loved well.
He had said as much to his captains at Moat Caiiin, when first they urged him to claim the Seastone Chair. 'Balon's sons are dead,' Red Ralf Stonehouse had argued, 'and Asha is a woman. You were your brother's strong right arm, you must pick up the sword that he let fall.' When Victarion reminded Them that Balon had commanded him to hold the Moat against the northmen, Ralf Kenning said, 'The wolves are broken, lord. What good to win this swamp and lose The isles?' And Ralf the Limper added, 'The Crow's Eye has been too long away. He knows us not.'
Euron Greyjoy, King of the Isles and the North. The Thought woke an old rage in his heart, but still…
'Words are wind,' Victarion told them, 'and the only good wind is that which fills our sails. Would you have me fight The Crow's Eye? Brother against brother, ironborn against ironborn?' Euron was still his elder, no matter how much bad blood might be between them. No man is as accursed as the kinslayer.
But when the Damphair's summons came, the call to kingsmool, then all was changed. Aeron speaks with the Drowned God's voice, Victarion reminded himself, and if the Drowned God wilts that I should sit the Seastone Chair… The next day he gave command of Moat Cailin to Ralf Kenning, and set off overland for The Fever River where the Iron Fleet lay amongst the reeds and willows. Rough seas and fickle winds had delayed him, but only one ship had been lost, and he was home.
Grief and Iron Vengeance wereclose behind as Iron Victory passed the head-land. Behind came Hardhand, Iron Wind, Grey Ghost. Lord Quelbn, Lord Vikon, Lord Oagon, and the rest, nine Tenths of the Iron Fleet, sailing on the evening tide in a ragged column that extended back long leagues. The sight of their sails filled Victarion Greyjoy with content. No man had ever loved his wives half as well as the Lord Captain loved his ships.
Along the sacred strand of Old Wyk, longships lined the shore as far as the eye could see, their masts thrust up like spears. In the deeper waters rode prizes: cogs, carracks, and dromonds won in raid or war, too big to run ashore. From prow and stern and mast flew familiar banners.
Nute the Barber squinted toward the strand. 'Is that Lord Harlaw's Sea Song?' The Barber was a thick-set man with bandy legs and long arms, but his eyes were not so keen as they had been when he was young. In those days he could throw an axe so well that men said he could shave you with it.
'Sea Song, aye.' Rodrik the Reader had left his books, it would seem. 'And there old Drumm's Thunderer, with Blacktyde's Nighrflyer beside her.' Victarion's eyes were as sharp as they had ever been. Even with their sails furled and their banners hanging limp, he knew them, as befit the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. 'Swiftfin too. Some son of Sawane Botley.' The Crow's Eye had drowned Lord Botley, Victarion had heard, and his heir had sailed to Moat Cailin with him and died there, but he'd had brothers. How many? Four? No, five, by three different wives, and none with any cause to love the Crow's Eye,
And then he saw her: a single-masted longs hip, lean and low, with a dark red hull. Her sails, now furled, were black as a starless sky. Even at anchor Silence looked both cruel and fast. On her prow was a black iron maiden with one arm outstretched. Her waist was slender, her breasts high and proud, her legs long and shapely. A mane of black iron hair streamed from her head, and her eyes were mother-of-pearl, but she had no mouth.
Victarion's hands closed into fists. He had beaten four men to death with those hands, and one wife as well. Though his hair was flecked with hoarfrost, he was as strong as he had ever been, with a bull's broad chest and a boy's flat belly. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men, Balon had reminded him, on the day he sent the Crow's Eye off to sea.
'He is here,' Victarion told the Barber. 'Drop sail. We proceed on oars alone. Command Grief and Iron Vengeance to stand between Silence and the sea. The rest of the fleef to seal the bay. None are to leave save at my command, neither man nor crow.'
The men upon the shore had spied their sails. Shouts echoed across the bay as friends and kin called out greetings. But not from Silence. On her decks a motley crew of mutes and mongrels spoke no word as the Iron Victory drew nigh. Men black as tar stared out at him, and others squat and hairy as the apes of Sothoros. Monsters, Victarion thought.
They dropped anchor twenty yards from Silence. 'Lower a boat. I would go ashore.' He buckled on his sword- belt as the rowers took their places; his longsword rested on one hip, a dirk upon the other. Nute the Barber fastened the Lord Captain's cloak about his shoulders. It was made of nine layers of cloth-of-gold, sewn in the shape of the kraken of Greyjoy, arms dangling to his boots. Beneath he wore heavy grey chainmail over boiled black leather. In Moat Cailin he had taken to wearing mail day and night. Sore shoulders and an aching back were easier to bear than bloody bowels. The poisoned arrows of the bog devils need only scratch a man, and a few hours later he would be squirting and screaming as his life ran down his legs in gouts of red and brown. Whoever wins the Seastone Chair, I shall deal with the bog devils.
Victarion donned a tall black warhelm, wrought in the shape of an iron kraken, its arms coiled downaround his cheeks to meet beneath his jaw. By then the boat was ready. 'I put the chests into your charge,' he told Nute as he climbed over the side. 'See that they are strongly guarded.' Much depended on the chests.
'As you command, Your Grace.'
Victarion returned a sour scowl, 'I am no king as yet.' He clambered down into the boat.
Aeron Damphair was waiting for him in the surf with his waterskin slung beneath one arm. The priest was gaunt and tall, though shorter than Victarion. His nose rose like a shark's fin From a bony face, and his eyes were iron. His beard reached to his waist, and tangled ropes of hair slapped at the back of his legs when the wind blew. 'Brother,' he said as the waves broke white and cold around their ankles, 'what is dead can never die.'
'But rises again, harder and stronger.' Victarion lifted off his helm and knelt. The bay filled his boots and soaked his breeches as Aeron poured a stream of saltwater down upon his brow. And so they prayed.
'Where is our brother Crow's Eye?' the Lord Captain demanded of Aeron Damphair when the prayers were done.
'His is the great tent of cloth-of-gold, there where the din is loudest. He surrounds himself with godless men and monsters, worse than before. In him our father's blood went bad.'
'Our mother's blood as well.' Victarion would not speak of kinslaying, here in this godly place beneath the bones of Nagga and the Grey King's hall, but many a night he dreamed of driving a mailed fist into Euron's smiling face, until the flesh split and his bad blood ran red and free. / must not. I pledged my word to Balon. 'All have come?' he asked his priestly brother.
'All who matter. The captains and the kings.' On the Iron Islands they were one and the same, for every captain was a king on his own deck, and every king must be a captain. 'Do you mean to claim our father's crown?'
Victarion imagined himself seated on the Seastone Chair. 'If the Drowned God wils it.'
'The waves will speak,' said Aeron Damphair, as he turned away. 'Listen to the waves, brother'
'Aye.' He wondered how his name would sound whispered by waves, and shouted by the captains and the kings.
If the cup should pass to me I will not set it by.
A crowd had gathered round to wish him well and seek his favor. Victarion saw men from every isle; Blacktydes, Tawneys, Orkwoods, Stonetrees, Wynches, and many more. The Goodbrothers of Old Wyk, The Goodbrothers of Great Wyk, and the Goodbrothers of Orkmont all had come. The Codds were there, though every decent man despised them. Humble Shepherds, Weavers, and Netleys rubbed shoulders with men from Houses ancient and proud; even humble Humbies, the blood of thralls and salt wives. A Volmark clapped Victarion on the back; two Sparrs pressed a wineskin into his hands. He drank deep, wiped his mouth, and let them bear him off to their cookfires, to listen to their talk of war and crowns and plunder, and the glory and the freedom of his reign.
That night the men of the Iron Fleet raised a huge sailcloth tent above rhe fideline, so Victarion might feast half a hundred famous captains on roast kid, salted cod, and lobster. Aeron came as well. He ate fish and drank water, whilst the captains quaffed sufficient ale to float the Iron Fleet. Victarion lost count of all those who promised him their voices. Many were men of note: Fralegg the Strong, clever Alvyn Sharp, humpbacked Hotho Harlaw. Hotho offered him a daughter for his queen. 'I have no luck with wives,' Victarion told him. His first wife died in childbed, giving him a stillborn daughter. His second had been stricken by a pox. And his third…
'A king must have an heir,' Hotho insisted. 'The Crow's Eye brings three sons to show before the kingsmoot.'
'Bastards and mongrels. How old is this daughter?'
