Balon Greyjoy had been in a foul mood for days.
When he first received the news of King Robert's sudden death—and that Eddard Stark had been accused of treason and imprisoned in King's Landing—he'd been elated for an entire day.
After all, his hatred for those two men ran bone-deep. They had taken his crown, his sons, his pride—and even his last surviving son had been sent away to Winterfell as a hostage.
So when he'd been forced to swear fealty to both the Iron Throne and the North, Balon Greyjoy had sworn a second, silent oath in his heart:
One day, he would have his revenge.
He would plunder Winterfell and King's Landing both—whether Robert and Eddard were alive or dead.
And he had almost done it.
Almost.
But just one day later, Eddard Stark returned home alive and well.
And the reason?
A bastard. A nobody.
Jon Snow.
"Stormsword Saint," they called him. "One man against a hundred."
What a ridiculous lie!
It had to be a trick—some northern deception! Eddard must have crawled back to Winterfell like a beaten dog, using treachery to save his own skin!
Yes—yes, that had to be it!
Terrified of crossing Eddard again—his bones still aching from the last time he'd defied the man—Balon spent the following days doing the only thing left to him: drinking himself into oblivion and cursing every Stark, Snow, and Baratheon by name.
"Why, Eddard? Why won't you die?!"
"Why do you get a bastard like that?!"
"Why are my sons dead, while my last one rots in Winterfell, turning soft among those northern weaklings?!"
Would the Iron Islands ever rise again?
Would Balon Greyjoy ever wear his crown once more, restoring the glory of the Ironborn?
"I'm afraid not."
The voice came from behind him.
No one should have been in the room. The maids and guards had long since fled, beaten half to death by their drunken, humiliated lord who couldn't stand being seen so defeated.
Before Balon could turn or shout, a hand clamped over his mouth—and a sharp, crushing blow landed on his spine.
The Iron King collapsed, boneless, to the floor—like a true sea creature, limp and lifeless.
His spine shattered, his body ruined beyond healing. The black-cloaked figure who had struck him—Aedric—stood over him for a moment, silent. Then he slipped away into the shadows, leaving no trace he had ever been there.
By the time Asha Greyjoy discovered her father's condition hours later, Balon could neither move nor speak—his eyes wild, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.
And so the Iron Islands faced a crisis.
A new ruler had to be chosen.
Two candidates stood before them:
By right of succession, the title should pass to Theon Greyjoy, still a ward in Winterfell. Many argued he should be summoned home immediately.
But others opposed it fiercely. Theon, they said, had been gone too long—tainted by the ways of the North. He was no longer a true Ironborn.
No, they insisted—the rightful ruler should be Asha Greyjoy, who had stayed, fought, and bled beside her people.
The council was deadlocked, neither side willing to yield.
No one noticed when a raven was released into the sky, flying westward across the sea—carrying a message for one more Greyjoy.
A day later, far to the south, Euron Greyjoy received that message.
The Crow's Eye read the words, and a cruel grin split his face. With a single swing of his blade, he took the head off a nearby captive and laughed madly.
"My dear brother—so you're dying, are you?
Then it's time I came home!
I'll take the Seastone Chair for myself—and send your precious children to join you in the depths!"
Euron, ever the wanderer and reaver, was well informed. He knew Westeros was on the verge of chaos—and chaos was opportunity.
If he could seize control of the Iron Islands now, he could ally with the Lannisters or the Baratheons and claim a share of the Iron Throne itself.
No more drifting pirate.
No more exile.
He would be King.
He would make the world kneel.
But first—he had to get home.
With that ambition burning in his chest, Euron set sail immediately, driving his crew to row and sail through three sleepless nights.
At last, the Silence—his infamous ship, its figurehead a naked woman and its crew tongueless—reached the waters just off the Iron Islands.
A sailor, mute as all the rest, came to him with frantic gestures.
Euron, misunderstanding, assumed someone from the islands had come out to greet him early. Smirking, he strode to the prow—only to see a lone skiff bobbing on the waves ahead.
Just one small boat.
And one man aboard it.
Not Ironborn. Not one of his.
His smile vanished. "Kill him," he said coldly. "Loose the arrows. End this fool."
But out on the water, the man on the skiff—Aedric—was smiling.
After days of scouring the seas through the eyes of gulls and cormorants, his Warg abilities searching every wave for his prey, he had finally found the one he sought.
Euron Greyjoy. The Crow's Eye.
There was no mistaking the Silence—the obscene figurehead, the mute crew, the aura of madness.
At last, his quarry had appeared.
So there was no need for talk.
It was time to strike.
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer