The embers of mockery had yet to cool in the council chamber, and whispers of doubt still lingered among the stone walls. Lysa's deep-sea-steady breathing was faintly audible behind him, the only anchor in this oppressive ocean. Yulon could clearly feel the gazes fixed to his back, some icy, others scorching. He met the lords' eyes calmly, neither startled nor angered.
Just as Dunstan Drumm seemed ready to stoke the flames again, Gimond Pottery's sinister gaze flickered with calculation, and Baelon Blacktyde finished murmuring the last line of his prayer to the wooden carving—
The inconspicuous, heavy oak door beside the high seat, leading to the inner chamber, slid open without a sound.
Kolen Greyjoy's towering figure appeared in the doorway, like a reef suddenly surfacing. He had not just arrived. His keen eyes, weathered and polished by the waves, were now calm and unreadable, yet seemed to have taken in everything that had just happened in the council chamber—every taunt, every glance, every trace of unease. His face showed no expression, only a profound calm like the depths of the sea. That calm itself carried an invisible pressure.
He strode in, his boots striking the cold stone floor with steady, rhythmic steps. Each one beat like a drum in the hearts of those present. He looked at no one, walking straight to the great seat carved from ancient black rock, the throne that symbolized the authority of the King of the Sea Stones. The kraken sigil on his leather armor gleamed coldly in the firelight.
The entire council chamber fell instantly silent. Even the crackle of logs in the hearth seemed jarringly loud. Dunstan Drumm froze with his wine cup halfway raised; Gimond Pottery stopped rubbing his chin; Baelon Blacktyde quietly slipped his little wooden carving into his robes. All eyes—reverent, defiant, suspicious—fixed on the ruler of the Iron Islands.
Kolen took his seat on the enormous throne and leaned back slightly, his gaze sweeping over the lords like the most seasoned captain surveying his crew—or, rather, inspecting these waters strewn with hidden reefs. He dispensed with pleasantries and extended a broad, calloused hand with prominent knuckles, rapping the smooth, cold rock tabletop three times, neither hard nor soft.
"Thump. Thump. Thump."
The sound was not loud, but it rang through the silent chamber like a ship's hammer striking an alarm bell, heralding the coming storm.
"Everyone's here. Let's begin. What waves are rising on your islands?" Kolen's voice was low and even, yet carried an undeniable force. Every word sank like an iron anchor to the seabed, unable to drift away.
The brief silence broke, like a tide held back too long finally finding an outlet.
Dunstan Drumm was the first to speak, as expected. He slammed down his wine cup, splashing a few drops onto the table. "Waves? The biggest wave is that flock of silk-robed crows from King's Landing!" His voice boomed with undisguised loathing. "Those Faith of the Seven septons! Scuttling all over the islands like sea roaches! Preaching to fishermen on the docks, delivering sermons to the salt workers by the salt pans! The Drowned God's priests can barely hold back their fury, Kolen! You let them set foot on our islands, and now they're going to defile even the Drowned God's holy places! You owe us an explanation!" His thick finger pointed straight at Kolen, as if Kolen himself were the culprit.
Gimond Pottery immediately chimed in. His voice was not as violent as Dunstan's, but it was colder, like a reef hidden beneath a swift current. "Lord Drumm is right. This is a real problem. But the bigger wave, perhaps, is that new harbor in Pyke—built at last after draining so much manpower and resources?" A mocking curve touched his lips. "What a grand dock it is, with its new stone quays and towering lighthouse... But aside from the waves lapping its shores and the seabirds' droppings, what has it brought us? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He enunciated each word, each one an icicle aimed at Kolen's reforms. "Not a single merchant ship flying the banners of the Seven Kingdoms dares to dock there! Those merchants would rather take the long way to Seagull Town than go anywhere near our Iron Islands' coastline! What use are these stones, besides wasting iron ore and labor? Lord Kolen, outsiders won't even look at the door you've opened to them!"
"Waves?" Baelon Blacktyde's voice carried a weight of pity. He spoke slowly, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords. "My lords, can you not feel the true chill? Winter Is Coming!" He spread his hands as if embracing the unseen cold. "The Iron Islands are barren. We've always depended on imported food or... paying the iron price. How long will the provisions in Pyke's storehouses last? Two months? Three? And you"—he looked at Kolen, worry in his eyes as a believer—"would raise the salt tax? Salt is one of the foundations of Ironborn survival. Raising the salt tax means taking the last bit of livelihood from poor fishermen and salt workers! It will snuff out the fires on the islands all the sooner! The Drowned God gave us salt so we could live, not to drive his people to ruin!"
As soon as he finished, another spokesman from Old Wick Island—a captain with gaunt cheeks and hawk-sharp eyes—leaped to his feet, his voice scraping like a blade against bone. "Lord Blacktyde has struck at the root of it! Food! Survival! Those are the deadliest waves! Lord Kolen, can your merchant ships, harbor, and septons' dreams fill our children's bellies? Can they help us endure winter's cold?" He looked around, his eyes burning with a primitive, fervent light. "The Old Way! We must return to the Old Way! Let our longships sail again! Let our warriors grip their axes once more! Let's go to the rich southern shores and pay the iron price! Take back the food we need to survive winter! Reclaim the glory the Ironborn have lost! This is the ironborn way approved by the Drowned God! This is the anchor that will solve every problem!"
"Right! Return to the Old Way!"
"Paying the iron price is the right way!"
"Let's steal the damn food and survive winter!"
Several more radical captains and spokesmen from remote islands immediately echoed him at the top of their voices. In an instant, the council chamber was engulfed by a feverish, rapacious restlessness. Calls to "return to the Old Way" crashed against Kolen and the reforms he represented like a hungry tsunami.
Kolen sat upon the rock throne, his face calm as still water, his fingers unconsciously tapping the cold tabletop as if measuring the depth and force of these surging "waves." His gaze was profound, giving nothing away.
Yulon, seated at the far end of the table, still held himself almost motionless. His small body was wrapped in a new kraken robe, like a tiny reef isolated in a raging sea. When his father appeared, the tense line of his jaw seemed to relax a little. Now, amid the lords' heated arguments and fervent calls to "return to the Old Way," the mismatched eyes beneath his lowered lids—his left like an abyss devouring all light, his right an icy blue that had frozen the storm—were unusually bright and intent. Every face twisted by anger, anxiety, or fervor, every shout driven by self-interest, faith, and the need to survive, was imprinted in his mind like a precise sea chart. Lysa's warning echoed in his heart: stay silent, observe. At the heart of the storm, only absolute clarity could keep him alive. Like an observer apart from it all, he silently gathered first-hand intelligence from this arena of power, mapping the hidden reefs that would prove vital to his future voyage.
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