[60] Who’s The True Ruler of the Iron Islands?

Chapter 60: Who's The True Ruler of the Iron Islands?

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The throne room at Pyke felt different now. Not warmer—these salt-stained walls never truly hold warmth—but changed all the same. The blood was scrubbed from the stones, though darker stains remained where it had seeped into the ancient rock. Balon’s corpse had been hauled away for that sea-burial nonsense his people love so much.

I stood at a narrow window, watching the waves heave and crash far below. They spattered brine on the glass, little flecks glinting in the dim light.

Behind me, Yara was silent in a corner. The Ironborn elders and captains shuffled in, wearing masks of forced composure. They were here because I’d summoned them, and they knew better than to ignore a man whose dragon still circled overhead.

One of them cleared his throat in the hush, trying to muster courage he didn’t have. “Your… Grace,” he rasped. He was an older captain with a split on his face that had never healed right. “We need to discuss the succession.”

It had been a whole day since their useless King had died, and their next attempts at revenge had been cut off in the bud. The bodies still littered the courtyard below, a grim reminder of what happened to those who thought they could challenge House Targareyn and its dragons.

So there was no point in fighting anymore, was there? Even the most hardened raiders could see the futility written in ash and blood across their stronghold.

But… to be honest, the ironborn were stubborn, so it didn't matter if there was no point in fighting. In a normal situation, they would have continued fighting even with their King dead. But I had Yara, and her direct order had stopped an army from charging into Viserion's maw, even if I had killed a few dozen already.

The golden dragon's presence overhead was enough to make even the most zealous warriors think twice about their choices. Some had tried anyway, and their charred remains reminded of that particular brand of stupidity.

The smell of smoke and salt mingled in the air, a fitting atmosphere for this new era in the Iron Islands' history.

These sea raiders would learn to bend, or they'd learn firsthand why my family's words were "Fire and Blood."

I turned away from the window slowly, letting my gaze sweep over the ragged assembly.

There were two dozen men, all battered by a lifetime at sea, each wanting to shape the future of their damn islands.

“Discuss?” I drawled, tone full of boredom. “Your king is dead. His rightful heir stands ready. What’s there to prattle about?”

An older man spat, “A woman can’t lead the Ironborn. It goes against all tradition! Plus, Prince Theon isn't dead, is he?”

“What did you say, you bastard? I can't lead?” Yara spoke up from the corner she'd been standing in, glaring at the man.

“Argh…”

I let out a cold laugh. “Yes, tradition. And how has that served you? Twice you rose in rebellion, and twice you’ve been beaten down. And Theon? Theon would have been dead if not for his sister's smart judgment of submitting. If you’d like another demonstration of why you should submit, my dragon’s more than willing.”

Grumbles rippled through the crowd. I caught a few furtive glances toward the windows as though they expected Viserion’s golden snout to come crashing in.

Drumm, one of the more vocal idiots, snarled at my words. “We don’t kneel to—”

“Then, you burn,” I cut in, letting my tone grow icier. “Is that your choice?”

That shut him up. Fear is a handy leash. A younger captain found his voice, “Captain Yara… she’s proven herself capable many times.”

Drumm whirled on him with a sneer. “Coward. Let that dragon’s whore—”

I sighed and moved before his insult fully formed, my blade finding his throat in a swift, precise arc.

Scarlet spattered across the men on either side of him, and Drumm collapsed with a wet gurgle, his so-called magic sword clattering to the floor.

“Anyone else want to question my Iron Queen’s honor?” I asked, letting my blade drip. The hush that followed was absolute. From the corner of my eyes, I noticed Yara smiling to herself.

A distant roar from Viserion rattled the windowpanes as if in agreement.

“That’s what I thought,” I said, wiping the blade on Drumm’s cloak. “Now, we’re done talking. Prepare for the coronation. The Drowned God awaits your spectacle.”

I turned from them, attention drifting back to the view of grey waves smashing the rocks. “Off you go. And make sure it’s something I won’t find too dull, as your guest.”

The Ironborn exchanged glances, their eyes mixed with different emotions, and a moment later, hurried footsteps echoed behind me. That left me alone with the crash of waves and the scattered remains of their dead—and Yara.

“Thank you,” she said as she walked behind me, hugging my back. “You're living up to your end of the promise.”

“I'm not a liar, Iron Queen,” I turned, holding her waist and looking into her eyes. She'd make a fine subordinate.

****

The preparations took another day. These procedures were slow and gritty, after all.

When I arrived, the sacred beach near Pyke was already crowded with Ironborn onlookers. Hundreds lined the shoreline, grim-faced beneath the weak sunlight.

The tang of salt and seaweed was obvious in the air. Black waves pummeled the rocks, roaring their own defiance.

I stopped near the water’s edge, separate from the throng, while a screech came from behind. I turned back to find Viserion landing on a craggy outcrop that looked over this place. The ironborn trembled.

She shimmered gold even in the dull light, the main reason the Ironborn dared not raise their swords now.

A robed Drowned Priest, clothes heavy with brine, approached. That caused people to look away from Viserion and focus on him. His eyes glowed with that zealot’s fervor as he raised his arms to hush the crowd.

“Brothers and sisters!” he boomed, voice cutting above the surf. “We gather to fulfill the Drowned God’s will!”

A ripple of unease passed through the crowd—tough men and women, yet not one dared break from the ring they’d formed. Even with the wind howling, I heard their mutters of doubt and fear.

Yara stepped forward, chin up despite the visible rope marks still etched into her wrists. She locked eyes with me for just a moment before facing her people, defiance laced in every line of her posture.

I folded my arms while Viserion’s colossal form cast a looming shadow across the Ironborn who’d gathered.

The salt-laden wind slapped my face, the waves crashing against the ancient stones like a dirge. It was a fitting stage for this show of power, one that these fools called a ritual.

A lot of useless bantering unfolded before me, and I dozed off most of them. It was silly. The Drowned Priest stood front and center in the wet sand, water dripping off his matted hair and soaked robes now.

He lifted his arms to the iron-gray sky, voice loud over the roar of the ocean. “What is dead may never die!” came the priest’s thunderous call.

The crowd thundered back in unison, “What is dead may never die!”

He gestured toward Yara, and she began to strip away her armaments—sword, daggers, a few hidden blades. I was surprised at how many hidden blades she had.

Then she peeled off her outer clothing, leaving her in a clinging shift that the cold wind pressed tight against her. There were no illusions of rank here, no fancy cloak to hide behind, just a woman daring to claim the Iron Islands under her rule.

Under my rule.

“The Drowned God demands proof of worth,” the priest said, voice full of the mania of religion. “Through death, we rise. Through the sea, we are reborn.”

Without prelude, he shoved her into the churning waves. Yara vanished beneath the dark water, swallowed in a single swift motion.

Silence stretched as we waited. Only the crash of foam against rock filled the area. I found myself frowning. I’d bet on Yara’s stubborn spirit well before the sea could claim her, but I might be wrong.

A minute passed. Then another. Whispers, uneasy, spread among the onlookers.

“Too long…”

“The sea rejects her…”

My frown deepened. She’s too willful to die now. In the show, they'd pulled Euron Greyjoy out of the water but didn't do this for Yara. She was still in the water, her face submerged in it, her body floating as if she was dead. Perhaps they wanted her to prove her worth better as a woman. It annoyed me a little.

But… sure enough, the ocean exploded.

Yara broke the surface in a burst of spray, hair plastered to her skin, chest heaving with savage breaths. Saltwater poured from her as she found her footing in the thigh-high surge, gasping for breath, blinking water from her eyes but never showing weakness.

The priest’s voice rose again, triumphant over the wind and the murmurs. “Behold! The Drowned God judges her worthy! Rise, Yara Greyjoy, Queen of Salt and Rock! The Ruler of the Iron Islands!”

A beat of hesitation caught in the crowd, then came the ragged chorus. “Queen Yara! Queen Yara!”

It built, moment by moment until the rocky beach reverberated with their chant.

She staggered onto the shore, water streaming down her legs, her body trembling from the cold shock. Yet she refused to collapse. She remained upright by sheer force of will. That made me smile.

I walked over as she finally sank to her knees in the wet gravel, fighting for breath. Crouching beside her, I pitched my voice just for her ears. “Congratulations, Iron Queen. Once again, you've made the right choice.”

A flicker of defiance and relief crossed her face. Then a faint grin, even as her chest still heaved. “I… I know.”

The crowd’s “Queen Yara!” cries still beat against our ears, rising in waves like the sea itself.

The priest came over, holding the Driftwood Crown in his hand. I straightened, moving away from her.

Yara Greyjoy was officially crowned as the priest made his announcement.

Meanwhile, Viserion sat on a black crag of rock, golden scales flashing in the dim, watery light. Her presence kept the Ironborn aware of the grim reality.

Yara had faced the sea and lived. She now had the Iron Island’s crown, and people called her the Queen. But all that was an illusion.

The real victory here was mine.

I'd taken down one of the Five Kings and made his daughter my Slave Queen.

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