[59] The Iron King
Chapter 59: The Iron King
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Viserion's wings cut through the misty air of the Iron Islands as she took us down a high bridge, rising high and circling above the dark castle of Pyke. To my eyes, it was a scene right out of a Souls Game, much more menacing than what the show showed.
My dragon's golden scales caught what little sunlight penetrated the thick clouds as we flew. Below us, Pyke's inhabitants scurried like ants, their shouts of alarm carrying faintly on the wind.
"They're terrified," I noted with satisfaction, watching guards scramble across the precarious bridges connecting the castle's towers. The way they were fleeing, I wouldn't be surprised if they fell to their death. Not all fled, though.
Some pointed crossbows skyward, while others simply gaped in disbelief.
"Of course they are," Yara muttered from her position in front of me. "Most haven't seen a lizard bigger than their palm, let alone a dragon. I feel bad for my men. Can you promise me something? Don't kill unless necessary."
I chuckled, guiding Viserion lower when we'd flown for long enough. We had to fly that long at least to make an impression. The sea breeze carried the sharp tang of salt and seaweed, mixing with the familiar scent of smoke from Viserion's nostrils.
"Where… land?" my dragon asked out loud, her words tinged with irritation at the delay. Yara flinched in front of me, her grip tightening around my forearm, even though she'd already heard her speak before.
"There," I pointed to the largest of Pyke's four towers. Its flat top offered enough space for landing, though the guards stationed there might disagree. They scattered as Viserion's shadow fell over them, her massive form blocking out what little sun remained.
We landed with a ground-shaking thud, Viserion's claws scraping against ancient stone as she let out a terrifying roar. Her aggressive nature helped me paint the danger more vividly. I liked that.
The tower's surface was slick with sea spray, but she maintained her footing easily. The guards who hadn't fled pressed themselves against the walls, their weapons half-raised but their faces pale with fear.
Then one of them recognized Yara.
"Captain Yara!" he called out, taking a hesitant step forward. His relief at seeing her quickly turned to anger as he noticed her bound hands. His eyes then fell on me, and he seemed to lose all his senses as he shouted. "You dare restrain our Captain?!"
Before I could respond, the fool charged forward with his sword drawn.
I looked at Yara and shrugged. Then, I turned to the man. I didn't even bother drawing my weapon, and simply backhanded him as he approached. The force of the blow sent him flying backward, over the tower's edge. His scream faded quickly, lost in the crash of waves against the rocks below.
"Seven hells," Yara sighed, shaking her head at the remaining guards. "Get out of here, you idiots. We're here to speak with my father."
"No need to send them away, daughter," a gravelly voice called out. It didn't belong to any one of the guards. Heavy footsteps echoed up the tower's spiral staircase, growing louder until Balon Greyjoy himself emerged onto the platform.
He looked older than I remembered from the show, his face more weathered, his hair more grey than black. But his eyes were just as hard, the eyes of a sea-hardened Pirate. His eyes remained cold as they fixed first on me, then on his bound daughter, and finally on Viserion.
The Lord Reaper of Pyke, who'd walked up with arrogance and pride, froze mid-step as his eyes slowly widened. His face drained of color as my dragon turned her massive head to regard him.
Even a Pirate King feels fear. A thin smile spread across my lips as I watched the self-proclaimed king confront the reality of a living, breathing dragon.
"Thank you for welcoming me in person, Lord Greyjoy," I said pleasantly. "Shall we discuss the future of your islands?"
****
The stone chamber felt colder than it looked, though that might have been the tension in the air rather than the actual temperature. I sat in a plain wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching the array of hostile faces before me.
Yara stood beside me, bound and silent. The rope around her neck was a calculated insult that had the desired effect—Balon's men looked ready to murder me where I sat.
Good. Let them seethe.
Viserion was outside, perched atop the highest tower of Pyke like some great golden gargoyle. Her roars would echo through the castle every few minutes, making the ironborn flinch. It amused me to no end.
I found the Great Hall of Pyke not as impressive as its exterior suggested. Salt-stained artwork depicting krakens and sea battles hung from walls of dark stone. It wasn’t pretty to the eyes, but it did depict the ironborn’s lethality.
The Seastone Chair, that ancient throne of the ironborn, loomed behind where Balon sat glowering at me. His elite guards – twelve of his most trusted killers – formed a half-circle around him, hands never far from their weapons.
"Well?" I broke the tense silence not ten seconds after taking my seat, my voice carrying an edge of boredom. "No tea for your guest, Lord Greyjoy? I expected better hospitality from the Iron Islands. From a Highlord to his King."
Balon's weathered face twisted in fury. "Who in the drowned god's name are you, you silver-haired bastard? What right do you have to come here, to my castle, with my daughter bound like a common slave?"
I smiled, giving the rope a gentle tug. Yara's jaw clenched, she winced, but she remained silent. "I am Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of my Name, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and lastly, Protector of the Realm." I paused, enjoying the way his face darkened. "I'm here to educate you and your people on the new order of things. Your daughter is merely insurance."
"Insurance?" Balon spat. He didn’t question my identity again, for riding a dragon was proof enough. He rather chose to lash out about the comment on his daughter. "You dare-"
"I dare quite a lot," I cut him off. "Your rebellion failed once before. Now you've tried again, sending your son to take Winterfell. That worked out poorly for everyone involved, wouldn't you say? Theon rots in Winterfell’s dungeons now."
"The ironborn take what we want," he growled. "We do not sow. Theon failed because he’s not a proper ironborn. He’s been softened by House Stark."
He could have defended himself by saying he didn’t send his son there, and that Theon moved alone, but he didn’t. He accepted his son’s failure as his own, at least publicly before me, though I was certain he’d disagree privately. It was respectable.
"No, you don't,” but I didn’t care to give him that respect. He didn’t deserve it, and I made it evident in my tone. “You rape and reave and pretend it makes you strong. How did that work out last time? Remind me, how many sons did you lose in your failed rebellion?"
One of the guards took a step forward, face red with anger. "You mock our dead-"
"Your dead mocked themselves by dying for this fool's pride," I replied calmly. "But I'm willing to be merciful. Bend the knee, and your people can still raid and reave – just not in my kingdoms. That had been my discussion with Yara too, and she’d agreed."
Silence fell. Balon glared at Yara, who met his gaze steadily. Then he scoffed, looking away. For a fleeting moment, it looked as if the Lord of Pyke wondered if kneeling could save the Ironborn. But the thought must have burned hotter than the fire he feared, given his next words.
"Never," Balon snarled. "We are ironborn. We kneel to no one."
"The Free Cities have more wealth than the North," I noted. "Easier targets too. Think about it. Your ships could-"
"Enough!" Balon stood, trembling with rage. His interruption made me smile. "You are no dragon. You’re no king. Just a pretender with stolen eggs. The real dragons died out long ago!"
Is he delusional? That ‘You’re no king.’ bothered me far more than I’d like to admit. It reminded me of Khal Drogo and how he’d said it before trying to melt my brain with molten gold. I let out a sigh. "I don't like your attitude. Remember what happened to Harrenhal? It'll happen to Pyke. Right now it will, if I give the order to my dragon."
His laugh was harsh and bitter. "Not if I kill you first. What's a dragon rider without his dragon, you stupid bastard? It was your funeral when you chose to come to this meeting." He raised his hand. "All of you, attack!"
The guards surged forward as one, weapons drawn. Yara closed her eyes and sighed as if disappointed but not surprised.
I rose slowly, a sword materializing in my hand from thin air from Inventory. The first guard faltered at this display of magic, giving me the opening I needed. My blade took him in the throat, sending a spray of hot blood across the stone floor.
The second and third came at me together, trying to flank me. I spun between them, my enhanced strength letting me parry both their strikes simultaneously. My counter-strike opened one from navel to sternum while my boot caught the other in the knee, shattering it with a wet crack.
Four more rushed me. I danced through them like water, my blade finding gaps in armor, severing tendons, opening arteries. They were skilled killers, yes, but I was something else entirely. Their attacks seemed to come at half speed, their movements predictable and sluggish to my enhanced perceptions.
One managed to nick my shoulder. I rewarded him by taking his sword arm at the elbow.
In less than a minute, it was over. Eleven corpses lay cooling on the stones, their blood running in rivulets between the flagstones. The twelfth guard still lived, though he'd never walk again with that shattered knee.
Messages spelling ‘[You’ve killed a human. You’ve received experience points.]’ filled my vision, but I waved it away. I didn’t level up, unfortunately. Still Level 29.
Balon sat frozen in his chair. All color drained from his face as he stared at the carnage. His trembling hand clutched the armrest of the Seastone Chair as if its ancient weight could anchor him against the storm of death unfolding before him. Yet even the chair seemed to recoil from the blood pooling at its base.
His eyes held the same fear I'd seen when he first saw Viserion.
I turned to Yara, casually wiping my blade clean on a dead man's cloak. "Talk to your father, will you? Next thing he says that I don't like, it'll be his blood on the floor."
Yara’s eyes flicked over the carnage as if her stomach knotted at the sight of her father’s folly. For all his bluster, Balon’s pride had doomed better men than these. Her lips twitched at my words, caught between a sneer and a grimace.
The father-daughter pair knew who owned the room then. And yet, it was clear that her heart ached for the men who’d died, men who’d followed her for years. Yara sighed and approached her trembling father, her bound hands held before her like an offering.
I watched her walk across the blood-soaked floor, her wrists still bound but her spine straight. She didn’t flinch at the corpses around us nor at the sticky warmth of fresh blood seeping into her boots. Every step she took toward Balon Greyjoy was harsh and full of purpose.
“Father,” she began calmly, voice firm despite her restraints. “We need to change with the times. His Grace is giving us a path—”
“Silence!” Balon spat, eyes bulging with outrage. His fear transformed into rage. “My own daughter parroting the words of some dragon-wielding upstart?” He glanced at me, filled with loathing, then back to her. “This is shameful.”
“He’s not our enemy if we—” she tried again, but Balon cut her off with a bitter snarl.
“Not our enemy? So you become his pet? His whore?” His laughter was hollow, echoing off the cold, salt-stained walls. “Is that the Iron Price you pay—rolling over for some Targaryen lizard?”
I saw Yara’s shoulders tense, but she refused to back down. “The dragon is real, Father. We can’t fight it.”
That was too much for him. Balon lunged upright, towering over her. “A weak little slut, that’s what you are. Let him fuck the fight out of you?” His insults rolled off her like water. She stayed silent for a moment. But instead of cowering, she reached for the nearest table.
Yara Greyjoy snatched a simple fruit knife in one sudden movement. Before he could blink, she buried the blade in his chest. Smooth, sure, final.
Balon’s eyes went wide, confusion battling fury on his face as blood spattered across Yara’s bound hands. He staggered, clutching at the knife but clearly losing strength by the heartbeat.
With a rasping gasp, the Lord Reaper of Pyke collapsed.
His body struck the stone with a dull, wet thud.
The Iron King was dead.
Yara turned then, meeting my gaze. Blood trickled from her fingers, but her expression was calm. “I killed my father for you,” she said, voice low. “Think about that when you decide the fate of me and the Iron Islands, Your Grace.”
I stepped over Balon’s cooling form. Crimson pooled around our boots, but I barely noticed the slickness. My arms slid around Yara, pulling her in tight enough to feel her trembling breath against my chest. Even the hard-boiled Pirate Queen trembled when killing her father.
“You made the right choice,” I murmured, letting my lips brush her hair. “Trust me, I’ll remember this choice. You’re a smart woman.”
Her father’s corpse lay behind us—a pillar to the new order. The Iron Islands had a fresh ruler, one who knew how to take a life when it mattered. And with Balon’s demise, my grip on these seas just tightened. It was almost final.
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