Chương 24

Victarion Greyjoy Wind howled outside like a dying beast, rattling the shutters in their frames until Victarion thought they might tear loose and fly into the night. Yet despite the noise, Pyke had never felt so empty and silent. The wind was just wind, nothing more. It was the absence of voices that made the castle feel dead. The first night after all the invaders had left the Iron Islands. The greenlanders, traipsing through his family's castle as if they owned it.

Robert Baratheon with his warhammer and his bellowing laugh. Tywin Lannister moving through the halls like it was all beneath him. The Greatjon Umber and his savage northmen, drunk on victory and southern wine. Cunts, the lot of them. Victarion's hands curled into fists as he stalked through the corridors. His boots struck stone with heavy thuds that echoed in the emptiness. Most of the servants were dead or fled, killed in the sacking or run off when the greenlander armies came.

The few that remained kept to the shadows, eyes downcast, moving like ghosts through their own home. He had traded blows with Robert Baratheon himself during the fall of Pyke. The memory burned in his mind—the Usurper's warhammer coming down like a thunderbolt, Victarion meeting it with his axe, the impact rattling his bones. For a moment they had fought, strength against strength, and Victarion had felt the savage joy of battle singing in his blood.

Then the northmen had tackled him from the side, three of them bringing him down like hounds on a boar. By the time he fought back to his feet, Robert had moved on to other prey. And though Victarion hated to admit it even in the privacy of his own mind, he did not think he would have come out on top had the duel continued. Robert Baratheon was no greenlander weakling. The man was a warrior born, strong as an aurochs and twice as mean when his blood was up. Still.

One day, Robert Baratheon would feel his axe bite into his throat. Into each of their throats, these greenlanders that had desecrated his home, that spat on the Old Ways. He promised himself that much. Balon might have been a cunt too, arrogant and rash and as hardheaded as a bull-shark. But he had been Victarion's brother. His blood. That meant something. And a king too, the first Greyjoy king since the ancient kings of salt and rock were chosen through the kingsmoot.

They might have failed in their rebellion, but Balon had the right of it all along. The Old Way had to be restored. Reaching the lord's apartments, Victarion pushed through the door without knocking. The chambers were empty. He had thought to find Euron balls deep in some wench at this time of night—his brother had never lacked for appetites—but the bed was cold and undisturbed. Frowning, Victarion turned and made his way back through the castle.

He passed through halls that still bore scorch marks from the fighting, stepped over stones that had been pried loose and never replaced. In the kitchen, he found one of the few remaining servants, an old woman with a bent back who had served House Greyjoy since before Victarion was born.

"Where is my brother?" he demanded. The woman flinched at his tone, eyes darting away.

"The great hall, m'lord. Saw him go there after dark. Alone." Victarion grunted and continued on. It seemed strange that Euron would be in the great hall at this hour. There had been no feast today. There was nothing to feast about, no victory to celebrate. Only defeat and submission and the bitter taste of bowing to the greenlander king. The great hall's doors stood open, darkness spilling out into the corridor beyond. Victarion stepped through and stopped, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light.

A few torches guttered in their sconces along the walls, casting more shadow than illumination. The long tables had been pushed to the sides, benches stacked haphazardly. At the far end of the hall, on the dais where the curling tentacles of the Seastone Chair weaved through the air, a figure stood.

"Euron," Victarion called, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. His brother did not answer. Walking forward, Victatrion felt the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end, and he wished he had brought his axe with him. Something felt wrong. As he drew closer, he heard it—a slow dripping, like a leak in a thatched roof. Drip. Drip. Drip. But when he looked up, the ceiling was solid stone. No rain could penetrate here. The dripping continued. Steady as a heartbeat.

"Brother," Euron finally said without turning. One hand rested on a tentacle of the Seastone Chair, his fingers drumming against the black stone, oily and strangely reflective despite the low light.

"Come to have a go at the chair when no one's looking, have you?" Victarion could hear the mocking smirk in Euron's voice. It made his blood boil, that tone, the one that said Euron knew something Victarion did not, that he was playing a game Victarion could not comprehend.

"I came looking for you," he said through gritted teeth.

"How touching." His other hand was by his head, balled into a fist.

"It's not as comfortable a seat as you'd think, you can trust me on that." Victarion's lips formed a thin line. He had learned long ago never to trust a word that came out of his brother's mouth. Euron lied as easily as other men breathed, twisted truth until it suited his purposes. But he was Lord of the Iron Islands now, chosen by Robert Baratheon to replace their executed brother. And Victarion owed his allegiance to the Greyjoy that sat the chair, no matter how much it galled him.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Narrowing his eyes, Victarion tried to make out what his brother was holding. The room was half in darkness, torchlight failing to reach the dais fully. But he could see Euron's silhouette against the Seastone Chair, could see something in his hand. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound came from whatever Euron held. Dark drops fell onto the ancient stone of the chair, running down its carved surface like black tears.

"What are you doing?" Victarion demanded. Moving closer, he finally saw it clearly. The gaping hole in one side of Euron's face, a dark pit where his eye should have been. Blood dripped down his cheek in thick rivulets, staining his collar, falling onto the Seastone Chair.

"Your eye!" The words came out strangled. Victarion did not enjoy the trembling in his own voice, the note of something that might have been fear.

"What have you done?"

"Paying the price, of course." Euron spoke as naturally as if Victarion had asked him about the weather, his remaining eye bright with something that might have been fever or madness or both.

"An eye for an eye. And this one's sight was far too poor for little old me." Victarion only stared at him, trying and failing to parse out his brother's words. An eye for an eye? What price? What had Euron done? Turning fully now, Euron settled himself onto the Seastone Chair. Blood continued to stream down his face, but he seemed not to notice or care.

"Speak your piece, then." Propping his chin on his balled fist—the one still holding something—he fixed Victarion with his remaining eye.

"You need not look at me as if I've grown a second head. It's just an eye, Victarion. See?" His hand opened. In the torchlight, Victarion finally saw the eye clearly. White as bone the whole of it, pupil and iris both gone milky and dead. The thing stared back at him blankly, as if still attached to a man's face, still seeing things no living man should see. Then Euron closed his fist, and the sound was like a grape being crushed underfoot, wet and obscene as a thing not meant to be heard.

Clear fluid mixed with blood seeped between his brother's fingers. Victarion's jaw dropped. His stomach turned. Euron laughed at him, a rising cackle that echoed through the empty hall, bouncing off stone walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"If only you could see your face!" Wiping a tear from his good eye with his free hand, he grinned. Blood stained his teeth.

"Hah! Go on, then. What is it you want?" Euron was mad. Truly mad. Victarion had always known that, in some fashion. His brother had never been right, even as a boy. But it had only gotten worse after Euron sailed east a few years after Robert's Rebellion ended. He had been gone more than two years, and when the Silence returned to Pyke, it brought a strange crew of mutes and foreign thralls chained to the oars.

Euron had walked down the gangplank wearing silks from Qarth and smelling of eastern spices, his smile wider and emptier than before. Silent for a moment, Victarion shook himself. He swallowed dryly and tried to focus on why he had come here.

"To ask... to ask what are our next steps." Euron raised an eyebrow, the one above his remaining eye.

"What steps would there be? I am as loyal a servant to the crown as any lord in Westeros." Wagging a finger at Victarion, his grin widened.

"Watch out, watch out, Vic. This is treason you're speaking here."

"This is no jest," Victarion snarled, taking a step forward.

"And servant? Has this defeat unmanned you so? You cannot mean to keep faith with the stag king. Not truly. The iron fleet needs must be rebuilt. More captains raised. More men trained." Pounding his chest with a closed fist, he felt the familiar words rise up from his throat like a prayer.

"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."

"Yes, yes." Rolling his one good eye, Euron lounged back in the chair. Victarion could see deep into the dark pit where the other had been, could see the raw meat and bone within.

"That's all well and good. But Robert Baratheon's rule is useful for now. My back is not so stiff that it cannot bow and scrape for a time."

"The ironborn should bow to no man," Victarion said.

"We bowed only to the dragons, and the dragons are gone."

"Are they?" Euron's smile widened, blood still seeping from his ruined socket.

"You aim too low, brother. Rebelling against this king or that, ruling these piss-poor islands." Leaning forward, his remaining eye gleamed in the torchlight.

"I have my sights—well, sight—set higher than that. And for such a lofty goal, a man must be patient." Victarion frowned, trying to understand.

"What goal?" Euron ignored his question.

"We shall bide our time for now and save our strength. No need to waste it on further foolish rebellions." Rising from the Seastone Chair, his brother began to pace, his movements fluid despite the blood loss.

"Worry not. Westeros will break itself apart without our need to kick down its door. The stag and the falcon. The lion and the viper. The wolves and the roses and all the rest. They will tear at each other soon enough." Stopping before Victarion, Euron placed a hand on his shoulder. His grip was strong, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.

"Then... only then, will I make my move, and the whole of Westeros shall know of it. Our sails will cover their horizon, will darken the very sun." His voice dropped to something almost reverent.

"From the Wall to Oldtown, Lannisport to Gulltown, Sunspear to King's Landing. They will learn. And as I do now, so they too shall weep tears of blood." His hand rose to touch the ruined socket, fingers coming away red.

"I see it clear as day." Victarion stared at his brother, at the mad light in his eye, at the blood running down his face, at the certainty in his smile. Part of him wanted to strike Euron down right there, to end this madness before it could spread. But another part remembered. It was Euron more than anyone who had convinced Balon to raise their banners in rebellion, which Victarion had tried and failed to do for years.

It was Euron who planned the sacking of Lannisport, and the mad thing had worked—the Lannister fleet burned, their gold stolen, their pride wounded. And it was Euron who had spoken against giving battle to Stannis Baratheon at sea, counseling patience. Balon had not listened. Neither had Victarion, thinking him craven for it. And Euron had been right. The battle off Fair Isle had broken the iron fleet and left the Iron Islands open to invasion. Perhaps his brother's madness had method in it after all.

"How long?" Victarion asked.

"How long must we bow and scrape?" Euron's smile was answer enough, wide and terrible and full of secrets.

"As long as it takes, brother. As long as it takes." Turning away, he climbed back onto the dais and sat once more upon the Seastone Chair. Blood continued to drip onto its ancient stone, staining it darker than the sea from which it had been carved. Victarion watched his brother sit there, mad and bleeding and somehow still terrifying in his confidence. Then he turned and walked from the hall, his boots echoing in the emptiness.

Behind him, Euron's laughter followed, a soft, satisfied thing, like a man who had just won a wager no one else knew he had made.