[146] Ironborn and Ambitions

Chapter 146: Ironborn and Ambitions

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The Great Hall of the Red Keep thrummed with barely contained power, like a pot about to boil over. Courtiers in their silks and velvets lined the walls, few Tyrell knights stood at attention with hands on pommels, and a scattering of local lords watched everything with the wary eyes of wolves among sheep.

I lounged on the Iron Throne, one leg draped over an armrest, letting the ancient swords dig into my back just enough to keep me sharp.

The great doors groaned open, and the sea walked in.

Yara Greyjoy strode through the parted crowd like a ship cutting through waves. Where the court ladies floated in clouds of perfume and silk, she moved with the economy of someone who'd killed before breakfast. Her dark leathers still carried the salt-tang of the Sunset Sea, and her black hair was pulled back in a style that was 'function over fashion.'

The court's whispers followed her progress like foam in a wake. She ignored them all, those grey eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made several courtiers step back.

The Ironborn don't kneel easily. That's what makes their submission so delicious.

At the foot of the throne, she dropped to one knee with a warrior's grace. The gesture was technically correct, but her spine remained straight, her chin high. This wasn't the prostration of a beaten enemy, it was the salute of one predator to another.

Although she knew better.

"Your Grace," her voice carried across the hall like a war horn. "Casterly Rock's coast is secure. The lions have been declawed."

I gestured lazily for her to rise. "And the tribute, Iron Queen?"

The grin that split her face would have sent lesser men running. She rose with a fluid motion that drew attention to the sway of her hips, the leather creaking in ways that suggested exactly how it might be removed. "My reavers brought what the pretty Tyrell knights couldn't carry. Gold, Caches of Myrish lace, Tyroshi dyes, enough Arbor gold to drown in." She shifted her weight, the movement deliberately provocative. "But the real treasure? Every ledger from Lannisport's harbormaster. Forty years of trade routes, tariff records, and smuggling operations. Your Fat Flower's men were too busy counting coppers to see the real gold was written in ink."

Clever girl. She knows information wins wars as surely as steel.

"The Fat Flower's men must be green with envy," I drawled, earning a few nervous titters from Tyrell supporters and a frown from Margaery standing nearby.

Yara's laugh was rough as rope. "The roses are good at marching on land, I'll give them that. But we Ironborn prefer to reap our harvest from the sea." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "It's cleaner."

"I love that. The realm appreciates your efficiency." I stood, descending the steps with measured grace. "Clear the hall. The Queen of the Iron Islands and I have matters of strategy to discuss."

The dismissal sent the court scurrying like roaches when a torch is lit. Lords and ladies bowed and curtsied their way out, casting curious glances over their shoulders. Within minutes, we stood alone in the vast hall, our shadows dark in the afternoon light.

"Strategy, is it?" Yara's voice dropped to something more intimate. "And here I thought you might want to inspect your tribute more... thoroughly."

Power recognizes power.

****

Hours later, the Small Council chamber felt cramped despite its size. Perhaps it was the weight of ambition filling the space, or maybe just the clash of so many strong personalities around one table.

Mace Tyrell sat to my right, looking pleased as a cat in cream despite being thoroughly out of his depth. The man could grow roses and count coins, but ask him to see three moves ahead, and his eyes glazed over.

Margaery occupied the seat beside him, a vision in rose-gold silk that clung to her curves like morning dew. Every gesture was calculated, not just her outfit, but down to how her fingers traced the rim of her goblet. She was performing, always performing, and the show was exquisite.

Ros had claimed her position as Mistress of Whispers with authority that was well-practiced by now, her transformation from brothel madam to spymaster complete. Sansa sat straight-backed in Stark grey, her beauty a weapon she hadn't yet learned to wield. Arianne lounged like a cat in heat, her Dornish silks leaving so little to the imagination that Mace kept forgetting his words mid-sentence.

Yara had sprawled in her chair with the confidence of someone who'd just delivered a fleet's worth of gold. And at the far end, silent as smoke, sat Kinvara in her red robes, the ruby at her throat pulsing like a second heartbeat.

"The raven flies to Braavos as we speak, Your Grace," Mace began, puffing up like a proud pigeon. "The Iron Bank will learn that the Crown stands ready to settle all accounts. They'll be—"

"Tripping over themselves to grovel," I finished. "Yes, Lord Mace. Gold has that effect. Ros?"

My spymaster leaned forward, her movement causing the candlelight to play across her features in interesting ways. "Your Grace, a matter concerning the Citadel has arisen. Grand Maester Pycelle has sent a flurry of ravens to Oldtown, complaining that he has been barred from all royal affairs. The Archmaesters have, in turn, sent formal inquiries."

“He should be grateful I haven’t killed him off yet.”

She paused, letting the implication of a conflict with the ancient order settle in the room. "The Maesters are a proud and powerful institution, Your Grace. While their influence is subtle, their knowledge is essential to the realm's health and governance. Offending them so openly might be... unwise." She slowly lowered her head. “Not that I think you’re a better judge than me on that, but–”

“Dearest Spider, you’re an advisor here, don’t be so hesitant with your opinions,” I said to reassure her. I shared her sentiment. I had no desire to wage war on knowledge itself. The Maesters' obsession with stamping out magic was a nuisance, but their value was undeniable. "I have no quarrel with the Citadel. Their work in medicine, history, and science is a resource I intend to expand, not extinguish."

My gaze hardened as I added. "However, the order of Maesters is only as honorable as its representatives. And Pycelle... Pycelle is a rat who has been nibbling on Lannister cheese for decades. He is Tywin's creature, not the realm's servant."

“Really?” Yara raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Damn.”

“It’s true. Ros, send a raven to Oldtown. Inform the Archmaesters that their influential Grand Maester was found to be a spy in service to House Lannister, and that he is lucky to be still breathing. We require a new Maester for the Small Council. Not some old, doddering sycophant, but a man with a sharp mind and an even sharper understanding of where his loyalties must lie. Tell them I want someone who serves the Crown, not the Conclave, as per their own rules. Let them choose wisely."

Ros gave a single, sharp nod, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. "Accusing them directly about the loyalty part will bristle, but they cannot refuse the King's direct command. It will be done, Your Grace."

“That’s good. Now that we’re done with the mundane talks, it’s time I discuss why I gathered all of you here today,” I said, standing up and moving to the great map that dominated one wall.

Westeros sprawled before me, but my eyes drifted east, across the Narrow Sea to the vast expanse of Essos.

"Peace," I began, tracing the coastline with one finger, "is not the absence of war. It's the imposition of a single will, unchallengeable and absolute. Westeros kneels, but across the water, chaos reigns. Slavers and sellswords, merchants and magisters, all playing their petty games while the real threat gathers in the North."

I turned to face them, letting them see the dragon behind the man.

"I intend to conquer Essos."

The silence that followed could have choked a giant. Yara broke it first with a bark of laughter, slapping the table hard enough to make goblets jump. "Now you're talking! When do we sail?"

But Margaery's face had gone carefully neutral, her political mask when she sensed danger. "Your Grace, surely we should focus on stabilizing your rule here first? The realm has seen so much upheaval. Perhaps in a few years, when—"

"When my enemies have had time to gather? When they've built armies and hired assassins?" I shook my head. "No, my rose. We don't wait for the storm. We become it."

Besides, I need those virgin sacrifices from Essos. But they don't need to know that particular detail.

"The logistics alone—" Sansa began, her voice soft but steady.

"Will be handled by those who understand them. No need for you to worry about that." I turned to Kinvara. "Rather, we should talk about our personal roles in this incoming conquest. Staring with my dearest Red Priestess. Tell me, Kinvara. Volantis is the first daughter of Valyria, proud and ancient. Will your city bow, or must it burn?"

Kinvara had been quiet all this time, perhaps having sensed that today’s call wasn’t so simple after all. Did the dancing flames already tell her about today?

After a short silence as our eyes observed one another’s souls, she sighed, letting out a sound somehow both musical and mournful. "I am High Priestess, not Triarch. Those fools will not easily bow. However, they’re still the Old Blood of Valyria, and as such, they value strength above all else. So if you take Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh first—the Three Daughters—fear alone might open Volantis's gates. I can’t promise it, though."

"And you?" I challenged. "You name me your prophesied hero, yet I plan conquest that will water the earth with blood. Does your Lord of Light smile on such ambitions?"

Her smile was slow and dangerous as flame. "The Great Other marshals his armies of the dead beyond your Wall, Your Grace. To unite the living, by persuasion or by dragon fire, is the holiest of causes. R'hllor's path has always been paved with ash."

"I’m not… so sure about this, Your Grace. I’m sorry if I’m stepping my boundaries, but people will die," Sansa said quietly. Poor, naive Sansa. "Innocent people who want no part in our wars. What reason is there for such conquest?"

Margaery seized the opening like a duelist spotting a weakness. "His Grace sees the larger picture, Lady Sansa. A king must make difficult choices for the good of all. Your Northern sensibilities are admirable, but perhaps limited in scope."

The rose shows her thorns. Even though she too was against it a moment ago.

Arianne shifted, amusement flickering in her eyes, seeing my two wives fight. It was clear she didn’t like Margaery, so she opened her mouth to support Sansa. "Lady Sansa speaks from compassion, a quality any wise king values in council, Lady Margaery. But her fears are misplaced.” But of course, she was still by my side. “The Free Cities wage endless wars among themselves. How many die each year in their petty conflicts? The Dragon King offers something greater. An ending. One conquest to prevent a thousand."

“Well said,” I moved behind Sansa's chair, placing a hand on her shoulder. She tensed at the touch. "Regardless, I won’t condemn you for your worry. It’s sweet of you. So I’ll try to explain it in simpler terms. Tell me, little dove. If the Seven Kingdoms were independent again—Neck, Reach, Dorne, all separate—would there be more war, or less?"

Her voice came barely above a whisper. "More."

"Exactly." I returned to the head of the table, spreading my hands flat on the wood. "A hundred kings mean a hundred wars. One king means one peace. The mathematics of empire are written in blood, but the sum is always less than the parts."

"When do we begin?" Yara asked, eyes bright with anticipation.

"Soon. Myr and Pentos first, wealthy, soft, reliant on sellswords who'll flee at the first sight of dragons. Volantis should bow by then, if we believe our reliable Priestess here. Then we visit Norvos." I glanced at Arianne. "Your mother's homeland, I believe? Perhaps she'll appreciate a royal visit."

Arianne's laugh was honey poured over steel. "Mother always did say I'd amount to something. Though I doubt she imagined this."

"After that," I continued, "we address the true prizes. The Grass Sea of the Dothraki, Braavos… and the Empire of Yi Ti. The lands that think themselves beyond the reach of dragons."

They'd learn otherwise.

"Prepare yourselves," I commanded, my voice filling the chamber. "The Seven Kingdoms were just the beginning. The game now is for the world itself."

I smiled, showing teeth.

"And the good times are upon us."

By the time the Night King would dare step above the wall, I might be the King of the world already.

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