New Rules for the Old Way

The roars of Dunstan Drumm, the cold sarcasm of Gormund Portley, the heavy worries of Balon Blacktyde, and the fervent shouts of "Return to the Old Way" collided fiercely like several opposing yet equally surging undercurrents in the icy council hall, almost drowning Kolen and his reef throne.

However, Kolen Greyjoy simply sat, his fingers rhythmically tapping the cold stone tabletop. The light "dong, dong" sound, amidst the clamor, strangely maintained a silent domain. When the last representative from Old Wick Island sat down with a fervor for plunder, and only heavy panting and the uneasy crackling of the hearth fire remained in the hall, Kolen finally raised his eyelids.

His gaze, like two long spears freshly tempered in the ice sea, precisely pierced Dunstan Drumm.

"Faith of the Seven?" Kolen's voice was not loud, but it carried a sharpness that could cut through waves, "They are preachers, nothing more. Which of the Iron Islands' laws, the ancient laws carved into the reefs, states 'No other preaching is allowed under the Drowned God'?" His gaze swept across the hall, each word like an iron nail hammered into wood, "The Drowned God's priests can also set sail, go to the ports and towns of the Seven Kingdoms, and spread the Drowned God's words! This is the breadth of the Ironborn! Don't like those who wear silk robes?" A cold arc pulled at the corner of his mouth, "Close your ears, turn away! But—"

Kolen's voice suddenly rose, like a thunderclap that made the hall hum. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze like a tangible shackle, firmly locking onto Dunstan Drumm's flushed face, and also scanning every lord who might harbor ill intentions, "Whoever dares to touch a single hair on their heads, whoever dares to splash a drop of seawater on them as disrespect! I, Kolen Greyjoy, swear by the name of the King of the Sea Stones," he slammed his fist heavily on the table, producing a dull roar like cannon fire, "I will personally hang that fool from the tallest black reef in Pike! Let the sea wind and seagulls peck at his corpse! Let everyone see the consequence of defying my orders and defiling the Iron Islands Law!"

This naked, blood-soaked threat, like the most biting cold tide, instantly froze the anger on Dunstan Drumm's face and the eager ferocity in the eyes of some captains. The air seemed to solidify, leaving only heavy breathing. Balon Blacktyde opened his mouth, as if to argue from a religious perspective, but under Kolen's undeniable gaze, like the wrathful stare of a sea god, he finally lowered his head in silence.

Kolen's gaze shifted to Gormund Portley, the icy pressure undiminished, "Ports? Empty?" he scoffed, with a certainty that saw through the future, "Open your salt-pickled eyes and look further out to sea! I have already sent ravens, contacted the Prince of Dorne, the Duke of Dragonstone—those old friends who, in the chaotic past, had dealings with us Ironborn, even fought alongside us! Reputation needs time to ferment, Gormund, like a barrel of old wine. Trust," he surveyed everyone, his gaze like a torch, "is not seized by smashing down doors, but is slowly ground out through honest transactions and safe passage, like waves washing over reefs. One day, our docks will be full of ships! But not today. Patience is another weapon for the Ironborn to survive in the wind and waves."

He paused, his gaze falling on the worried Balon Blacktyde and the captains shouting for the "Old Way," his tone softening, but still carrying the decisiveness of a ruler, "Grain? Timber? The harsh winter winds are indeed pressing down on our throats." He admitted the severity of the reality, "Next month, my envoy will set sail north, carrying the Iron Islands' iron and salt, to pay a visit to Duke Eddard Stark at Winterfell! And south, to Highgarden to meet Duke Mace Tyrell! We will exchange our produce for grain to survive the winter and timber to build ships! This is the way to live!"

Finally, his gaze, like a heavy anchor, settled back on the eyes still burning with the desire for plunder, his voice becoming low and filled with the weight of history, "Old Way..." "Paying iron price"..." He slowly uttered these words, as if chewing on a piece of bitter cured meat, "I know, this is the salt and rust that flows in our blood. I admit, wanting to cut it off completely before... might have been too hasty."

This rare, almost compromising admission, instantly ignited sparks of hope in the eyes of Dunstan Drumm and others. However, Kolen's next words were like a basin of ice water, precisely dousing that flame.

"But!" Kolen's voice became decisive once more, bearing the grand imprint of Aegon's Conquest, "Remember the War of Conquest! Remember the dragonfire at Harrenhal! Remember Torren Greyjoy offering his crown! Aegon Targaryen I pacified the Iron Islands, and from high atop his dragon, he declared: From this day forth, within the borders of the Seven Kingdoms, the Ironborn tradition of raiding is illegal! Those who defy it will be burned by dragonfire!"

He suddenly stood up, his tall figure stretching long in the firelight, like an insurmountable reef barrier, his majestic gaze sweeping over every lord, "The iron law set by Aegon I is still the cornerstone of the Seven Kingdoms today! The Iron Throne remains! Though the Targaryen dragons are hidden, their power still exists! I, Kolen Greyjoy, as the King of the Sea Stones who bows to the Iron Throne, will not, and absolutely cannot, allow you to touch this iron law and drag the Iron Islands into the abyss of destruction again!"

The council hall fell into dead silence, only Kolen's voice, like a great bell, echoed off the stone walls, "Therefore, the 'Old Way' can be walked, but only outside the waters defined by Aegon I! The ships of the Seven Kingdoms, ships flying the banners of any lord, any castle, are our neighbors, potential trade partners! Absolutely! Not! Allowed! To! Touch!" He spoke word by word, each one like a hammer blow branding an imprint, "Your axes and longships, your 'paying iron price,' can only be directed towards—the pirate dens of the Stepstones! The slave ships carrying live cargo in Slaver's Bay! The remote islands and trade routes in the Summer Sea that belong to no kingdom! The merchant ships of the Free Cities, overflowing with wealth but lacking powerful fleets for protection! These places are yours to do as you please! Let the blood and cargo of your enemies strengthen the sinews of the Iron Islands!"

"This is my decision! The 'New Old Way'!" Kolen sat down again, leaning back against the cold reef chair, his eyes tired but still sharp, "Not abandoning the Old Way, but fitting it with the reins of wisdom! So that it can nourish the Ironborn without attracting the dragonfire of annihilation! Who agrees? Who objects?" For the last sentence, his gaze became like a drawn blade, slowly sweeping across the faces of every lord present, awaiting the next storm, or... temporary submission.

And at the far end of the long table, Yulon remained as silent as ever. His mismatched eyes, under his father's declaration of the "New Old Way"—a policy that combined both iron threats and a sliver of compromise—flashed with a brighter and more complex light. He saw his father's firm hand, and also his pragmatic political wisdom—navigating a narrow but perhaps viable course between iron law and Ironborn tradition. Lysa's "silent" strategy now allowed him to observe, like the calmest chess player, the subtle tremors produced by his father's move among every piece on this chessboard of power.

The lords of the various islands shouted in unison, "We obey your will, King Kolen!"

Kolen waved his hand, "Alright, if there's nothing else, you are dismissed!"