The deep green seawater churned with foaming white rage, and the Silence, her hull painted the color of dried blood, pierced through the wind and waves like a crimson barracuda.
Euron Greyjoy, draped in a cloak of black sealskin, stood at the bow. He gazed at the jagged silhouettes of Old Wyk in the distance, his lips, stained a deep, bruised indigo from the shade-of-the-evening curved into a look of smug satisfaction.
When Asha Greyjoy had been trapped in Deepwood Motte, Euron had felt no rush to convene a Kingsmoot. He knew that as the daughter Balon had painstakingly groomed, she had too many friends among the captains. Her mother's kin, the Harlaws, the wealthiest and most populous house in the Iron Islands would have formed a wall of political meat he didn't care to climb. His younger brothers, Victarion and Aeron, were even simpler obstacles; men who hadn't read a page of history yet dreamed of wearing a crown they couldn't even define.
But now, the throne was a foregone conclusion. Ninety percent of the captains had sailed to Dragonstone at his beckoning. They had personally witnessed the "Young Wolf," Robb Stark, being dragged into the abyss by the crushing weight of a kraken's tentacles. To the Ironborn, strength was the only currency, and Euron had just spent a fortune in supernatural terror.
"What was that thing?" Asha asked, her voice trembling as she leaned against the rail. She looked at her uncle, hardly daring to believe her eyes. "Our sigil is a kraken, Euron. It is a symbol on a rag. We do not... we do not control the monsters of the deep."
"Don't doubt your eyes, my dear niece," Euron replied, his exposed black eye twinkling with a wicked, cosmic mirth. "That was the behemoth of the ancient world. The true God of the deep, answering the call of its master."
"This is impossible," Asha whispered.
Euron strode closer, the scent of salt and strange spices clinging to him like a shroud. "Nothing is impossible. For years, I could only dream of the deep. But more than half a month ago, a raven appeared in my sleep, just as it did when I was a child. it led me to leap from the highest tower of Pyke, down into the endless dark. There, I found the kraken. I established a stable connection."
He raised his hands, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "The raven told me to gather the fleet. It told me to go to Dragonstone to 'rescue' you. It told me that if I summoned the monster in front of the captains, the driftwood crown would be mine before I even stepped onto Old Wyk. And look... the enemy even helped me. That Stark cub chased you right into my jaws."
Euron burst into a fit of laughter that the wind carried across the waves. "He claimed to be invincible! And I fed him to a fish! Tell me, Asha... who is more qualified to lead the Ironborn than the man who kills Kings with a thought?"
Asha looked at the approaching shore of Old Wyk. The harbor was a forest of masts, and the air was already vibrating with a rhythmic, thunderous chant: "EURON! EURON! EURON!" Her heart felt like dead ash. She knew that even if Theon were alive, he would be nothing compared to this nightmare.
Standing on the high cliffs of the island, Aeron Damphair felt a violent spasm grip his stomach. The sea god was enraged. The people were whispering of "Crow's Eye" of the distant lands he had sacked, the women he had broken, and the King he had drowned.
Victarion stood nearby in his grey mail and black leather, his nine-gold-thread kraken cloak fluttering in the gale.
"Brother," Aeron said, stepping into the surf. "The voice of the sea does not contain Euron's name. You must kill him before the Kingsmoot. Throw him back to the god."
Victarion took off his kraken-shaped helm, his expression grim. "I cannot. I saw that shadow in the water, Aeron. It was larger than the Iron Victory. Unless the Grey King himself is reborn, no man defeats a kraken."
Winterfell.
If the Iron Islands were a storm of blood and salt, the North was a frozen tomb of silence.
When the carriage carrying Robb Stark's empty coffin slowly entered Winter Town, the scene was like a blizzard surging into a warm hall. It didn't just bring the cold; it extinguished the fire of the Northern cause.
The Stark direwolf banner, edged in black, fluttered in the freezing wind. It was surrounded by a mosaic of mourning: the Mormont bear, the Glover gauntlet, the Tallhart tree, and the rusted axes of the Dustins. Solemn-faced cavalry led the way, and the lords who had followed Robb into the South now walked beside the wood, their heads bowed in a grief that felt permanent.
Eddard Karstark stood at the main gate of the castle. His mood was a complex knot of sorrow and cold calculation. He had focused his entire strategy on Robb Stark advised him, fought for him, and secured his rear. And yet, fate had intervened with a kraken.
Fate is a bitch accustomed to tormenting hearts, Eddard mused.
He suppressed his personal grief, his face becoming a mask of Karstark iron. He issued sharp, quiet commands to ensure the procession entered without chaos, maintaining the rigid etiquette of a royal funeral.
The lords descended into the crypts. Robb's sarcophagus was placed in the line of the Winter Kings, next to the statue of his father, Eddard Stark. The sculptor had done his best, but the stone Robb looked too young, his face lacked the two years of war-weathered seriousness that had defined his short reign.
After the prayers, the crypt was cleared, leaving only the Starks.
Sansa's eyes were swollen, her face a map of silent, red-rimmed misery. Rickon was curled into a ball near the base of the statue, clutching Shaggydog until the wolf whimpered.
Bran Stark sat in his basket on Hodor's back, his eyes full of a terrifying confusion. He signaled Hodor to bring him to Eddard's side.
"What do I do next, Ned?" Bran whispered.
Eddard looked at the boy. Bran was nine. According to the will, he was now the King of the North, while Sansa was the Queen of the Trident.
"Control your grief, Bran," Eddard said softly. "Hide the confusion. Even if you have to pretend to be a King, you must do it starting today."
"I don't know how to handle them," Bran admitted. "The lords... they're so loud. They're so angry."
"Maester Luwin is right, you must understand them first," Eddard advised. He pointed to the different lords exiting the crypt. "Trust the Manderlys. They are outsiders in the North; they need House Stark to protect them from the other nobles. Their loyalty is a transaction of survival, and that makes it stronger than honor."
"And the Ryswells?" Bran asked.
"Wary," Eddard warned. "Rickon is your heir until you have children. Lord Rodrik Ryswell would rather see his granddaughter as a Queen than a Prince's wife. Be prepared for them to push for more than they've earned."
"The Glovers?"
"Trust them," Eddard said firmly. "Robb died reclaiming their home. Galbart Glover's guilt could fill the Shivering Sea. He will bleed for you to pay that debt."
Eddard reached out and touched the stone slab of Robb's tomb. He placed a small item there, a tooth carving of Grey Wind he had brought from the Wall. It was a gift that should have been delivered to a living man.
"Greatjon Umber?" Bran asked, his voice shaking as he remembered the man's temper.
Eddard stroked Bran's head. "The Greatjon is simple. He likes brave people. You are a boy-king who lost his legs and his brother in the same year, yet you stand tall. In time, he will be your fiercest hound. Have faith in the Stark name, Bran. It's the only thing stronger than the winter."
Bran nodded, a spark of resolve finally flickering in his blue eyes. The boy was gone; the King was waking up.
[System Notification: Succession Crisis managed.]
[Target: Bran Stark (King of the North).]
[Loyalty: Reverent (Mentor).]
[Soul Power Gained (Funeral Rites): 200 SP.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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