Chapter 221: Feared for Power, Not Loved for Virtue—Even Across the Seas, They Shall Be Punished!
A crushing sense of suffocation enveloped Balon Greyjoy. Only at this moment did he truly, viscerally understand the gap between himself and the man standing before him. Whatever the reason, the sheer speed of the move—and the overwhelming strength behind it—was nothing short of terrifying.
Balon might be lean by build, but he was still a grown man. Yet Lance lifted him effortlessly with one hand, holding him aloft as though he weighed nothing at all. More frightening still, that powerful arm did not tremble in the slightest.
"I… I know this sounds unbelievable, Your Grace."
Though shaken, Balon forced himself to speak, explaining quickly, "When I first heard the news, I was just as shocked!"
There was a trace of grief in his voice. Despite their constant disagreements, he had always respected his father, Quellon Greyjoy.
As heir to the Iron Islands, Balon longed to uphold the Old Way—to lead the ironborn back to the ruthless glory of their ancestors. But as the years passed, Quellon had done the opposite. He abandoned the Old Way, pushing instead for closer ties with the Seven Kingdoms, hoping to integrate the Iron Islands into the mainland of Westeros.
He no longer behaved like a reaver who would seize what he wanted through blood and fire. Instead, he tried to reshape the ironborn—those born to raid and take—into something resembling the "greenlanders," who clung to land, laws, and hollow notions of morality.
This was the so-called "path of harmony" Quellon had championed.
The Iron King had always been stubborn—unyielding to a fault. Not even his eldest son could sway him. He replaced the right to raid with law, the honor of warriors with contracts, and the call of conquest with negotiation.
For a long time, ironborn raids across Westeros all but vanished.
Yet even a man of iron will could not escape the erosion of time.
They said illness gnawed at him like the fangs of some sea-beast hidden within his body, tearing at his insides day and night. By the time Balon left the Iron Islands to attend the Dragon Ascension Festival in King's Landing, Quellon had grown frail, plagued by relentless stomach pains that robbed him of sleep.
According to those cursed maesters, he had reached the point where he needed to drink bowls of milk of the poppy nearly every night just to endure the agony.
Balon had never trusted such men—these mainland scholars who spoke of "medicine" and "logic," their bones as soft as seaweed.
"You're certain it was Euron Greyjoy?"
Seeing Balon's grief, Lance regained his composure and set him back down.
As a transmigrator—and one who carried the power of Azor Ahai—Lance knew better than most that in this world, the boundary between life and death was not as absolute as ordinary men believed.
And yet…
He had personally killed Euron Greyjoy in King's Landing.
He had burned the body to ashes.
Yet barely a day had passed, and now came news that Euron Greyjoy had somehow returned on the Iron Islands—alive—and had even killed his father, Quellon Greyjoy. Even Lance found it difficult to comprehend.
Combined with that faint, unsettling sensation he had felt when he beheaded Euron, Lance was now almost certain—something unnatural was at work behind the scenes.
"I'm certain, Your Grace!"
Balon Greyjoy took a deep breath and spoke loudly for all to hear. "The message came from my father's maester!"
"I may not like the man, but his loyalty to my father is beyond question!"
As he spoke, he swept his gaze across the hall.
As expected, most of the nobles looked indifferent.
Very few knew the truth about Euron's execution in King's Landing. All they knew was that House Stokeworth had been attacked—they had no idea who the attacker really was. And frankly, they cared even less. To them, wine and spectacle mattered far more than some distant incident.
To many, the Iron Islands were nothing more than a few insignificant rocks at the edge of the map.
What had happened to House Greyjoy? Just another tale of savages killing their own.
As for resurrection… such a thing was too absurd to believe. Even Balon himself had reread the letter multiple times before accepting it.
"Your Grace!"
Under the weight of curious, distant, even disdainful gazes, Balon dropped to one knee without hesitation. His expression was solemn, his remaining right hand clenched tightly against his chest.
"I, Balon Greyjoy, lawful heir to the Iron Islands, swear before the Iron Throne and the Regent!"
"My father was a just and honorable man—the fairest judge among the sons of salt and rock!"
"He rejected the ignorance of the Old Way. He possessed the vision a ruler of the Iron Islands should have!"
As he spoke, Balon was not only defending his father—he was also subtly distancing himself from the Old Way, laying the groundwork for what he would ask next.
"It was my father who ended the Old Way with an iron hand—who guided our people away from slaughter and plunder with wisdom!"
"He taught us to obey the laws set by House Targaryen—laws that represent order and civilization!"
"He freed every thrall on the Iron Islands, granting freedom and dignity to every ironborn descendant, breaking chains that had bound us for centuries!"
"He set the example himself—commanding the lords to return to lawful marriage, and heavily taxing those who kept salt wives!"
Before the assembled nobility of the Seven Kingdoms, Balon listed every controversial reform Quellon had ever enacted.
To the ironborn, these had once been intolerable shackles.
But here, they became proof of his father's virtue.
"And yet… Euron Greyjoy—that godless traitor—murdered him while I was away…"
"So I ask—"
His voice rose to its peak, his emotions surging.
"I ask the Iron Throne for aid! Allow me to return with a fleet to the Iron Islands!"
"Blood must be paid with blood!"
"That kinslaying traitor must answer for his crimes!"
The moment his words fell, the Great Sept erupted—not with support, but with murmurs, whispers… and even faint laughter.
Mainland nobles had always separated themselves from the ironborn.
To them, the ironborn were raiders by nature—savages outside civilization.
No amount of reform could erase centuries of reputation.
As for House Greyjoy's internal conflict?
Just crabs fighting over scraps on barren rocks.
Why should the Iron Throne send its fleet for such people?
If anything… a divided Iron Islands meant fewer raids.
Wasn't that better?
As expected, Hoster Tully stepped forward almost instinctively.
"Your Grace."
He didn't even look at Balon.
"Euron Greyjoy has committed the grave crime of kinslaying. But ultimately, this remains a matter within House Greyjoy."
"By the customs of the Iron Islands, it should be resolved internally. We have no cause to intervene."
Then he turned to Balon, his gaze cold—without sympathy, filled instead with disdain.
"Lord Balon Greyjoy."
"You are the lawful heir. The future Lord of the Seastone Chair."
"With your father dead, you inherit his authority. In my view…"
His tone carried a detached, almost deliberate fairness.
"You need only return to Pyke, gather the lords and your father's followers, and punish the criminal in your rightful capacity."
"There is no need to trouble the Iron Throne's fleet."
His words were flawless.
But Balon's chest heaved with suppressed fury.
Of course he understood.
This slippery old trout from the Riverlands wanted nothing more than chaos in the Iron Islands.
For centuries, the Riverlands had suffered the most from ironborn raids.
Even Balon himself had… "participated" a few times.
If it were truly that simple, he wouldn't be here begging.
The letter had made it clear—Euron intended to call a kingsmoot.
And Balon, far away in King's Landing, had no gifts, no leverage to win over the captains.
But Lance did not immediately accept Hoster's argument.
Instead, he turned his gaze toward Tywin Lannister.
"What do you think, Lord Hand?"
"The Iron Islands are close to the Westerlands. Lannisport has suffered raids before, has it not?"
Tywin remained silent for a moment before replying calmly:
"I agree with Lord Hoster, Your Grace."
"The Iron Islands should resolve their own problems."
"From a practical standpoint…"
He paused, like a calculating merchant weighing profit and loss.
"Sending a fleet would cost the crown greatly. We have just come out of war. The fleet has not yet recovered."
"The duration of such a campaign is uncertain. And the Iron Islands…"
He glanced lightly at Balon.
"…are barren."
"What would we gain? A few rotting longships? Some seaweed?"
Laughter rippled through the hall.
He wasn't wrong.
The Iron Islands had nothing.
Balon clenched his fists against the floor, helplessness washing over him.
Without support… how could he defeat Euron at the kingsmoot?
He knew his people too well.
Those ironborn—long suppressed—would choose strength.
Not legitimacy.
He knelt alone, like a shell clinging stubbornly to a reef in a raging sea.
Then—
Lance spoke.
"It seems everyone agrees. Not worth fighting for."
His tone was calm.
"Indeed… the Iron Islands."
"A barren speck."
"Storms, saltwater, rocks—what else is there?"
"No fertile fields like the Riverlands. No golden roses like the Reach."
"Only fish, salt… and perhaps a bit of worthless iron."
Some nobles nodded.
Balon's heart sank.
Then—
Lance's gaze sharpened.
"But precisely because of that…"
"We must fight!"
His voice thundered through the sept.
Shock spread across the hall—even Tywin's eyes flickered.
Hoster frowned deeply.
Lance stepped forward, voice clear and powerful:
"The Iron Islands' poverty is the root of their raiding culture—the Old Way!"
"It is carved into their bones!"
"They cannot farm!"
"The sea is their only escape—and their shield!"
"Poverty drives them. Isolation shapes them!"
"Over generations, raiding became not necessity—but glory!"
"They glorify plunder. They despise peace!"
His gaze locked onto Balon.
"Fear power, but never virtue. Strong, they raid—weak, they kneel!"
"That is the ironborn!"
He turned sharply, striding to the black blade.
"When Aegon I Targaryen conquered them with dragons—they submitted."
"Fear suppressed them."
Then—
Before all—
Lance seized the hilt of Blackfyre and drew it in a single motion, raising it high.
"I, Lance Lot—Regent of the Iron Throne, in the name of Viserys III Targaryen—declare!"
"No more raids upon the coasts of Westeros!"
"No more defiance of the Iron Throne!"
"This time—"
"I will break them completely!"
"I will crush their twisted nature back into the sea!"
"Not civil strife…"
"But submission."
"…or annihilation."