After the tidal wave of victory passed, the cold reality emerged like jagged reefs exposed by the receding sea—sharp, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
The adrenaline of the raid was fading into the solemnity of the casualty report. Now, a crucial question weighed heavily on the heart of every Ironborn lord and furrowed the brow of King Quellon Greyjoy.
What happens next? Where do we go from here?
The noise in the Great Hall died down, replaced by a restless, heavy silence—the weight of weighing the future. The rough lords wiped the smiles from their faces and looked to their King. Two distinct paths, like a fork in a shipping lane, lay before the Iron Islands.
Option One: Loot and Leave.
Option Two: Long-term Occupation.
"If you have thoughts, speak them," King Quellon said, clasping his hands over his chest. His gaze swept over every lord present, laying the choice clearly before them. "Tell me your choice. Are you satisfied with the gold in front of you? Or... are you willing to gamble everything to seize the goose that lays the golden eggs, and stand ready to face the storm that follows?"
Quellon's words were like a ladle of cold water thrown into a pot of boiling oil—the hall exploded instantly. The lords were no longer silent listeners; they began shouting their opinions, and the debate turned white-hot in seconds.
The "War Hawks," led by the young Balon Greyjoy, were the first to speak. Balon shot to his feet, slamming his fist on the table and sending wine cups rattling. With blood still dried on his face and ambition burning in his eyes, he roared, "Occupy! Of course we occupy! Father! We bled this much, we lost so many brothers—are we really going to just grab a bag of gold and run? How is that different from the petty raids of the past?"
His voice rose with passion. "The Arbor! This is one of the richest islands in the Seven Kingdoms! Its vineyards, its ports, its taxes! If we hold this place, the Iron Islands will finally have the foundation to stand as equals with the Lannisters and the Tyrells! We won't just be 'those island savages' anymore! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Why fear the Tyrells? Why fear the Mad King? If they dare to come, we'll fight them again on the sea! Let them taste the wrath of the Great Kraken!"
Lord Ralph Goodbrother of Hammerhorn, a massive man with a voice like a bell, slapped the table in agreement. "The boy is right! Loot and run? That's letting them off too easy! I just got warmed up chopping them down. I say we stay and see how tough these Reach knights really are! Can their horses swim across the sea to fight us? If we hold this place, we are a dagger stuck right in the heart of the Reach!"
Fanaticism and bellicosity are in the Ironborn blood. The proposal for long-term occupation was met with cheers and roars from many nobles: "Restore the Glory of the Iron Islands!"
Rodrik "The Reader" Harlaw immediately shook his head. His voice was calm, carrying a logical weight that clashed with the surrounding fervor.
"Lord Balon, Lord Ralph, your courage is commendable. But forgive me for being blunt—this is reckless and ignores reality." He touched a cut near his eye, wiping away a trickle of blood that was blurring his vision. "What does occupation mean? It means we have to split our forces, leaving half or more stationed here permanently. We have to defend a massive coastline against endless harassment and inevitable, large-scale counterattacks."
He looked around the room, analyzing coldly. "Our foundation is the Iron Islands. If our main force is trapped down here, what happens to our home? The Tyrells can field tens of thousands of soldiers from the Reach. Even if their navy is damaged, their war potential far exceeds ours. Once they mobilize and besiege this island, we will be stuck between a rock and a hard place."
"And King Aerys in King's Landing..." Rodrik paused. "He may be mad, but he is still the King. Long-term occupation is tantamount to open rebellion and splitting the kingdom. He will destroy us at any cost to make an example. We will face the wrath of all Westeros. Betting the entire future of the Iron Islands on a single island? That is a price we cannot afford."
Lord Shevly of Saltcliffe, an old lord known for his caution, nodded tremulously. "Rodrik is right. Gold is only yours when you take it home. Occupying this place is like picking up a burning coal—it's heavy and it burns. The Ironborn advantage is mobility—we come and go like the wind. Staying here makes us a fixed target. We're using our weakness to fight their strength. Quit while we're ahead. Take the gold, go home, build houses, build new ships, and make ourselves stronger. That is the right path."
In the Arbor, far from home, likely to be besieged; an enclave, stationed here, losing the advantage of the open sea.
Dunstan "The Bone Hand" Drumm of Old Wyk rubbed the calluses on his good hand, his voice rough as grinding gravel. "Balon has guts. Rodrik has brains. You both make damn good points." He cursed under his breath. "But I think we can't just rely on bloodlust, and we can't just count coins. If we occupy, the risk is huge, but the reward is... well, it's frighteningly huge. The question is, can we hold it?"
He looked at Quellon. "Your Grace, even if we want to occupy, we need to see how fast and how hard Highgarden and King's Landing react. How about this: We ship most of the gold back first—that belongs to the boys. But we don't burn the port or the shipyards yet. We leave an elite garrison here to watch the wind. If the reaction is slow, we slowly eat away at them. If their great armies come crashing down, then we burn everything, grab what's left, and sail away! What do you say?"
The Lord of House Botley from Lordsport cared more about the bottom line. "I don't care if we stay or go, but my men didn't die for nothing! The pensions and the bounties must be paid out first! And double it! If we decide to hold, the men who stay behind better get the biggest share of the coin! Otherwise, who the hell would want to stay in this cursed place living in fear?"
The hall descended into noise again. The "Hawks" and the "Looters" argued endlessly. Those who wanted to occupy painted a picture of an empire; those who wanted to retreat emphasized the risks and ancient wisdom. The centrists tried to find a middle ground to maximize profit.
Eventually, everyone's eyes focused once again on King Quellon Greyjoy. He was the helmsman of the Iron Islands. The final course was his to set. Would they sail into the storm for ultimate riches? Or follow the Old Way, take the loot, and return home with full holds?
This debate would decide the fate of the Iron Islands.
King Quellon's gaze, like quenched iron, slowly swept across the hall, silencing every lord. The air was thick with alcohol, blood, and a fierce anxiety about the future. He had listened to his captains—brave men, but not necessarily long-term strategists—argue for both extremes.
Finally, his deep gaze landed on the bloodstained casualty report on the table.
He didn't immediately answer whether they would stay or go. Instead, he turned his head to look at his second son, who had been sitting silently on his left.
"Euron," Quellon asked. "You built the Fire and Ice Trading Company with your own hands. You were the first to propose the decision to start this war. Looking at the board now... what do you think?"