GOT: I Plunder Skills — Chapter 408 - Preparing to Attack Bear Island

The roar on the hill crashed like waves against the cliffs of Pyke, relentless and unceasing.

Euron Greyjoy stood at the center of it all.

His single eye swept across the faces contorted by greed and bloodlust, and the smile on his lips grew more manic.

He loved this feeling.

Taking fear and desire and blending them into a poison called loyalty, then feeding it to these foolish Ironborn with his own hands.

He slung the ominous dragon horn casually over his shoulder and reached down to pull Theon up from his knees.

"Look!"

Euron grabbed Theon by the shoulders and turned him to face the crowd.

"This is my good nephew! This is the blood of House Greyjoy!"

"See the flame in his eyes! The flame of vengeance! Hot enough to burn the entire North to ash!"

Theon trembled , not from fear, not anymore. This was something else. Something he'd never felt before.

Countless gazes locked onto him.

And for once, there was no contempt in them. No mockery.

Only awe. Envy. Hunger.

He was no longer the soft boy the Northerners had raised. No longer the hostage nobody cared about.

In this moment, he was a hero.

A conqueror who would lead the Ironborn to glory.

He drew a deep breath. Cold sea air flooded his lungs, and even his blood seemed to turn briny.

This feeling... gods, it was good.

Yara stood apart from the crowd and watched.

She looked at her brother, utterly played, his face burning red with excitement, and something close to revulsion coiled in her gut.

She had always known Euron was a madman.

She just never thought Theon would be so easy to seduce.

Prince of the North? Riding a dragon?

That kind of drivel wouldn't fool a child of three.

And yet Theon , desperate, starving to prove himself , had swallowed every word.

The frenzy of the Kingsmoot finally broke.

Euron Greyjoy took the Seastone Chair without a word of challenge. The driftwood throne was his.

That night, the great hall of Pyke blazed with torchlight.

Euron sat at the high seat. At his feet, two warlocks from Qarth knelt in silence, their tongues cut out, as docile as trained dogs. He had laid the dragon horn across the table in front of him and was polishing it with a strip of silk, unhurried and deliberate.

Theon and Yara stood before him.

"My dear nephew. My dear niece."

Euron raised his head. His single eye caught the firelight and held something faintly wrong.

"You pleased me today."

He looked at Theon, the approval on his face unmistakable.

"Especially you, Theon."

"You found the blood in you again. The true Ironborn spirit."

"If your father were still alive, he would be proud."

Theon's chest swelled.

"But," Euron said, and his tone shifted.

"Spirit alone is not enough. We must prove our worth with the blood of our enemies."

He rose from his seat and crossed to a large map of Westeros pinned to the wall , worn, stained, marked with ports and castles in faded ink.

"That new king in the North. Lynn."

"Right now, he is the most feared man in all of Westeros."

"He has dragons. He has the dead. He has more women than anyone can count."

Euron's finger moved slowly across the map and came to rest on Winterfell.

"Everyone fears him. Everyone wants to be him."

"But they have all forgotten one thing."

He turned to look at Theon.

"Even the mightiest dragon has a vulnerable neck."

"Even the strongest castle cannot stop a dagger from within."

His gaze sharpened.

"And you, Theon, are that dagger."

Yara's stomach dropped.

"You want to send him to his death?" The words came out cold and flat.

"To his death?" Euron laughed.

He walked to her and lifted her chin gently with his gloved hand.

"My dear niece. Why would you think something like that?"

"This is glory."

"This is the finest chance either of you will ever have to wash away the shame of our house and carve your names into history."

"Lynn and Ned Stark still see you as that obedient ward, Theon. That well-behaved hostage."

Euron's voice dropped, honeyed with suggestion.

"They would never dream that the dog they raised with their own hands might turn around and tear out their throats."

"I will give you five of the fastest ships. One hundred of my best men."

"You and Yara will sail back to the North together."

"Tell Ned Stark you have come home to swear your loyalty — to him, to your new king."

"He will believe you. He will open Winterfell's gates without a second thought."

"And then..."

A cruel smile spread across his face.

"At the feast they throw in your honor — after you have eaten their salt and bread, when every last one of them has let their guard down..."

"Kill them."

"Kill Lynn. Kill Ned Stark. Kill every last Stark."

"And bring their heads back to me."

The hall went silent.

Theon's breathing turned heavy.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Assassination.

At a feast. In front of everyone. Kill the King in the North and the Lord of Winterfell?

This was...

"This is madness!"

Yara couldn't hold it in any longer. She knocked Euron's hand away from her face.

"Even if we succeed, we will never leave Winterfell alive!"

"Alive?"

Euron looked as if she had said something genuinely funny.

"We are Ironborn, Yara."

"We do not pray to come back alive. We seek a glorious death."

"Though..."

A flicker of cunning crossed his single eye.

"Who says you won't?"

"The moment Lynn dies, that undead army of his falls apart. The entire North collapses into chaos. You will have more than enough time to reach White Harbor and set sail long before any reinforcements arrive."

"And I,"

Euron spread his arms wide.

"The moment you succeed, I sound the horn."

"His dragons become our mounts."

"We ride them, and we burn the North down to bare, black earth."

"And you , both of you — will be the heroes who conquered it."

Theon felt his blood begin to boil.

He could already see it. The image crystallized behind his eyes.

Ned's head beneath his boot. Every Northerner staring in horror as he declared himself the true master of these lands.

"I'm in." The words came out closer to a roar.

He stared at Euron, his eyes blazing with certainty.

"I'll go. I'll bring their heads back."

"Theon!" Yara stared at him, disbelieving.

"Shut up, Yara!"

Theon spun on her.

"Have you forgotten what they did to Father?! How he died for nothing?!"

"Do you want to spend the rest of your life on these rocks?! Playing pirate chief on a pile of rubble?!"

"This is our only chance!"

Yara looked at his face , twisted, burning, unrecognizable , and opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Theon had lost his mind. She could see it clearly now.

Euron had taken him apart and put him back together as something else. That hollow word , glory , had done the rest.

"Excellent." Euron nodded, satisfied.

"That is my good nephew."

He turned to Yara, and his smile took on a different quality.

"And you, dear niece? You wanted to be queen, didn't you?"

"Then prove to me you deserve it."

"Or are you content to stand there while your brother takes all the glory for himself?"

The color drained from Yara's face. Then it came flooding back. Then it left again.

She had no choice. She could see the walls closing in.

Refuse and she was a coward. A traitor to her own blood. Every Ironborn on these islands would spit at her name.

Agree and she was signing onto a suicide run with her lunatic brother.

She looked at Theon's eyes , mad fire burning in them , then at Euron's face, that patient, satisfied smirk.

A long silence.

She forced the words out through her teeth.

"Fine."

"I'll go."

Three days later.

Five black longships slipped out of Pyke harbor in silence, the kraken banner of House Greyjoy snapping in the wind above them.

Theon stood at the prow. The sea breeze moved through his black hair. He stared north at a sky the color of dirty iron, his hand tight around the grip of a longsword.

Behind him, Yara leaned against the mast and cleaned her axe, her face giving nothing away.

She knew what was waiting for them when they rode back through Winterfell's gates.

Blood. And nothing after.

Up on the tower of Pyke.

Euron Greyjoy watched the longships shrink against the horizon until they disappeared. A cold smile settled on his face.

Behind him, Victarion Greyjoy stepped forward , the silent, broad-shouldered commander of the Iron Fleet, a man built like a siege engine.

"Do you actually believe they can pull it off?"

Victarion's voice sounded like millstones grinding.

"Pull it off?"

Euron snorted. He turned around, his single eye full of amusement.

"Since when did you go soft?"

"A boy the Northerners spent years taming. A woman who's never been anything but useful on a ship. You think that pair can put down a man who commands the dead?"

Victarion's brow creased.

"Then why did you—"

"Because they are Balon's children."

Euron cut him off. No warmth in his voice. No feeling at all.

"Their existence alone is the greatest threat to my throne."

"Sending them to Winterfell , to die at Lynn's hands, or torn apart by angry Northerners , that is a clean ending for everyone."

"Two birds."

"We rid ourselves of two inconvenient heirs, and we hand that dragon in the North a reason to rage."

He moved to the map. His finger found the western coast of the North and landed on a small, isolated island.

Bear Island.

"While every eye in Westeros is fixed on Winterfell, our fleet tears through the North's western flank."

He looked up at Victarion. The light in his single eye was not sane.

"King Stannis is losing patience."

"He needs proof of our commitment. Something he can hold in his hands."

"A prosperous Bear Island, and the screams of the Mormont women , I think that makes a fitting gift."

He clapped Victarion once on the shoulder, firm and final.

"Go. Gather the fleet."

"Let the world remember what it feels like when House Greyjoy is angry."

➤ Next: The Glass Candle Is Lit