ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

At noon the next day, two longships faced each other in the neutral waters beyond Sulphur Reef.

One flew the silver eagle of House Mallister. The other carried the golden kraken of House Greyjoy. They rose and fell with the grey swell, close enough for voices to carry and far enough for both crews to pretend they were not aiming at each other. Seagulls circled overhead, crying with the useless confidence of creatures too stupid to understand politics.

Victarion Greyjoy stood alone at the prow of his ship, bare-chested again and unarmed. His face matched the weather. Across from him stood Smith, Lord Jason, and Flio. None wore full armor. None looked relaxed.

There were no greetings.

“Marren,” Victarion said. His voice was rough as gravel. “My nephew. The others you captured. Give them back.”

“We can,” Smith said. “In exchange for peace.”

Victarion barked a laugh. “Peace. You break into our harbor, burn our ships, kill our men, and speak of peace.”

“You attacked the North and threatened the coasts of the Riverlands and Westerlands,” Lord Jason said. “We came to teach the Ironborn that raiding is no longer cost-free. You may bleed at sea until the last kraken sinks, or sit and discuss new rules.”

“New rules?” Victarion’s eyes narrowed.

“We can return Kingsport,” Smith said.

Lord Jason and Flio looked at him, but neither interrupted. They were wise enough not to stab a negotiation in the throat before seeing whether it might crawl.

Smith continued, “We can return captured ships, except those destroyed beyond use. We can also leave grain and medicine to help the port survive winter.”

Victarion stared at him.

He had expected threats, ransom demands, perhaps some polished southern insult about savage islanders. He had not expected the enemy to offer back the meat already between their teeth.

“Conditions.”

“First,” Smith said, “a ceasefire for one year. No ship from the Iron Islands attacks the North, Riverlands, Westerlands, or any coast and merchant ship under agreement with us. Sail east if you want. Raid the Summer Islands, the Stepstones, or the moon for all I care. Not our shores.”

Victarion’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Second, trade. Lannisport, Seagard, and Kingsport, once returned, will be open to Ironborn merchant ships. We buy iron ore, salted fish, whale oil, furs, and ships at fair prices. We sell grain, cloth, timber, medicine, and, under agreed terms, weapons and armor.”

Flio watched Victarion carefully. The word grain did more work than a dozen threats.

“Third,” Smith said, “Euron Greyjoy.”

The air seemed colder at once.

“He raids the North,” Smith continued. “He burns, kills, and makes enemies of every coast. If any Ironborn lord or captain has doubts about his rule, or wishes to follow a different path, we are willing to discuss deeper cooperation with any leader willing to obey the new rules.”

There it was. Not hidden. Not subtle. A knife placed openly on the table.

Victarion stared at him, searching for the trap beneath the calm words. There was one, of course. There was always a trap. But not every trap killed the man who stepped near it. Some caught his enemies.

“Can you speak for the Westerlands? The Reach? The North?” Victarion asked.

“I speak for Lord Arthur of House Greyoak, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West,” Smith said. “His word binds the Westerlands. The ceasefire terms will be sent to the North and Riverlands. As for Euron, that is a separate matter between the Westerlands and the Ironborn who prefer rational neighbors to mad kings.”

Victarion stood silent.

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Returning the port and ships would save face. Grain and medicine would quiet captains whose crews had families. Trade could feed the Iron Islands in a way raiding never had. But Euron was still his brother, still the king chosen by the kingsmoot, still a danger even when absent.

He thought of Korlen’s letter. Harras’s cool answer. Aeron’s warning. The dead at Sulphur Reef. Marren in enemy hands. He thought of children eating fish until their bellies cramped because their fathers had brought back glory instead of grain.

The iron price was hot to hold. Food bought with ore and fish fed more than pride.

“I need time,” Victarion said at last. “I must speak with the others.”

“Three days,” Smith said. “At noon on the third day, here. No hostile action until then.”

He gestured. A small boat lowered from the Mallister ship. In it sat several wounded Ironborn prisoners, bandaged and alive. They rowed slowly toward Victarion’s vessel.

“A gesture of good faith,” Smith said. “These wounded return now. Ser Marren and the nobles return after we receive an answer.”

Victarion watched the wounded men lift their faces toward him. Some nodded weakly. That did more than words.

“Remember this,” Lord Jason said, his voice carrying over the water. “The drowned god gave you the sea. That does not mean he commanded you to make every coast hate your name. You can remain sea wolves hunted by every kingdom, or become mariners men must respect. Choose carefully.”

The ships drew apart.

No treaty had been signed. No oath sworn. Yet a thread had been cast across the water, thin and fragile, but real.

The next three days were tense.

Inside Kingsport, the allied forces repaired defenses, counted stores, trained captured sailors who were willing or willing enough, and separated those useful from those merely loud. Flio spoke at length with shipwrights, captains, and craftsmen, measuring not only their skill but their grievances. Men complained differently when they believed gold might listen.

Victarion returned to his anchorage. He treated the wounded, repaired ships, and sent fast boats to Old Wyk, Harlaw, and Pyke. The pressure came from without and within.

Many captains called the offer weakness. Others called it betrayal. Some shouted about the old way, which usually meant they wanted other men to die defending their memories. But the lower sailors, small captains, and families who had suffered under endless war listened differently. Trade for food was not glorious. It was only useful. Naturally, warriors distrusted it.

Korlen did not oppose the talks. Harras did not oppose them either. Aeron spoke again of survival in the drowned god’s name.

At noon on the third day, Victarion returned to Sulphur Reef.

This time his face held less fury and more thought. It did not suit him, but necessity rarely cares for appearance.

“We accept the ceasefire and trade terms,” he said without ceremony. “In the name of the drowned god and House Greyjoy, for one year ships from the Iron Islands will not attack the Westerlands, Riverlands, North, or your allies. Kingsport will be returned. The captured ships, except those destroyed, will be returned. Prices and ports will be discussed.”

Smith nodded. “Good. Now Euron.”

Victarion’s expression hardened. For a moment the old rage rose again, then settled.

“Euron Greyjoy was chosen by the kingsmoot. His madness led the fleet north. That war is his. We will not join it. We will not let him use ports under our control to attack those under ceasefire with us. The affairs of the Iron Islands will be settled by Ironborn.”

He did not name rebellion. He did not call his brother enemy. But he drew a line. In Westeros, men often survived by letting silence do the treason.

Smith and Lord Jason exchanged a glance.

It was better than expected. Forcing Victarion to openly rise against Euron would have been foolish. Neutrality, refusal of support, and control of ports already weakened Euron’s reach. The crow had flown north and returned to find men cutting branches from his tree.

“Very well,” Smith said, extending his hand. “In the name of Battania and Lord Arthur of House Greyoak, we accept your oath and terms. Ser Marren and the captured nobles will be returned within three days. The first trade list will reach Kingsport within ten days.”

Victarion looked at the offered hand.

Then he took it.

One hand was callused with salt and axe work. The other steady and firm. There were no songs, no blood oaths, no dramatic promises shouted at the sky. Just two commanders forced by reality to accept that dead men were less useful than living arrangements.

When the news reached Kingsport, the allied soldiers cheered in relief.

A decisive naval battle had been avoided. The goals had been met: the Ironborn threat weakened, ships secured, sailors and craftsmen identified, trade opened, and Euron isolated. Soldiers cared most about the first part. They might go home alive. This was a popular military policy, strangely neglected by many lords.

When the report reached Lannisport, Arthur stood before a map of the Iron Islands. The red mark that had signified open hostility now changed to yellow.

Neutral. Under observation.

Arthur smiled faintly.

The first step was done.

A limited strike, followed by practical diplomacy, had opened a crack in the Iron Islands. Through trade, infiltration, and division, that crack could widen. One day, those islands might become the cradle of a Westerlands navy and a counterweight to the Arbor and the Reach.

Or they might betray him at the first chance. That was also possible. People insisted on remaining people.

Several days later, the allied fleet began its return.

They left Kingsport scarred but standing. They carried part of the captured supplies, hundreds of Ironborn sailors and craftsmen recruited through coin, pressure, persuasion, and the occasional reminder that Lannisport had food. They also carried the ceasefire agreement, still fresh with ink and mistrust.

When they came north, they had been shark hunters.

When they sailed south, they brought ships, salt wind, grudges, and a contract that might change the western coast.

Behind them, the Iron Islands remained wrapped in mist and cold water. The old order had not fallen. But it had cracked.

Sometimes that was enough.