289 AC, the Riverlands.
Arthur sat astride Swallow One, staring out where the Trident emptied into the sea. The water stretched wide and restless, waves rolling in heavy, endless surges.
Behind him rode his loyal retainers. A short distance off, the black-armored, yellow-cloaked cavalry looked every bit as formidable as their reputation.
The years had been kind to Arthur's plan. One hand built the coin, the other built the name—and both had paid off handsomely. House Whent's coffers were full again. Between Harrenhal and Whitewalls, they sat on two fat revenue streams, plus the new cash cows from his crops. On the military side, the tight-knit crew he'd fed, trained, and equipped had locked down command of the Whent forces.
Other houses always had to worry about cadet branches or feudal pushback. But Harrenhal's strange power vacuum and the Trident's bloodletting had left Arthur the most centralized lord in the Riverlands.
His fame as the Bat Knight kept growing. Champion of the Dragonstone squires' tourney—at an age when Daemon Blackfyre and Maegor the Cruel were still boys. The hero of Bitterbridge. The man who'd beaten Darkstar black and blue at Starfall. Bards and knights couldn't get enough of the stories, and even without House Whent fanning the flames, the tales spread like wildfire.
The king and the Hand had personally stamped the seal of approval on his name.
An iron curtain now stood across the Riverlands, with Riverrun on one side and Harrenhal on the other. On the surface everything stayed polite, but every fresh triumph of Arthur's made Riverrun look smaller and duller by comparison. Even the Mallisters and Brackens—houses that had once backed Hoster—were openly courting the young Whent heir these days.
House Whent's trading ventures were booming. Arthur's title as the Riverlands' brightest new star—or even the Seven Kingdoms'—rang louder every season. No matter how you sliced it, making friends with a young lord like him was pure profit.
Arthur was simply waiting for the letter he knew would come: Seagard's plea for help.
Seagard had become one of his best customers, almost a partner. They swapped fish, salt, and longships for Whent cheese and Arbor wine. The steady trade suited Lord Jason perfectly. Seagard might be proud, but pride didn't fill granaries, and Jason had his own quiet calculations. In chaotic times heroes and turmoil fed each other.
"How many riders do we have now?" Arthur asked Rolly.
"Roughly five hundred," the big man answered. Rolly wore black plate these days and carried himself like the cavalry commander he was—gone was the threadbare hedge knight; he looked sharp and confident.
"Can I count on them to fight at my side?"
"They're yours, my lord. Loyal to the bone," Rolly said.
"War is a bloody drill; drill is a bloodless war," Arthur replied. "We train them hard so the real thing doesn't break them."
He had already laid out the plan for the Seagard crisis. His versatile tactics were ready. He had run river-crossing cavalry drills again and again, thanks to House Roote's help and careful scouting of every ford on the Trident. The ironborn still couldn't sail over land, so they'd try their old trick—sneaking up on Seagard.
"Whent Black Knights?" Arthur wheeled Swallow One to face the black-armored riders.
The men straightened, faces solemn, then lifted their swords high.
"Victory! Victory!"
They had sworn their loyalty; now they would pay for it in blood.
The Iron Islands.
The holy shore of Old Wyk. Behind the beach rose scrub-covered hills. Nagga's ribs thrust from the earth like colossal white tree trunks—each as thick and tall as the mast of a great longship. This was sacred ground to the ironborn. On Nagga's Hill they had once chosen their High Kings through the kingsmoot.
Longships lined the holy beach in an unbroken row that stretched to the horizon, masts bristling like spears. In deeper water rode the prizes—flat-bottomed cogs, broad-beamed carracks, great dromonds—captured in raids and battles, too deep-drafted to beach.
"Greyjoy! Greyjoy!"
The Iron Fleet's sails flew the golden kraken. Harlaw's scythe banner snapped beside it, and others besides.
Victarion commanded the Iron Fleet—one hundred ships sworn directly to King Balon Greyjoy, the strongest squadron in the islands.
Every vessel was captained and crewed by men from the various isles.
After the Shield Islands war that killed his father King Quellon, Balon had learned his lesson. Over five long years he had built the Iron Fleet from the ground up. Though smaller than greenland warships, each ship was three times the size of an ordinary island longship—hulls reinforced, rams fitted, decks mounted with fire-scorpions and ballistae. They were true galleys, bigger and meaner than the old longships.
Ironborn captains gathered around the white giant bones to watch Balon's coronation—an ancient, salt-crusted rite.
Lord Gorold Goodbrother, Rodrik Harlaw, Dunstan Drumm—the more cautious lords watched with unease. They feared Balon would fail. But most captains and chieftains were eager; they wanted one last great haul.
"Kneel, Balon of House Greyjoy," the Drowned Priest intoned. He raised a waterskin, pulled the stopper, and poured the sea over Balon's head.
Saltwater soaked his hair, stung his eyes, ran down his cheeks, and trickled cold down his spine beneath the sealskin cloak.
Balon did not flinch.
The sea tasted of salt and freedom.
"Let your servant Balon be reborn of the sea as you were!" the priest chanted. "Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel. Balon, have you forgotten the words?"
"I have not forgotten," Balon roared. "What is dead may never die!"
"What is dead may never die," the priest answered, "but rises again, harder and stronger. Rise."
Balon Greyjoy stood once more beneath the white bones and shouted, "I am Balon Greyjoy, reaver of Pyke, King of Salt and Rock, son of the sea wind! I need no man's gift of a crown. I pay the iron price. I will take it myself! People of the Drowned God, I swear to win your freedom!"
He had waited long enough. The last rebellion, urged on by his brothers, had cost his father his life. The ironborn shrugged it off—Quellon had died a worthy death. Now they would chase the Old Way again.
"The Drowned God sees you," the priest called. "You shall be a true king. The ironborn will obey you and follow you to freedom." Three Drowned Men placed a driftwood crown on Balon's head.
The priest raised both arms. "The sea's wrath will break upon the green lands! The great Drowned God shall claim dominion there!"
"Balon!" the ironborn roared, drunk on the moment. "Balon! King Balon!"
House Greyjoy had been chosen to rule the Iron Islands after House Hoare fell. Stubborn as the tides, the ironborn kept dragging the islands back into war.
"My father gave you order and stability," Balon thundered. "I will give you more—wealth, glory, everything in the name of the Drowned God's supreme honor!"
"Old Way! Old Way!" the ironborn howled, hungry for steel and fire.
The Drowned Priest cried out, "Let swords and fire descend upon the world! Scourge the green lands, tear down the temples of the Seven, rip out the white trees of the North—"
King Quellon had once banned the Old Way—no thralls, no reaving on a whim, no salt wives. Balon had overturned every reform, killed the maester who'd advised his father, and demanded a new one.
"My brothers—Euron, Victarion, Aeron," Balon commanded. "You will lead the Iron Fleet. Strike first, open the way, and burn the lion's den."
The ironborn had four targets: the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Reach, the North. They would begin with the Westerlands.
"As you command!" his three brothers answered.
The plan had been Euron's—cunning and vicious as always.
"My sons—Rodrik, Maron," Balon continued. "You too will sail your longships and send blood and fire as offerings to the Drowned God."
The heirs of the Iron Islands grinned like wolves, dreaming of conquest and the return of the Old Way.