The noisy hall felt as though an invisible, icy hand had suddenly strangled it.
King Quellon Greyjoy didn't raise his voice. He simply raised his weather-beaten hands—hard as reef stone—and clapped them together heavily a few times. The sound was dull but penetrating, like the echo of a war drum or the thud of waves hitting rock. It instantly suppressed all the raucous singing and laughter.
The drunkenness and feverish excitement hadn't faded from the lords' faces, yet they quieted down instinctively. Every eye turned to the King on the main seat.
Quellon's gaze swept slowly over every lord and captain present. There was no joy of victory on his face, only the settled, cold pragmatism of a ruler.
"I called you here," his voice was low but carried undeniable weight, every word landing clearly in their ears, "not to hear you brag about how many softies you killed, nor to chat about which floor you're going to pave with gold dragons."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"The job is done, but this war isn't over. King's Landing and the Tyrells were caught off guard this time. But next time, the one tied to a stake in the square and humiliated could be you, or me!" He acknowledged their achievements, but quickly pivoted. "There will be plenty of time later to argue about splitting the gold and loot."
"Right now," King Quellon's voice grew heavier, like the sea before a storm, "we count the cost."
Those words were like a bucket of freezing seawater, instantly extinguishing the remaining fever in the hall.
The smiles on the lords' faces stiffened and vanished. The warmth of the noise faded rapidly, replaced by a heavy, unavoidable silence. The numbing effect of the alcohol seemed to wear off, and the exhaustion of battle—and the heavy realization of lost companions—began to surface.
A brief silence enveloped the hall, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and someone's heavy breathing.
The first to break the silence was Balon Greyjoy. His young face still carried the murderous aura of the slaughter, but his report was unusually clear, calm, and precise—almost cold, as if he were stating facts that had nothing to do with him.
"Pyke," he stepped forward, looking his father in the eye. "Two hundred and eighteen dead. Twenty-one missing. Twenty-eight crippled with severe injuries—sixteen of whom will never hold an axe again." He offered no embellishment, just the cold, hard numbers. But behind every number was a life that was once vibrant, and a family now broken.
With Balon leading, the lords of the other islands woke from their victory stupor and began to report the price they had paid, one by one.
"Old Wyk: Ninety-seven dead, eight missing, eleven crippled..."
"Harlaw: Eighty-three dead, nine crippled..."
"Great Wyk: Sixty-five dead..."
"Saltcliffe: Forty-one dead..."
...
As the numbers were read out, the atmosphere in the hall grew heavier and heavier. Although the losses seemed acceptable compared to the glorious victory, when the cold statistics of death and disability were laid bare, the vanity of the celebration was instantly punctured.
Everyone knew that House Greyjoy, as the absolute main force and initiator of this war, had deployed the most troops and taken on the hardest task—facing the main force of the Redwyne fleet head-on in the open sea. They had borne the brunt of the counterattack. Therefore, their casualty numbers were far higher than other houses. It was expected, but still shocking to hear.
Most other islands had been assigned flanking maneuvers, landing raids, or mopping-up operations. While intense, the resistance they faced was far less brutal than the meat grinder in the center.
This casualty report was the true foundation of their victory, and the most important basis for distributing loot and pensions later. The revelry belonged to the night, but the cold numbers were the daylight that a ruler had to face.
King Quellon listened to every number without expression. His eyes, deep in their sockets, were as profound as the ocean; no one could guess his thoughts. He sat still as water, the noise of the celebration moments ago seeming like it never happened. In those eyes that had seen so much life and death, there was no ripple of emotion, only a settled, almost heavy majesty.
When the last lord finished his report, the hall fell into an oppressive silence, the popping of the torches sounding exceptionally loud. Quellon's gaze slowly swept across every lord present. His voice was low and solemn, breaking the silence like an oath.
"All the warriors who died," he began, every word hitting the floor like iron, "their bodies must be treated with respect. Wash the blood away with clean seawater. Wrap them in the finest linen. They are the heroic spirits of the Iron Islands. The ceremony for their return to the Drowned God's embrace must not be slighted."
He paused, then continued, "The names of all the dead and the severely wounded, their islands, their families—they must be recorded in detail. No mistakes are allowed. Once the count is finished, submit it all to Rodrik Harlaw."
When he mentioned that name, there was a rare note of absolute trust in King Quellon's voice.
"Afterward," he looked around sharply, ensuring everyone heard the promise clearly, "we will follow the ancient laws of the Iron Islands strictly. The pension gold will be delivered, in full, to the hands of their closest kin. Not a single copper less."
"Anyone who dares to play tricks with this, skimming off the blood money of dead brothers, or falsifying reports..." His voice suddenly turned freezing cold. "Don't blame my axe for not recognizing old friends!"
Then he turned to the arrangement for the wounded. "Give the best treatment to all the injured immediately! Herbs, healers—supply them first. As for those brothers who can no longer fight..." A trace of imperceptible heaviness entered his tone. "Take good care of them. Once the situation stabilizes, the first ship out will take them back to the Iron Islands. Their families... we will find other ways for them to live."
He handed the most tedious task—the one requiring the utmost detail and fairness—to Rodrik Harlaw.
Everyone's eyes instinctively turned to the lord standing at the front of the House Harlaw contingent. Rodrik Harlaw was an anomaly among the rough, martial Ironborn. He wasn't frail—he was the captain of the longship Sea Song and had weathered storms and slaughter like the rest.
But the biggest difference was that he was always reading—parchments, tomes, even precious books brought from distant continents. This was extremely rare among Ironborn who viewed reading as "soft behavior," earning him the nickname "Rodrik the Reader."
However, no one dared to look down on him for it. Besides reading a lot, Rodrik Harlaw was famous for his extreme fairness and meticulous mind. He was calm and steady, not prone to the rage or fanaticism of other lords. He handled affairs with clear logic and kept accounts without a single error.
For a job like casualty statistics and pension verification—work that required extreme patience and impartiality—there truly wasn't anyone in the Iron Islands better suited or more trusted than him. Even the most unruly captain was willing to believe that "The Reader" wouldn't mess with their brothers' blood money.
Receiving the task, Rodrik "The Reader" Harlaw nodded deeply. "I will not fail this trust."
King Quellon's move was both a recognition of Rodrik's ability and a way to stabilize the army's morale. It ensured that the price of this victory would be properly soothed, showing the living warriors that if they fought for him, dead or alive, someone would be responsible for their aftermath.
Euron noted this silently. He had learned something new: This wisdom of governance did far more to bind men's hearts together than any empty reward.
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