Chapter XXIII
The Red Keep stood,
beset by Ironborn.
Across black water,
blew a storm.
Queen Yara flew,
on wings of dread.
A crossbow took her,
now she's dead.
But Falyse was wise,
in the Iron Way.
Her soldiers rallied,
and won the day.
Perhaps not my best work, but then I've never been one for descriptive poems and crude battle-songs. I'll leave such things to simple bards. Drowned Lord knows there are enough of them writing songs about the Blackwater, where my mother was struck down at the moment of her triumph, even as my dear sister led the charge to break the Targaryen foot.
Shame, really, that so much killing and barbarity was for naught. The bodies were barely cold before Falyse turned the army around and headed back to our lands, sending no ravens to us with news of the battle, keen to get to Pyke ahead of the news of our mother's passing, to call a kingsmoot before any other claimant had time to gather support.
There was one messenger she could not impede though. Drogon returned to Pyke, riderless and enraged, descending on the dragonpit like the fury of the Storm God himself. When news reached me, I knew my mother was dead.
Taking due time to observe the correct funerary rights, I began to approach the notable men of Pyke. Vouchsafing my claim and asking them if they wished to see another woman on the Seastone Chair. By the time Falyse arrived I had had weeks to prepare.
The Kingsmoot came, and many were the claims raised that night. The Greyjoy line has flourished with our conquests, and the blood of Balon is thought by some to be all the claim one needs. Claiming too were the great lords and famous captains, those who sought to supplant the Kraken with their renown and influence.
But it mattered not how many claims were made. I dissected them all. My tongue and mind have ever been my sharpest weapons, and that night I did not find them wanting. With ribald joke and cutting truth I dispatched my challengers, and stood, at last, a King.
My first order of business, naturally, concerned the dragon. Drogon was of quite monstrous proportions, and it simply would not do to have him rampaging around my capital. He would have to be yoked and set to purpose, and I was duty-bound to see it done.
Thankfully, even in those days I could be counted amongst the world's finest scholars in dragon lore. I had read every book in the library Balon built Daenerys, every scribble by my mother and aunt, and every dusty tome I could pry from the citadel of Oldtown through coercion and threat.
I knew the words to say, the movements to make, and for his part Drogon knew my scent at least. The old wyrm had danced this dance before, after all, and we soon came to agreement with one another.
Our first flight was certainly exhilarating, though I confess a certain sense of relief spread through me when we returned to solid ground.
The mundane business of Kingship called however, and I was soon bombarded with reports of instability in the south. Dontos Tyrell was apparently at war with Jarado the Conqueror. Seeking trouble with the Summer Islanders didn't seem like a terribly advisable course of action to me, but the Tyrell host certainly seemed up to the task.
Perhaps Jarado's luck had abandoned him, or perhaps the sixty thousand strong Reachman army proved a little too much for luck. Either way, reports indicated that the Summer Islander's were having the worst of it.
I assured my Ironborn the war would not affect us, and broke open my mother's hoarded coffers, granting charter to two new townships. One on Pyke, and the other not far from Lannisport, the place of my birth.
A year passed. The Summer Islander's rallied, and my wife Lyessa bore me another child, giving us one son and four daughters. Not long after I named her brother Lord Paramount of the North, returning the title to House Stark. It seemed fitting enough, and stilled her ceaseless mantra of 'there must always be a Stark in Winterfell'.
The most curious thing occurred in this time. I was approached by man unknown to me, who asked if I wished to join him in scheming against one Robert of Sky, who I had similarly never heard of. I shooed the foolish man away, but I wonder still if I should have intervened one way or another. The Drowned God moves in mysterious ways.
More troubling was talk that the captains were growing weary of the peace and town-building. The Ironborn are simple, violent, folk, and are wont to grow restless without the opportunity to do something horrible to someone every now and again. My captains wanted war with the Iron Throne, to avenge my mother and destroy the Targaryens once and for all.
I, though, was in no hurry for war. The smallfolk had suffered through the bloodthirsty reigns of my grandfather, aunt, and mother, but they would not suffer under me. To go to war was to sentence one's own people to suffering and death. If my captains were so desirous of slaughter and rapine, let them seek such things far from here, across the Narrow Sea.
The idea of a great reaving seemed to strike a chord with my savage minions, though I was a little taken aback when I learned they expected me to lead them. I was, of course, aghast at the thought, but Falyse reminded me of my oaths and duties and I grudgingly prepared to sail.
