champions ascend the hill to stand at Aeron's side beneath the ribs of Nagga.
This would-be king was a tall spare lord with a melancholy visage, his lantern jaw shaved clean. His three champions took up their position two steps below him, bearing his sword and shield and banner. They shared a certain look with the tall lord, and Aeron took them for his sons. One unfurled his banner, a great black longship against a setting sun, 'I am Gylbert Farwynd, Lord of the Lonely Light,' the lord told the kingsmoot.
Aeron knew some Farwynds, a queer folk who held lands on westernmost shores of Great Wyk and the scattered isles beyond, rocks so small that most could support but a single household. Of those, the Lonely Light was the most distant, eight days sail to the northwest amongst rookeries of seals and sealions and the boundless grey oceans. The Farwynds there were even queerer than the rest. Some said they were skinchangers, unholy creatures who could take on the forms of sea lions, walrus, even spotted whales, the wolves of the wild sea.
Lord Gylbert began to speak. He told of a wondrous land beyond the Sunset Sea, a land without winter or want where death had no dominion. 'Make me your king, and I shall lead you there,' he cried. 'We will build ten thousand ships as Nymeria once did, and take sail with all our people to the land beyond the sunset. There every man shall be a king, and every wife a queen.'
His eyes, Aeron saw, were now grey, now blue, as changeable as the seas. Mad eyes, he thought, fool's eyes. The vision he spoke of was doubtless a snare set by the Storm God to lure the ironborn to destruction. The offerings that his men spilled out before the kingsmoot included sealskins and walrus tusks, arm rings made of whalebone, warhorns banded in bronze. The captains looked and turned away, leaving lesser men to help themselves to the gifts. When the fool was done talking and his champions began to shout his name, only the Farwynds took up the cry, and not even all of them. Soon enough the cries of 'Gylbert! Gylbert King!' faded away to silence. The gull screamed loudly above them, and landed atop one of Nagga's ribs as the Lord of the Lonely Light made his way back down the hill.
Aeron Damphair stepped forward once more. 'I ask again. Who shall be king over us?'
'Me!' a deep voice boomed, and once more the crowd parted.
The speaker was borne up the hill in a carved driftwood chair carried on the shoulders of his grandsons. A great ruin of a man, twenty stones heavy and ninety years old, he was cloaked in a white bearskin. His own hair was snow white as well, and his huge beard covered him like a blanket from cheeks to thighs, so it was hard to tell where the beard ended and the pelt began. Though his grandsons were great strapping men, they struggled with his weight on the steep stone steps. Before the Grey King's hall they set him down, and three remained below him as his champions.
Sixty years ago, this one might well have won the favor of the moot, Aeron thought, but his hour is long past.
'Aye, me!' the man roared from where he sat, in a voice as huge as he was. 'Why not? Who better? I am Erik Ironmaker, for them who's blind. Erik the Just. Erik Anvil-Breaker. Show them my hammer, Thormor.' One of his champions lifted it up for all to see; a monstrous thing it was, its haft wrapped in old leather, its head a brick of steel as large as a loaf of bread. 'I can't count how many hands I've smashed to pulp with that hammer,' Erik said, 'but might be some thief could tell you. I can't say how many heads I've crushed against my anvil neither, but there's some widows could. I could tell you all the deeds I've done in battle, but I'm eight-and-eighty and won't live long enough to finish. If old is wise, no one is wiser than me. If big is strong, no one's stronger. You want a king with heirs? I've more'n I can count. King Erik, aye, I like the sound o' that. Come, say it with me. ERIK! ERIK ANVIL -BREAKER! ERIK KING!'
As his grandsons took up the cry, their own sons came forward with chests upon their shoulders. When they upended them at the base of the stone steps, a torrent of silver, bronze, and steel spilled forth; arm rings, collars, daggers, dirks, and throwing axes. A few captains snatched up the choicest items, and added their voices to the swelling chant. But no sooner had the cry begun to build than a woman's voice cut through it. 'r/A/'Men moved aside to let her through. With one foot on the lowest step, she said, 'Erik, stand up.'
A hush fell. The wind blew, waves broke against the shore, men murmurred in each other's ears. Erik Ironmaker stared down at Asha Greyjoy. 'Girl. Thrice-damned girl. What did you say?'
'Stand up, Erik,' she called. 'Stand up and I'll shout your name with all the rest. Stand up and I'll be the first to follow you. You want a crown, aye. Stand up and take it.'
Elsewhere in the press, the Crow's Eye laughed. Erik glared at him. The big man's hands closed tight around the arms of his driftwood throne. His face went red, then purple. His arms trembled with effort. Aeron could see a thick blue vein pulsing in his neck as he struggled to rise. For a moment it seemed as though he might do it, but the breath went out of him all at once, and he groaned and sank back onto his cushion. Euron laughed all the louder. The big man hung his head and grew old, all in the blink of an eye. His grandsons carried him back down the hill.
'Who shall rule the ironborn?' Aeron Damphair called again. 'Who shall be king over us?'
Men looked at one another. Some looked at Euron, some at Victarion, a few at Asha. Waves broke green and white against the longships. The gull cried once more, a raucous scream, forlorn. 'Make your claim, Victarion,' The Merlyn called. 'Let us have done with this mummer's farce.'
'When I am ready,' Victarion shouted back.
Aeron was pleased. It is better if he waits.
The Drumm came next, another old man, though not so old as Erik. He climbed the hill on his own two legs, and on his hip rode Red Rain, his famous sword, forged of Valyrian steel in the days before the Doom. His champions were men of note: his sons Denys and Donnel, both stout fighters, and between them Andrik the Unsmiling, a giant of a man with arms as thick as trees. It spoke well of The Drumm that such a man would stand for him.
'Where is it written that our king must be a kraken?' Drumm began. 'What right has Pyke to rule us? Great Wyk is the largest isle, Harlaw the richest, Old Wyk the most holy. When the black line was consumed by dragonfire, the ironborn gave the primacy to Vickon Greyjoy, aye. .. but as lord, not king'
It was a good beginning. Aeron heard shouts of approval, but they dwindled as the old man began to tell of the glory of the Drumms, He spoke of Dale the Dread, Roryn the Reaver, the hundred sons of Gormond Drumm the Oldfather. He drew Red Rain and told them how Hilmar Drumm the Cunning had won the blade from a armored knight with wits and a wooden cudgel. He spoke of ships long lost and battles eight hundred years forgotten, and the crowd grew restive. He spoke and spoke, and then he spoke still more.
And when Drumm's chests were thrown open, the captains saw the niggard's gifts he'd brought them. Ato throne was ever bought with bronze, the Damphair thought. The truth of that was plain to hear, as the cries of 'Drumm! Drumm! Dunstan King!' died away.
Aeron could feel a tightness in his belly, and it seemed to him that the waves were pounding louder than before. It is time, he thought. It is time for Victarion to make his claim. 'Who shall be king over us?' the priest cried once more, but this time his fierce black eyes found his brother in the crowd. 'Nine sons were born from the loins of Quellon Greyjoy. One was mightier than all the rest, and knew no fear.'
Victarion met his eyes, and nodded. The captains parted before him as he climbed the steps. 'Brother, give me blessing,' he said when he reached the top. He knelt and bowed his head. Aeron uncorked his waterskin and poured a stream of sea water down upon his brow. 'What is dead can never die, 'the priest said, and
Victarion replied, 'but rises again, harder and stronger.'
When Victarion rose, his champions arrayed themselves beneath him; Rafe the Limper, Red Rafe Storehouse, and Nute the Barber, noted warriors all. Stonehouse bore the Greyjoy banner; the golden kraken on a field as black as the midnight sea. As soon as it unfurled the captains and the kings began to shout out the Lord Captain's name. Victarion waited till they quieted, then said, 'You all know me. If you want sweet words, look elsewhere. I have no singer's tongue. I have an axe, and I have these.' He raised his huge mailed hands up to show them, and Nute the Barber displayed his axe, a fearsome piece of steel. 'I was a loyal brother,' Victarion went on. 'When Balon was wed, it was me he sent to Harlaw to bring him back his bride. I led his long-ships into many a battle, and never lost but one. The first time Balon took a crown, it was me sailed into Lannisport to singe the lion's tail. The second time, it was me he sent to skin the Young Wolf should he come howling home. All you'll get from me is more of what you got from Balon. That's all I have to say.'
With that his champions began to chant: 'VICTARION! VICTARION! VIC-TARIONKINO!' Below, his men were spilling out his chests, a cascade of silver, gold, and gems, a wealth of plunder. Captains scrambled to seize the richest pieces, shouting as they did so. 'VICTARION! VICTARION! VICTARION KING!' Aeron watched the Crow's
