Chapter 295: Balon Greyjoy
Chapter 295: Chapter 280: Balon Greyjoy
“Promising The Riverlands to me?”
“Hmph! Does that old lion Tywin truly take me, Balon Greyjoy, for some foolish fish in the sea, unable to catch the trade winds of the Seven Kingdoms?!”
Balon Greyjoy’s voice sounded like an iron anchor scraping against a reef.
He snatched the letter from the table, crumpling the parchment in his sinewy, vein-protruding hand, and slammed it down onto the desk.
He stood up abruptly from the Seastone Chair.
The chair was carved roughly from a single block of black sea-rock, shaped like a kraken rising.
His leather boots made a dull thudding sound as they stepped onto the floor covered in seal skins.
He paced back and forth in the vast, cold hall like a trapped beast.
The cold, salty sea breeze poured in from the high windows, stirring his grey-and-white hair and beard, which were braided into thin plaits, and causing the black-and-gold kraken banner on the wall to flutter noisily.
“So, are we to reject Tywin’s proposal?”
Victarion Greyjoy stood like an iron tower in the center of the hall.
He wore heavy leather armor, his brow furrowed as he watched his brother pacing restlessly.
He had been assembling longships at the Fever River, preparing to take Moat Cailin, the gateway to The North, only to be recalled by an urgent order.
Balon stopped pacing and looked at his brother.
His gaze was once again as sharp as a knife.
“No, we accept Tywin’s offer. Once the war breaks out, you will lead the main force of the Fleet south, cut off his supply lines, and coordinate with the coalition’s land offensive in The Riverlands.”
Victarion’s brow furrowed even tighter: “But why? We know perfectly well that Tywin is offering empty promises!”
“The Riverlands are still in the hands of the Targaryen forces and various stragglers, a chaotic mess like a pot of rotten fish stew!”
“Besides, do we really intend to abandon our gains in The North, withdraw from the west coast, and run off to join forces with Tywin?”
Balon sneered, leaning forward slightly: “The North? Use your brain, stop thinking only about swinging an axe. The North can certainly be raided, but can it be held for long? It’s fine on the west coast near the bay, where our longships can still be effective.”
“But once we venture deep into the heart of The North, far from the salt water and shipping lanes, how much of our greatest advantage as Ironborn will remain? Are we to go head-to-head with the ten thousand wild-eyed Northmen that Roose Bolton has brought back?”
He paused: “Tywin’s letter makes it clear; Bolton has already gathered over ten thousand troops and is returning to The North.”
“When that time comes, will we be suffering heavy losses just to seize a few stone castles poor enough to rattle, or will we have to slink away and spit out what we’ve already swallowed?”
Victarion opened his mouth, but found himself at a loss for words.
“But The Riverlands are different.” Balon’s voice dropped: “Tywin promises that The Riverlands will be ours once it is done.”
“Even if he reneges afterward, once the Fleet sails into the tributaries of The Trident, and our warriors set foot on the riverbanks and fields of The Riverlands, can the land and towns there sprout legs and run away?”
“The Riverlands have been plowed over by war, yet what remains is still far richer than the bitter, cold North.”
The confusion on Victarion’s face gradually turned into realization.
The sea and the riverbanks are where the Ironborn truly belong.
“Then we withdraw from The North? What about Theon and Asha?”
Balon waved his hand, his expression indifferent: “I will send word for them to act as circumstances dictate, and to retreat to the coast if necessary.”
“Your task is to assemble all the captains of the Iron Islands, load the longships with warriors, fresh water, and provisions, and prepare to sail south. This is not a raid; it is a war.”
He tapped his fingers on the desk: “Tywin wants to unite the Westerlands, The North, the Vale, and us, gathering the strength of four regions to fight a decisive battle against Aegon Targaryen in The Riverlands.”
“The army of the Westerlands has already sharpened its blades; the Fleet must strike down like an iron hammer.”
Victarion struck his chest with his right fist: “Yes!”
He strode out of the hall, his footsteps gradually fading away.
Balon stood alone in the vast, cold main keep.
He walked slowly back to the Seastone Chair, not sitting down immediately.
His hands, covered in calluses and scars, stroked the cold, rough surface of the throne.
He had sat in this chair for decades… from black hair to grey, from an ambitious rebel to the Lord of the Iron Islands, isolated overseas.
Every wave-eroded groove, every grotesque kraken protrusion, he knew as well as the lines on his own palm.
He finally turned and sank into the throne.
His body settled into those hard, cold contours, letting out an almost inaudible sigh, a mixture of fatigue and ambition.
“The Riverlands…”
He murmured softly, his gaze piercing through the dim hall, as if he could see the fertile plains where The Green Fork and The Red Fork converged, and that most magnificent castle in the Seven Kingdoms, built by Harren the Black on the shores of the lake… Harrenhal.
Harren the Black Hoare, King of the Iron Islands and The Riverlands.
That name was like a treasure in the deep sea, always shining in the depths of his heart.
King of the Iron Islands?
Not enough.
King of the Iron Islands and The Riverlands—that was what befitted him, Balon Greyjoy.
Why should the Ironborn be confined to this barren archipelago of stone? The Lord of the Iron Islands naturally held a rightful claim to that land of crisscrossing rivers.
Harren the Black and his line had long since turned to ash, but why could he not rebuild Harren’s hegemony?
He stroked the craggy protrusions of the armrests.
Ambition, like an undercurrent in the deep sea, surged in the cold depths of his heart, never to be stilled again.
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