Chapter 35. Death squid.
Arthur stood on the bell tower of Seagard and looked west over the grey sea. Clouds hung low above the water, heavy and dark, as if they might fall and drown the coast out of spite. The sea wind carried salt and cold, snapping his cloak behind him. Seagard had been built to watch the Ironborn, and from that height he understood why. The sea was a road for men who thought stealing was a culture.
After the godswood at Riverrun, the thin barrier between him and Ena had changed. Not vanished. Nothing so convenient. But pierced. Their silences were different now. Their eyes met more often, then looked away faster. There was awkwardness, yes, because apparently even war could not kill embarrassment, but beneath it was something steadier.
It had not lasted long. Lord Jason's order had recalled him to Seagard within days. Robb had ridden west again. Edmure Tully remained at Riverrun, trying to hold the Riverlands together with tired men and worse news. Seagard stayed alert against the Iron Islands, and every raven seemed to bring another reason to sleep less.
"Ser Arthur!" an attendant called from below. "Lord Jason requests you in council."
"Coming."
Arthur took one last look at the sea and turned down the spiral stairs. If Ena had been there, she would have accused him of brooding for effect. The thought made him smile despite himself. Then he buried it before entering the hall. Lords disliked seeing vassals smile at private thoughts. It made them wonder what they had missed.
The council chamber was thick-walled and dim, candlelight stretching shadows across the oak table. Lord Jason Mallister sat alone at its head, fingers tapping against the wood. He looked tired. Bloodshot eyes, tightened jaw, too many problems and not enough ships to solve them.
Arthur bowed. "My lord."
"Sit."
The attendant withdrew, leaving them alone. Jason studied him for several moments before speaking.
"When I returned to Seagard, I passed near Stony Sept again."
Arthur kept his expression still. "Yes, my lord."
"There have been changes," Jason said. "The last time I saw it, Stony Sept was a ruin and the surrounding villages were half-dead. This time, I saw your banner on repaired walls. I saw new houses, fields, militia patrols, and caravans."
Silence settled.
"I ordered you to stabilize the area," Jason continued. "Gather refugees. Guard against raids. I did not grant you authority to expand territory, nor to raise your private sigil over an old site like Stony Sept."
There it was. Not rage. Worse, control.
Arthur met his eyes. "May I explain, my lord?"
"Speak."
"The ruins had been abandoned for generations before the war. The old claims are dead in practice, and the Lannister raids left the region empty, lawless, and full of refugees. My men cleared bandits and protected those who gathered there. That was stabilization. Refugees needed fields to survive, so I organized cultivation. That was restoring production. To protect the fields, we repaired walls and stationed guards. The banner was raised to reassure settlers and warn raiders that the place was under order, not abandoned."
Jason listened without interrupting.
Arthur continued. "As for the caravans, Newroot produces grain, furs, timber, and ale, but we need salt, iron, cloth, medicine, and tools. Without caravans, the settlement cannot feed or equip itself properly. The trade also gives us news from the roads. All of this was done to strengthen Seagard's eastern screen, not to challenge your authority. If you judge it improper, I will lower the banners and submit to your decision."
It was half truth, half arrangement, which made it useful. Emergency measures sounded better than unauthorized expansion. Supply routes sounded better than private trade network. Banners for public order sounded better than claiming a seat of power. Human politics was mostly choosing which honest word to bury under which useful one.
Jason stared at him for a long time, then leaned back. "You are eloquent, Ser Arthur."
Arthur said nothing. A compliment from a lord could still have a hook.
"You also did well," Jason said. "My scouts report that from Stony Sept to Fairmarket, bandits have vanished, refugees are settling, and spring plowing has begun. You even repaired parts of Wend Town's market. This exceeds my expectations."
Arthur lowered his head. "Your support made it possible, my lord."
Jason waved the courtesy aside. "Enough. I did not call you only for that. The Myraham returned to port this morning."
Arthur straightened slightly. The Myraham had been sent to scout toward the Iron Islands.
"The captain brings news," Jason said. "Balon Greyjoy has fallen into the sea during a storm. He is dead."
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
Balon Greyjoy. Dead.
"Is it certain?"
"As certain as such news can be before every drunk captain sings it differently," Jason said. "Euron Greyjoy has returned to the Iron Islands. If their traditions hold, a kingsmoot will be called."
Arthur understood the weight immediately. A dead Balon meant a power vacuum. The Iron Islands might turn inward for a while, or become more dangerous when the wrong man rose. With Ironborn, those were often the same thing.
Jason picked up a sealed letter. "Take the captain of the Myraham and ride to King Robb in the Westerlands. This news may affect the war. He must hear it quickly. Also, deliver this to my son Patrek."
Arthur took the letter. "I will see it done."
"Be careful. Lannister outriders are still active."
"Yes, my lord."
Arthur left the hall and walked through the stone corridors toward the stables. Balon dead. Euron returned. The Iron Islands unsettled. The Tyrells had joined the Lannisters with a fresh army. The Freys were offended, the Boltons uncertain, the North under Ironborn attack, and the Riverlands bleeding from every cut. If Robb could not take enough of the Westerlands quickly, the war would become a slow starving contest against richer enemies.
Arthur mounted and rode for the harbor to collect the Myraham's captain. He was still a small piece on the board, but small pieces survived by moving before boots came down.
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