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Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
Game of Thrones Prince of the Rhoyne
Gold. Lyn Corbray's eyes lit up like a man who'd just spotted a chest of dragon eggs.
"I'm always short on gold dragons," he said, voice low and hungry.
Lyn was in a tight spot. A knight without lands, he sometimes taught swordplay to merchant brats just to keep coin in his purse. His older brother had inherited the title, the castle, and every last copper after their father died. Lyn had only walked away with Lady Forlorn, the Valyrian steel blade that had once belonged to their house. The resentment still burned. Every time he looked at his brother's holdings, he felt the slight like a fresh wound.
"The gold isn't here," Arthur told him quietly. "It's in the Iron Islands."
Lyn snorted. "Those rocky shitholes? Sure, the captains have some treasure buried in their vaults, but this war isn't a slaughter. We'll squeeze out ransoms at best, and it still won't be enough to split between everyone who bled for it."
He wasn't wrong. Robert's victory would be a political and military triumph, but the crown would lose money hand over fist. The king loved throwing gold at tourneys, feasts, and marching an army halfway across the realm. The Iron Islands were poor dirt and salt. Whatever wealth existed sat in the hands of a few stubborn lords. Robert wasn't Tywin Lannister—he wouldn't burn every hall to the ground just to count the coins. Pointless cruelty wasn't his style.
"Relax," Arthur said with a faint smile. "I'll make the arrangements."
Lyn studied him for a long second, then nodded. "I'll hold you to that, my lord." He turned and walked away, cloak snapping behind him.
"Those riches?" Ser Lucas asked once Lyn was out of earshot.
"Iron and shipwrights," Arthur answered.
Tobho Mott's hunger for raw ore had sparked the idea. Robert wouldn't let them wipe the ironborn out or loot every vault clean. The king had no head for coin and even less patience for cold economics. So Arthur was already thinking on a different track.
Ser Lucas's eyes sharpened. "That's better than gold."
The army crossed the Green Fork that same day. Robert refused to linger at the Twins even one extra hour.
"Your hospitality is appreciated, Lord Frey," the king said, already swinging into the saddle, "but war moves fast as wildfire. We ride for Seagard."
Old Walder bowed and scraped, knowing better than to argue. The great host poured across the bridge like a river of steel—Robert and Eddard at the head, Hoster Tully, Yohn Royce, Barristan Selmy, and the four vanguards close behind. Arthur, Lyn Corbray, Jorah Mormont, and Thoros of Myr rode together, their famous blades catching the sun.
They reached Seagard by nightfall. The next morning, inside the Eagle Hall, Lord Jason Mallister spread a detailed map across the long table and began to speak.
"Thirty-one islands in all," he said, tapping the parchment. "Seven major ones. We only need to break five and Balon's crown cracks. Blacktyde and Saltcliffe are too small and weak to matter. We hit the rest hard and fast."
He pointed to each in turn.
"Pyke is Balon's seat—his stronghold. No safe anchorage nearby. Anyone landing has to use the nearby King's Port first.
Old Wyk holds Nagga's Hill, their holy ground where Balon took the driftwood crown.
Great Wyk is the largest, rich in iron and ore.
Harlaw is the closest to the mainland, the wealthiest and most populous—but Lord Harlaw has little stomach for this war. He's one of the few voices against it.
Orkmont was once Greyjoy and Hoare land. Now it's just another loyal dog for Pyke."
Robert slammed his cup down, eyes bright with battle-hunger. "Then we smash them one island at a time."
The division of forces came quickly.
"Barristan, you take the Crownlands host and seize Old Wyk. Plant your banner on that pathetic holy hill."
"As you command, Your Grace," Barristan said, white cloak gleaming.
"Stannis will command the fleet. Once the seas are clear, he takes Great Wyk."
No one answered—both fleet commanders were still at sea.
"Tywin will hit Orkmont with the Westerlands army once he's ready," Robert continued. "That leaves the main blow to me, Ned, and Lord Royce. We'll take Harlaw and Pyke together and grind Balon's face into the dirt."
The fourth army was the strongest by far—Riverlands, North, and Vale combined, with four deadly vanguards riding at the front and Robert himself in overall command.
"Hoster, you and young Frey stay here at Seagard," Robert said. "You're both steady hands. Run the supply lines and keep the army fed."
Hoster Tully nodded, face carefully blank. He had already admitted he wasn't fit for another sea crossing. Staying behind to manage logistics was the only graceful option left. Edmure would remain with him. The old trout felt the sting, but he said nothing.
Lord Jason leaned forward. "Your Grace, I've already ordered timber cut for siege engines. Once we land on Pyke we can assemble catapults on the spot."
Robert grinned. "Good. Then we wait for Stannis to clear the way."
The war for the Iron Islands had begun.