= Chapter 32 =
The trumpeters sang. Immediately after a short but resounding trumpet call, the herald shouted, introducing the guests who had arrived from the distant lands of the Volantian Triarchy.
The small crowd standing a short distance from the Iron Throne stirred for a moment, but instantly fell silent as the King, seated on the main symbol of his family's power, took the floor.
As master of the Red Castle and host, it was Aegon's duty to greet the ambassadors first.
-Welcome to the Red Keep, Ambassador Vilario. As King of the Seven Kingdoms, let me greet you with the custom of Westeros!
Immediately, several small henchmen came running, bearing trays of bread and salt. The ambassador, a short man with hair as white as the king's and violet eyes showing the purity of his ancestry, lightly dipped a torn piece of bread into the salt and chewed it.
Greyjoy, standing next to the strangely silent Ser Eustace, could see that this was the first time the Volantian had ever been in Westeros and the first time he had encountered such a custom, though he should know better. Eight more of his subordinates and servants waiting behind him were also forced to taste the bread and salt under the assessing gazes of lords, knights and the king and queen themselves.
-Your hospitality warms my soul, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! - Vilirio began grandly. Vilirio Morgolis, as the herald had labelled him.
The arrival of the Volantian ambassadors came as a surprise to the king and his court. Even Eustace's spies could not have learnt of it in advance - his spy network in Essos could not boast the speed and sophistication it possessed in Westeros.
Aegon was not pleased, but he received the ambassadors almost immediately - a day after their arrival in King's Landing, eager to know what the Triarchy needed from Westeros.
-Malaquo Maegyr, called the Old Tiger, Triarch of the glorious city of Volantis, has sent us to you. A plague from the East has come from the East, devouring cities and countries like a punishment from the gods. The barbarians who call themselves Jogos-Nhaians are ravaging everything they can reach without measure or pity, destroying and capturing Valyrians and other peoples without mercy. We cry out for your help, O King of Kings and Lord of the West. Every citizen of Volantis knows the name of the Dragon King and prays to you, seeking in you the protector of Essos and the heritage of the Valyrian Freehold.
The ambassador's powerful voice travelled in a wave throughout the throne room. In which there was a thunderous silence - no one dared to create even a whisper after such an unusually powerful and emotion-filled speech by the ambassador.
Aegon, looking down at everyone from a huge iron monster fused from hundreds of swords, did not answer immediately. His face betrayed none of the emotion weighing on the royal soul within. But a long silence would lead to awkwardness.
-The crown has heard the call for help, great lord Vilario,‖ for some reason it was at those words that all the courtiers could notice the queen's face trembling as she sat on the small throne next to the sword monster.
'Evil irony, today you fight slave owners, and tomorrow you welcome them with cordiality.'
The king fell silent, giving his subordinates time to discuss what had happened. A faint hum of whispering and quiet conversation went on in the crowd at once.
-Do you believe in the circle upon circle of history repeating itself, Lord Greyjoy? - Eustace asked him calmly, even a little louder, but in an unusually serious tone.
-I believe it, Ser Eustace. You say that to a man whose ancestors have led many rebellions against the Iron Throne, each one worse than the last.
-The last one wasn't a failure,' Eustace remarked, and Theon hid a grin of distaste. The Master of the Whisperers knew how to flatter in a way that made it sound like a hint of something unpleasant, but also praise at the same time,' but getting back to my first question...isn't that funny? Ironically, Aegon's ancestor was once involved in pacifying Volantis in his exorbitant ambitions, and now...
-Volantis himself is throwing down a call for help from a descendant of the one who broke the back of their power and ambition three hundred years ago? This is not irony, Ser Eustace. It's politics.
-A Maester I know would call it an absolute reversal of fortune.
-A complete reversal of relations is when nations wage a war of annihilation for years and then, after a short period of time, trade and embrace as if nothing had happened.
-Was there such a coup in the Iron Islands? - wondered the Master of the Whisperers inordinately. For a man of Westeros, feuds can last centuries for the death of a family member or two at the hands of another. It is little covered in the Maester's books, but Greyjoy knew that the Conqueror had given rise to continental intercourse not only among the aristocratic families and clans of the various kingdoms, but also among the common people, artisans, merchants.
-No.
-Then where can you take such a cruel example? -Then where can you take such a cruel example?
-Does it matter? - he looked round. Behind them stood the lords and knights of state.
Members of the Small Council, like the Hand or Lord Swann, preferred to be present only when surrounded by their retinues and relatives, who were allowed into the hall.
Their dialogue had to be interrupted - the King signalled that he was considering the decision he was about to announce.
Aegon may not have been a born diplomat, nor did he possess the legendary silver tongue, but that did not change the fact that he had gained a great deal of experience in the art of speech during his long reign.
The King spoke in a florid manner, echoing the Volantian's style of speech, thus showing his friendliness and favour. Both Targaryen and the ambassador spoke in high Valyrian. in high Valyrian, so that not all the courtiers could enjoy and understand the speech.
Theon listened and watched. He knew High Valyrian, though he showed no such skill to anyone.
Diplomacy in Westeros is full of tricky, unusual, and even funny occurrences. The first Targaryen kings received ambassadors from other lands by all standards of Valyrian tradition - and only after Daenerys did it become customary to perform a rite of hospitality.
After Daeron the Second, the High Septon never attended an ambassadorial reception after a High Priest became enraged and struck the head of a Lethnian prince who dared to praise his gods in the Throne Room.
After Aegon the Fifth, no ambassador from Essos dared come to King's Landing with slaves. Every slave arriving with an embassy was forcibly freed and this, in its time, contributed much to the unpleasant foreign policy of one of the strangest kings in Westeros.
Not infrequently, each king has made his own changes in methods. The most innocuous under Aegon the Fourth - he often required the Free Cities to have women as ambassadors, or if a man, only with an escort of dancers and whores. Or under Aerys the Mad - when ambassadors from the same Volantis came to him, he demanded that they pass through fire to prove their pure Valyrian descent.
The consequences were saved either by the Hand, like Tywin Lannister, or by the closest advisers and mistresses of crazy rulers, of whom there were always plenty among the Targaryens.
But it still had a strong influence on politics and the Free Cities' attitude towards the Seven Kingdoms. Like a dangerous beast whose moods change from peace and affection to aggression and madness every time they meet.
Aegon didn't say yes. Nor did he say no. He invited the Volantian ambassadors to stay at Castle Red, to which they responded favourably, knowing full well what was at stake.
The King needs to consult with the Small Council and make a decision after much deliberation. As a gift, the ambassadors presented a chest filled with silver and gold. To top it off, a beautiful piece of jewellery made of rubies and emeralds was provided for the queen.
The Targaryens responded favourably to the gifts.
-If the Dragon King saves Volantis, the city will shower him with untold riches with all the generosity of the great Triarch of Malakvo!
The ambassadors, accompanied by pageboys and a steward, were sent to the Embassy Houses set up next to the Arsenal in the East Court of the castle. Very convenient, considering the Master of the Whisperers lives next door to them.
That same afternoon, Aegon called a meeting of the Small Council.
-We must not meddle in the affairs of Volantis, Aegon,' the Hand, Lord Connigton, countered. His hitherto indifferent and calm face flushed with the colour of his still red hair, despite his approaching old age,' 'The Triarch wants to solve his problems with dragons.
-I understand the Triarchy's motives perfectly well, Lord Connington,' Aegon replied coldly, 'but if the Jogos-Nhaians sack and destroy everything from Qarth to Pentos, with whom will the Seven Kingdoms trade? And wouldn't the nomads want to sail across the Narrow Sea?
-Even if they did, Your Majesty,' Julian Swann said, 'your dragons could destroy any fleet. And even if a miracle happens, the nomads will be met with steel and blood as every conqueror should be met.
Ser Eustace grimaced. Swann might have said the right thing out of stupidity or some strange naiveté, but such a thing should not have been said to a descendant of one of those conquerors.
And Aegon the Sixth had not reigned with words and colours.
The casual irony of Swann's speech did not escape the king, and he gave the Master over Moneta a hard look. The old lord squirmed, realising what he had said.
-Lord Swann says the right thing,' Aegon remarked, 'but we cannot stand idly by and watch the Free Cities fall one by one. Slaver's Bay is already in ruins and what has it come to? For the past year, not a single ship has arrived at the markets of the Harbour and many of the ports of Westeros carrying Ithian goods or Asshai curiosities in its hold...
-And if cities like Volantis and Pentos fall, we won't be able to buy grain and provisions in hard times,' Greyjoy finished his thought for the abruptly silenced king. The timing was right and Aegon nodded favourably towards Lord Pyke, 'Your Majesty, if we are going to go to war, we cannot rely on dragons alone. We need an army, we need a navy - and the Royal Navy is not yet complete, nor have many of the warships been repaired.
-Do you have a suggestion, Lord Greyjoy? - Aegon asked. Targaryen, however, already understood what the Sorcerer of Pyke was about to say. So did half the people in the Minor Council chambers.
-The Iron Fleet, Your Majesty. Experienced sailors and captains, ready for the long haul. They will be honoured to carry the King's knights and soldiers across the South Seas to the glorious city of Volantis.
Targaryen looked at him thoughtfully with his deep violet eyes. The king was not sure whether the Ironborn should be allowed into such an adventurous venture. And it wasn't a matter of trust, it was the realisation that he would have to share.
But the Royal Navy also lacked ships capable of surviving such a long voyage and carrying the necessary amount of supplies, horses, men and weapons.
One moment. A second. The crown prince pondered, looking directly at Theon, not in the least intimidated by his gaze, which in some ways amazed Lord Pike. He had long ago noticed that neither Daenerys nor Aegon ever looked away from him, never looked away, never became frightened or fearful, like a lamb before a wolf.
-Where is the Iron Fleet now? - Aegon asked.
-The Summer Isles, Your Majesty. -What is the Iron Fleet?
-What are the Iron Fleet and your kinsman Lord Victarion doing in the Summer Isles, my lord? - Eustace asked sarcastically.
Without blinking an eye, Theon answered at once:
-Trading, Ser Eustace. Or do you think fur coats, hats of monkey hair, precious stones, and many delicacies and fruits come out of thin air?
-The Iron Men have an interesting concept of trade,' the Grand Maester whispered to Deacon Tarly. Both counsellors sided with the king and in fact the stern Deacon Tarly had considerable respect for the old scholar.
If rumours are to be believed, the old man had managed to save his wife from dying in childbirth. The labour was unsuccessful - a stillborn boy was born, but that did not change the fact that Eleanor Mouton was alive and had already managed to give birth, a few years ago, to a healthy boy named Donald.
-Silence,' the king subdued his advisors and looked at Daenerys, who was still silent.
-What if we negotiate with the nomads? - she asked.
-How, Your Majesty? - Eustace asked, 'All the ambassadors sent to them by the Free Cities and the Lords of the Bay of Trades have been brutally murdered and tortured.
-The lords of the Merchant Gulf are arrogant and arrogant,' suggested the queen, 'and even a savage can be found in common with a savage if you know his traditions and manners. There are moon singers in Braavos who have great power among the Jogos-Nhaians.
-What are we to negotiate with them, my dear,' Aegon said to her, 'the whole point of the Dothraki and the Jogos-Nhai is to bring death and destruction. It is in our power to glorify ourselves in Essos as defenders of the Valyrian Freehold heritage and to enlist the help of Volantis against Braavos. Their fleet could seriously help us in a future confrontation.
Daenerys conceded.
-When you do Volantis a favour, they won't give you their fleet and will buy you off with little,‖ Connington warned, -Don't you know Volantis is more interested in a dogfight with Quochor and with Norvos over Dagger Lake. You...
'been there,' the Hand wanted to say, but hesitated, ending with something else entirely.
-Are you sure it's worth it?
-The risk is worth the reward. Volantis is begging for help and this is our chance, Lord Connington.
-We could lose, Your Majesty. Knights, lords and soldiers will die. Losses we cannot quickly replace before the Sea Lord's next battle. We'll waste a lot of provisions, gold and horses. And if we drive the savages away, they'll find any excuse, any excuse to renege on their promises.
-They wouldn't dare say no to me. Only a fool would say that to a dragon master.
-All right,' surrendered the Lord of the Stormlands, 'I cannot dissuade you, my king, but know that this whole venture will lead to no good.
Aegon took the words of his former mentor and second father with a disgruntled look.
-Lord Greyjoy, how quickly will the Iron Fleet reach the capital from the Summer Isles? - he asked, to which Theon, calculating in his mind Cicero's speed, Victarion's training, and the sailing time, gave a clear answer:
-A little over a month and a half, Your Majesty. I will immediately send word to my uncle, Lord Victarion.
Cicero left one of the stone beams where he had been listening to the meeting. The king only squinted, but said nothing. The others preferred not to notice, though the parrot's indignant cry of 'Go, dogs!' was heard by all.
It wasn't the first time something like this had happened, and it was counted among the oddities of the High Lord of the Iron Islands.
-Should we send a summons to White Harbour, Gull City, or Arbor, Your Majesty? - Ebrose asked cautiously.
-The Manderly, Arryn and Redwyn flotillas would be a great help in transporting troops to Volantis, as well as in the war with Braavos,' Lord Swann remarked, 'and the Tarths, Hightowers and Martells, my king, can also provide many fighting galleys.
Connigton's disgruntled look in the direction of his own vassal could be seen by all. But OWLs, who wished to give sound advice to the king and disliked his suzerain, was indifferent to it.
-No time,' Aegon waved his hand negatively, 'we will need the battle galleys in the war with Braavos, and we will help Volantis with the Royal and Iron fleets.
-As you wish, Your Majesty,' Ebrose nodded. After him, Deacon Tarly took the floor.
-"Your Majesty, while we're talking about going to war with one Free City and helping another, we're not getting good news from the Riverlands.
-The Riverlanders always have a problem with peace,' Svann muttered.
At the crown prince's expectant look, the Master of the Law continued:
-"There is famine on the Trident, many deserters and bandits still disturb the villages and townships, and there are constant attacks and robberies on the tracts. It gets worse and worse every year, my king.
-Can't the River Lords cope with mere brigands? - Targaryen asked irritably, 'When summer comes, can't they feed their people?
-The brigands have gathered into vast bands whose power has spread even to the villages, Your Majesty. Some were immediately exterminated, but there is... terrible news of the death of one of Lord Vance's relatives in another raid. He and 400 trained foot soldiers were killed. And that's the worst of it, but it's not the only loss. The Trident is blazing, Your Majesty, and we must do something!
-Could it be that... mad peasants were able to kill four hundred armoured soldiers? - Lord Swann asked doubtfully, 'Even a thousand peasants can't stand up to a well-armed troop on horseback.
-I don't know, but the fact is the fact. Lord Tully no longer writes letters about Harrenhal, now he only cares about order in his own fief and the lands of his vassals.
-Can't the lords join together to help each other? - Ebrose asked with a loud heckle, -Can't Lord Tully handle his vassals?
-Even before the war, the Tullys were on the edge, Maester Ebrose,' Greyjoy said, smiling grimly at the shaken old man, 'they may be considered High Lords of the Trident, but compared to their vassals, they are not as rich, strong, or powerful. The Mallisters, the Freys, the Vans. The Brackens and Blackwoods could compete, too, if they weren't fighting amongst themselves over tiny pieces of land.
-What do you suggest, Lord Tarly? - The King interrupted the councillors' conversation.
-We can raise a fighting force to destroy the brigands. I'm sure Lord Tully would be in favour, and it would bring the crown the respect of the common people and the lords of the Riverlands. We can distribute some of the food - even if we do, we can safely feed the capital and supply the army preparing to march to Volantis.
The Grand Maester nodded, agreeing with Deacon Tarly's words.
-All right, Your Majesty, Lord Deacon is right.
-How much?
-At first, we can gather four squads of five or six hundred men each.
-Then get on with it, Lord Tarly. I'll leave it to you. Lord Ebrose, send letters to all the lords of the King's Lands, that each send several knights in their service with their squires and all their lances.
The next week at Red Castle proved hectic and full of strange but important news.
News came from the Vale - Lysa Arryn had died in her bed of a serious illness, and immediately afterwards the young Lord Arryn had married a member of a branch of his own dynasty from the Gull City.
From Dorne came news of a duel between Herold Dane and Edric Dane, Lord Starfall. The cause was the former's desire to wield the family legendary blade, the Dawn.
Strangely enough, Edric Dane, who arrived at the duel without Dawn, was able to defeat his much-experienced and dangerous relative, but did not kill or maim him. Perhaps that was a big mistake - suddenly the Lady of the Sunspear intervened and demanded that the blade eventually go to Dark Star, as the eldest of the clan.
The Lords of Dorne watching from the sidelines remained silent, but such interference was remembered. The main branch of the Deinom was enraged. How it would end, no one could say.
'What does it matter to the Martells who holds the Dawn?' - many wondered, but the answer was simple only to those initiated into the inner kitchen of Dorne.
Word came from Pyke. His son had been born - but the labour had been difficult. The Maester himself and the herbalists said with one voice that the boy would not survive the first few days and asked that he not be named, but Gwyn would not listen to them.
Erich Greyjoy was born on a late, clear afternoon when the sun was timidly hiding its rays on the horizon.
He confined himself to sending a letter demanding to report on his wife's health every moon and to do what he could to ensure that the third son of House Greyjoy survived.
Theon could not leave for Pyke immediately, for circumstances and circumstances forced him to sit here at Castle Red, watching the intrigue and verbal lace of deceit and meanness being woven.
In some ways, he felt more... cosy here than he had in Pike. Only for a time.
Theon was in his castle chambers, sorting through his many notes. He would call in a merchant or famous traveller every week, asking about the situation in the kingdoms or the Free Cities. He would feed and treat the guest with wine and give them a silver stag, or a golden dragon if the information was useful enough.
Often the information came from his subjects. Spies, spies, spies. Simple maids, stableboys, peasants or craftsmen - everyone has his own reason and many do not even realise what and to whom they tell.
Less you know, more you sleep.
Theon sleeps only four hours a day.
His body had changed in a strange way, and now sleep took less time than it used to. It was not uncommon for him to wander the stone vaults of Red Castle at night, scaring the guards and servants.
He looked again at the next entry and compared it with another. It was not uncommon for merchants and unwitting spies to lie, or to give out initially false news while sincerely believing it. So Greyjoy preferred to double-check everything. If it turned out that an impertinent man at his table had dared to lie to his face...
-Lord Theon,‖ his squire, Dagon, knocked and hesitantly entered the room, shifting from foot to foot.
-What's wrong? - He asked, his gaze fixed on the boy. He flinched, but didn't run away as he had the last time. Theon controlled himself, -You look dishevelled, Dagon.
-There... in Red Castle, everyone is screaming. Especially in the East Court, my lord,' the boy whispered, 'They found a dead man in the Embassy Houses. It's one of the ambassadors.
Candles served him as light in the impenetrable darkness that enveloped his room. Sitting at his desk, he slouched and stared at the many sheets of parchment, uneven, slightly trimmed or torn, but the value of these manuscripts was inestimable to him.
Nearby lay the leather pouch in which he kept the precious notes, and next to it he placed the fin stick, leaning gently against the wall.
The small, scruffy inn and its owners welcomed the priest warmly. A burly man with scars all over his face, a veteran of many wars and raids, offered him free shelter and food, but he refused, giving the innkeeper a sack full of copper half-shekels.
-It is not right for a priest to take advantage of another man's kindness when he can afford to pay for his own shelter and food, good man,' he said to the man, and the man did not refuse. If a servant of the Drowned God is willing to pay for everything honourably, the master is only too happy to do so.
And now he was poring over another parchment, writing letters, words and sentences, weaving paragraphs and filling whole pages. He had picked up this unusual format of writing from Lord Greyjoy, having read his letters and 'recommendations'. Not even the Maesters wrote in such an interesting and unusual way, and Thawne had something to compare it to.
Born the son of a simple farmer, his destiny was to become a farmer in the peaceful and nourishing lands of the Great Wick. But by luck or chance, he found himself among those sent to study in Staromest. Lord Greyjoy paid for everything with a future requirement to return back to his homeland.
Those who could buy themselves at least two links were free to leave Staromest. Lord Greyjoy allocated them according to their training and talents. A man with a gold ring could be a tribute collector or an accountant, a man with a silver ring could be one of the lord's healers or an important man, a cast-iron ring could be a lord's healer, a cast-iron ring could be a lord's healer in any castle or city under Lord Greyjoy's control.
Not everyone was able to cast even two links. Not all wished to return and preferred to remain in the Citadel, swearing oaths to the Maester. Nevertheless, without losing touch with their benefactor and even remaining loyal to the Drowned God.
After studying for five years at the Citadel, Ton forged four links for himself - silver, iron, iron and copper. It was the last link that made him delve deeper into the study of old chronicles, legends and myths.
He decided to become a drowning man. What motivated his unusual desire, the man himself could not say.
Perhaps it was a childhood memory when an old priest saved him when he fell through the ice in a small lake during the winter.
Maybe it was a desire to become needed, rather than go with the flow and be trapped in his duties forever.
Or maybe it was the Old Town he'd never been able to settle in. The Ironborn had always been treated with hidden caution and suspicion. No one ever dared to deny them their desire to learn, especially when sacks full of ringing silver and gold were placed on the table in front of the seneschal and archmasters.
A vast city full of vice and wickedness. A place considered to be one of the richest and filled with the 'holiness' of the Seven has absorbed an unimaginable number of people - ordinary travellers who have settled in the city, native townspeople who look at newcomers with arrogance, vagrants and beggars, foreigners, knights, peasants who came from the surrounding lands to trade.
And brigands, liars, whores, murderers along with the whole lot.
Tone had seen the disproportionate amount of abomination and sin that plagued the vast city while he was still a schoolboy. Drowned by God, he would never forget that huge basket from the brothel with a few screaming babies thrown into the gutter like rubbish. And the pack of dogs immediately rushing towards the hearty treat.
It was then that he made a promise to himself that he would not live here. Despite its outward beauty and pomp, Old Town was perhaps more horrible than the 'glorious' King's Landing.
'Then says the Voice from the Deeps to him, take the sword in your hand and slay the beast, and the King took the blade, sprinkling the sea with the blood of others and his own.'
Such an interpretation seemed honourable to him, so he left it at that, continuing to pen out the words with a black quill:
'The beast died, and he gathered her teeth to make the greatest crown of all crowns. Becoming the ruler of the earth and sea, he took a mermaid as his wife and drove out the demons who ate human flesh from his and his neighbours' domains'.
Tired of life in Stromest, he wanted to become a priest. And Lord Greyjoy, deeming him worthy, allowed him. He was initiated by Urrigon the Bright a few years before his sad death.
The cold sea took him into its embrace, and it was then that he was reborn, only to breathe a few moments later a breath of pure fresh air.
'Be humble like the Drowned God. Be sacrificial like the one who Drowned for Us. Be patient with fools and fools, for they know not what they do and do not know what they do!'
The first years of his priesthood he wandered the Iron Islands. He had been to Old Vic, the place where the huge bones of the ancient sea monster Naggy, slain by the Grey King, rest. Ton had also visited his small homeland, Big Wick, where the land-dwellers had only grown fatter and richer. Their faith was less sincere and more false than in Pike or even Harlow, the fiefdom of merchants and traders.
It was on the Big Vic that he got his nickname. During a storm, near a coastal village, he had taken a lost boy, who was terribly afraid of lightning and thunder, to his family. And then, feeling the nativity beating, he returned to the shore, standing at the base of a sheer cliff.
The Maesters thought lightning was fire, arising in the sky from things unknown to them. The Septons whispered that it was the Warrior walking menacingly across the sky, watching what the humans on earth were doing. The Rglorians thought it was the mischief of the Great Other, while the Old Gods took it as a mere bad omen.
'They're all wrong' thought Ton, looking up into the sky with clear and fearless eyes. The heavy rain and the strong wind were pelting down, wave after wave, but he stood firm,-"There is something terrible in this thing, like lightning, that raises fear from the depths of man. And thunder, that awful terrifying thunder!'.
All night he stood in the rain and the glittering lightning on the sheer cliff. Some elusive thought, whose depth is incommensurable, seized him-but he could not understand or realise it. It was this elusiveness that made the man stand for many hours in the downpour.
Back in the settlement in the morning, people were pointing fingers at him and shouting - 'He is not afraid of Thunder!'.
Fools and fools, would it make sense for a priest to be afraid of the Heavenly Enemy when he was fully devoted to the Drowned God?
It was then that word spread of the priest Tone, the Fearless of Thunder. And his fame grew rapidly.
Some vagabonds or warriors asked to be his retinue, but he always refused them. The priest was not rich, but rather too poor, like all the servants of the Drowned One. When he consecrated himself to his Deity, he gave all his stores of money and surplus to the common people and the poor.
An old tradition before initiation.
What he couldn't refuse was Lord Greyjoy's invitation.
'You take what you put in and reap what you don't. That is what the Drowned God willed - against those who rejected it and did not accept it. But do not be deceived by riches, for the covetousness of money is the root of many evils.'
'For he who drew the sword and perished in the sea will go to the underwater abode. And those who fought in his name on earth and rested in it shall be worthy to be in the halls of the sea.'
'Have faith in the Drowned God of our Sovereign, regardless of faces!'.
The plans Lord Greyjoy shared with him were colossal and mind-boggling, even for an educated husband like Thawne. Any other priest would have opposed or tried to dissuade the Lord of the Iron Islands.
But he... agreed. It was clear to him, a man who had seen quite a lot and read even the Holy Book of the Seven, that belief in the Drowned God was not as strong as it seemed.
'What if we disappear, what if we are all killed like rats and buried not in the sea but in the ground, who will tell people about the Truth? What is hard to destroy even for humans is recorded knowledge.'
For a year now Ton has been writing down, systematising knowledge, travelling all over the islands. He talked to the priests, memorising their myths, legends and tales passed down from mouth to mouth.
He did not hesitate to learn wisdom from warriors, vagabonds or simple fishermen. Each thought about the world in his own way, each owned a part of the truth without knowing it all. Some were lost in their own thoughts.
And so, moon by moon, he gathered bits and pieces of Truth, weaving its knots and threads into a vast web. He carefully laid aside another parchment and turned over a letter from Lord Harlow, with transcribed moments from one of the ancient books of the Ironborn. The letters were handed to him by the Sorcerer's trusted messengers, who managed to find him surprisingly well.
The candlelight and the smooth lines made his eyes sparkle for a moment. Multicoloured spots began to play. After blinking and rubbing his eyes, the priest gazed into another mess of parchment.
Sometimes he felt a strange inspiration, as if the Drowned One himself were speaking to him!
The words would form into sentences to become winged phrases.
He picked up his quill again, which was creaking with strain, and began to write another sentence. The work of his teacher, Urrigon the Bright, would be finished. Even if he did not live to see the book published and become a guiding light for all the faithful.
For it is the will of Lord Greyjoy.
For it is the will of the Drowned God.
'Woe to you Maesters, woe to you septons. Liars and hypocrites, murderers and cutthroats lurking in the shadows!'
'They sow the wind, but reap the storm. They curb the sea, but they shall know cataclysm!'
