A Feast for Dragons by George R. R. Martin Page A

about to say that they all
had gone to Pyke, to do homage to the Crow’s Eye. “Why Old Wyk?”
    “I thought you would have heard. Aeron Damphair has called a
kingsmoot.”
    Asha threw back her head and laughed. “The Drowned God must
have shoved a pricklefish up Uncle Aeron’s arse. A kingsmoot? Is this
some jape, or does he mean it truly?”
    “The Damphair has not japed since he was drowned. And the
other priests have taken up the call. Blind Beron Blacktyde, Tarle the
Thrice-Drowned . . . even the Old Grey Gull has left that rock he lives on to
preach this kingsmoot all across Harlaw. The captains are gathering on Old Wyk
as we speak.”
    Asha was astonished. “Has the Crow’s Eye agreed to attend
this holy farce and abide by its decision?”
    “The Crow’s Eye does not confide in me. Since he summoned me
to Pyke to do him homage, I have had no word from Euron.”
    A kingsmoot. This is something new . . . or rather,
something very old. “And my uncle Victarion? What does he make of the
Damphair’s notion?”
    “Victarion was sent word of your father’s death. And of this
kingsmoot too, I do not doubt. Beyond that, I cannot say.”
    Better a kingsmoot than a war. “I believe I’ll kiss
the Damphair’s smelly feet and pluck the seaweed from out between his toes.”
Asha wrenched loose her dirk and sheathed it once again. “A bloody kingsmoot! ”
    “On Old Wyk,” confirmed Lord Rodrik. “Though I pray it is
not bloody. I have been consulting Haereg’s History of the Ironborn. When last the salt kings and the rock kings met in kingsmoot, Urron of Orkmont
let his axemen loose among them, and Nagga’s ribs turned red with gore. House
Greyiron ruled unchosen for a thousand years from that dark day, until the
Andals came.”
    “You must lend me Haereg’s book, Nuncle.” She would need to
learn all she could of kingsmoots before she reached Old Wyk.
    “You may read it here. It is old and fragile.” He studied
her, frowning. “Archmaester Rigney once wrote that history is a wheel, for the
nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. What has happened before will
perforce happen again, he said. I think of that whenever I contemplate the
Crow’s Eye. Euron Greyjoy sounds queerly like Urron Greyiron to these old ears.
I shall not go to Old Wyk. Nor should you.”
    Asha smiled. “And miss the first kingsmoot called in . . .
how long has it been, Nuncle?”
    “Four thousand years, if Haereg can be believed. Half that,
if you accept Maester Denestan’s arguments in Questions. Going to Old
Wyk serves no purpose. This dream of kingship is a madness in our blood. I told
your father so the first time he rose, and it is more true now than it was
then. It’s land we need, not crowns. With Stannis Baratheon and Tywin Lannister
contending for the Iron Throne, we have a rare chance to improve our lot. Let
us take one side or the other, help them to victory with our fleets, and claim
the lands we need from a grateful king.”
    “That might be worth some thought, once I sit the Seastone
Chair,” said Asha.
    Her uncle sighed. “You will not want to hear this, Asha, but
you will not be chosen. No woman has ever ruled the ironborn. Gwynesse is seven years my elder, but when our father died the Ten Towers came to me. It
will be the same for you. You are Balon’s daughter, not his son. And you have
three uncles.”
    “Four.”
    “Three kraken uncles. I do not count.”
    “You do with me. So long as I have my nuncle of Ten Towers,
I have Harlaw.” Harlaw was not the largest of the
Iron
Islands
,
but it was the richest and most populous, and Lord Rodrik’s power was not to be
despised. On Harlaw, Harlaw had no rival. The Volmarks and Stonetrees had large
holdings on the isle and boasted famous captains and fierce warriors of their
own, but even the fiercest bent beneath the scythe. The Kennings and the Myres,
once bitter foes, had long ago been beaten down to vassals.
    “My cousins do me fealty, and in war I