"Promise me the Riverlands?"
"Hmph! Does that old lion Tywin really take me, Balon Greyjoy, for some witless fish in the sea, deaf to the winds carrying news from the Seven Kingdoms?!"
Balon Greyjoy's voice sounded like an iron anchor scraping across a reef.
He snatched the letter from the table, crumpled it in his vein-knotted hand, and slammed it down.
He abruptly rose from the Seastone Chair.
The chair had been roughly carved from a single block of black sea stone in the shape of a rearing kraken.
His leather boots thudded against the sealskin-covered floor.
Like a trapped beast, he paced back and forth through the vast, cold hall.
Cold, salt-laden sea wind poured through the high windows, stirring his finely braided gray-and-white hair and beard and setting the black-and-gold kraken banners on the walls snapping.
"So, are we rejecting Tywin's offer?"
Victarion Greyjoy stood like an iron tower in the middle of the hall.
Clad in heavy leather armor, he watched his elder brother's restless pacing with a deep frown.
He had been gathering longships on the Heatwave River, preparing to seize Moat Cailin, the gateway to the North, when an urgent written order summoned him back.
Balon stopped pacing and looked at his brother.
His gaze grew sharp as a blade once more.
"No. We accept Tywin's offer. Once the war breaks out, you will lead the main strength of the Iron Fleet south, cut off his supply lines, and support the allied armies' land offensive in the Riverlands."
Victarion's frown deepened. "But why? We know perfectly well that Tywin's promise is empty!"
"The Riverlands are still in the hands of the Targaryens and the remnants of all those other armies. The whole place is a pot of rotten fish stew!"
"And are we really giving