned with six-pointed stars still guarded both the entrance and the king's person.
Moreover, the king himself was not truly present in physical form, and his monstrous servants numbered in the tens of thousands beyond these walls.
Could they claim these abandoned ships?
The captains chewed mechanically on fish and meat, swilled the fine wine, but tasted nothing—it was like consuming beeswax and air, devoid of savor or satisfaction.
Undercurrents of tension surged through the hall, and hearts turned treacherous with calculations of advantage.
After what seemed an eternity, the lengthy "Dance of the Dragons" finally concluded, yielding to "A Thousand and One Eyes." This more obscure melody slightly calmed the captains, though they puzzled over its significance.
Why this particular song?
"How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? The riddle goes—a thousand eyes, and one more."
Bloodraven, born Brynden Rivers.
Some recalled the news carried by ravens: the beast that had killed King Robert appeared to be a puppet controlled by Bloodraven from beyond the Wall. Was this song the king's signal of intended vengeance?
Others fixated on the phrase itself—"a thousand and one eyes."
Bloodraven was renowned for his sorcery that allowed him to spy upon the realm's secrets.
And King Joffrey's powers clearly surpassed Bloodraven's arts, perhaps by orders of magnitude.
Was this song, then, a warning? A reminder that they must remain devoted and obedient, for the king was ever watching?
Recalling the timing and manner of King Joffrey's appearance in their midst, those with keener minds became convinced of this interpretation. They lowered their heads in trepidation, unwilling to reveal their true thoughts through word or gesture.
Finally came an unfamiliar melody.
It began melodious and brisk, then suddenly grew heavy, fierce, and turbulent—like the sea transforming from placid calm to furious storm in the space of a single heartbeat.
When the tune ended, the metaphorical tempest ceased as well.
King Joffrey raised his goblet. In a single breath, silence spread through the hall from the high table to the furthest benches.
"My lords," Joffrey said with a faint smile that never touched his eyes.
He proceeded to inform them that matters in King's Landing had been resolved.
Euron Crow's Eye had not unleashed his sea monster upon the capital. He had merely absconded with the Silence and those few longships whose captains had chosen to follow him into exile.
Joffrey seemed almost pleased by this development.
The remaining ownerless longships could serve a dual purpose—to appease the ironborn while simultaneously reshaping the bonds between the noble houses of the Iron Islands.
"All longships are hereby incorporated into the Sunset Sea Fleet and shall enjoy its protection," the king declared. "But to sail a ship requires a worthy captain. Therefore..."
Joffrey paused, and the captains held their collective breath.
"The unmanned vessels shall be considered ownerless property. Those captains present may approach the crews and select new masters from among them. This opportunity is limited to today and tomorrow only."
He raised his cup in salute. "To the rebirth of the Iron Islands. May they find new glory under the protection of the Iron Throne."
Joffrey sipped his wine delicately.
The assembled lords and captains exhaled in either profound relief or barely concealed excitement, their minds already calculating the power to be gained through this unexpected bounty. In that moment, many found themselves genuinely grateful to the golden-haired king who had slaughtered their peers mere hours before.
"Long live His Grace!" they roared as one.
Every man drained his cup to the dregs, and the true carnival feast began in earnest—a celebration built upon the bones of the dead, baptized in blood, and sanctified by fear and ambition in equal measure.