#euron

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. "Erik!" 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 murmured 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.             

Erik Ironmaker is up next, a warrior of great repute on the Iron Isles known for strength and ferocity, his warhammer, and virility, but he clearly is not the man he once was in his youth. Erik Ironmaker is Robert Baratheon, a once powerful warrior and embodiment of society’s ideals of masculinity gone to seed with his glory days far behind him. In the end, House Baratheon couldn’t stand on its own two feet with Renly and Stannis’s attempts to retake the Iron Throne ending in failure. 

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 taken the blade from an 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. No 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.

Lord Dunstan Drumm is up next. He is noted to be younger than the previous candidate, and he has a Valyrian steel sword named Red Rain, which likely came from a Reyne. He starts off well, pointing out that there is no historical precedent that says only Greyjoys could only be kings over the Iron Isles. However, he just goes on and on about his ancestors’ accomplishments to bolster his credentials, boring everyone and his gifts are pretty cheap. His candidacy ultimately crashes and burns in the end. 

Drumm is Tywin Lannister. His champion Andrik’s description as a large man with “arms as thick as trees” matches Ned’s description of the Lannister’s champion, Gregor Clegane, and his champion being his stout warrior sons which brings to mind Tywin’s son, Jaime, himself a stout warrior of note. Lannister royal candidates, Cersei’s children, are the youngest candidates for Iron Throne. Tywin prides in his crushing of the Reynes in their rebellion (taking their lands after he exterminated them), with a song made about it that he plays at events, showing his obsession with the glory of his house. His house has a good start holding the Iron Throne after Robert’s death and the Battle of the Blackwater with the backing of Highgarden, only for them to likely lose it all in the end. The Lannisters never really had any bold ideas other than holding onto power, and as Aeron put it “no throne was ever bought with bronze,” or no house can hold onto the throne with the poor offerings they have, and nothing in the way of vision. 

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 seawater 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; Ralf the Limper, Red Ralf Stonehouse, 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 longships 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! VICTARION KING!" 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 Eye. Will he speak now, or let the kingsmoot run its course? Orkwood of Orkmont was whispering in Euron's ear.

Victarion Greyjoy is next, the youngest of Balon Greyjoy’s brothers of House Greyjoy that rules over the isles. He has the backing as well as blessing of the priest presiding over the kingsmoot, Aeron. He promotes himself as a traditionalist, offering just a continuation of the old policies and plays up the image of a warrior king. For the moment he stands out from the other candidates with plunder he gives out. 

Victarion is Aegon, the (supposed) scion of the old dynasty that sat the Iron Throne, and youngest known child of Rhaegar who promises just a continuation of the ancien regime of House Targaryen, and will likely be receiving the backing and blessing of the High Septon. He isn’t offering anything new. 

However, he isn’t the only from his house pressing a claim as someone crashes his party. 

But it was not Euron who put an end to the shouting, it was the woman. She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, a sharp shrill sound that cut through the tumult like a knife through curds. "Nuncle! Nuncle!" Bending, she snatched up a twisted golden collar and bounded up the steps. Nute seized her by the arm, and for half a heartbeat Aeron was hopeful that his brother's champions would keep her silent, but Asha wrenched free of the Barber's hand and said something to Red Ralf that made him step aside. As she pushed past, the cheering died away. She was Balon Greyjoy's daughter, and the crowd was curious to hear her speak.

"It was good of you to bring such gifts to my queensmoot, Nuncle," she told Victarion, "but you need not have worn so much armor. I promise not to hurt you." Asha turned to face the captains. "There's no one braver than my nuncle, no one stronger, no one fiercer in a fight. And he counts to ten as quick as any man, I have seen him do it . . . though when he needs to go to twenty he does take off his boots." That made them laugh. "He has no sons, though. His wives keep dying. The Crow's Eye is his elder and has a better claim . . ."    

"He does!" the Red Oarsman shouted from below.

“Ah, but my claim is better still." Asha set the collar on her head at a jaunty angle, so the gold gleamed against her dark hair. "Balon's brother cannot come before Balon's son!"                 

"Balon's sons are dead," cried Ralf the Limper. "All I see is Balon's little daughter!"

. . .

"Go home and know your wife," Asha shot back. "Nuncle says he'll give you more of what my father gave you. Well, what was that? Gold and glory, some will say. Freedom, ever sweet. Aye, it's so, he gave us that . . . and widows too, as Lord Blacktyde will tell you. How many of you had your homes put to the torch when Robert came? How many had daughters raped and despoiled? Burnt towns and broken castles, my father gave you that. Defeat was what he gave you. Nuncle here will give you more. Not me." 

. . . 

"And what have we grasped, Nuncle? The north? What is that, but leagues and leagues of leagues and leagues, far from the sound of the sea? We have taken Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, even Winterfell. What do we have to show for it?" She beckoned, and her Black Wind men pushed forward, chests of oak and iron on their shoulders. "I give you the wealth of the Stony Shore," Asha said as the first was upended. An avalanche of pebbles clattered forth, cascading down the steps; pebbles grey and black and white, worn smooth by the sea. "I give you the riches of Deepwood," she said, as the second chest was opened. Pinecones came pouring out, to roll and bounce down into the crowd. "And last, the gold of Winterfell." From the third chest came yellow turnips, round and hard and big as a man's head. They landed amidst the pebbles and the pinecones. Asha stabbed one with her dirk. "Harmund Sharp," she shouted, "your son Harrag died at Winterfell, for this." She pulled the turnip off her blade and tossed it to him. "You have other sons, I think. If you'd trade their lives for turnips, shout my nuncle's name!"                  

"And if I shout your name?" Harmund demanded. "What then?"

"Peace," said Asha. "Land. Victory. I'll give you Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore, black earth and tall trees and stones enough for every younger son to build a hall. We'll have the northmen too . . . as friends, to stand with us against the Iron Throne. Your choice is simple. Crown me, for peace and victory. Or crown my nuncle, for more war and more defeat." She sheathed her dirk again. "What will you have, ironmen?"         

"VICTORY!" shouted Rodrik the Reader, his hands cupped about his mouth. "Victory, and Asha!"                 

"ASHA!" Lord Baelor Blacktyde echoed. "ASHA QUEEN!"

Asha's own crew took up the cry. "ASHA! ASHA! ASHA QUEEN!" They stamped their feet and shook their fists and yelled, as the Damphair listened in disbelief. She would leave her father's work undone! Yet Tristifer Botley was shouting for her, with many Harlaws, some Goodbrothers, red-faced Lord Merlyn, more men than the priest would ever have believed . . . for a woman!

Victarion is challenged by his niece, Asha. Asha is the daughter of the old king described as mad, and though younger, is smarter than her uncle (although to be fair Victarion doesn’t set the bar too high). Asha has the backing of the Reader, lord of the wealthiest house on the Iron Isles. She points out that what Victarion is offering is a continuation of a failed policy that brought only defeat and disgrace, and promises peace and victory instead. She offers land and allying with the North, of course, missing that their invasion and supposed killing of Ned’s sons by Theon made that impossible. 

Asha is Daenerys who is the daughter of Mad King Aerys, the only female claimant and is backed by a bibliophile who is lord (though not officially) over the wealthiest seat in the land, Tyrion. She will likely be offering a new policy that is in some way a break, but still falls short. 

But others were holding their tongues, or muttering asides to their neighbors. "No craven's peace!" Ralf the Limper roared. Red Ralf Stonehouse swirled the Greyjoy banner and bellowed, "Victarion! VICTARION! VICTARION!" Men began to shove at one another. Someone flung a pinecone at Asha's head. When she ducked, her makeshift crown fell off. For a moment it seemed to the priest as if he stood atop a giant anthill, with a thousand ants in a boil at his feet. Shouts of "Asha!" and "Victarion!" surged back and forth, and it seemed as though some savage storm was about to engulf them all. The Storm God is amongst us, the priest thought, sowing fury and discord.

There seems to be a split among the Ironborn between the two major candidates from House Greyjoy: Asha and Victarion. This likely foreshadows the conflict between Targaryen supporters with Aegon and Dany in the second Dance of Dragons. Of course, just as Asha’s makeshift crown falls from her head, Daenerys likely won’t get to keep her crown in the end as another claimant comes forward. 

Note: it was after a pinecone is thrown at her, which came from the North. 

Sharp as a swordthrust, the sound of a horn split the air.

The squabbling is interrupted by a sorcerous horn. I think the hellhorn as Aeron called it is the Horn of Joramun (or hellhorn as Melisandre described it) that brings down the Wall, and exposes Westeros to the threat of the Long Night. 

Euron Greyjoy climbed the hill slowly, with every eye upon him. Above the gull screamed and screamed again. No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair, Aeron thought, but he knew that he must let his brother speak. His lips moved silently in prayer.                  

Asha's champions stepped aside, and Victarion's as well. The priest took a step backward and put one hand upon the cold rough stone of Nagga's ribs. The Crow's Eye stopped atop the steps, at the doors of the Grey King's Hall, and turned his smiling eye upon the captains and the kings, but Aeron could feel his other eye as well, the one that he kept hidden.

"IRONMEN," said Euron Greyjoy, "you have heard my horn. Now hear my words. I am Balon's brother, Quellon's eldest living son. Lord Vickon's blood is in my veins, and the blood of the Old Kraken. Yet I have sailed farther than any of them. Only one living kraken has never known defeat. Only one has never bent his knee. Only one has sailed to Asshai by the Shadow, and seen wonders and terrors beyond imagining . . ."                  

"If you liked the Shadow so well, go back there," called out pink-cheeked Qarl the Maid, one of Asha's champions.

The Crow's Eye ignored him. "My little brother would finish Balon's war, and claim the north. My sweet niece would give us peace and pinecones." His blue lips twisted in a smile. "Asha prefers victory to defeat. Victarion wants a kingdom, not a few scant yards of earth. From me, you shall have both.  

"Crow's Eye, you call me. Well, who has a keener eye than the crow? After every battle the crows come in their hundreds and their thousands to feast upon the fallen. A crow can espy death from afar. And I say that all of Westeros is dying. Those who follow me will feast until the end of their days.

"We are the ironborn, and once we were conquerors. Our writ ran everywhere the sound of the waves was heard. My brother would have you be content with the cold and dismal north, my niece with even less . . . but I shall give you Lannisport. Highgarden. The Arbor. Oldtown. The riverlands and the Reach, the kingswood and the rainwood, Dorne and the marches, the Mountains of the Moon and the Vale of Arryn, Tarth and the Stepstones. I say we take it all! I say, we take Westeros." He glanced at the priest. "All for the greater glory of our Drowned God, to be sure."                  

For half a heartbeat even Aeron was swept away by the boldness of his words. The priest had dreamed the same dream, when first he'd seen the red comet in the sky. We shall sweep over the green lands with fire and sword, root out the seven gods of the septons and the white trees of the northmen . . .

"EURON!" shouted Left-Hand Lucas Codd.          

"EURON! CROW'S EYE! EURON!" cried the Red Oarsman.                  

The mutes and mongrels from the Silence threw open Euron's chests and spilled out his gifts before the captains and the kings. Then it was Hotho Harlaw the priest heard, as he filled his hands with gold. Gorold Goodbrother shouted out as well, and Erik Anvil-Breaker. "EURON! EURON! EURON!" The cry swelled, became a roar. "EURON! EURON! CROW'S EYE! EURON KING!" It rolled up Nagga's hill, like the Storm God rattling the clouds. "EURON! EURON! EURON! EURON! EURON! EURON!"

The final claimant comes forward, Euron “Crow’s Eye” Greyjoy. As he boasts, he has gone further than Greyjoy before, going as far as Asshai by the Shadow and Valyria (which is a lie), and he had been a longtime away from home due to being exiled by Balon for having slept with or rather raped, Victarion’s salt wife. He is the black sheep of the family, captain of the Silence rowed by a crew of mutes. He offers the greatest plunder of all the candidates combined with offering the grandest vision, promising the Ironborn all of Westeros.