The salty sea breeze, carrying the sweet scent of hibiscus, slammed rudely into every crevice of the Coral Castle, tearing at the red silk hanging in the square until it flapped violently.
This castle, built from the remains of millions of coral polyps, was bathed in the flowing honey-colored morning light.
Acacia trees stubbornly poked out from the cracks in the city walls, their tiny white flowers fluttering in the wind like snow. In the harbor, the masts of canoes were dense as a forest. Everyone's eyes were focused on the central "Temple of Love," wrapped in shells and mother-of-pearl.
There, a new flag was about to rise.
Jalabhar Xho stood at the edge of the terrace, his bronzed fingers unconsciously rubbing the short knife at his waist. The giant clam shell inlaid on the scabbard glowed with a moist luster under the morning light.
His gaze swept over the surging crowd below—fishermen, merchants, and craftsmen from various islands, all wearing their cherished clean linen clothes, with flowers symbolizing their hometowns pinned in their hair: fiery coral lilies from the Isle of Palms, melancholy jacarandas from the Isle of Mists, resilient edelweiss from the Isle of Ashes. They looked up, vague cheers rolling in their throats like waves during high tide, constantly beating against the silent stone walls of the castle.
"It's time to change the old flag."
Tessaya Greyjoy's voice came from behind, naturally blending into the clamor.
She wore an indigo linen long dress, the silver-threaded wave patterns at the hem surging with her steps. The pearl hairpin in her hair glowed warmly—she had personally selected it from the offerings at the "Temple of Tides" last night. She said one should always greet the new dawn with the Drowned God's blessing.
The doors opened slowly amidst the sound of bells and chimes.
Twelve high priests in feather-gauze vestments filed out holding bronze trays. On the trays were coral roses, mother-of-pearl, and soil and seawater offered by various islands.
Jalabhar and Tessaya ascended the steps side by side, every step on the "Path of Destiny" paved with shells.
When the two stood before the bronze tripod in front of the Sea God Temple, Tessaya took a torch and ignited the spices piled in the tripod.
Smoke rose curling up, turning into a red-gold cloud drifting toward the glazed window of the dome.
Painted on the window was the overlap of the new and old flags: the left half was intricate intertwining red flowers, the right half was a golden kraken brandishing its claws; the two merged in cloud patterns, indistinguishable.
Jalabhar took off the leather helmet he wore during wartime, revealing his honey-colored forehead.
The high priest brought the crown—carved from a whole piece of South Sea mother-of-pearl, its base inlaid with seven pearls from different islands, symbolizing the seven major regions of the Iron Islands.
In the center of the crown, a flower carved from red coral and a golden kraken were connected head to tail, a miniature of the new flag.
"Jalabhar Xho, you quelled the flames of war with courage and reconciled differences with wisdom. Are you willing to protect every spray of waves and every grain of coral in the Summer Isles with your life?" The high priest's voice was hoarse with age.
"I am willing." Jalabhar knelt on one knee, pressing his palm into the sea sand on the altar. That sand came from various islands, mixed with coral debris and shell powder.
Tessaya stepped forward and placed another coronet on her own hair. That crown was lighter, woven from silver thread into waves, adorned with pearls and small sapphires, like a tidal surge under moonlight.
"Tessaya Greyjoy, you healed scars with benevolence and planned the future with foresight. Are you willing to share this heavy burden with your monarch?"
"I am willing." Her voice was softer than the sea, yet firmer than the reefs. The square erupted in cheers like mountains calling.
Fishermen banged oars, merchants shook crates, even the shyest girls shouted at the top of their lungs: "King! Queen!"
The sea breeze blew, and the new flag unfurled into a golden-red wave. Someone in the crowd sang an ancient ballad, a tune he had never heard before, but it made one's heart burn hot. The song went: "Red flower is the root, kraken is the fin; the ship of Summer, henceforth on the same frequency."
More and more voices joined in, shouting high, celebrating the birth of the King of the Summer Isles, celebrating gaining the protection of the Greyjoys from now on.
---
After Jalabhar Xho was crowned king, a common flag now flew above every scattered island in the Summer Isles.
Outside the flags passed down for generations—the fiery rising sun of the Isle of Palms, the silver-gray anchor of the Isle of Mists, the ink-black volcano of the Isle of Ashes—every port mast and every fortress tower now flew the war banner embroidered with the Golden Kraken.
The Iron Islands did not demand this; it was not a cold order, but became the tacit choice of all island lords.
This was not out of fear, but a wise choice.
After the battle of the Stepstones, everyone walking the seas knew of the Iron Islands' vengeance, knew the names of Euron the Master of Sea Beasts and the Crown of Skulls, and knew the Iron Islands possessed the ability to control sea king beasts.
From then on, the Golden Kraken flag of the Iron Islands represented invincible power on the sea, which no one dared to violate.
The ferocious kraken pattern unfurled in the wind, and the threats that used to shadow them began to recede—slaver fleets patrolling the channels turned their prows upon seeing this flag; fraudulent merchants restrained their arrogance; even the most rampant pirates, glimpsing this touch of gold in their spyglasses, would terrifiedly signal peace to avoid misunderstanding.
This flag was a silent talisman, a barrier woven from the blood and heads of enemies.
As the gun salutes of the coronation still echoed on the sea surface, the longships of the Iron Islands opened their hungry holds.
Bare-chested sailors shuttled between gangplanks and docks, forming flowing chains of flesh and blood.
Barrels of clear fresh water rolled between thick arms, making dull sounds; wooden crates full of tropical pineapples and mangoes were passed steadily, their bright fruit colors like gems under the fierce sun; and meat carefully preserved with sea salt emitted a tempting yet dangerous aroma.
All of this was methodically swallowed into the deep bellies of the longships, accumulating the energy needed for life for the upcoming, more distant voyage.
---
The Iron Throne
In the throne room of the Red Keep, candlelight flickered.
Robert Baratheon sat high on the throne forged from countless swords, the heavy crown pressing on his sweat-dampened forehead. His thick fingers tapped the cold blade edge one by one, making dull sounds.
Below, the envoys from the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea were like a river adorned with silk and jewelry. The Lysene wore flowing pale purple robes, radiating the scent of perfume; the Tyroshi sported exaggerated dyed beards, the gems on their rings as large as pigeon eggs; the representative from Braavos was dressed in quiet black velvet, the emblem of the Iron Bank pinned to his chest; the Myrish was wrapped in intricate brocade, fingers nervously intertwined.
"Your Grace," the Braavosi stepped forward, his voice precise and calm as counting coins, "the fleet of the Iron Islands, those longships flying the Golden Kraken flag, are wantonly tearing up the ancient agreements between us. They are not merchants; they are a wildfire sweeping the plains."
The Lysene chimed in, voice sweet as poisoned wine: "The friendship between the Seven Kingdoms and us is being crushed by their keels. Trade routes are cut, ports are in panic, even insurance premiums have quintupled."
"They are now entrenched in the Summer Isles," the Tyroshi representative's voice became shrill, "like vultures landing on a rich feast. Today it is her, tomorrow who will it be?"
They exchanged glances, and finally, the Braavosi made the concluding summary, cold and definitive: "We implore Your Grace to restrain your bannerman. If the Iron Islands' ambition is allowed to expand, for self-preservation, we fear we can only reconsider all connections with the Iron Throne. Trade, friendship, loans, and all dealings."
In the throne room of the Red Keep, the air seemed to solidify into amber.
The words of the Free Cities' envoys still echoed under the dome, but Robert on the Iron Throne had put away his previous nonchalant demeanor. Robert's gaze swept over this group of splendidly dressed envoys. His massive body shifted uneasily on the throne, staring coldly at the representatives daring to threaten him.
Hand of the King Jon Arryn spoke first, his tone diplomatic: "Gentlemen, you must know that all actions of the Iron Islands in the Summer Isles are private decisions of the Iron Islands and have nothing to do with the will of the Iron Throne."
"Hah! The Hand of the King speaks truly!"
A short, loud scoff broke the brief silence. King Quellon crossed his arms, his bronzed face full of unconcealed contempt, his voice booming like a bell in rebuttal: "I'd like to ask, did our Iron Islands attack your city-states or plunder your merchant ships? As far as I know, Euron responded to the plea of Prince Jalabhar of the Red Flower Vale to help a friend restore his kingdom, an act of chivalry. What does this have to do with you all?"
Tywin Lannister, who had been standing quietly by, took half a step forward. His voice was as calm as a frozen lake, yet it sent a chill down everyone's spine: "It is not entirely unrelated." His gaze slowly swept over the envoys, saying coldly, "After all, some people are accustomed to capturing civilians from those islands as slaves. Lord Euron merely cut off part of their wealth."
Tywin paused slightly, his pale green eyes finally fixing on the Braavosi representative. "As for the Iron Bank, there is no need to threaten the Iron Throne with severing ties. We already have our own bank."
Just as the envoys paled at these successive strikes hitting their vital points, a burst of boisterous laughter exploded from the throne.
Robert laughed so hard he rocked back and forth, as if he had just enjoyed a superb farce.
"Excellent! Truly excellent!" His loud voice made the hall buzz. "Every sentence, every word you said today, I will convey verbatim to Euron Greyjoy." He leaned forward, staring at the crowd below whose faces were getting uglier, with a hint of almost cruel mockery. "I believe he will definitely give you a sufficiently 'appropriate' reply."
As his words fell, the representatives from across the Narrow Sea froze in place, the last bit of color draining from their faces. Their expressions were as if they watched the beacon fire they lit themselves finally burning toward their own city walls.
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