The heavy stone door of the secret chamber groaned open, and the participants filed out one by one.
Despite the lords' best efforts to maintain composure, the gleam in their eyes and the smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths were plain to see for those waiting outside.
Those weathered faces no longer wore their usual grim expressions or drunken stupor. Instead, they bore smiles mixed with immense excitement and burning anticipation—like men who had found a treasure map but were bound by a silent pact not to speak of it.
The Ironborn waiting in the corridors exchanged knowing glances. Whispers spread like the rising tide.
No words were needed. This scene meant only one thing—the Old Way of the Drowned God was about to reopen!
The ancient path of weaving glory and fear with iron and fire would once again appear upon the vast seas under the Kraken banner of House Greyjoy.
As for the specific target of this voyage, or where that unknown sea of ambition lay, every man who walked out of that chamber kept his mouth shut tight.
Euron had given strict orders: what was discussed today would stay within these stone walls. Until the longships truly set sail, this would be a secret guarded by all.
---
The next day.
The Great Hall of the Main Keep, Pyke.
Salt rime hung from the whalebone rafters, dark green barnacles clung to the stone walls, and the torchlight was wrapped in the briny dampness of the air.
Quellon Greyjoy sat upon the Seastone Chair. This would be his last time sitting here.
The Seastone Chair—shaped like a giant kraken, carved from a block of oily black stone. Legend had it that when the First Men first set foot on Old Wyk, this stone was already lying on the beach. An unproven claim was that this throne had been left by visitors from beyond the Sunset Sea.
King Quellon's left hand rested on the sealskin covering his knee, while his right hand caressed a crown carved from dark grey driftwood—the Driftwood Crown.
Balon Greyjoy stood at the foot of the dais. His Adam's apple bobbed; he could hear the dull thud of his own heart against his leather armor. For thirty years, he had grown in this man's shadow, watching him crush rebellions with an iron hand and shatter the spines of dissenters with rings of seastone. Now, those hands were about to place a crown on his head.
"Balon." Quellon rose from the Seastone Chair and stepped aside. His voice boomed, "Step forward."
Balon strode forward and knelt on one knee.
In the shadows beneath the throne, twelve "Ironborn Elders" stood in a line. Seaweed was woven into their silver hair, and shark-tooth axes were gripped in their hands. The oldest, Orban Greyjoy, coughed once and handed a scroll of parchment to Quellon—the ancient laws of the Iron Islands, recording the rites of succession for the King.
Quellon raised the Driftwood Crown high, displaying it to all the witnessing Ironborn.
The crown shimmered with a ghostly blue light, having passed through the hands of nine kings.
"In the name of the Seastone, by the blood of the ancestors," Quellon's voice was low and resonant as a whale's song, "I, Quellon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands, transfer the rule of the Iron Islands to you—Balon Greyjoy." He lowered his hands, pressing the crown onto Balon's head.
The wooden edges dug painfully into Balon's scalp, breaking the skin. Blood streamed down his face.
A low gasp rippled through the hall. The Ironborn Elders simultaneously struck the ground with their axes, the clash of metal sounding like a crashing wave.
Balon stood up, the crown firmly fixed on his brow. He looked into his father Quellon's eyes, placing both hands over his heart. "I swear by the waves of the Iron Islands, I will fulfill my duty and never fail this crown!"
Quellon nodded. He picked up a battle-axe inlaid with black whale teeth from beside the throne—the weapon symbolizing the King of the Iron Islands—and tossed it to Balon's feet. He spoke solemnly, "Take it. Remember, the weight of power is measured in blood."
Balon picked up the axe; the handle still held the warmth of Quellon's hand. He looked up and saw the stained glass of the hall, depicting a kraken tearing apart a sailing ship—the totem of the Iron Islands, and his future path.
The waves beat against the rocks of Pyke, the sound penetrating the stone walls as if singing for the new king.
Balon Greyjoy donned the Driftwood Crown, becoming the King of the Iron Islands. Meanwhile, Quellon Greyjoy, the "Old Kraken" who had ruled for thirty years, would soon depart for King's Landing, where the waves were even more treacherous.
The two stood side by side before the Seastone Chair. Quellon grasped Balon's wrist and raised it high. The hall erupted in thunderous cheers, celebrating the coronation of the new Iron King.
What followed, naturally, was another round of wine, food, and revelry.
---
For true Ironborn, the allure of hoisting sails and conquering the waves was far more intense than fertile fields in the green lands or even prestigious titles.
Although the Ironborn held deep respect for Euron and yearned to follow his banner, asking them to leave the embrace of the sea for a long-term settlement at Harrenhal, deep inland, was enough to make most balk.
In the end, only a meager three hundred Ironborn warriors were willing to bid farewell to the salty wind and head for Harrenhal. For such a massive, ancient castle and the territory it controlled, this was far from enough manpower.
Faced with this dilemma, Lisa proposed a pragmatic and efficient solution.
The wealth of the Iron Islands no longer relied solely on the salt pans and mines of the seven islands; each island also possessed a large number of thralls—salt wives and thralls used for labor. She suggested splitting half of these thralls and sending them to Harrenhal. At the same time, a portion of the skilled smiths from Iron Smoke Isle could be transferred—Harrenhal urgently needed to establish its own smithies.
Euron thought for a moment and deemed the plan feasible. He immediately issued orders, sending ravens to the seven islands.
Soon, a massive convoy of three thousand people—composed of salt thralls, iron thralls, and their families—gathered from across the islands.
Iron Smoke Isle had been managed by two overseers, Marwyn Stephens and Atticus Whitney. Euron transferred Marwyn Stephens to Harrenhal, appointing him as the Master of Smiths for the castle. Dozens of smiths and apprentices went with him.
Carrying simple belongings and the tools of their trade, and led personally by Euron, they moved like a gray river away from the coastline, beginning their migration inland toward Harrenhal.
---
The scene on the other side was a stark contrast to the lukewarm recruitment for Harrenhal.
Ironborn clamoring to join the expedition to conquer the Summer Isles were like a school of fish chasing bait—countless numbers surged from every island, converging beneath the walls of Pyke.
Eyes burning with thirst for adventure, wealth, and glory, their clamor pierced the clouds.
This campaign would be long, the front lines distant, deep into the unknown Summer Sea. Naturally, it required a force far beyond the norm. However, letting every man who wanted to fight set sail was obviously impractical.
After careful deliberation and calculation, Euron set the scale of the draft: two thousand spots for each of the other six major islands, and five thousand spots for Pyke as the main island.
Orders were issued immediately: The lords of each island were to strictly screen their own recruits, ensuring only the most elite, resilient warriors and sailors were chosen. Those selected would first return to their home islands for preliminary, rigorous training organized locally.
Three months later, all selected warriors would reassemble at Pyke for final unified drills and coordinated combat training.
This order was like throwing ice into boiling oil, instantly igniting an even fiercer passion for training across the islands.
Every Ironborn with a chance at selection exerted themselves to the limit, yearning to be one of the chosen few to embark on a voyage destined to be sung of in legend.
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