Capítulo 420: 40
Chapter 40: Chapter 30: KingsmootChapter Text
"What do you mean the Gold Price? Do I look stupid enough to use gold? No, I paid the Iron Price for these!"
-Iron King Theon Drumm, the Surprisingly Successful, after purchasing trade goods with Braavosi iron coins.
108 AC, Nagga's Hill, Old Wyk
The Ironborn were fickle and tempestuous. Pirates and reavers. Vikings in all but name, hard drinking, hard fighting and hard sailing men. They lived off the sea, raided what they lacked, and bowed down to a strange pagan idol.
But I knew what drove these men even before I stepped foot on these shores. War. Victarion Greyjoy promised, and half the Iron Islands backed him. Peace. Asha Greyjoy promised, and the other hand backed her. And then there was Euron Greyjoy. Conquest. He promised, and stole the whole crowd for himself. And yet, it was only when I strode the streets of Lordsport and Old Wyk, under an illusion of a common sailor, did I truly see what the Ironborn want. Prosperity. They whispered, as they tilled barren fields. Wealth. They sang, as they held stolen jewels. Respect. They wished, as they complained about greenlanders.
One by one, the pieces fell together, until I had a plan laid out in my head. A route charted through the treacherous waters that were the desires of the Ironborn, with the destination being victory. As I planned, threats appeared, determined to sink my ship and deny it the promised land. Like an old sea salt, I considered the lay of the sea and adjusted my approach correspondingly, dodging storms and whirlpools. Defeating pirates and monsters. Risks were tallied and sacrifices measured. To the exact degree required and not a single centimetre more.
And thus when I opened my eyes, did I have a plan for Jonas Blacktyde's victory.
I spent time briefing him on the matter. I'd set aside days for the briefing, but the man was shrewd, and picked it up in a matter of hours. Jonas was big and muscled, with a shaved head, stubble and tan. His face was scarred and grizzled, but surprisingly warm when he was relaxed. Forty years old, he was a skilled captain and admiral, popular with his crew and apparently utterly fearless.
Many told tales of the time he swam into shark-infested waters to rescue crewmates that fell overboard. Or of that time he leapt onto a leviathan's back and plunged a harpoon into its eye. Or another time, when he jumped into the sea with rocks around his ankles in order to descend quickly enough to rescue his wife when a kraken dragged her underwater.
But more important than his reputation, was that he was surprisingly principled. He preferred hunting massive leviathans or krakens in the Summer Sea to reaving. He married a Summer Islander and was a devoted husband, not taking a single salt wife. He had children, his eldest an adorable eight-year-old girl, whom he doted on.
He had been a third son to Lord Marc Blacktyde, and when Marc's warmonger sons killed their peacemonger father at the start of the Greyjoy Rebellion, he had deserted the Iron Islands with as many ships as he could muster, and led them in the defence of the rest of the Kingdoms. After the Scouring of Pyke, his older brothers had refused to kneel, so the Kingsguard killed them, and we gave Jonas the lordship as a reward.
Now, we intended on giving him the lord paramountship.
———
The summons begun with the Drowned Men banging cudgels on shields, a dirge of wood on wood. With the bellows of horns and the heartbeat of drums swelling their voice, until the entire island rang with sound. Like a tide, the Ironborn swept forward, coming to the foot of the hill, beneath those great ribs of stone. To choose not a king, but a lord.
I watched as the men gathered. Captains and crew. Oarsmen and sailors. Warriors and fishermen. Thralls and Salt wives. Maesters and knights. Lords and ladies. Men and women. The Ironborn were here. The Ironborn were listening. The Ironborn were watching.
The head priest of the Drowned God, a certain Veron Greyjoy, one of the last of that bloodline to walk the earth, raised a hand, and quiet took the island. With only the sound of the waves and seagulls remaining. That was my cue.
In utter silence, they watched as Silverwing and I descended from the sky, Queen Alysanne's mount placing the item she held in her claws down with a delicate grace. She landed in the shallows and stretched her neck out, allowing me to climb up and onto the hill, where I leaned lazily on a black stone tentacle sticking out of the item I had brought. Behind me, Silverwing took to the sky once more.
"The Seastone Chair." Veron Greyjoy announced. "Prince Rhaenyra paid the Iron Price for it. She razed Pyke and near all of House Greyjoy that day, sending them into the Drowned God's embrace. They feast in his halls now, and we have need of a new leader.
"But the follies of our grandparents are not to be repeated." The priest declared. "While Lord Vickon Greyjoy may have been worthy of the seat, his descendants were not! That is why, from now on, we will go back to the Old Way. The True Way."
He raised in his hands a crown of driftwood, though blackened and burnt, it was not Walton Greyjoy's. His crown was now ash and dust, and what he held but a replica, but the unwashed masses didn't need to know that. With a great snap, the crown was split in two, as tradition dictated when an Iron King passed.
"Never again will one family rule us all! Never again will our leaders be chosen for something as foolish as blood!" Veron Greyjoy declared. "Only the worthiest will sit the Seastone Chair, and so I ask you all. Are you worthy?"
"House Targaryen shall abide by this." I declared, lacing my voice with sorcery, to make it travel further more clearly, and linger longer in the minds of those whom heard it. "By the decree of King Viserys Targaryen the First of His Name, we shall allow the Ironborn to choose their Lord Paramount, and when he dies, to choose the worthiest among you all as his successor.
"I stand before you all, as the Iron Throne's witness for this Kingsmoot. The first since my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror's Conquest." I tapped the chair beside me. "I return the Seastone Chair to you today. And one of you will sit it by tonight."
I turned to face them, looking down from the highest point of the hill.
"May the worthiest be the lord." I finished, watching as murmurs spread through the crowd.
"A lord must rise. A lord shall rise." Veron Greyjoy proclaimed. "Whom claims the Seastone Chair?"
The Ironborn all shuffled, anticipation hanging in the air like smoke. None wanted to be the first, as the older and defter hands at leadership knew to let others go first, such that they could judge what the people wanted the most.
As the silence stretched, I stepped forward, standing side by side with the head priest.
"Whom claims the Seastone Chair?" We asked in unison, kraken and dragon looking down at the crowd of pirates. "Whom is worthy?"
"I am!" A voice finally said, the crowd parting to reveal a handsome man with a chiselled jaw and sharp eyes. The first claimant ascended the hill, to cries of 'Gapeth King! Gapeth King!'
"I am Gapeth Pyke! Also known as Gapeth Eelskin!" The man declared. He spoke of his victories and victims, of lands raided and plunder taken. As he spoke, he waved a Valyrian steel sword in the air, clearly won in battle somewhere.
"I am the most fearsome warrior of the Iron Islands! Only I am worth putting on the Seastone Chair!" He finished, his three champions pouring out gifts of eelskin, steel swords and bronze. He raised his sword to chants of 'Gapeth King!', but they were few and far in between. Eventually, they petered out, and the seagulls became the louder once again.
Glowering at the silence, Gapeth Eelskin retuned down the hill, and we stepped to the forefront once more.
"He was not worthy." Greyjoy and I declared. "Whom claims the Seastone Chair?"
We went through another dozen or so claimants, but none swayed enough of the crowd. The first few were mere braggarts, arguing for rule as they were the finest swords, sailors or raiders, as if a good killer would make a good ruler. The next were better, lesser lords mostly. Their promises were mundane, enemies slain, protections ensured, but then one captain broached the idea of sharing all plunder equally and fairly, and though he was booed off the hill, now it was bare ambition that spoke.
A lord spoke of building a thousand ships and sailing across the Sunset Sea for a promised land.
Another would have the Iron Islands transformed into a great thing of beauty, like that of the Arbor.
Walder Greyjoy, one of the last Greyjoys whom evaded my purge, declared that he would be no mere lord, but an Iron King in his own right, and would humble the dragons and their riders. We didn't know what his gifts were, mostly because I mounted Silverwing and picked that brave idiot up in her claws before throwing him into the sea from cloud level.
By the time I returned to the hill, it was time for the serious contenders.
Lord Drumm promised to swell the Iron Fleet until it was the greatest fleet in the world.
Lord Wynch declared that he would seize the Stepstones for the Ironborn and reave every ship that sailed into the archipelago.
Lord Harlaw spoke of striking the weakened Triarchy and seizing all of its wealth for themselves.
These three only evaded becoming the Lord Paramount because each time the crowd began chanting names, another would step up and stake his claim. The mob was roiling now, supporters falling on the three sides. In a few minutes, a riot might have broken out, but I raised a glass candle, and a shrill whistle emanated from it, cutting through the sound of the mob and sounding in every ear, the Ironborn quieting suddenly.
In utter silence, Jonas Blacktyde climbed the hill, his three champions behind him. His wife, Lady Sayan Blacktyde, captain of her own swan ship and a fierce hunter in her own right. Lord Mallister, once a bitter enemy from the mainland, now an staunch ally of the Blacktydes. And Lord Kermit Tully, who was watching the proceedings with great interest.
"I'm Lord Jonas Blacktyde, and I claim the Seastone Chair." As he spoke, I lent my sorcery to his voice, lacing them with my power.
"What are we? Whom are we?" Jonas asked. "We are Ironborn, fierce and furious. The finest sailors in the world. No storm or seabeast too tough for us. No depths too deep, no seas too treacherous."
As he spoke, backs straightened and people looked up in pride. This was true. As a people, there were no better seafarers in the known world. Sure, there were better individual sailors, like Lord Corlys, but even the average Ironborn was a superior sailor to near everyone else.
George R R Martin had based these people on the Vikings. Indisputably the best sailors in the world. Their sails were feared in every port from Glasgow to Alexandria. They sailed the entire world, and were the first Europeans to discover the Americas, before even Christopher Columbus. Like the Normans, the Ironborn were descendants of Vikings. And they had their ancestors' prowess on the sea in, while maybe not their veins, their soul definitely.
"But what is that to the mainland? What is that to the world?" Lord Jonas demanded. "The great lords of Westeros pay us no mind, until our little raids buzz through their kingdoms long enough to be a nuisance, then they swat us down, conquer us."
There was a murmur of pain and sorrow from the crowd. Shame and bitter grimaces.
"Humiliate us." He said, flicking a piece of Pyke, once a proud and strong stone, now burnt and crushed into a pebble, onto the ground. "Then they go back to forgetting we exist."
I had seen them as little more than brutal savages, fit only as ashes on a pyre. That was what they were to be, in the first, second, and thirds drafts of my plan. I planned for their islands to be scoured by dragonfire, their people put completely to the sword, to serve as an example to the entire continent the risks of disobeying Rhaenyra Targaryen. My Castermere.
I still put Pyke to the torch. But three years ago, it would have been every other town, village and holdfast on these dreary rocks. Genocide, instead of that methodically precise execution.
"The Greyjoys are gone. Their castle burnt into ashes, their line on its last gasps. More will follow if we follow the Old Way." Jonas stated grimly. "For every raid we launch, the mainland will launch another back. They will sack and burn our towns and castles. Rape and despoil our daughters and wives. Make widows and grieving parents.
"We've shamed Lord Lannister, so what do you all think will happen the next time we raid the Westerlands? Another easy victory? Nay, his pride won't allow it. We do it again, and we'll hear the lion roar. The Lannisters will put us all to the sword and torch, assuming our prince here doesn't get here first." He nodded at me as he said that, and I leaned on the Seastone Chair, reminding everyone of whose hands I ripped the thing out off.
"But without the Iron Way, we have nothing!" Lord Drumm protested.
"Aye. We have nothing." Lord Jonas bluntly agreed. "Fallow earth and windswept rocks. Iron and fish. Not enough wood to build ships, or flax for sails. We have nothing.
"But remember this. We are a sea people! Our god is a sea god! We are Ironborn! The best sailors in the land!" Where he previously was calm and composed, now Jonas was fervent and maddened, near religious in his words. "The Sea Snake is the richest man in Westeros, and what did he have when started out? What did he have that we do not? If a Velaryon can become the richest man in Westeros, then why can we not? Why can we not sail to the furthest lands? To Asshai and Yi Ti? To Ibb and Mossovy? Sothoryos and Ulthos?"
But I was a fool. The Triarchy had shown me the dangers of a well built and well armed fleet, and Lord Corlys was living proof of what the finest sailors could achieve. If he could do it, then why not they? Where else would I find sailors capable of rivalling the likes of the Sea Snake? Willing to brave anything to reach lands so far that they weren't on the maps? To bring back exotic goods never seen before? It was time for the Ironborn to hang up their axes. From now on, they would be the traders and merchants of my dominion.
"When I become Lord, I will ally with the mainland. Lord Stark will give us Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point in the North, black earth and tall trees and stones enough for every younger son to build a hall. Lord Bael will give us ironwood and weirwood from Beyond the Wall, to build a grand fleet of a thousand ships. Lord Tully will give us the rights to use his canals free of charge, to sail to the east in great haste. Lord Lannister will give us gold to fill our hulls, such that we may purchase exotic goods from faraway lands. Lord Tyrell will give us grain and cattle, to feed us on the voyage.
"We will no longer be the outcasts, the pitied, the poor. We will be the richest, the envied, and the most prosperous!" At that, his crew stepped forwards with their trunks, and poured their contents out on the ground. A wealth of trade goods from the span of Westeros and beyond.
Ironwood shields and weirwood bows from the North. Rare furs and ivory from Beyond the Wall. The silver and gold of the Westerlands. Dornish citrus and spices. Fruits and wines of the Reach. Bolts of lace and velour, woven in the Riverlands. Bronze and marble from the Vale. Steel arms and armour from the Stormlands. Dragonbone and dragon leather from Aenar's vault. Myrish crossbows. Tyroshi dyes. Lyseni silks.
"This is but a thousandth of what we can achieve." Jonas Blacktyde declared. "Name me Lord, and I promise everyone prosperity, wealth and respect beyond measure!"
"JONAS! JONAS! JONAS!" The crowd hollered, as they filled their hands with his gifts. Even the lords were among them. Lord Drumm was shouting at the top of his lungs, chanting Jonas' name. As was Lord Wynch and Harlaw. I shouted it as well, clapping for my new Lord Paramount.
As one, the Ironborn moved, like a tide of men, surging forwards and picking up Jonas Balcktyde. They carried him to the beach, and Veron Greyjoy forced his head beneath the waves, speaking prayers to the Drowned God as he did so. Once he stopped moving, he was dragged out of the sea, and brought to the beach. The Drowned Men attended him, giving him the Kiss of Life.
For a moment, nothing happened, and I seriously considered waking him with my sorcery, when the grizzled man coughed once, spitting out seawater from his lungs. There was a hush over the crowd, as everyone watched their new lord paramount stagger to his feet. The Drowned God had deemed him and his path worthy.
I clapped for the man, and stepped aside, gesturing to his new throne.
"Keep it." He grunted. "That's not us anymore. The Iron Way is no more. Now, we live the Gold Way."
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