Off the Coast of Dorne, 359 AC

Harren Saltcliffe stood at the prow of his flagship, Grey Wyrm. The seas were calm and his ships, like the rest of the Ironborn fleet, cut through the water like a knife. The sandy coasts of Dorne rushed past, a baking desert surrounded by the cool blue of the seas. Yet the Lord of Saltcliffe kept his eyes focused forward, for these sights were not new to him. He had traveled far and wide as a young man, from the frigid harbors of Bear Isle to the heady perfumed wharves on the other end of the Narrow Sea. Yet, this journey was a novelty for him. His men were bound not for a port, but a palace: Summerhall. The greenlanders, who crave pomp and ceremony like a dog craves scraps from his master's table, had called all the lords of the realm to a great ceremony at the Dragon's summer palace. The last festival of a dying king, he thought to himself, only a dragon would be so arrogant to crave participation in his own funeral. Few among his crew had any great love of the Targaryens, though he knew few would pass up the opportunity to eat from the king's table and drink from his cellars.

Yet, Harren was conflicted. In his youth, he would have seen this as a marvelous opportunity. A chance to meet lords from far away and to open new ports for his merchants. He could imagine his own ships gracing the port of White Harbor, as far from Saltcliffe as one could be by sea, and trading goods. It seemed those days were past, and this peace that had enveloped the realm like a great cloak was about to slip away and leave only bare flesh beneath. If the dragons would not keep the peace, then the ironborn would rule the seas, as it should be, he muttered to himself. Too long had they allowed cowards and drunkards to reign over them, content to bend the knee to the preening greenlanders. He came to Summerhall not only for roasted meats and finest wines, but to see the mettle of the realm and to know whether it was time for the ironborn to return to the Old Way. With the waters so long deserted, the catch was sure to be fat and unsuspecting.

"My father seems lost in thought, perhaps I should bring him a chart?"

He turned to see his son Urron, a smile upon his face. He had shed all but the lightest tunic in the Dornish heat, as had many among his crews.

"Does not my son have his own ship to command? Or have you left your brother in charge? He's liable to find himself so turned around that he will dock in Oldtown a week after we reach Summerhall." The two men laughed and embraced.

"Theon hasn't lost his way on the seas since I grew my first beard, the Widow's Lament is in good hands." In truth, he had been aboard since they took on water at the Arbor, yet his father never missed a chance to deploy his dry wit upon his sons.

Urron clapped his father on the back, "You overthink, as is your want. We come to enjoy the hospitality of these greenlanders, let us drink them dry and eat them out of house and home."

"Thinking my boy, every now and then, will save your damned life. We are walking into the belly of the dragon, and if you or your men whisper the wrong words into the wrong whore's ears you could get us all killed." He paused, feeling that his words were too dire. He embraced his son saying, "patience my son. While we shall enjoy this hospitality, our aim is to see how ready the beast is for slaughter. And," he paused, "whether this girl is really the one to lead us."

"She broke my aunt's nose," Urron retorted impulsively.

"My sister should consider herself lucky, few mock a Lord Reaper and live. She has the heart of a kraken to be sure, even if she lacks a cock." He sighed, shaking his head, "yet we shall see. I know little of the greenlander bastard, yet fate has a humor all its own. Only one can sit the Seastone Chair. You know I favor a kingsmoot, but I would rather know both beforehand. Better to sail charted waters than face the open sea alone."