# Greywater Watch, The Great Hall
*Moments later*
The hall was smaller than Winterfell's, dimmer, built for function rather than display. Timber beams crossed overhead, blackened by years of smoke from a central hearth that burned with surprising cheer despite the damp that pervaded everything in the Neck. Woven reed mats covered the floor, and the furniture—such as it was—had the practical simplicity of people who might need to pack up and move at a moment's notice.
Lyanna Stark stood beside the hearth, and Jaime felt the familiar pang of seeing her—this woman who should have been Lady of Winterfell, mother to acknowledged children, living openly among family who loved her. Instead she existed in this twilight world, officially dead, raising a son who could never claim his true name.
At twenty-nine, she carried herself with the fierce dignity that all the stories claimed—tall for a woman, lean from years of careful rationing, with long dark hair braided simply down her back. Her grey eyes held depths of sorrow that eight years hadn't filled, but also strength that eight years hadn't broken. She wore simple Northern wool, practical boots, nothing that marked her as anything more than one of House Reed's many guests.
But when she moved to greet them, there was grace in every line—the unconscious nobility of someone born to rule, trained from childhood to command, who couldn't quite hide what she was even when survival demanded anonymity.
"Ser Jaime," she said, and her voice carried warmth despite the weight she bore. "Gunnar. Welcome back to Greywater Watch. I hope the journey wasn't too difficult?"
"The Neck is always the Neck, my lady," Jaime replied, executing a bow that was perhaps more formal than necessary but felt right given who she was, who she should have been. "Neither kind nor cruel, simply indifferent to our comfort. But we're here, whole and dry, with letters from your family."
Something flashed in her eyes—hope mixed with hunger, the desperate need for connection to a world she'd been forced to leave behind. "From Ned?"
"From Ned, yes. And from the children at Winterfell." Jaime reached for the oilskin packet at his belt, but before he could unwrap it, a blur of motion resolved into a young boy who'd apparently been lurking in the shadows with the patience of a hunter waiting for prey.
Jon Snow—or Aemon Targaryen, depending on which truth you believed—skidded to a stop just short of actual collision, his grey eyes bright with excitement that made him look younger than eight. He had his mother's coloring, her strong Northern features, but there was something of Rhaegar in the shape of his face, the set of his shoulders. And in his eyes—gods, his eyes held depths that no eight-year-old should possess.
"Are there letters from Cregan?" he demanded without preamble, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "And Rhaenys? Did they send news? Are they well? Has anything interesting happened? Did the steam ship launch yet? Are they still working on the canal? Did—"
"Jon," Lyanna interrupted gently, her hand coming to rest on her son's shoulder with the practiced ease of someone who'd been managing enthusiastic children for years. "Breathe. Give Ser Jaime time to actually produce the letters before you interrogate him about their contents."
"Sorry," Jon said, though he didn't look particularly sorry—just impatient, vibrating with barely contained energy. "It's just been so long since the last letters and there's never enough news and I want to know everything."
"I know, sweetling," Lyanna said, her voice softening with the kind of love that transcended exile and danger and all the impossible circumstances that defined their lives. "We all do. But patience."
Jaime knelt, bringing himself to eye level with the boy. Up close, Jon Snow was remarkable—not just for his parentage or the secrets he carried, but for something else. That quality Jaime had mentioned to Gunnar earlier. The sense that this child had seen things, understood things, carried burdens that shouldn't exist in someone so young.
*Neville,* whispered a thought that came from nowhere, *his name was Neville before. He died protecting his friend, and now he's been reborn here, carrying memories of a life that ended too soon.*
Jaime didn't know where that certainty came from, couldn't have explained it if asked. But looking into Jon Snow's grey eyes, he was absolutely convinced that this boy was more than he appeared—not just a hidden prince, but a soul that had lived before, fought before, died before.
And was determined not to repeat past mistakes.
"There are letters from Lord Cregan," Jaime said gently, pulling the oilskin packet from his belt and beginning to unwrap its layers of protective covering. "And Princess Rhaenys. And Prince Aegon, though his is shorter—he's only six and hasn't quite mastered lengthy correspondence yet. Princess Elia wrote as well, several pages that I suspect will make you smile. And your uncle Ned sent a letter specifically for you, along with one for your mother."
Jon's eyes went wide. "Uncle Ned wrote to me? Directly?"
"Directly," Jaime confirmed, pulling out the carefully organized bundle—each letter marked with different seals, different hands, each one representing a connection to the world Jon couldn't openly be part of. "He seems to think you're old enough now to receive correspondence that isn't filtered through your mother first. Something about you being nearly a man grown and deserving to be treated as such."
"I'm eight," Jon said, but pride colored his voice—the pride of a child being acknowledged as more capable than adults usually assumed.
"And I was killing men at eight," came Ser Gerold's voice from the doorway, dry as autumn leaves. "Age is less important than capability, and from what I've seen of your swordwork, young Jon, you're more capable than most squires twice your years. Your uncle recognizes that. Honor it by reading his words carefully and thinking about what they mean rather than just what they say."
Jon nodded seriously, accepting the sealed letter Jaime offered with hands that trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the kind of overwhelming emotion that came from being acknowledged, being seen, being treated as a person rather than a problem to be managed.
Lyanna took her own letters with similar care, fingers tracing the seals as if she could divine their contents through touch alone. Ned's handwriting on the outermost letter. Recognizable immediately, achingly familiar, connection to a brother she hadn't seen in eight years but who'd never stopped protecting her through distance and danger.
"Thank you," she said quietly, and the depth of feeling in those two simple words made Jaime's chest tighten. "These mean more than you know. More than I can properly express."
"We know, my lady," Gunnar rumbled, his massive frame somehow managing to convey gentleness despite its intimidating size. "We carry them because we understand. Because connection matters, even when—especially when—circumstances demand separation."
Lyanna moved to the table, settling into a chair with the letters clutched against her chest like treasure. Jon followed, climbing into the seat beside her, already breaking the seal on Cregan's letter with hands that shook slightly with eagerness.
"Would you like privacy?" Jaime asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"Stay," Lyanna replied without looking up from Ned's letter. "Please. It's nice to have people here who understand, who can answer questions about the North we've only heard about through words on parchment."
So they stayed—Jaime and Gunnar settling into chairs while Howland Reed and Gerold Hightower took up positions that were casual but allowed quick response if threats emerged. And they watched as mother and son read words from family they couldn't acknowledge, from cousins Jon would never meet openly, from the world they'd been forced to leave behind.
Jon read Cregan's letter first, his grey eyes tracking across the page with intense focus. Whatever Cregan had written—and Jaime strongly suspected it was more than innocent childhood news—clearly resonated deeply. Jon's expression cycled through surprise, understanding, something that might have been recognition, and finally determination that sat oddly on such a young face.
"He knows," Jon breathed, so quietly only his mother heard. "Cregan knows. About..." He trailed off, glancing at the adults with sudden wariness.
"About what, sweetling?" Lyanna asked gently.
Jon looked at her, those grey eyes holding depths that eight-year-olds shouldn't possess. "About things that shouldn't be possible to know. About being someone else first. About remembering." His voice dropped even lower. "He says... he says Rhaenys remembers too. That they've been looking for others like them. That I'm not alone in being... confused... about being here when I was somewhere else before."
The silence that followed was profound. Lyanna had gone very still, her hand frozen halfway to opening Elia's letter. Gerold's weathered face showed nothing, but his eyes had sharpened with interest that went beyond mere curiosity. Howland Reed leaned forward slightly, as if physically drawn by the weight of what was being discussed.
"Reincarnation," Howland said quietly. It wasn't a question. "Old magic. Older than the First Men, older than the Children of the Forest. Souls that lived before, died, and were born again into new bodies carrying memories of past lives."
"That's impossible," Lyanna said, but her voice held none of the conviction that should have accompanied such a statement.
"So are moving castles," Howland replied with perfect calm. "So is a seven-year-old who knows more about engineering than masters of the Citadel. So is a nine-year-old princess who revolutionizes agriculture and designs weapons that could level fortresses. We're surrounded by impossible things, Lady Lyanna. Perhaps we should stop being surprised when we encounter more of them."
Lyanna looked down at Jon, her expression equal parts wonder and worry. "Is this true? Do you remember being someone else? Living another life?"
Jon nodded slowly, his young face showing the kind of vulnerability that children rarely revealed—the fear of being thought mad, of not being believed, of carrying truths too heavy for small shoulders. "I didn't understand at first. Just had dreams, feelings, memories that didn't fit. But as I got older, as I could think more clearly... I remembered. Being someone else. Someone called Neville. Fighting a war. Protecting my friends. Dying so that someone I loved could live."
His hands clenched on Cregan's letter. "And apparently Cregan and Rhaenys remember too. They were Harry and Hermione before. Best friends who fought the same war, loved each other through everything, died and were reborn here. And now they've found each other again." His voice trembled. "They want me to know I'm not crazy. That what I remember is real. That there are others like us, carrying memories we shouldn't have."
"Others?" Gerold asked sharply. "How many others?"
Jon scanned the letter again, his lips moving slightly as he read. "At least three they know of for certain. Themselves and me. But they suspect there might be more—other children who seem too knowledgeable, too capable, who understand things they shouldn't. They're trying to identify them, to bring them together somehow. Create a... a network, I guess, of people who remember their past lives and can help each other navigate this one."
"A conspiracy of reincarnated souls," Gunnar said wonderingly. "That's... that's either the most remarkable thing I've ever heard or the most terrifying. Possibly both."
"Both," Howland confirmed with the philosophical acceptance of someone who'd seen enough impossible things to take new impossibilities in stride. "Definitely both."
Lyanna had unfolded Elia's letter with shaking hands, scanning its contents with growing wonder. "Elia writes that Rhaenys told her everything. About the memories, the past life, how she and Cregan recognized each other. She says..." Lyanna's voice caught. "She says it explains so much. Why they seemed to know each other despite never having met. Why they work together like partners who've known each other for decades. Why they can finish each other's sentences and communicate through looks that leave everyone else confused."
She looked up at Jaime, her grey eyes bright with unshed tears. "Did you know? Did you suspect?"
"I suspected something," Jaime admitted. "Not this specifically—reincarnation wasn't on my list of likely explanations. But I knew they were unusual. That Lord Cregan and Princess Rhaenys carried knowledge that shouldn't exist, understood things they shouldn't understand. I just assumed it was genius or magic or some gift from the gods."
"It is magic," Howland said quietly. "Just not the kind most people think about. Not fire and ice and dragons—though those exist too—but something deeper. The magic of souls, of continuity across lifetimes, of love and loyalty strong enough to transcend death itself."
Jon was reading Rhaenys's letter now, his expression cycling through emotions too complex for eight-year-old features. "She says they're glad I'm here. That they were hoping to find me—Neville, I mean. That they've missed me and want me to know I'm still family even if the details are different." His voice broke slightly. "She says Harry—Cregan—wants me to know that what I did mattered. That dying to protect him was the most Gryffindor thing anyone's ever done, and he'll never forget it."
"Gryffindor?" Gerold asked.
"Something from before," Jon replied, not looking up from the letter. "From the other life. It meant brave. Loyal. Willing to sacrifice for others. It was... it was important to who we were. To who I was."
He finally looked up, and his grey eyes held determination that went beyond his years. "They want me to come to Winterfell. When it's safe, when the risk is manageable. They want to meet me properly. Want to... to be family again. The way we were before."
Lyanna's hands tightened on her letters. "That's not possible. Robert—"
"Robert believes you're dead," Howland interrupted gently. "And will continue believing that as long as we maintain the fiction. But Jon could travel to Winterfell. Not as Aemon Targaryen, obviously. But as Jon Snow, bastard son of Brandon Stark, fostered at Greywater Watch and coming to meet his acknowledged family. There's nothing suspicious about a Northern bastard visiting his father's house, especially at the invitation of the current lord."
"It would be dangerous," Gerold said, though his tone suggested he was considering possibilities rather than rejecting them outright. "Any journey carries risk. Any public appearance means potential recognition. But..." He studied Jon with those sharp grey eyes. "The boy's growing. Already he looks Northern enough that no one would question Stark blood. And fostering is common—explains both his presence here and why he's spent so little time at Winterfell."
"I want to go," Jon said quietly, and there was steel in his voice—the steel of someone who'd made a decision and wouldn't be easily swayed. "I want to meet them. Want to see Cregan and Rhaenys, talk to them properly instead of just through letters. Want to know I'm not alone in remembering, that there are others who understand what it's like to carry two lifetimes in one body."
Lyanna looked torn—maternal protectiveness warring with understanding that her son needed this, needed connection to others who shared his impossible burden. "Ned would have to approve. He's regent, he's responsible for Cregan's safety. We can't just send you north without his knowledge and consent."
"So we write back," Jon said with the simple clarity of youth. "We explain. We ask. And we trust that Uncle Ned will understand this is important. That some things matter more than perfect safety."
"He's right," Jaime said quietly. All eyes turned to him, and he felt the weight of their attention—these people who'd trusted him with secrets that could reshape kingdoms, who'd allowed him into their hidden world despite every reason to view him as the enemy. "I've watched Lord Cregan and Princess Rhaenys for six years now. I've seen how they work together, how they communicate, how they carry knowledge that shouldn't exist. If they're truly reincarnated souls, if they remember past lives and past loves and past loyalties... then Jon deserves to be with them. Deserves to have that connection, that understanding, that belonging."
He met Lyanna's eyes directly. "You've given up everything to keep your son safe. Eight years of exile, eight years of being dead to the world, eight years of watching him grow while knowing he can never acknowledge who he truly is. But safety without connection becomes a different kind of prison. And perhaps—perhaps—bringing together these impossible children might serve some purpose we don't yet understand."
"Or it might get them all killed," Lyanna said, but her voice held more resignation than resistance.
"Living might get them killed," Gunnar pointed out with characteristically blunt Northern practicality. "Breathing might get them killed. Existing with Targaryen blood in a realm ruled by a king who wants all Targaryens dead might get them killed. The question isn't whether there's risk—there's always risk. The question is whether the benefit justifies accepting that risk. And from where I'm standing, giving Jon a chance to connect with others who understand his situation seems worth considerable risk."
Lyanna looked down at Elia's letter again, reading words written in the elegant Dornish script that her sister-wife had perfected over years of courtly training. Whatever Elia had written clearly carried weight, because Lyanna's expression shifted—worry giving way to something more complex. Understanding, perhaps. Or recognition that some needs transcended safety.
"Elia thinks I'm being overprotective," Lyanna said at last, voice thick with emotion. "She says keeping Jon hidden is necessary but shouldn't mean keeping him isolated from everyone who might understand what he's experiencing. She says..." Lyanna paused, her throat working. "She says children who carry too many secrets alone sometimes break under the weight. That Jon needs others who can share that burden, who can help him navigate being someone else's soul in a body that's definitively his."
She looked at her son, really looked at him—seeing not just the eight-year-old boy but the soul that inhabited him, the person he'd been before, the weight he carried. "You really want this? Want to risk the journey north, risk being seen, risk everything we've built here to meet your cousins?"
"They're not just my cousins," Jon said quietly. "They're my family from before. Harry and Hermione. My best friends, my partners, the people I died protecting. And if they're really here, really alive again, really offering me a chance to be part of something that makes sense of who I am and who I was... then yes. I want it. More than anything."
Lyanna closed her eyes, breathing slowly, visibly wrestling with decisions that would reshape her son's future. When she opened them again, resolution had replaced uncertainty. "We write to Ned. We explain everything—the memories, the reincarnation, why this matters. We ask his permission for Jon to visit Winterfell, to meet Cregan and Rhaenys properly. And if he agrees..." She swallowed hard. "If he agrees, then you can go. With proper escort, with every precaution we can arrange, but you can go."
Jon's face split into a smile so bright it transformed his entire being—eight years old again, just a child receiving permission for something wonderful rather than a soul carrying impossible burdens. "Thank you. Thank you, Mother, you won't regret this, I promise—"
"I already regret it," Lyanna said, but she pulled him close, her hand stroking his dark hair with the fierce love of someone who'd sacrificed everything for this child and would sacrifice more if required. "But some things matter more than my comfort. And if bringing you together with others who understand your situation helps you grow into the person you're meant to be... then I'll endure the terror of letting you go."
"I'll make sure he's safe," Gerold said with quiet certainty. "If Lord Eddard approves this visit, I'll accompany the boy north myself. See that he reaches Winterfell whole and returns the same way. And perhaps..." The old knight's expression grew thoughtful. "Perhaps it's time I saw what the North has become. What these impossible children have built during my exile from the world."
"You'd leave Greywater Watch?" Howland asked with surprise.
"I've been dead eight years," Gerold replied with grim humor. "Perhaps it's time I tested whether anyone remembers enough to recognize my face. And besides—if young Jon is traveling to meet reincarnated souls and revolutionaries hiding in plain sight, he deserves an escort who's seen enough impossible things to take new impossibilities in stride."
The conversation continued, shifting to logistics and timelines and the thousand small details that separated dreams from reality. But the fundamental decision had been made: Jon Snow would go north to Winterfell, would meet the cousins who were more than cousins, would join the conspiracy of impossible children who remembered lives they shouldn't have lived.
And Jaime Lannister, watching it all unfold, felt the strange satisfaction of having delivered not just letters, but hope.
Connection.
The knowledge that even in exile, even carrying impossible burdens, none of them were truly alone.
"Winter is coming," Jon said quietly, echoing the Stark words with new understanding.
"But spring is possible," Lyanna replied, pulling her son close. "With family, with love, with people who understand... spring is always possible."
Even in the Neck.
Even for the officially dead.
Even for souls that had been reborn into a world that didn't quite know what to do with them.
The letters had been delivered.
And with them, hope for futures none of them had dared imagine.
*Perhaps,* Jaime thought, *that's what we're really delivering. Not just words, but possibilities. Not just news, but the promise that impossible things can still work out right if enough people care enough to make them happen.*
It wasn't much.
But sometimes, it was everything.
—
# Pyke, The Iron Islands
The ancient seat of House Greyjoy clung to its rocky outcrop like a drowning man clutching driftwood—desperate, stubborn, refusing to acknowledge that the sea had already claimed everything worth having. Three towers connected by swaying rope bridges, surrounded by cliffs where the waves crashed with enough force to shake stone, isolated from the mainland by design and by the simple fact that no sane person would want to live here unless they'd been born to it.
Balon Greyjoy stood in what passed for his solar—a chamber carved from living rock, windows facing the Sunset Sea, furnished with the kind of spartan practicality that suggested comfort was for soft mainland lords who'd forgotten what strength truly meant. At thirty-one, he'd inherited the lordship of Pyke after his father's death during Robert's Rebellion, and he'd spent every moment since nursing grievances that had curdled into something approaching madness.
The Old Way. That's what they called it—the ancient Ironborn tradition of taking what they wanted through strength and cunning rather than begging scraps from kings who viewed them as barely civilized pirates. Reaving. Raiding. The iron price rather than the pathetic gold price that mainlanders used to purchase what they were too weak to simply take.
His father had abandoned the Old Way. Quellon Greyjoy had bent the knee to Robert Baratheon, had sent his sons to fight in the Rebellion on the *wrong* side, had tried to make the Ironborn into something they were never meant to be—tame, civilized, *acceptable* to the lords who ruled the green lands with their crops and their soft hands and their pathetic illusions of peace.
Balon intended to correct that mistake.
Around the rough table sat those who would help him do it: his three brothers—Euron with his mad blue eyes and madder ambitions, Victarion built like a siege tower and about as subtle, and young Aeron who'd recently found religion after nearly drowning and now spoke in terms of the Drowned God's will. His uncle Rodrik the Reader sat slightly apart, books stacked at his elbow, looking distinctly uncomfortable about the entire proceeding.
"The time has come," Balon declared, his voice carrying the kind of absolute certainty that came from nursing obsessions until they consumed everything else. "Eight years we've bent the knee to the Baratheon Usurper. Eight years we've pretended to be what we're not—servants, subjects, loyal vassals who accept whatever scraps the Iron Throne deigns to throw our way. Eight years of humiliation while the North grows rich on stolen knowledge and the South grows fat on our restraint."
"The North's wealth comes from work," Rodrik observed mildly, though his tone suggested he already knew this argument would be dismissed. "Trade. Infrastructure development. Agricultural improvements that—"
"The North's wealth comes from what *should* be ours," Balon interrupted with cold fury. "Sea Dragon Point was built on our western coast. The canal through the Neck will make them rich on maritime trade that passes through waters the Ironborn have raided for centuries. They're taking what belongs to us by right of strength and calling it progress while we're expected to simply accept our diminishment."
"Sea Dragon Point is defended by cannons that can sink longships from ranges that make boarding impossible," Rodrik pointed out with the kind of careful precision that suggested he'd actually read the intelligence reports rather than just nursing wounded pride. "The North has naval capabilities that exceed anything we can field. Attacking them directly would be—"
"Which is why we attack the Lannisters," Balon said with the particular satisfaction of someone who'd found a target worthy of his rage. "Lannisport. The richest city on the western coast, defended by merchants who've grown soft and lazy from generations of peace. We strike there first—hard, devastating, unmistakable. We burn their harbor, sink their ships, take their gold. We remind the Seven Kingdoms that the Ironborn are not a force to be dismissed or ignored."
Euron's mad blue eyes lit up with enthusiasm that was both disturbing and completely predictable. "Finally," he breathed, leaning forward with predatory interest. "Finally we stop pretending to be what we're not. I'll lead the raid myself. Take the *Silence* and every longship that will follow, sweep into Lannisport like a storm, and leave nothing but ash and screaming."
"You'll lead because I command it," Balon corrected sharply. "This isn't about glory or personal satisfaction. This is about making a statement that cannot be ignored or misinterpreted. The Iron Islands will no longer accept subordination to the Iron Throne. We are independent, we are sovereign, and we will take what we want through the iron price as our ancestors did."
Victarion shifted his massive frame, the chair creaking under his weight. "And after Lannisport?" he rumbled, his voice carrying the simple directness of someone who preferred killing to talking. "What then? Tywin Lannister won't simply accept having his city burned. The Iron Throne won't ignore open rebellion. We'll have every kingdom in Westeros coming for our heads."
"Let them come," Balon replied with absolute certainty. "The islands are fortified. Our longships are swift. We can raid and retreat, strike and vanish, bleed them with a thousand cuts until they realize the cost of keeping us subjugated exceeds any benefit they might gain. The North has shown the way—build strength through infrastructure and military capability that makes conquest too expensive to contemplate. We'll do the same through mobility and the iron price."
"The North built strength through economics and trade," Rodrik said with the particular patience of someone explaining obvious truths to the determinedly obtuse. "They made themselves valuable to the realm, created relationships based on mutual benefit rather than simple fear. We're proposing to make ourselves hated, to unite every kingdom against us through actions that will be remembered as piracy and murder rather than legitimate rebellion."
"The North can afford economics because they have resources we lack," Balon shot back. "They have land, timber, minerals, agricultural capacity. We have rocks and fish and the sea. Our strength has always come from taking what we need rather than trying to grow it ourselves. That's not weakness—it's honest acknowledgment of what we are and what we're good at."
"It's also," Aeron interjected with the fervor of recent conversion, "what the Drowned God intended. We are his chosen people, reborn from the sea, stronger for having died and returned. The green lands practice their false religions and weak ways. We practice strength. That is holy. That is right."
"The Drowned God," Rodrik muttered, "is not going to save us from Lannister gold buying mercenaries or Northern steel cutting through our hulls with cannons we can't match."
"Then we don't fight them directly," Euron said with the kind of cruel cleverness that made him simultaneously valuable and dangerous. "We raid where they're weak. Hit coastal settlements, burn fishing villages, take slaves and salt wives. Force them to spread their forces thin trying to protect everything. And when they finally mass enough strength to come for us, we retreat to the islands and make them pay for every rock they try to take."
"A war of attrition," Victarion said with growing approval. "Hit and run. Make them bleed for every victory until the cost becomes unbearable and they accept our independence simply because subjugation isn't worth the price."
"Exactly," Balon confirmed. "And it begins with Lannisport. Euron, you'll take fifty longships—every vessel we can spare without leaving the islands completely undefended. Strike at dawn when they're least prepared. Burn the harbor, sink every ship you can reach, kill anyone who resists, and be gone before they can organize proper response."
"And the people?" Euron asked with disturbing eagerness. "Can we take salt wives? Slaves? The Lannisters are rich—their households will have pretty things worth taking."
"Take what you want," Balon said coldly. "This is the Old Way returning. We take the iron price. Let the green lands remember what it means to face Ironborn who refuse to be tamed."
Rodrik the Reader stood abruptly, his chair scraping against stone with a sound like a sword being drawn. "This is madness," he said quietly, though his voice carried clearly in the stone chamber. "You're starting a war we cannot win, based on pride wounded nine years ago, for the sake of traditions that brought us nothing but poverty and isolation for centuries before my father tried to drag this house into something resembling civilization."
"Civilization," Balon spat the word like a curse. "Is that what you call it? Bowing and scraping to kings who view us as barely human? Accepting scraps when we should be taking feasts? Pretending to be what we're not just to avoid offending lords whose grandfathers cowered in their castles while our grandfathers ruled the seas?"
"I call it survival," Rodrik replied with steel beneath his scholarly calm. "I call it adapting to a world where the old ways lead only to death and subjugation. The North adapted—they built new technologies, created new industries, turned isolation into strength through innovation rather than simple violence. We could do the same if we weren't so obsessed with proving we're hard men who take what they want."
"The North," Balon said with cold fury, "is led by children who somehow know more than men three times their age. Reincarnated souls, if the whispers are true. Magic that shouldn't exist. That's not a model we can follow because we don't have access to impossible knowledge or divine intervention."
"Then perhaps," Rodrik said quietly, "we should focus on building what we *can* build rather than destroying what others have created. Perhaps we should invest in fishing fleets and trade rather than reaving and rape. Perhaps—"
"Get out," Balon interrupted, his voice cold as the sea in winter. "If you won't support this, if you're too much the coward to embrace what we are, then leave this council and keep your mouth shut. I'm Lord of Pyke and Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands. This is my decision, and it will be obeyed."
Rodrik looked at each of his nephews in turn—Euron with his mad grin, Victarion with his bovine certainty, Aeron with his zealot's fervor, and finally Balon himself with his obsessive need to prove something that didn't need proving.
"You're going to get everyone killed," Rodrik said at last. "And when you do, when the green lands unite against us and grind these islands to dust, I hope the memory of your wounded pride provides some comfort as you watch your house burn."
He departed without waiting for dismissal, his footsteps echoing in the stone corridor with the finality of doors closing on futures that might have been.
The remaining Greyjoys sat in silence for a moment, broken only by the eternal crash of waves against Pyke's cliffs.
"He'll come around," Victarion said eventually. "When we return from Lannisport with gold and glory, when the realm sees we're serious about independence, Rodrik will see we chose correctly."
"Or he'll remain soft," Euron said with casual cruelty. "Too much reading makes men weak. Makes them think instead of act. Makes them question instead of simply taking what they want."
"It doesn't matter what Rodrik thinks," Balon said with finality. "What matters is reminding the Seven Kingdoms what happens when they forget to fear the Ironborn. Euron—prepare your fleet. Choose your captains carefully. I want men who understand this isn't just a raid, it's a declaration. The Iron Islands bow to no king. Not Robert Baratheon, not anyone. We are sovereign, and Lannisport's ashes will prove it."
Euron's grin widened into something that would have looked more at home on a shark. "When do we sail?"
"Three days," Balon replied. "Use the time to ready your ships, brief your crews, prepare for the kind of violence that makes songs. And Euron?" His voice hardened. "This is not about your personal amusement or satisfying whatever perverse urges drive you. This is war. Legitimate war. Keep your madness focused on the enemy, not on your own men or innocent bystanders who don't resist."
"Of course," Euron said, though his tone suggested he had no intention of restraining himself at all. "Whatever my king commands."
"Lord Reaper," Balon corrected. "I'm not claiming the title of king. Not yet. First we prove we can hold our independence. Then we can discuss crowns."
But in his heart, watching his brothers depart to prepare for war, Balon Greyjoy was already wearing that crown. Already imagining the day when he'd sit as King of the Iron Islands, ruler of a people who'd remembered what they were and refused to be anything less.
The Old Way was returning.
And the green lands would burn to prove it.
Outside Pyke's windows, the sea crashed endlessly against ancient stone, indifferent to the ambitions of men who thought they could bend the world to their will through simple violence.
The waves had been here before the Greyjoys.
They would be here long after.
And they would remember nothing of the folly about to be unleashed.
But the flames of Lannisport would remember.
And so would the world.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!