All across the Iron Islands, men sit around driftwood fires and drink to “the Old Way”. When the Ironborn were feared wherever the waves were heard. When our strength was in our ships, not our stories. I don’t blame them. Drinking to the Old Way is easier than living it. Our ancestors took to the sea because the Iron Islands are shit without the crops that grow from it. Thirty cold, wet rocks off the coast of Westeros and a dozen more cluttered around the Lonely Light deep in the Sunset Sea. But hard places breed hard men.
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The First Men feared the sea. They had walked to Westeros, and even their fishermen never left sight of shore. I wish I could have seen the face of the first watchman to see our ships climb over the horizon. He was not the last. No matter how dark the night or how high the waves, come dawn, our prows cut through the morning mist and struck the beaches and riverbanks. Before the sun reached its height, we vanished again into the sea, our longships filled with gold, food, scared children, and sobbing women. For thousands of years, the Ironborn reaved up and down the Sunset Sea, driving the man of the green lands far inland or into walled castles where they paid us tribute. In the depth of winter, we feasted while the men who had planted and harvested crops starved. Their sons worked our mines, and their daughters warmed our beds.
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The stories claimed that the Old Way died with Harren the Black and his sons in Harrenhal. Our ships and axes were no match for Aegon’s dragons, so our ancestors bent their steel into fishhooks and our kingdom into villages and started telling the red tales around the fire of how we used to be strong and how one day we would be so again.
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Generations later, a young boy listened to them. Dalton Greyjoy, the wild young heir to Pyke, was rowing at five and reaving at ten in the Basilisk Isles with his uncle. By fourteen, Dalton had sailed as far as Old Ghis, fought in a dozen battles, and claimed four salt wives. In his fifteenth year, he avenged his uncle’s death in battle, but he took a dozen wounds and emerged from the fight drenched head to heel in blood. From that day forth, men called him the Red Kraken.
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During the Dance of Dragons, the Red Kraken picked the side that was fighting the Lannisters and fell upon the Westerlands while the Lannisters were off at war. Casterly Rock itself proved too strong once the lady of the castle barred its gates, but the Ironborn burned the Lannister fleet and sacked Lannisport carrying off gold, grain, and hundreds of women and girls, including Lord Lannister’s favorite mistress and all his bastards. The Red Kraken now ruled the Sunset Sea as his forbears had, and his longship once again brought the Old Way to the coast of Westeros. But then the war ended, and the mainland armies came home. The Iron Throne commanded the Red Kraken to stop reaving, and when he didn’t, a mistress opened his throat as he slept. While his sons squabbled, the Lannisters sent their soldiers to the Iron Islands. Thousands of men, women, and children were put to the sword, and scores of villages and hundreds of longships were put to the torch. The glorious return to the Old Way had lasted two years.
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My brother vowed to return us to the Old Way as well. He sat on the Salt Throne and sent our reavers to the shores of Westeros, just as he remembered from the stories he heard as a child. An old way for an old man. But while he listened to the stories, I lived them. It was never the Old Way to me. It was the only way.
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