Pyke, the Iron Islands
Salladhor Saan couldn't believe what he was seeing.
The two pirate kings who had been at each other's throats for years were suddenly standing shoulder to shoulder—because of him. The balance of power he thought he controlled had just flipped completely. He was now the one at a disadvantage.
Bloodbeard Summers and One-Eye Moro were both terrifying in their own right. Summers was a sadistic lunatic who tortured prisoners with scorpions; rumor said his flagship, Sting, had a hold full of the damn things. Cross him and you became scorpion food. Moro was the sly old bastard who'd lost an eye in battle and only gotten more dangerous because of it.
Each commanded more than twenty islands and dozens of ships. Their sudden alliance had turned the Stepstones into a nightmare for Salladhor.
Pierce's support had given him enough strength to hold his ground, but it still wasn't enough to crush both of them. For three long months the two sides had been locked in a stalemate around Grey Gallows Island. Every extra day burned more gold, and Pierce's latest raven had carried a clear note of impatience.
Salladhor knew he needed a breakthrough. The Ironborn—those born-and-bred reavers and sailors—if he could bring them in as allies… no, as mercenaries… the scales would tip.
But Pierce's orders had been crystal clear: do not reveal his involvement. Salladhor had to recruit the Ironborn while keeping his master's name buried.
"My dear King Balon," Salladhor said at last, "it doesn't matter who stands behind me. What matters is what I can offer."
He ticked the points off on his fingers. "First, I am willing to split the Stepstones with the Iron Islands. Every port tax, every protection fee, every trade cut—half goes to you."
The captains stirred. The Stepstones might be a chaotic mess, but they sat on one of the richest trade routes in the world. That kind of income was real power.
Asha's laugh was sharp. "Split it? Salladhor, the Stepstones belong to Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Even Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince—called himself 'King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea' once. And what happened? The three cities united for three years of war and forced the Targaryens out. If the dragonlords couldn't hold it, what makes you think we can?"
Salladhor had been waiting for that exact question. He smiled—confident this time.
"Because the world has changed, my lady. Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh used to rule the Narrow Sea, but now? Pentos is rising under Illyrio Mopatis. The Dothraki are pushing south and squeezing the Free Cities' land borders. They're too busy saving their own necks to worry about the Stepstones. As long as we don't openly challenge their sovereignty or raid their merchant fleets, they'll look the other way."
Of course he left out the real reasons—Pierce's web of spies, bribes, and quiet deals across the Free Cities. No need to tell these ironheads everything.
Balon's fingers drummed the arm of the Seastone Chair—his habit when thinking.
"Suppose you're telling the truth," Balon rasped. "Suppose the Stepstones really are up for grabs. What's your plan? What do you want the Ironborn to do?"
Salladhor stepped closer to the dais, voice dropping. "Bloodbeard Summers and One-Eye Moro are dug in at Grey Gallows, each with thirty ships. I have forty. If the Iron Islands send twenty longships and a thousand warriors to join me, we can crush them and take the Stepstones for ourselves."
Asha shook her head at once. "Ironborn don't bleed for southerners. That's our ancestors' law."
"Not for free," Salladhor countered smoothly. "Besides the split I already offered, my backer is willing to pay double the usual mercenary rates. One gold dragon per month for every common sailor, five for captains, ten for commanders. All plunder belongs to whoever takes it."
Several captains' eyes lit up. The Iron Islands were poor—fish and iron were about it. Most reavers made their living raiding or hiring out as sellswords, and this pay was three times what they usually saw.
"And one more thing," Salladhor added, sweetening the deal. "My backer will buy every weapon the Iron Islands can forge—swords, axes, armor—at twice the market price. As many as you can make."
Balon's brow furrowed. "Our ironwork is good, but production is limited. Why pay so much when the south has better steel?"
"Because southern supply lines are… unstable right now," Salladhor said vaguely. "My backer needs weapons in bulk."
It was a lie, of course. Pierce's real goal was to use the weapons trade as cover to map the Iron Islands' strength and dispositions.
Asha still looked suspicious. "It sounds good, but the risk is huge. Twenty longships is no small thing for us. What if this is a trap?"
Salladhor had saved his strongest card for last. He looked straight into Balon's eyes.
"King Balon, there is one final condition. If my backer can deliver your son Theon Greyjoy safely back to Pyke… would you consider this alliance?"
The hall went dead silent.
Balon froze. For the first time in years, something flickered in those cold grey eyes.
Theon—his youngest, taken as a hostage after the rebellion. The boy had been a child when Robert dragged him north. Balon only knew him through stiff, distant letters that sounded more like a Stark ward than a Greyjoy.
The shame of that failed rebellion still burned. Two older sons dead in battle, the last one given away while he watched, helpless.
If Theon could come home… if Balon could teach him the Old Way again, make him a true Greyjoy…
"Father," Asha said quietly, voice tight, "this could be a trap. They might not be able to do it. Or worse—they could hurt him."
Balon didn't answer. He closed his eyes and saw his son as a little boy—brown hair, grey eyes, two dimples when he smiled, begging to hear stories of the Ironborn kings and watching the longships sail out of the harbor.
When he opened his eyes again, the decision was made.
"I need proof," Balon said, voice rough. "Something only Theon would know. Have him write me a letter in the Ironborn cipher. Teach your man a few key phrases. If he uses them correctly, I'll believe you."
"It will take time," Salladhor warned. "Winterfell is far. A raven round trip could take months."
"I have patience," Balon replied. "In the meantime I will send five longships to the Stepstones for… reconnaissance. If everything is as you claim and the rewards are real, we can discuss more."
Salladhor's heart leaped, but he kept his face neutral. Five ships weren't many, but added to his own fleet they would give him the edge he needed to pressure Summers or Moro.
"Ten ships," Salladhor countered. "I guarantee you'll see returns within three months."
Balon stared at the Lysene pirate for a long moment, then clasped the offered hand. Salladhor's soft, ring-covered fingers met Balon's callused, iron-hard grip.
"Ten ships," Balon said. "But I choose the captains, and they answer only to me. Your men will not command Ironborn."
"Of course," Salladhor smiled. "A pleasure doing business, Your Grace. I believe this is the beginning of the Iron Islands' return to glory."
When Salladhor was escorted out to the guest quarters, Asha turned to her father, face full of worry.
"Father, this is too risky. We don't know who's really behind him or what their true goal is. The Stepstones are a trap. If we bleed there, the Iron Islands could be finished."
Balon stood and walked to the hearth, staring into the flames.
"Asha, do you know what the Iron Islands have become?" His voice was tired. "We are watched, restricted, treated like vassals of the Seven Kingdoms. We used to rule the seas. Our longships made the entire west coast tremble. Now we catch fish, mine iron, and hire ourselves out as mercenaries for southern lords."
He turned to his daughter. "Theon… that thorn has been in my heart for years. If there is any chance to bring him home, I must take it. And if the Stepstones truly are a power vacuum like Salladhor claims, this is our chance to regain independence and wealth."
"But the price might be your daughter and what's left of our fleet," Asha said sharply. "If it's a trap and we lose heavily in the Stepstones, the Iron Islands are done."
Balon stepped close and put his hands on her shoulders—a rare gesture; Ironborn didn't show affection easily.
"That is why you will lead them," he said. "You will command the ten ships. You are my heir and the future ruler of the Iron Islands. I need you to see the truth with your own eyes. If Salladhor is telling the truth, seize the chance. If it's a trap… bring our ships home."
Asha met her father's eyes and saw the trust and the burden he was placing on her. She drew a deep breath and straightened.
"I will, Father. By the Drowned God's name, I will make the Ironborn banner fly over southern waters once more."
Balon nodded and released her. When he sat back on the Seastone Chair, the weary father who missed his son was gone. In his place sat the hard, iron-willed Lord Reaper of Pyke.
"Go prepare," he said. "Choose the best ships and the most loyal men. Remember—your first duty is to assess, not to fight. Protect our warriors."
Asha bowed and left the hall, her steps firm. In her mind she was already planning: which captains to take, how much supply to carry, how to deal with those slippery southern pirates…
In the guest quarters, Salladhor Saan sat by the window, staring out at the crashing waves. He pulled out a small notebook and began writing in cipher—every detail of the meeting, exactly as Pierce had ordered. All important messages had to be encoded.
Tomorrow morning one of Pierce's men would collect the notebook.
Salladhor had many of Pierce's people around him now. He didn't know exactly who they all were—some had even been with him before he swore fealty on Crackclaw Point—but he knew he was being watched.
Since the day he bent the knee to Pierce Celtigar, he had understood he was now under that terrifying young lord's control.
Wife, children, wealth—Golden Port was only part of it. He knew Pierce had many ways to keep him in line. But the promise of greater power kept him walking forward.
Salladhor didn't know Pierce's full plan, but he could feel it: the young lord was playing a game on a board so large it made the Stepstones look like pebbles.
He poured himself another cup of wine and walked back to the window. Excitement and unease churned inside him. If the plan worked, he would become the true ruler of the Stepstones—wealth and power beyond anything he had ever dreamed.
But he also knew he was just one more piece on the board… and not the most important one.
"Still," Salladhor muttered, raising his cup toward the southern horizon, "even a pawn can live well—as long as it isn't the one that gets sacrificed."
He drained the wine and stared out at the sea. Somewhere beyond those waves, the Stepstones waited for new masters.
And Salladhor Saan was ready to gamble everything to become one of them.