#the iron islands

[daenysthedreamer101]

[duchess-of-oldtown]

One thing that always gets me, is Quellon Greyjoy. You got this ✨tall✨ scary dude who could have been a big fucking threat but decides to be a reformer. He tries to fix the reputation of the Iron Islands and the Greyjoys. And he dies in the most Ironborn way, in battle at sea, probably thinking at least "I did something to be proud of and the Islands are on the way to a better relationship with Westeros". But then his kids are literally an eldritch horror, a dumb thot, a religious fanatic and one short king and they just undo all of his work in like five mins. You cannot convince me that Quellon was not looking up from the depths of the Drowned God's watery halls like

[thebeesareback]

There's something which bothers me about asoiaf.

The night's watch, we've heard, was established after the long night, about 8000 years ago. Jon is (supposedly) the 998th Lord Commander, which approximately tracks.

We're led to believe that the vows have not changed at all during this time. I ask you to find the oldest book you can. For me, in the UK, that's probably Shakespeare, who was writing late 1500s/early 1600s. I have an English degree and i struggle with some of the language. Words fall in and out of fashion, understanding of concepts like, hm, marriage, change over time (Measure for Measure, I'm looking at you), and invasions will impact linguistics.

Therefore, a vow written by Shakespeare 500-ish years ago would have totally different connotations to a contemporary person vs a modern one, and someone with little/no formal education (like most of the nights' watch) probably wouldn't understand most of it. And that's 500 years! The nights' watch vow is 8000 years old! If someone handed me a peice of writing from 8000 years ago, which is technically the stone age, i wouldn't even know if I was holding it the right way up. Those vows aren't just dated: they're complete jibberish.

To add to this: Westerosi history generally seems pretty strange. We're supposed to understand that the maesters carefully destroyed lots of information about dragons, which helped contribute to their extinction. Yet, somehow, Asha Greyjoy knows about Kingsmoots, when the last one happened 5000 years ago? Again, a UK based example: stonehenge is about 5000 years old. Nobody knows what it's for. There are theories, there are people who worship there, but mostly it's a bunch of cool rocks. So it doesn't make sense that all of the information about dragons is lost over about 200 years from the Dance to Dany asking her handmaidens for info, but Asha, who comes from a culture where learning and reading aren't exactly celebrated, suddenly has access to all of this ancient information.

We do, of course, love, respect and stan one (1) Rodrick the Reader for his contributions to Asha's education and understanding of history, but one person isn't enough to keep history/culture/customs alive for 5000 years.

[starkslydia]

HOUSE GREYJOY is a noble house founded by the son of the Grey King during the Coming of the Andals. Their seat is Pyke, on the Iron Islands of Westeros. The Greyjoy heir is to be named Lord or Lady of the Iron Islands, Lord or Lady Reaper of Pyke and Son or Daughter of the Sea Wind, historically its heir also assumed the title of King or Queen of the Isles, as well as King or Queen of Salt and Rock. Their sigil is a golden kraken. The Greyjoy family words are “We Do Not Sow”. 

A short HISTORY of the NOBLE HOUSES of WESTEROS (4/11)

[thesunwillshineonusagain757]

𝗧𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗧 𝗔𝗨- 𝗔 𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗘

Have you ever asked yourself what a book for tourist traveling to Westeros would look like ? Well, my intrusive thoughts and lack of sleep helped me come up with this idea. It's just the first part of 9 I'll do one for each region of the land of Westeros, but I already have plan to do it to the region's of Westeros too. I based myself not just on the cultures of the real world but also Westeros, and what they would look like in a modern setting, so yeah enjoy my crazy shit because I sure did when I woke up today and decided to do this.

NORTH. VALE. RIVERLANDS. STORMLANDS. WESTERLANDS. CROWNLANDS. REACH. DORNE

[marsconer]

theon greyjoy + ethel cain

he’s such a man written by ethel cain ( crush, western nights , michelle pfeiffer )

( @dirtytransmasc i think you’ll like this one )

[game-of-style]

Gowns for a woman from the Iron Islands - Azzarro Haute Couture Spring 2022

[racefortheironthrone]

Is it unrealistic for the Ironborn to keep violently rebelling against the Crown, but still be part of the Seven Kingdoms? If the Crown isn't capable of permanently stopping the rebellions, why not just give up ruling over them?

To be honest, it would be more unrealistic if the Iron Throne gave up; whether we're talking about ancient empire or medieval monarchies, rebellions are very common features. It's most common at the periphery, as with the Iron Islands, as these governments have the most difficulty exerting influence and imposing their hegemony the further you get from the metropole. But they always either put down the rebellion or try their level best to.

To answer your second question, the reason why the Iron Throne keeps trying to impose its rule in the face of rebellions is that the rate of violence with the Iron Islands as one of the Seven Kingdoms is still lower than it would be if the Iron Islands were an independent pirate kingdom on Westeros' western borders. Look at the history of the Ironborn prior to the advent of the Targaryens - it's a picture of constant warfare with the mainland that only really died down in periods where the Iron Islands had gotten its ass kicked so thoroughly by the mainlanders that they had to institute a cultural revolution to get back in the game.

By contrast, under the Iron Throne, you have Dalton Greyjoy for two years, Dagon for a few years, and Balon/Euron for a few years. When you express that as a fraction of the 300 year period, it's a significantly lower number.

[beyondmistland]

Was Theon correct that the Westerlands would have made an easier target than the North? How do you think an Ironborn campaign there would have gone?

The Westerlands are an infinitely better target for the Ironborn than the North, hence why only an idiot like Balon would refuse the bait. As for how it would have gone, as well as it did for Dalton during the Dance of the Dragons and that's without Robb's help.

Thanks for the question, anon

[sowthetide]

Chapter 41: The Wayward Bride

They walked the castle grounds slowly. She gathered arrows as they did. A few perhaps were hers, but she found her quiver full of fletching from a dozen different fowl. There was striped pheasant, and spotted grouse, and even peahen feathers from Essos. Robb had gifted her some of those once, but none were quite so sweet as grey goose feather. Quen busied herself with that, so she need not look. So she need not see. Even as she laid a foot against one man’s head to grip the arrow in his eye, she avoided his empty gaze. You don’t need it anymore, she thought, ripping the arrow out with a wet squelch and a spurt of foul brownish liquid. I do.

[wylldebee]

Skelligers VS Ironborn

[duchess-of-oldtown]

I get a lot of people judge Asha on how she acts around Theon when they're reunited on the Iron Islands and then after Winterfell but consider this: Theon barely remembers her. But she doesn't have that luxury. She remembers everything about him. She remembers his first word, his first steps. She remembers how he'd run to her when Maron and Rodrik were being cruel, how he'd hide behind her when Euron was around, how they would crawl under her bed during storm's together or huddle around the Reader when he would tell them stories about the Grey King. She remembers how excited Theon was about the Rebellion, how disappointed he was when he was left behind. She remembers Baratheon soldiers climbing over their walls, her father kneeling and then strange men coming to take her last brother way. Don't tell me that she didn't hold onto him for dear life or fight them off. Don't tell me that nobody had to hold her back when they finally pulled him free. Then ten years pass with only a few letters. She's left alone with her mother who begins to vanish and a father who suddenly puts all his hope in her, because she's all he has left. Then he comes back. He's somebody else now and he doesn't remember her. He puts himself in danger to prove himself and she tries to stop him but he's running toward the edge and she can't do a thing to halt him. Then she hears nothing about him for months even years on end. And all of a sudden he's standing before her, remembering her name like it's something important and she can't do anything to save him. Again.

[suckerpunchfemale]

Were I a Lord or Lady of Westeros after Bran the Broken was named King of the Six Kingdoms. I would have rebelled. I would have rebelled so hard, that Sansa would have needed to send her newly minted army of northerners to help her brother maintain the seat he got for having good stories. Because if the North gets to liberate itself from Aegon the Conquerors Realm, then I'll be damned if I need to stay in it too. If you liberate one, you have to liberate all six kingdoms.

[rosaluxembae]

If you were to lead one of the 8 seven kingdoms to declare independence at some indeterminate point between Dorne being unified into the realm (the last dragon had already died) and let's say Roberts Rebellion, who would you pick?

The thing about the Eyrie is that its isolation is its greatest weakness as much as its greatest strength. Sure no one is going to march an army up through the 3 waycastles and storm the Eyrie itself but they don't have to. If they take the Gates of the Moon they can just plonk a garrison large enough to defend against whatever troops you have up the mountain and let it wither and die. The real fight would be to defend the Mountains of the Moon which provide good natural defenses. The Vale mountain clans would also likely harass enemy supply lines which is a help too. 

GRRM has said Casterly Rock is even stronger then the Eyrie or anywhere else but I guess it has a similar problem. At least it has its own docks within the mountain to smuggle in food if its sieged tho. The Western Hills would be similar to the Mountains of the Moon but less so. 

The Iron Islands have the sea and their fleet to defend them but I think they're just too small to defend themselves as shown in the Greyjoy Rebellion.

The Reach, Stormlands, and Riverlands are all too exposed to defend, although the Reach's control over food definitely works in the favour especially if they were to ally with Storm's End (now why does that sound familiar?) Could be trickier if Dorne enter the war tho.

Dorne is pretty defensible with the Red Mountains and deserts and all as they've proven before but by protecting most of their privileges by entering the realm peacefully and the influence from their historical marriage ties to the Targaryens, what would even be the point?

My money's on the North tbh. Just whack some archers in Moat Cailin and Robert is your mother's brother and Francesca is your father's sister. Really it was the Riverlands that fucked Robb. Obviously part of that was the Freys and their strategic control of the Twins but even besides that the Riverlands are just too vulnerable. The only thing is with the North's short summers and harsh winters whether it would be able to support itself or if it's too reliant on imports. I reckon it'd be fine tho.

[fortunate-hal]

Castle Pyke of the Iron Islands as illustrated by Enrique Corominas for the Spanish language ASOIAF artbook El arte de Canción de Hielo y Fuego    

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The Fisherman and the Mermaid

Pairing: Maron Grey x Maelstrom (fem. | mermaid )

Themes: Some danger | Soft ending

Warnings: Mentions of death | Mentions of storms at sea | Mentions of possible drowning | Brief mention of nudity

Summary: Maron, a poor fisherman from Pyke, makes use of a boat gifted to him by friends, and ends up lost at sea. 

Word count: 2.2k words

Minors DNI

Long before the building of the Wall and the Battle for the Dawn, there once was a young man living on an island now known to all as Pyke. He was a poor man, with neither birth nor fortune to his name. He had no horse, and no lord to command his services. All he had was a shack, a tiny spit of land to call his own, and a boat.

He did not mind. He believed in carving out his own destiny with the strength of his back and the sweat of his own brow. Day after day he would put his boat to sea, and day after day he would return, his body worn and his catch meager. And still, he did not mind. This man was content, you see, for while he may have been poor in coin, he was rich in loyal friends: Blacktide and Botley and Drumm, Greyiron and Harlaw and Tawney, and so many more. They broke bread with him, laughed with him, and listened to him when he wove his webs of dreams, and one day, on his twenty-fifth name day, they all collected what they could and brought him a new boat.

It was no great beauty, that boat. It was neither large nor grand, but it was beautiful in his eyes, for it was a gift gladly given. He thanked his friends heartily for it, and the next day, at the break of dawn, he set off again.

The day started gloriously. It was all warm sunshine and vivid blue skies and great big puffy clouds. The young man cast his nets, and waited. And waited. The hours passed and the sun rose higher, and his nets were empty. He rowed further out to sea and cast his nets. The sun rose higher still, and his nets remained empty. The young man did not give up. He rowed further still, hoping a third time would bring him luck. He cast his nets and prayed. His eyes grew heavy, and he yielded to sleep, thinking he was still safe.

The sky turned orange and gold when the sun began to set, and still he slept. The stars started to rise, one by one, and still he slept. The winds grew stronger, the air grew colder, and still he slept. The sky darkened, his boat rolled from side to side, and still, he slept. It was only when thunder boomed and lightning split the sky like a white-hot lance did he open his eyes. The young man looked on, sweat dripping down his brow and the sound of waves roaring in his ears, while clouds as dark as sin obscured the light of the stars and rain fell on him like an angry beast. There was not an inch of land to be seen. He had gone too far out to sea. Fear sank its talons into his flesh, threatening to rip him apart. The young man held onto his boat while it listed from side and side, praying to any god who could hear, to save him from a watery grave.

That was not to be. No God heard him. The storm raged and the man wept, blaming himself for his wretched fate.

If only he had kept to safer shores! If only he had been content and gone back, he could have lived to see another day! Alas, that was not to be. The young man wept and held on while the wind and rain slashed at him, certain of his doom. The winds grew stronger, and the waves rose higher. He closed his eyes and mustered his courage to meet his end.

That was not to be either. The temper in the air calmed, degree by slow degree. The wind, once howling and raging like a living thing, began to die down little by little. The waves, once roiling and threatening to drag him under, slowly calmed and stilled. The young man wanted to shout and laugh. He was alive. The skies and the seas had unleashed their worst, and he was alive. Never had he been more grateful than just then. He wanted to turn back and try to find land. Some land. At least until he could gather his bearings and set out again. He picked up his oars, ready to row long and hard.

That was when he heard it, drifting over the waves like a mist. It was a song, but unlike any melody he had ever heard. It was rich and haunting and beautiful and bewitching and tender, like a sweet confession to a lover. The young man stopped for a moment to listen. That song grew louder and drew closer, and yet he listened. He had never heard such a wondrous melody before. He may hear its like again. He rested his chin on his hand and waited.

The waves grew as still as a looking glass. The young man listened to the song, paying no mind to the small ripple in the water or the silhouette beneath it. There was another ripple, this time louder. The singing stopped. The clouds drifted, revealing a bright full moon. There was a strange stillness in the air. The young man felt like he was being watched. He looked over his shoulder, fearful of what he might see.

At the bow of his boat was a woman. She was half out of the water, leaning on the edge with great ease. The young man was struck dumb by the vision before him. The woman’s skin was the color of a glorious moonlit sea, and her eyes shone brightly like twin stars. Her hair fell past her waist like molten silver. She looked on with barely disguised curiosity. The young man inched closer and closer, equally curious about this creature. He peered over the edge. A beautiful tail of black and silver swished beneath the water. He was taken aback to find he was in the presence of a mermaid. 

"I am hungry," she said in his tongue. It shocked him. "Pray do you have anything to eat?"

The young man gulped in fright, but remembered his courtesies. "Just salted fish and bread soaked through, my lady," he replied, cautiously crawling over to the other end. "Will that serve?"

"Yes," she said as she swam beside him, her smile radiant, her voice like a song. "That will serve."

The young man nodded and dug around a worn oil-skin bag, wrinkling his face when he pulled out the wet food. Strange creature or not, he did not wish to serve anyone such pap. "This is all I have, my lady."

"It will serve," she replied again, her eyes filled with curiosity as she studied the man. Of men, she had heard of and seen plenty. The wretched tales the youngest among her sisters told her were enough to feed her nightmares. But this man… he seemed different. "Lost, are you?"

The young man laughed bitterly. "After a fashion, my lady." He unwrapped the parcels and presented the food, such as it was, to her. "I grew too bold, too greedy, and too desperate. Then I fell asleep. Now I am here." He looked around, his eyes widening at the endless expanse of sea. "Where is here, anyway?"

"You are near Lonely Light, sir," she replied, biting into the bread. It was soaked, just as he said, but she ate it anyway.

The name gave the young man the shivers. "I thought none but the dead may go there."

"My sisters and I are the judges of that," she said even as she helped herself to the salted fish. "And only those who come seeking things they should not meet their ends. Not those whose hearts beat true. They may stay for a night or two before leaving."

"Really? Then does my heart beat gentle and true?" he challenged, his lips tugging at the corners.

"Perhaps," she said, and finished the fish. "You seem decent enough. Tell me, sir, why are you here, so far away from your home?" 

"The fish," he said truthfully. "I thought I would have better luck with a better boat." 

"I see," she murmured, and studied the boat. "It is well made. Did you make it?"

"No. I do not have the coin for such fine wood and tools. My friends gave this to me as a gift."

"Loving friends indeed, to give you such a gift."

"They are indeed."

She studied him again. There was nothing in his easy manner and a ready smile that gave her cause for alarm, and unlike her younger sisters, she could peer into the hearts of mortals. It was a gift that was both a blessing and a curse, but Maelstrom was still grateful. She looked into his, and found it just as she expected it to be.

He has a good heart. And he has been generous with what little he has. A reward is in order.

"What is your name?" she asked finally.

"Maron," came his answer. "Maron Grey."

"My name means Maelstrom in your tongue," she said, before swimming away from the boat to sing.

Her singing was the same as before—utterly sweet and bewitching. Maron watched, his eyes widening, when more mermaids appeared in the water, each as beautiful as the next. They swam up to the boat. One of them tied a thick length of rope made of seaweed to one end. They all took turns swimming and pulling the boat along with them.

The stars were out in all their glory now. Maron could see them glimmering in the water like diamonds. The mermaids started to sing, their voices a glorious harmony filled with magic. He was content to listen, and his eyes widened once again when a strip of land appeared before his eyes. 

Lonely Light. None but the dead may visit here, so the minstrels said. The creatures that lived here were of myth and legend. Each was thought to be as generous and cruel as the sea. They would bless whomever they chose, the songs said, and hinder whomever they chose. Maron hoped he was the former and not the latter. The wrath of a mermaid was a terrifying thing, the songs said.

The boat was guided to a sheltered cove. The air was so thick with salt that it stung the eyes, but the sand was soft and warm beneath Maron’s feet. The mermaids bid him to stay with rest and entertain them with his tales. Maelstrom joined him on the beach, shocking him even more when her tail turned to legs the moment they brushed over the earth. She was unclad, and he looked away, his cheeks aflame, humble words of apology dripping off his tongue. Maelstrom laughed merrily and said, "What gentle manners this one has! Come, eat. You must be famished."

Maron glanced at his feet. A woven platter filled with fresh fruit and roasted fish lay before him. He ate until he had his fill, before accepting a cup of mead so light and sweet that he sighed as in a dream.

"Now sleep," Maelstrom urged, moving to one side while one of her sisters brought a soft mat of woven reeds for him to rest on. "On the morrow, I will guide you home."

Sleep claimed him without a struggle. Maron slept and dreamed. What beautiful dreams they were. When he awoke at dawn, his boat gleamed under the sunlight. The other mermaids were gone. Maelstrom was all that remained.

"My sisters and I will help you find the way back," she said, her feet barely leaving a mark on the sand while she walked. "Now come. I will guide you home. Your friends must surely be worrying over your safety."

Nearly a day passed before Maron reached his home and friends, but he never forgot the maiden who helped him. He would take his boat to see her daily and was pleased to find her waiting for him. Maelstrom showed where to fish and how much to catch. She told him stories that were strange and too outlandish to be true. He listened still, and told her tales of his home. His hauls and income grew, but he spoke to no one of the cause of his good luck. Oh, he shared his good fortune and helped his friends, but he would never tell his secret. Even as a wealthy man, he would still take his boat to sea, to meet the mermaid that had captivated him and haunted his dreams. Their bond grew, and a spark flashed between them. A deep and abiding love soon grew from that spark. Maelstrom would swim towards the shores Maron called home. He would meet her there in secret and take her to his place, where they dined and laughed and share pleasures. Their love soon resulted in a child. Maelstrom gave Maron a son, but he could never stay with his mother. His blood bound him to the lands of mortals, and he was to remain in his father’s world. The laws of Maelstrom's kin deemed it so. There was nothing either one of them could do.

Maron crafted a tale where he claimed to have bedded a serving girl while trading on the mainland. Since the mother in the story was lowborn, no one questioned him. The child grew strong and came to know his true mother. Maron would take him to sea to visit with her, or Maelstrom would join them at night for supper. She taught her son all she could and showed him all the secret ways of the world. That child became the Grey King, the slayer of Nagga, the first sea dragon, and the founding father of House Greyjoy.