The slow ocean waves lapped at the barebones rock that made up Pyke's foundations, the sea calm for the first time in weeks. The tides were low today, and the Storm God appeared appeased.

"Did you hear me, brother?"

Balon scowled, tearing his gaze away from the newly restored gatehouse. "Aye. The wolf pup has the Lannisters by the tail, tugging and pulling as he pleases."

They'd massacred eight thousand men at Riverrun and taken the Kingslayer as a prize in the Whispering Wood. No doubt the old lion would be displeased.

Victarion inclined his head. He didn't speak further. He was a great boar of a man. Never much for wasted words or meaningless trivialities or questions. Just action.

Balon retreated inside his mind to consider the situation. The foolish boy had raised his banners once news of his lord father's capture had become known. He'd figured the boy to fold as soon as his father's head had left his neck, but he'd surprised not only him but the rest of the realm by marching south for revenge.

"What of the Tyrells?"

Victarion grunted. "Declared for Robert's fairy little brother. They've eighty-thousand men on a slow march towards Kings Landing."

Balon stilled, eyes narrowed. "Declared?" Had that pillow-biter gone and *named* himself King?

Victarion nodded his head. "Declared. With a new Tyrell wife and Randyll Tarly as his new Master-Of-Arms."

His fingers flexed outward, before curling into tight fists. "I should have betrothed Theon to a Tyrell before striking my banners. Mayhaps if I had, I'd have been named Protector of the Realm and given all the vaunted knights and threaded cloaks I desired."

Victarion shrugged his shoulders, slow and animated. "I hear the cripple needs a wife."

Balon scoffed. "I'd sooner take my daughter's maidenhead myself than let that boy have his way with her. What of Stannis?"

"Seething on Dragonstone. He has not near enough men to even hold Dragonstone, let alone seize the Red Keep."

Balon lay a steadying hand on his balcony, drumming his fingers atop it. It was Robert's Rebellion come again. His lord father had waited for a clear victor to emerge before declaring for a side. He had a feeling it would be a long time coming before a clear winner emerged.

"Send Ravens to lords Harlaw and Goodbrother. Have them estimate their forces. I need to know how many men we can muster."

He'd brought to bear fifteen thousand good men for his so-called 'rebellion'. Of them, five thousand had died and near another thousand more had been maimed beyond use. Ten years was near enough time to recoup those losses, but only by so much.

"It's already been done."

Balon raised a brow. "On whose terms?" Surely not his brothers. He never had an independent idea of his own, his father had ensured that.

"Your daughters."

Ah.

Balon drew his gaze to the newly finished gatehouse one rope bridge and rocky outcropping away. The solid grey stone seemed garish and grotesque when compared to the rest of Pyke's jagged blacks and deep blues. It had only been finished three years ago. He'd lacked the funds to truly begin its reconstruction until the sixth anniversary of the rebellion, after The Cleftjaw and Andrick the Unsmiling had taken a Lyseni slave ship for themselves in the Stepstones. They then sold the slaves in Meereen. Nasty business it may have been, but necessary. Lordsport has only just begun to resemble its old self by then as well.

Forty thousand Northmen. Nigh-on a hundred thousand in the Reach. Thirty thousand, mayhaps a little less now in the West. The Crownlands still stand untested and lie fresh, The Dornish haven't lost a man since they came to our shores, and the Rivermen must still have at least ten thousand to their name.

And what do we have, but salt and rock and the dead to our name?

"How many can we muster?"

"Twenty-two thousand."

Balon boggled, teetering on his feet. "Truly?!"

"Seventy-two hundred from the Reader. Five thousand from our Demense. Five thousand and one hundred from Goodbrother. A hundred from Lonely Light, and eighteen hundred from the Bonehand. A thousand from Saltcliffe, Six hundred from Iron Holt-"

Balon waved a hand. "Never mind it then. Send more ravens to every lord and every island, and inform them that their service will soon be called upon."

Twenty-two thousand. What could he do with that?

What he wished, he realized with a grin. What he wished.

"Who are we declaring for?" Victarion asked.

Balon nearly cuffed him. "No one but ourselves."

His mind ran wild imagining the possibilities. Twenty-two thousand men. He turned towards his brother with a grin, and for the first time in ten years, he felt his age again. "Fetch me my daughter. If she feels she has the authority to go behind my back and convene with my leal lords, she can at least explain to me why."

(X)

He traced delicate patterns across the linework, admiring the map laid out before him, as he waited on Asha. He'd haphazardly shaded in contested areas and lines where troops may have been moving.

The Young Wolf is busy in Riverrun. Rumor is that he has fifteen thousand men with him. Whether that be the case or not is pure poppycock. He could have twenty-odd thousand still sitting pretty up north.

Attacking him with his son still in chains was out of the question.

But what did that leave him?

He drew his gaze Southward. Riverrun's siege had just been lifted, but the land itself was still vulnerable. He could land anywhere along the coast and have his men carry their longships ashore to sail upon the fords and up the Gods Eye. From there, he could harry Riverrun and raid all up along the shore up toward the Blackwater.

But without securing Seaguard, there would be no resupply, and that still meant tangling with the Wolf in territory rapidly becoming his own.

Seaguard had already taken from him one son already. It would not take another. Even if Asha herself may believe herself otherwise capable.

Attacking the Reach was out of the question. Even if he made it past the Shields and sailed up the Mander Ford to sack Highgarden, there still lay twenty-thousand-odd Men-At-Arms to counterattack at the command of Ser Garlan The Gallant. While he had no doubt he and his brother would see through that battle to victory, he had less confidence in facing the inevitable counter-counter-attack by the Redwyne fleet.

All that left was-

"Father."

Balon's eyes drew upward from the table to face his daughter. She was clad in loose-fitting breeches and a shirt half a measure too large for her, obviously not hers, a bloodied axe hanging from her hip.

Asha tracked his gaze and smiled. "I was bored at the Gimpknee's inn. Had a finger dance with some loose-lipped drunkards."

Balon scowled. "You will not play that game again whilst I live and breathe. I'll not have you maimed and murdered by a maester like your uncle Urrigon. But I did not summon you to discuss children's games or the Gimpknee. I trust you to tell me why and how you sent Ravens to my leal lords, most undoubtedly under my own seal?"

Asha shrugged, arms stretching above her head, almost catlike. "Surely the heir to the Seastone Chair can inquire about the status and readiness of her soon-to-be vassals?"

Balon spat. "You are heir to nothing. Not with that snatch between your legs and my son's lungs still breathing air."

Asha raised a brow in mock thought. "And how long do you truly expect him to keep breathing?"

Balon straightened up, hackles raised, the stoop in his shoulder forgotten. "You will not speak of such things. My son-"

"Is quite close to the newly christened Lord of Winterfell, I hear. At the Whispering Wood, when the Kingslayer had realized the battle was decided, he carved a bloody swathe through Stark's retainers in an attempt to end the war there and then, screaming his name all the while. He cut down ten men before he was restrained and beaten down." His daughter gave him a sickly smile. "Rumor has it that Lord Greyjoy's own son and heir was in line to die just after them, ready and willing to be cut down for his captor's life."

"Lies. You will not speak any more falsehoods and rumors to me to further your own status. I will not have it under this roof."

"Why shouldn't my status be 'raised', father? Would you sooner trust the Seastone Chair to my oaf of an uncle, or Drowned God forbid the Crow's eye?"

His silence was telling. Asha looked down towards the map at his table, and her lips pursed in thought.

Balon grimaced. "If you think to name yourself heir to the Seastone Chair, then you ought to be good for more than fighting and drinking amongst harlots and whores. Tell me where our banners should strike."

Asha shrugged. "That's simple. Nowhere."

"You would have us sit out our greatest opportunity for independence?"

Asha met his eyes, gaze like stone. "Aye, I would, for there is no opportunity at all. Lord Renly will want all Seven Kingdoms whole, as would Stannis, Lord Tywin, and the inbred creature that currently sits the Iron Throne. There is no man we could declare for that would let us reave and rape as we are commanded, and declaring ourselves independent without a backer may well as drag us back ten years to our first try, with everyone out to kill us again. The only man with which we might have common cause would be Robb Stark."

"Stark? I'd sooner trust my hand to Lord Tywin than the son of that craven. He-"

"-s Winning." Asha finished for him. "Two battles mayhaps, but both spell disaster for the Old Lion. He has my brother. He has fifteen thousand men, and is willing to use them. With our banners together, the neck fortified, and the Iron Fleet to keep Renly at bay should he decide to come for us, we would be able to chew on the Westerlands to our heart's content."

"Chew, yes, but not swallow. You would have me stake my fortunes, my Kingdom, on a boy barely five and ten?"

"I would have you consider the option, father. I see it as our only one."

He looked at her, eyes black as night, hair darker than the stone around him, and for a moment, as he stared in contemplation, he realized that he would have traded a thousand Rodrik's and Maron's and Theon's for the Drowned God to have graced her with a cock.

What a son she would have made.

Asha straightened. "If all you sought was my council, father, then may I take my leave?"

He waved a hand in dismissal, already refocused on the map at his table.

No option at all, she says.

Mayhaps she was right. The boy had won two stunning victories, but they were two alone.

He would wait.

He would see.

And he would decide.

If only to perhaps one day see his son again.