Eye. Will he speak now, or let the kingsmoot run its course? Orkwood of Orkmont was whispering in Euron's ear.
But it was not Euron who put an end to the shouting, it was the thrice-damned woman. She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, a sharp shrill sound that cut through the tumult like a knife through curds. 'Nuncle! Nuncle!' Bending, she snatched up a twisted golden collar, and bounded up the steps. Nute seized her by the arm, and for half a heartbeat Aeron was hopeful that his brother's champions would keep the foolish girl silent, but Asha wrenched free of the Barber's hand and said something to Red Ralf that made him step aside. As she pushed past them, the cheering died away. She was Balon Greyjoy's daughter, and the crowd was curious to hear what she would say.
'It was good of you to bring such gifts to my queensmoot, nuncle,' she said to Victarion, 'but you need not have worn so much armor. I promise not to hurt you.' Guffaws sounded, as Asha turned to face the captains. 'There's no one braver than my nuncle, no one stronger, no one fiercer in a fight. And he counts to ten as quick as any man, I have seen him do it… though when he needs to go to twenty he does take off his boots.' That made them laugh again. 'He has no sons, though. His wives keep dying. The Crow's Eye is his elder and has a better claim…'
'He does!' the Red Oarsman shouted from below.
'Ah, but my claim is better still.' Asha set the collar on her head at a jaunty angle, so the gold gleamed against her dark hair. 'Balon's brother cannot come before Balon's son!'
'Balon's sons are dead,' cried Rafe the Limper. 'All I see is Balon's little daughter!'
'Daughter?' Asha slipped a hand beneath her jerkin. 'Oho! What's this? Shall I show you? Some of you have not seen one since they weaned you.' They laughed again. 'Teats on a king are a terrible thing, is that the song? Rafe, you have me, I am a woman… though not an old woman like you. Rafe the Limper… shouldn't that be Rafe the Limp?' Asha drew a dirk from between her breasts. 'I'm a mother too, and here's my suckling babe!' She held it up. 'And here, my champions.' They pushed past Victarion's three to stand below her: Qarl the Maid, Tristifer Botley, and the knight Ser Harras Harlaw, whose sword Nightfall was as storied as Dunstan Drumm's Red Rain. 'My nuncle said you know him. You know me too'
'I want to know you better!' someone shouted.
'Go home and know your wife,' Asha shot back. 'Nuncle says he'll give you more of what my father gave you. Well, what was that? Gold and glory, some will say. Freedom, ever sweet. Aye, it's so, he gave us that… and widows too, as Lord Blacktyde will tell you. How many of you had your homes put to the torch when Robert came? How many had daughters raped and despoiled? Burnt towns and broken castles, my father gave you that. Defeat was what he gave you. Nuncle here will give you more. Not me.'
'What will you give us?' asked Lucas Codd. 'Knitting?'
'Aye, Lucas. I'll knit us all a kingdom.' She tossed her dirk from hand to hand, 'We need to take a lesson from The Young Wolf, who won every battle.,. and lost all.'
'A wolf is not a kraken,' Victarion objected. 'What the kraken grasps it does nor loose, be it longship or leviathan,'
'And what have we grasped, nuncle? The north? What is that, but leagues and leagues of leagues and leagues, far from the sound of the sea? We have taken Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, even Winterfell. What do we have to show for it?' She beckoned, and her Black Wind men pushed forward, chests of oak and iron on their shoulders. 'I give you the wealth of the Stony Shore,' Asha said as the first was upended. An avalanche of pebbles clattered forth, cascading down the steps; pebbles grey and black and white, worn smooth by the sea. 'I give you The riches of Deepwood,' she said, as the second chest was opened. Pinecones came pouring out, to roll and bounce down into the crowd. 'And last, the gold of Winterfell.' from the third chest came yellow turnips, round and hard and big as man's head. They landed amidst the pebbles and the pinecones. Asha stabbed one with her dirk. 'Harmund Sharp,' she shouted, 'your son Harrag died at Winterfell, for this.' She pulled the Turnip off her blade and tossed it to him. 'You have other sons, I think. If you'd trade their lives for turnips, shout my nuncle's name!'
'And if I shout your name?' Harmund demanded. 'What then?'
'Peace,' said Asha. 'Land. Victory. I'll give you Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore, black earth and tall trees and stones enough for every younger son to build a hall. We'll have the north-men too… as friends, to stand beside us against the Iron Throne. So the choice is simple. Crown me, for peace and victory. Or crown my nuncle, for more war and more defeat.' She sheathed her dirk again. 'What will you have, ironmen?'
'VICTORY!'shouted Rodrik the Reader, his hands cupped about his mouth. 'Victory, and Asha!'
'ASHA!' LordBaelor Blacktyde echoed. 'ASHA QUEEN!'
Asha's own crew took up the cry. 'ASHA! ASHA! ASHA QUEEN!' They stamped their feet and shook their fists and yelled as the Damphair listened in disbelief. She would leave her Father's work undone! Yet Tristifer Botley was shouting for her, with many Harlaws, some Goodbrothers, red-faced Lord Merlyn, more men than the priest would ever have believed… for a woman!
But others were holding their tongues, or muttering asides to their neighbors. 'No craven's peace!' Raft the Limper roared. Red Ralf Stonehouse swirled the Greyjoy banner and bellowed, 'Victarion! VICTARION! VICTARION! Men began to shove at one another. Someone flung a pinecone at Asha's head. When she ducked, her makeshift crown fell off. For a moment it seemed to the priest as if he stood atop a giant anthill, with a thousand ants in a boil at his feet. Shouts of 'Asha!' and 'Victarion!' surged back and froth, and it seemed as though some savage storm was about to engulf them all. The Srorm Cod is amongst us, the priest thought, sowing fury and discord.
Sharp as a swordthrust, the sound of a horn split the air.
Bright and baneful was its voice, a shivering hot scream that made a man's bones seem to thrum within him. The cry lingered in the damp sea air: aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,
All eyes turned toward the sound. It was one of Euron's mongrels winding the call, a monstrous man with a shaved head. Rings of gold and jade and jet glistened on his arms, and on his broad chest was tattooed some bird of prey, talons dripping blood. aaaaRRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
The horn he blew was shiny black and twisted, and taller than a man as he held it with both hands. It was bound about with bands of red gold and dark steel, incised with ancient Valyrian glyphs that seemed to glow redly as the sound swelled. aaaaaaaRRREEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
It was a terrible sound, a wail of pain and fury that seemed to burn the ears. Aeron Damphair covered his, and prayed for the Drowned God to raise a mighty wave and smash the horn to silence, yet still the shriek went on and on. It is the horn of hell, he wanted to scream, though no man would have heard him. The cheeks of the tattooed man were so puffed out they looked about to burst, and the muscles in his chest twitched in a way that it made it seem as if the bird were about to rip free of his flesh and take wing. And now the glyphs were burning brightly, every line and letter shimmering with white fire. On and on and on the sound went, echoing amongst rhe howling hills behind them and across the waters of Nagga's Cradle to ring against The mountains of Great Wyk, on and on and on until it filled the whole wet world.
And when it seemed the sound would never end, it did.
The hornblower's breath failed at last. He staggered and almost fell. The priest saw Orkwood of Orkmont catch him by one arm to hold him up, whilst Left-Hand Lucas Codd took the twisted black horn from his hands. A thin wisp of smoke was rising from the horn, and the priest saw blood and blisters upon the lips of the man who'd sounded it. The bird on his chest was bleeding too. Euron Greyjoy climbed the hill slowly, with every eye upon him. Above the gull screamed and screamed again. No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair, Aeron thought, but he knew that he must let his brother speak. His lips moved silently in prayer.
Asha's champions stepped aside, and Victarion's as well. The priest took a step backward, and put one hand upon the cold rough stone of Nagga's ribs. The Crow's Eye stopped atop the steps, at The doors of the Grey King's hall, and turned his smiling eye upon the captains and the kings, but Aeron could feel his other eye as well, the one that he kept hidden.
'IRONMEN,'said Euron Greyjoy, 'you have heard my horn. Now hear my words. I am Balon's brother, Quellon's eldest living son. Lord Vickon's blood is in my veins, and the blood of the Old Kraken. Yet I have sailed further than any of them. Only one living kraken has never known defeat. Only one has never bent his knee. Only one has sailed to Asshai by the Shadow, and seen wonders and terrors beyond imagining. ..'
'If you liked the Shadow so well, go back there,' called out bar-cheeked Qarl the Maid, one of Asha's champions.
The Crow's Eye ignored him, 'My little brother would finish Balon's war, and claim the north. My sweet niece
