Old Way, New Rules

Dunstan Drumm's roar, Gimond Pottery's icy sarcasm, Baelon Blacktyde's grave concern, and the fervent cries to "return to the Old Way" crashed against one another like several powerful currents flowing in different directions, threatening to engulf Kolen and his throne of rock in the freezing council chamber.

Kolen Greyjoy simply sat in silence, his fingers still tapping a steady rhythm against the cold stone table. The soft thunk, thunk somehow maintained a pocket of calm amid the clamor. When the last spokesman from Old Wick Island sat down, his fervor for raiding still burning bright, and only heavy breathing and the uneasy crackle of the hearth remained in the hall, Kolen finally raised his eyelids.

His gaze, like two spears freshly tempered in the icy sea, pierced straight toward Dunstan Drumm.

"Faith of the Seven?" Kolen's voice was not loud, but it carried the sharpness of a blade cutting through waves. "They're preachers, nothing more. Which clause of the Iron Islands Law, that ancient law carved into stone, says that none may preach beneath the Drowned God?" He swept his gaze across the room, each word like an iron nail hammered into wood. "The Drowned God's priests can sail, too, to the ports and towns of the Seven Kingdoms, and spread the Ark Maxim of the Drowned God! That's the Ironborn spirit! Don't like those silk-robed men?" A cold smile tugged at his lips. "Shut your ears and turn away! But—"

Kolen's voice suddenly rose like a thunderclap, making the hall ring. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze a tangible shackle locking onto Dunstan Drumm's flushed face and sweeping over every lord who might harbor ill intentions. "Anyone who dares lay a finger on them, anyone who dares splash a drop of seawater on them in disrespect—I, Kolen Greyjoy, swear in the name of the King of the Sea Stones," he slammed a fist onto the table, the boom as heavy as a cannon blast, "will hang that fool with my own hands from the highest black crag in Pyke! Let the sea wind and gulls feast on his corpse! Let everyone see what happens to those who defy my orders and defile the Iron Islands Law!"

This naked, blood-soaked threat froze the anger on Dunstan Drumm's face and the eager malice in the eyes of certain captains like the harshest cold tide. The air seemed to solidify, leaving only the sound of labored breathing. Baelon Blacktyde opened his mouth, seeming ready to argue from the standpoint of faith, but under Kolen's unyielding gaze, like the wrathful stare of the sea god himself, he finally lowered his head in silence.

Kolen turned to Gimond Pottery, the icy pressure still hanging in the air. "The ports? Empty?" He scoffed with the certainty of a man who could see the future. "Open those salt-pickled eyes and look farther out to the horizon! I've already sent ravens to contact the Prince of Dorne and the Lord of Dragonstone—old friends who traded with us Ironborn, and even fought alongside us, in the chaotic years of the past! A good reputation takes time to mature, Gimond, like a cask of old wine. Trust," he looked around at them all, his gaze burning bright, "isn't won by smashing down doors and stealing. It's earned through honest dealings and safe passage, time after time, worn into being like waves against the rocks. One day, our docks will be full of ships! But not today. Patience is another weapon that lets the Ironborn survive the storms."

He paused, his gaze turning to Baelon Blacktyde, still full of worry, and to the captains crying out for the "Old Way." His tone softened slightly, but still carried the resolve of a ruler. "Food? Timber? The chill of winter is indeed closing in." He acknowledged the harsh reality. "Next month, my envoys will sail north with the Iron Islands' iron and salt to meet Lord Eddard Stark at Winterfell! Then south to Highgarden to meet Lord Mace Tyrell! We'll trade our goods for grain to see us through the winter and timber to build ships! This is how we survive!"

At last, his gaze settled like a heavy anchor on the eyes still burning with the desire to raid, and his voice sank, weighted with history. "The Old Way... paying the iron price..." He slowly let the words roll off his tongue, as if chewing on a piece of bitter salt pork. "I know it's salt and rust flowing through our blood. I admit, trying to cut it off with a single stroke before might have been... too hasty."

This rare admission, almost a concession, kindled sparks of hope in the eyes of Dunstan Drumm and the others. But Kolen's next words doused those flames like a bucket of ice water.

"But!" Kolen's voice once more turned ironclad, bearing the grandeur of Aegon's Conquest. "Remember the War of Conquest! Remember Harrenhal's Dragonfire! Remember the crown Torrhen Greyjoy offered! Aegon I Targaryen subdued the Iron Islands. High atop his dragon, he declared: from that day on, raiding by the Ironborn within the borders of the Seven Kingdoms was outlawed! Those who broke that law would burn in dragonfire!"

He sprang to his feet, his towering figure stretching long in the firelight like an impassable barrier of rock. His stern gaze swept over every lord. "The iron law Aegon I established remains a foundation of the Seven Kingdoms to this day! The Iron Throne still stands! The dragons of House Targaryen may be gone, but their power remains! I, Kolen Greyjoy, King of the Sea Stones and sworn to the Iron Throne, will not—and cannot—let you break this iron law and drag the Iron Islands once more into the abyss of destruction!"

The council chamber fell silent. Only Kolen's voice rang through the stone walls like a great bell. "So," he said, "the Old Way may be followed, but only beyond the waters Aegon I laid claim to! Ships of the Seven Kingdoms, ships flying the banners of any lord or castle, are our neighbors and potential trading partners! They are absolutely, under no circumstances, to be touched!" He spoke each word slowly, every one like a hammer striking a brand into place. "Your axes and longships, your 'iron price,' may be turned only against—pirate dens in the Stepstones! Slave ships transporting live cargo in Slaver's Bay! Remote islands and trade routes in the Summer Sea that belong to no kingdom! The wealthy merchant ships of the Free Cities, unprotected by powerful fleets! Do as you please in those places! Use the blood and goods of your enemies to strengthen the Iron Islands!"

"This is my decision! Old Way, New Rules!" Kolen sat back down, leaning against the cold stone of his chair, his eyes weary but as keen as ever. "We're not abandoning the Old Way. We're putting a wise rein on it! Let it feed the Ironborn without bringing down the dragonfire that will destroy us all! Who's for it? Who's against it?" At the last question, his gaze once more became a drawn blade, slowly sweeping across the faces of every lord present, waiting for another storm—or... submission, for now.

At the end of the long table, Yulon remained silent as before. His mismatched eyes gleamed brighter and more complex as he listened to his father's declaration of "Old Way, New Rules," which combined iron-fisted threats with the opening of a narrow path to compromise. He saw his father's iron hand, and his practical political wisdom—how, between iron laws and Ironborn traditions, he struggled to chart a narrow but perhaps navigable course. Lysa's strategy of "silence" now let him observe like the calmest player at the board, watching every piece shift subtly in response to his father's move.

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

Kolen waved his hand. "All right. If there's nothing else, we're dismissed!"