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Chapter 82: Tides of Loss
Pyke, the Iron Islands
Balon Greyjoy stood in the great hall of the Drowned Keep, cold salty wind seeping in through the open windows and tugging at the black cloak that draped over his broad shoulders. Below, the sea thundered against the rocks of Pyke. It had always been a welcome sound to him, the voice of the Drowned God speaking in waves and storm. Today, it sounded like a dirge.
The crumpled raven's message lay beside the Seastone Chair, forgotten on the wet stone. His brother Victarion was dead, roasted alive by dragonfire outside Moat Cailin. The letter gave no embellishments, no poetry—just the truth: thousands of Ironborn dead, burned and broken in the swamps of the Neck. The Iron Victory, his brother's pride and joy, was now ash or prize.
And Asha—his only heir, his fierce, sharp-tongued daughter—was captured. Alive, yes. But in the hands of the North.
Balon clenched his fists so tightly that his rings bit into his skin. He had sent them both to bring glory to House Greyjoy, to seize the North while the wolves marched south to fight for a crown that didn't belong to them. And now—what did he have to show for it? another one of his brothers dead. His daughter lost. His Ironborn scattered and beaten in the swamps like sheep caught in a bog.
His captains stood around him in uneasy silence. No one dared speak. Not even Aeron Damphair, who normally would call for retribution, for another raid in the name of the Drowned God. Even the zealot priest seemed shaken by the news of dragonfire. Balon could see it in their eyes—fear, uncertainty. That cursed boy with the dragon had done what none in the south could do: make the Ironborn afraid.
"I will not yield," Balon said, his voice low but steady. "Let them think they've won a victory. Let the North cheer and the dragons preen. We are not broken. The sea is still ours. And while I draw breath, the Iron Islands will kneel to no one."
No one answered. The room remained heavy with silence.
Balon turned away from them and walked to the open window. The wind tore at his cloak as he looked down upon the black waves crashing far below.
"But the tides have turned," he whispered, to no one but the sea. "And the Drowned God may have taken more from me than I can ever reclaim."
Dragonstone, Tyrion Lannister's Perspective
Tyrion sat in a modest chamber on Dragonstone, its walls bare and damp, its furnishings sparse. The sea wind rattled the shutters, and beyond the narrow window the waves hissed like serpents slithering across stone.
He sipped weak wine and stared at the flames of a sputtering hearth. Days ago, his ship—laden with Lannister men, Tommen, Myrcella, and a handful of loyal Lannister retainers—had been intercepted near the waters of Dragonstone by Velaryon. It had been a moment of pure dread, a cold spike of fear in his gut as he realized they were sailing straight into the grip of one of his family's many enemies.
He had prepared himself for imprisonment, maybe even execution. But instead of being brought before Stannis Baratheon or dumped in a dungeon to rot, they were escorted to Dragonstone now flying the red banners with three-headed dragons. The guards bore the seahorse of House Velaryon, but the authority they answered to was Daeron Targaryen.
Stannis was also a prisoner here now. That was another cruel twist of fate. The would-be king of Dragonstone, now a guest without teeth in his own castle.
Tyrion had been given his own chambers, not large, but comfortable enough. Tommen and Myrcella were being well-treated, guarded but not confined to cells. Tyrion checked on them daily, watched over them like a nervous uncle.
He knew they were hostages. No matter how politely they were treated or how comfortable the rooms, they were leverage. Pieces on a board now ruled by a dragon-riding king.
Daeron Targaryen.
The boy who had once lived in Winterfell as Jon Snow, the bastard of Eddard Stark, now a king with fire in his blood and a direwolf at his side. Tyrion had heard the stories—of how Daeron had destroyed his father's army, had taken Harrenhal and burned his enemies with dragonfire. Tyrion didn't know what frightened him more: that a Targaryen now sat just north of the capital with the North and Riverlands behind him, or that he had done it all so quickly.
He got up from his chair and paced the room, running a hand through his hair.
The Iron Throne was no longer Cersei's to protect. Joffrey was dead. Tommen and Myrcella were in enemy hands.
And here he was. Alone. A prisoner of a boy king never met.
"Poetic, in a way," Tyrion muttered. "But the poets never say what happens to the clever ones who don't die in the final act."
He sat down again and poured himself more wine. Not for comfort, but to think.
He could wait. He always had patience when it counted. Perhaps Daeron would call for him soon, perhaps not. In the meantime, he would keep his wits, keep the children safe, and watch.
He glanced at the corner of the chamber where Podrick slept on a small bed, still loyal despite everything.
The game was not over. Far from it.
He only hoped Daeron would be a king wise enough not to let vengeance blind him—and kind enough to remember that children should never pay for the sins of their parents.
Tyrion drained the wine and stared out at the sea beyond Dragonstone, waiting for the next turn of the tide.