Myr loomed before the Dothraki like an impassable chasm. The Dothraki excelled at charging across open plains, not at confronting stone walls and rammed-earth fortifications.
Gendry watched the khalasar in the distance. Drogo's khalasar stretched out like a dense black cloud, pressing down with a suffocating weight. Strategically, the Dothraki's recklessness could be dismissed, but tactically, he had to respect this massive force of fifty thousand roaring riders.
"The position of Khal is hard to pass on, and hereditary succession is even harder. Once Khal Drogo dies, this entire khalasar will almost certainly fall apart," Oberyn said.
Power among the Dothraki was brutal. Unlike Westeros, where great houses endured for centuries or even millennia, the roles of Khal and heir were fragile and constantly contested.
A Khal was usually the strongest or fiercest warrior in his khalasar. To retain his leadership, he had to defeat all challengers. The moment he could no longer ride was the moment he lost his authority.
The Khal's heir was the Khalakka. But the Dothraki would not follow a minor Khalakka. The Ko would fight for control of the khalasar, and the young Khalakka would be killed to prevent him from becoming a rival later. Successions like Drogo's, where the transition is smooth, were rare.
"Kill Drogo, and this vast khalasar will vanish like smoke," Gendry said.
He was confident in achieving their strategic goal. Drogo might seem invincible now, but a sudden wound or illness could end him. He was brave, but reckless.
"Once Khal Drogo sinks into Myr's quagmire, there's no escaping death," Jorah said, eyes on the distant Dothraki. He had once been a First Landing on Pyke, but now he had to adjust to being a commander.
"War is raging across both continents. The conflict in the East will likely end first, while the real show in the West is just beginning," the Red Viper said.
Jorah, Anguy, and the others knew the Red Viper would rather join the war in Westeros than the Eastern conflict—but that would be extremely difficult. Opportunities were scarce.
Since Dorne's crushing defeat in the War of the Usurper, Prince Doran had been cautious about joining any war; Dorne's population was, after all, the smallest among the kingdoms.
"The war in the West is escalating fast. We need to defeat Khal Drogo before the fire spreads completely," Gendry admitted. Fighting on two fronts was risky, so concentrating their strength was essential.
Defeating the Dothraki would be difficult, but great deeds came from hardship. Only by subduing them could they secure the Twin Cities, free resources to intervene in Westeros, and demonstrate strength to potential allies or enemies.
"The war is mainly between House Tully and House Lannister. House Tully is bound to suffer a severe defeat. The only hope lies in aid from The North and the Vale," the Red Viper analyzed. Despite his hatred for the Lannisters, he remained rational.
He did not yet know how obedient Lady Lysa was to Littlefinger, nor could he gauge the Vale's stance amid the chaos.
"Speaking of commanders and armies, the Riverlands are no match for the Westerlands," Gendry said, confident that House Tully's defeat was imminent. Edmure could not match Jaime's military skill, let alone Jaime's prestige. The Riverlands' loosely organized forces could hardly withstand Lannister-trained troops. The question was how long House Tully could hold out.
"If House Tully fails, their leadership over the Riverlands will be in serious jeopardy," Jorah said. He knew House Tully's nature—upstarts ruling the lords of the Trident, using a smaller force to dominate larger ones, a precarious position. And Riverrun's history had been largely shaped by mediocre Great Lords, leaving the Three Rivers' lords with their own agendas.
"Still, I don't think House Tully will fall completely disgracefully," Anguy said, scratching his head. "Great Lord Hoster has two powerful sons-in-law. Surely Lord Stark and Lord Arryn wouldn't just watch Riverrun be besieged."
"Stark will intervene, but by then it will be a war that turns the world upside down," Gendry said.
"The other regions won't just stand by either—the Stormlands, The Reach," the Red Viper listed. In reality, Westeros seemed headed for full-scale chaos. Once war breaks out, all lords will be forced into battle, except Dorne, which could rely on terrain to hold out.
"And the Iron Islands," Jorah interjected. "That fool King Balon. If he sees chaos, he'll surely spark another rebellion."
"I know him. A true zealot of the Old Way, and getting older by the day. The older he gets, the more stubborn he becomes," the Red Viper said dismissively.
"King Balon." Hearing the name, Gendry almost laughed. Balon's mind had a few loose screws, he had no sense for timing or strategy. He didn't even launch his rebellion until the War of the Usurper had ended. The outcome was entirely predictable.
At the start, the Ironborn pulled off a clever ruse, setting Lannisport ablaze and gaining the upper hand briefly. But under the combined forces of the three armies, the Ironborn were crushed. Balon's first rebellion ended in failure. His eldest son Rodrik and second son Maron died in the chaos, while his third son Theon was taken hostage by Eddard. Losing all three sons devastated Balon's wife, Alannys. From that point on, she and Balon grew distant, going their separate ways.
"In any case, whether by force or by choice, we are facing the onset of war. We must use every resource at our disposal to prevail. Only the house of the victor survives; only the victor's house endures in the realm," the Red Viper said, his voice low and serious.
Though Westeros' noble system was stable, it was never immune to upheaval. Once a great war erupted, it would mean the rise or fall of lords. During Aegon's Conquest, the Greenhands, House Durran, and House Hoare were destroyed, and the Iron Islands, Riverlands, Stormlands, and The Reach all gained new masters.
Gendry smiled but said no more.
...
The Iron Islands, a land of harshness, a realm of barren mountains and treacherous seas.
Even Pyke, the seat of House Greyjoy, seemed cold and desolate, like the whispered voice of the Drowned God in the deep sea. A cruel deity encouraging blood and fire. He urged his people to plunder, to embrace violence and chaos.
Pyke's shores were lined with jagged cliffs, and the castle itself seemed fused with the rock. Towers, walls, bridges, and sheer faces were all carved from the same gray-black stone, battered by the same relentless waves, covered in the same dark moss, and streaked with bird droppings. The headland where the Greyjoy fortress stood once thrust into the sea like a sword, but centuries of pounding waves had shattered it long ago. Only three barren islets remained, along with twelve towering rocks, like pillars of a temple dedicated to some nameless sea god, while the angry tides continued to rage between them.
"This scar will remain on my heart forever." Every time she returned to Pyke, Asha Greyjoy, captain of the Black Wind, now in her twenties, noticed the scar left by Robert Baratheon's catapults so many years ago.
The South Tower of Pyke, destroyed in that attack, had been rebuilt with pale gray stone, still bare of lichen. Robert had breached the castle from there, swinging his warhammer as he stormed over rubble and corpses, with Eddard Stark at his side. Asha always remembered that day. The fire, the smoke, the thunderous crash of the walls falling.
Her father's ship, the Great Kraken, still lay moored at the dock, its prow crowned with a massive gray iron ram shaped like a Kraken. But like its master, the ship had become a lost Kraken.
"Captain, shouldn't we stop at the tavern for a rest first?" her sailors asked. Asha, clad in a brown quilted jacket, black woolen breeches, a studded belt, and salt-stained high leather boots, looked less like a girl and more like a born Ironborn raider.
"Forget it. Your ale tastes like horse piss anyway," Asha muttered. Fierce, wild, and headstrong, it was precisely this temperament that let her command her ship and crew. Under her leadership, they were fiercely loyal.
Bidding the sailors farewell, Asha, ignoring her fatigue, set out alone for the Sea Tower to pay respects to her father, King Balon. Reaching it required crossing three bridges, each narrower than the last. The final bridge, made of wood and rope, swayed wildly in the sea wind, as if alive.
But Asha wasn't afraid, for she often traveled this route and knew the suspension bridge's quirks like the back of her hand. Now in her twenties, she was slender, with long legs, short black hair, wind-chapped skin, strong hands, and a pink scar on her neck.
The circular sea tower rose from the sword-like fissure of the outermost island. It was the castle's oldest structure, its steep sea-facing columns battered by countless waves, almost entirely worn away. At the base lay centuries of accumulated white salt crystals, while the upper floors were blanketed in green lichen, thick as a rug. Its sharp spire was smoky black, and the watchfire burned without fail through every season.
The guards recognized King Balon's daughter—the only one now at his side—and naturally invited her in. Asha climbed the winding staircase to the top and found her father seated by the brazier, wrapped from chin to toe in a moldy sealskin robe.
King Balon heard her footsteps on the stone steps and turned to look at the daughter who remained with him. In his youth, Balon had been the fiercest raider, but now he was frighteningly gaunt. It was as if the gods had boiled away every ounce of his flesh, leaving only skin and bone. His frame was thin and wiry, his face chiseled like flint, save for a pair of piercing black eyes. Time and sea winds had turned his hair the gray of the winter sea, streaked with white, falling past his shoulders in unkempt waves.
"Did you see her?" Balon asked. After Asha's two older brothers had died and her youngest brother was taken hostage, he had begun treating her as his heir, raising her as he would a son.
"Yes, Father." Asha nodded, not denying it. She had indeed seen her mother on Harlaw Island.
"Is she still the same?"
"She is. Though her cough has eased somewhat," Asha said. Ever since Balon's sons had fallen in battle and his youngest had been sent away as a hostage, his wife Alannys Harlaw had begun to falter mentally. She now lived with her sister on Harlaw Island, suffering from a cough, though the climate there was gentler.
"This is our fate, Asha, given to us by the Drowned God. Your uncle often said that all is the will of the Drowned God. Men fish the sea, till the land, and then die. Women lie on beds of blood and pain, birthing children who live but a short time. The sun rises, the moon sets, the winds and tides endure. The islands remain as the gods made them." Balon did not dwell on his frail wife; the Ironborn never mourned what was lost.
"But age brings its ailments. When the damp cold comes, my joints ache, though at least I'm not as weak as your mother," he added.
"Mother still thinks of Theon. That's deadlier than any cough," Asha said carefully, though in truth, her thoughts were on her own brother, the child sent to Winterfell as a hostage.
"Enough. I want you to forget him, to pretend he never existed," Balon said, his impatience sharp. "He's living in comfort in the Green lands. The Starks will spoil him into nothing more than a pampered lordling or a whore. He will never be a proper raider."
"But that's not my brother's fault," Asha said, unable to hold back.
"Have you forgotten your own brothers, Rodrik and Maron? They died at their hands, yet Theon reeks of those wolf cubs," Balon said, fixing her with a hard gaze. "I have never forgotten my vengeance—the Starks, and that Robert who smashed my walls. I will see them all in their graves."
"I haven't forgotten either. I know the men you hate most: Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, then Stannis, and Tywin," Asha replied.
"Good. That's my girl."
"Think of my ships—they are eager to plunder the Green lands again," Balon said, his tone bitter.
"If that is your wish, then the opportunity seems at hand. War has broken out in the East; our longships will have their chance," Asha said, seeing the look on her father's face, and she said no more of Theon.
"Indeed. The Riverlands to the east, and Essos beyond that—the drums of war echo from all sides. How glorious," Balon laughed. "I have finally waited for this moment."
"And our swords and fire… how shall we pay the Iron Price?" Asha asked.
"Tywin clashes with House Tully; Riverrun will tremble, and House Stark will march south. The Stepstones and the Twin Cities are locked in bloody conflict with the Dothraki, though their fleets remain strong. From this, many gates will be left wide open," Balon said, thinking aloud. "There will be many fruits on the tree, and I will take the ripest, easiest to pluck. Lord Tywin is cunning; Casterly Rock has never been taken. And the newly risen Twin Cities Alliance is not to be underestimated either."
Asha watched King Balon silently. She did not contradict him, though something always felt off. Her father was obsessed with restoring the Old Way, but he had never been clever—he bullied the weak and respected the strong.
"We will strike, but not yet. We must choose our target carefully. I am the leader of the Raiders of Pyke, the King of Sea Salt, the King of Rock, the Son of the Sea Wind. If I am to claim the crown, I will pay the Iron Price and take it myself—just as 'Redhand' Urron did five thousand years ago."
"I want you ready, child. Our ancestor, King Dagon, not only seized lions by the whiskers in their dens but tied knots in the tails of the Direwolves. Though he could not face true dragons, the seas were ours. Now I will restore that glory," Balon said, his eyes blazing. "When the time comes, you will go in my place to announce my orders to the lords of the other islands and summon the longships."
Asha knew he spoke of a hundred years past, when King Dagon ruled the seas, and Lord Beron Stark joined Casterly Rock to fight the Ironborn. Lord Stark had been mortally wounded and died in battle against them.
"Yes, Father," Asha said, nodding. His will was iron, his fury fire.