The roars of Hrothgar Drumm, the chilling sarcasm of Garrik Botley, the solemn worries of Korren Blacktyde, and the fervent cries of "return to the old way"—like several turbulent undercurrents clashing in different directions—collided violently within the cold Council Chamber, nearly submerging Quellon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke, and his Sea Stone Seat.
Yet Quellon merely sat, fingers rhythmically tapping the cold Sea Stone tabletop. The soft "thump, thump" carved a pocket of quiet amid the cacophony.
When the last spokesman from Old Wyk, eyes still burning with a lust for plunder, finally returned to his seat, leaving only heavy breaths and the uneasy crackle of the fireplace, Quellon lifted his gaze.
His eyes, like two spears forged in icy seas, pierced Hrothgar Drumm with precise focus.
"Septons?" Quellon's voice was calm, yet sharp enough to cut through roaring waves. "Missionaries, nothing more. Which of the ancient laws of the Iron Islands—carved into stone and reef—says, 'Beneath the Drowned God, no other may preach?'" His gaze swept the room, each word hammered like iron into wood.
"The Drowned God's priests may sail to the ports and towns of the Seven Kingdoms and spread His word. This is the Ironborn spirit! Dislike those in silk robes? Close your ears. Turn your backs. But—"
Suddenly, his voice rose, like thunder cracking over the waves, shaking the chamber:
"Whoever dares to lay a finger on them! Whoever dares splash a drop of seawater in disrespect! I, Quellon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke,"—he slammed his fist on the table, a dull thud like a cannon shot—"will personally hang that fool from the highest black reef on Pyke! Let the sea wind and gulls pick at his corpse! Let everyone witness the cost of defying my orders and the laws of the Iron Islands!"
The chamber froze.
Anger drained from Hrothgar Drumm's flushed face; the eager ferocity of some captains dulled.
Korren Blacktyde opened his mouth to protest from a religious standpoint, but under Quellon's gaze—like the stern stare of a sea god—he bowed in silence.
Quellon's attention shifted to Garrik Botley, the weight of authority unrelenting.
"Ports? Empty?" he scoffed, with a certainty that seemed to pierce time itself. "Open your salt-cured eyes and look to the horizon! I have already sent ravens to the Prince of Dorne and the Lord of Dragonstone—old friends who have traded with us, fought beside us. Reputation takes time to ferment, Lord Botley, like a jar of old wine. Trust," he added, eyes burning, "is earned not by smashing doors, but by honest transactions and safe passages. One day, our docks will be full of ships! But not today. Patience is the Ironborn's weapon against storms."
His gaze softened slightly as he considered Korren Blacktyde and the captains shouting for the old ways. "Grain… wood… the winter winds bite hard. Next month, my envoys will sail north with iron and salt to Winterfell to meet Lord Rickard Stark, and south to Highgarden to meet Lord Luthor Tyrell. We will exchange our produce for winter grain and timber to build ships. This is how we survive."
Finally, his eyes returned to those still dreaming of plunder. His voice deepened, laden with history:
"The old way… 'paying the iron price'…" He let the words linger, tasting them like bitter salt. "I know it flows in our blood. My desire to end it completely may have been… hasty."
A flicker of hope sparked in Hrothgar Drumm's eyes, only to be doused by Quellon's next words.
"But!" Quellon's tone hardened, echoing the weight of Aegon's Conquest, "Remember the Conquest! The dragonfire over Harrenhal! Torren Greyjoy submitted to Aegon Targaryen, who pacified the Iron Islands and declared: Within the Seven Kingdoms, Ironborn reaving is forbidden! Violators shall be consumed by dragonfire!"
He rose, a towering figure in firelight, surveying the lords like an immovable reef.
"The iron law set by Aegon I still stands! The Iron Throne endures! Though dragons slumber, their power remains! I, Quellon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke and loyal vassal of the Iron Throne, will not allow you to defile this law and drag the Iron Islands into ruin!"
A deathly silence fell. Only Quellon's voice, steady and resolute, echoed:
"'The old way' can continue, but only beyond the seas delimited by Aegon I. Ships of the Seven Kingdoms are neighbors, trade partners—not prey! Your axes and longships, your 'iron price,'—strike only the pirate nests of the Stepstones, the slaver ships of Slaver's Bay, the remote islands and trade routes of the Summer Sea, or the fat merchant ships of the Free Cities. Strengthen the Iron Islands with the blood and goods of enemies, not allies."
"This is my decision: 'The New Old Way.'" Quellon sat, resting against the cold Sea Stone Seat, eyes sharp and weary.
"Not abandoning the old ways, but bridling them with wisdom—so the Ironborn may thrive without inviting dragonfire. Who agrees? Who opposes?"
At the end of the table, Euron remained motionless, observing. His eyes reflected the complexity of his father's decision—a balance of iron and prudence.
The lords of the Iron Islands finally shouted in unison:
"Your word is law, Lord Greyjoy!"
Quellon waved dismissively. "Good. If there is nothing more, you are dismissed."