"Men of small account." Asha knew them all, and liked none of them. "The sons of salt wives, the grandsons of thralls. The Codds… do you know their words?"
"Though All Men Do Despise Us,"Tris said, "but if they catch you in those nets of theirs, you'll be as dead as if They had been dragonlords. And There's worse. The Crow's Eye brought back monsters from the east… aye, and wizards Too"
"Nuncle always had a fondness for freaks and foots," said Asha. "My father used to fight with him about it. Let the wizards call upon their gods. The Damphair will call on ours, and drown them. Will I have your voice at the queensmoot, Tris?"
"You shall have all of me. I am your man, forever. Asha, I would wed you. Your lady mother has given her consent." She stifled a groan. You might have asked me first… though you might not have liked the answer half so well.
"I am no second son now," he went on. "I am the rightful Lord Botley, as you said yourself. And you are-"
"What I am will be settled on Old Wyk. Tris, we are no longer children fumbling at each other and trying to see what fits where. You think you want to wed me, but you don't."
"I do. All I dream about is you. Asha, I swear upon the bones of Nagga, I have never touched another woman."
"Go touch one… or two, or ten. I have touched more men than I count. Some with my lips, more with my axe." She had surrendered her virtue at six-and-ten, to a beautiful blond-haired sailor on a Trading galley up from Lys. He only knew six words of the Common Tongue, but "fuck" was one of them, the very word she'd hoped to hear. Afterward Asha had the sense to find a woods witch, who showed her how to brew moon tea to keep her belly flat.
Botley blinked, as if he did not quire understand what she had said. "You… I Thought that you would wait. Why…" He rubbed his mouth. "Asha, were you forced?"
"So forced. I tore his tunic. You do not want to wed me, take my word on that. You are a sweet boy and always were, but I am no sweet girl. If we wed, soon enough you'd come to hate me."
"Never. Asha, I… I have ached for you."
She had heard enough of this. A sickly mother, a murdered father, a kingsmoot, and a plague of uncles were enough for any woman to contend with; she did not require a lovesick puppy. "Find a brothel, Tris. They'll cure you of that ache."
"I could never…" Tristifer shook his head. "You and I were meant to be, Asha. I have always known you would be my wife, and the mother of my sons." He seized her upper arm.
In a blink her dirk was at his throat. "Take your hand away, or you won't live long enough to breed a son. Now.' When he did, she lowered the blade. "You want a woman, well and good. I'll put one in your bed tonight. Pretend she's me, if that will give you pleasure, but do not presume to grab at me again. I am your queen, not your wife. Remember that." Asha sheathed her dirk and left him standing there, with a fat drop of blood slowly creeping down his neck, black in the pale light of the moon.
THE IRON CAPTAIN
The wind was blowing from the north as the Iron Victory came round the point, and entered the holy bay called Nagga's Cradle.
Victarion joined Nute the Barber at her prow. Ahead loomed the sacred shore of Old Wyk and the grassy hill above it, where the ribs of Nagga rose from The earth like The Trunks of great white frees, as wide around as a dromond's mast and twice as tall.
The bones of the Grey King's hall. Victarion could feel the magic of this place. "Balon stood beneath those bones, when first he named himself a king," he recalled. "He swore to win us back our freedoms, and Tarle The Thrice-Drowned placed a driftwood crown upon his head. 'BALON!' They cried. 'BALON! BALON KING!'"
"They will shout your name as loud," said Nute.
Victarion nodded, Though he did not share the Barber's certainty. Balon had three sons, and a daughter he loved well.
He had said as much to his captains at Moat Caiiin, when first they urged him to claim the Seastone Chair. "Balon's sons are dead," Red Ralf Stonehouse had argued, "and Asha is a woman. You were your brother's strong right arm, you must pick up the sword that he let fall." When Victarion reminded Them that Balon had commanded him to hold the Moat against the northmen, Ralf Kenning said, "The wolves are broken, lord. What good to win this swamp and lose The isles?" And Ralf the Limper added, "The Crow's Eye has been too long away. He knows us not."
Euron Greyjoy, King of the Isles and the North. The Thought woke an old rage in his heart, but still…
"Words are wind," Victarion told them, "and the only good wind is that which fills our sails. Would you have me fight The Crow's Eye? Brother against brother, ironborn against ironborn?" Euron was still his elder, no matter how much bad blood might be between them. No man is as accursed as the kinslayer.
But when the Damphair's summons came, the call to kingsmool, then all was changed. Aeron speaks with the Drowned God's voice, Victarion reminded himself, and if the Drowned God wilts that I should sit the Seastone Chair… The next day he gave command of Moat Cailin to Ralf Kenning, and set off overland for The Fever River where the Iron Fleet lay amongst the reeds and willows. Rough seas and fickle winds had delayed him, but only one ship had been lost, and he was home.
Grief and Iron Vengeance wereclose behind as Iron Victory passed the head-land. Behind came Hardhand, Iron Wind, Grey Ghost. Lord Quelbn, Lord Vikon, Lord Oagon, and the rest, nine Tenths of the Iron Fleet, sailing on the evening tide in a ragged column that extended back long leagues. The sight of their sails filled Victarion Greyjoy with content. No man had ever loved his wives half as well as the Lord Captain loved his ships.
Along the sacred strand of Old Wyk, longships lined the shore as far as the eye could see, their masts thrust up like spears. In the deeper waters rode prizes: cogs, carracks, and dromonds won in raid or war, too big to run ashore. From prow and stern and mast flew familiar banners.
Nute the Barber squinted toward the strand. "Is that Lord Harlaw's Sea Song?" The Barber was a thick-set man with bandy legs and long arms, but his eyes were not so keen as they had been when he was young. In those days he could throw an axe so well that men said he could shave you with it.
"Sea Song, aye." Rodrik the Reader had left his books, it would seem. "And there old Drumm's Thunderer, with Blacktyde's Nighrflyer beside her." Victarion's eyes were as sharp as they had ever been. Even with their sails furled and their banners hanging limp, he knew them, as befit the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. "Swiftfin too. Some son of Sawane Botley." The Crow's Eye had drowned Lord Botley, Victarion had heard, and his heir had sailed to Moat Cailin with him and died there, but he'd had brothers. How many? Four? No, five, by three different wives, and none with any cause to love the Crow's Eye,
And then he saw her: a single-masted longs hip, lean and low, with a dark red hull. Her sails, now furled, were black as a starless sky. Even at anchor Silence looked both cruel and fast. On her prow was a black iron maiden with one arm outstretched. Her waist was slender, her breasts high and proud, her legs long and shapely. A mane of black iron hair streamed from her head, and her eyes were mother-of-pearl, but she had no mouth.
Victarion's hands closed into fists. He had beaten four men to death with those hands, and one wife as well. Though his hair was flecked with hoarfrost, he was as strong as he had ever been, with a bull's broad chest and a boy's flat belly. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men, Balon had reminded him, on the day he sent the Crow's Eye off to sea.
"He is here," Victarion told the Barber. "Drop sail. We proceed on oars alone. Command Grief and Iron Vengeance to stand between Silence and the sea. The rest of the fleef to seal the bay. None are to leave save at my command, neither man nor crow."