Chapter XXVII
Traitors.
I am beset on all sides by traitors. The body of my wretched coward of a father was barely cold when the captains began to bellow for a kingsmoot, chattering like the apes the Summer King keeps as pets, shitting in the ruins of Dorne. The great lords were already assembled to bear witness to my trial, they said, so why wait.
The whole thing stunk of a conspiracy, and I decided to bring the farce to a close by making mine own case clear before any other could sway the moot. I was Rook's son and killer both, I cried. Anointed by the Drowned God in mine father's blood, rightwise Iron King by birth and might alike. Recognise my rule and I would lay the gutted carcass of the world for their banquet. Deny me, and I would destroy them all.
Some men called my name then, those that had been my companions a-reaving, or marched with me into the frozen hell Beyond the Wall, but they were few, pitifully few. I began to speak again, when I heard voice behind me making reference to my harlot of a wife. A ripple of laughter spread through the hall, and I whirled in fury, swearing that I would find the one who'd made the jape and cut his heart out.
Voices began to be raised in return, men reaching for steel in response to my words. I did not fear such as they, mewling weaklings that they were, but slaughter was cut short by the word of another Kraken.
My aunt Falyse rose to speak, bidding the Ironborn still, and they did, so high was their regard for the old harridan. She began to talk at length of her 'service' to the realm. She had lead our armies for near fifty years, had ruled the Westerlands with iron fist for even longer. Who was more qualified than she to sit the Seastone Chair?
Her speech seemed to have great effect, though I wondered how many of the voices raised on her behalf were bought and paid for. As Naga's Ribs echoed to the sound of "Falyse! Falyse Queen!" she must have thought her bony arse already on the throne, but it was not to be.
Last to speak was Urron, Lord of House Harlaw. I knew the man but little. He was no warrior of note, but he was by all accounts a genial man, one with many friends amongst the Ironborn. Powerful friends, I was to find out. The fat little traitor spoke in soft, maddeningly reasonable voice as he praised my father, reminded the Ironborn of the supposed prosperity of the last decade, then pointed at me, named me Kinslayer, and asked how many of the lords thought I was fit to continue such a legacy.
I nearly gutted the scum right there, but he was not done. He turned to Falyse. She was worthy of great admiration, he admitted, but she was, it must be allowed, the wrong side of sixty years of age. What purpose would there be in holding a Kingsmoot when we would need to reconvene in scat span of years? The Kingsmoot, he said, was not limited to House Greyjoy. In the absence of a suitable Greyjoy heir he presented himself as the best candidate, and swore to rule in a manner that ensured the same prosperity the Ironborn had enjoyed under their 'cruelly butchered' king.
The captains erupted in support for Urron Harlaw, suspiciously on key, and the new king smiled at me.
I swore then to cut off his face and eat it as he died.
The throne was lost, but the Storm God had not yet finished pissing on me. I stalked away from the Kingsmoot towards the Dragonpit. Drogon lurked below, quieter than I'd expected, and I was soon to discover why. As I had been arguing my case my sister Asha had been down there, staking her claim to a prize as great as any throne. The pit was guarded by the soldiers of her husband, Robb Stark, who informed me that Lady Asha had taken possession of the beast.
Fury welled in my chest, and I was sore tempted to murder them all, but I was not so foolish as to discard potential ally, for I did not mean to let the reign of King Urron last long.
I returned to Pyke, which not even the Ghost of Balon could have pried from my grasp, and took stock of what resources remained to me. Urron had been right about one thing at least; the reign of my father had been prosperous indeed. What the usurper failed to consider was that that wealth now belonged to me.
Wealth enough to buy the great lords to my cause.
Wealth enough to buy an army.
I was Bennarion of House Greyjoy, of the blood of Balon and the Young Wolf, and I would take what was mine with fire and blood.
But mostly with blood.
My first action was, of course, to reconcile with Falyse. The old woman bore me not inconsiderable ill will for the death of my father, but I think she understood that my actions were not without cause. The bastard fucked my wife after all. But more than this, Falyse was nothing if not pragmatic. She wanted House Greyjoy to reclaim the throne as much as I, and knew that the Lords and Captains would be more willing to back a male claimant.
Falyse lent me her support, and the viability of my plans grew immensely with the might of the Westerlands at my call. Unsatisified though, I approached the Lords of the North and the Vale, men each wed to my elder sisters. Securing their support proved more problematic, and required considerable gift of gold, but eventually they joined me. Indeed, the Usurper helped my cause when he arrested and executed my sister Roelle, lady of the Vale, pushing her husband Lord Gwayne into my arms.
I promised my sister's ghost she would soon be avenged, and made finally preparations, sending trusted warriors throughout Westeros and across the Narrow Sea, hiring swords. Many we found in the south, dispossessed Dornishmen unwilling to fight for the Summer King. Gradually, I assembled great host of sellswords on Pyke. Urron must have known what I was about by then, but the fat coward made no move to stop me.
Finally, the reckoning day arrived. I sent raven to Ten Towers demanding he step down and kneel before the true Iron King. He refused. Wise of him, for I would have killed him either way, but it meant we were at war.
The Kingdom descended into an orgy of violence, as the Lords of the West, the North and the Vale invaded the Riverlands with overwhelming force, crushing the Riverlander armies in battles near Raventree Moat Cailin and putting Riverrun and The Twins to siege.
I, though, was busy in the Iron Islands themselves. The hearts of the Ironborn were clearly split by the war, for as many Lords declared for me as damned me for a mad traitor. But it mattered not. My sellsword army was vast, and we soon made the crossing to Harlaw, annihilating Urron's pitiful forces in open battle atop Harridan Hill whilst the so-called king cowered in his towers.
Unwilling to wait for the fall of the Riverlands to free my allies, I ordered immediate assault on Ten Towers, climbing the siege ladders with my men and hacking my way through the Usurper's dogs. Harlaw men wear the badge of a Scythe, but I was the reaper that day.
I do not know how long the battle of Ten Towers lasted, but it was the moment of my young life. This, I knew, was what I was made for. To lead men into battle, to smash down the pathetic defences of the enemy and bring them ruin and death. The Harlaw men, and many others, had grown soft and weak under my father's mewling reign, but I was the instrument of the Drowned God's reproach, come to take my crown.
Our men captured Urron alive, and dragged him beaten and bloody before me. The coward begged for his miserable life, but I laughed in his face and dragged him down to the shoreline, past my howling men.
He knew what fate lay before him, and began to beg anew, but mercy is for the weak hearts of women and fools. I silenced him with a punch from my gauntlet and chained him to the beach, retiring further up the shore and sharing cup with trusted warriors as I watched the waters wash over him.
It was only when he had disappeared under the waves completely that I recalled my vow to eat his face, an honour I had just given to the crabs.
Next time, perhaps.
