On an outlook in Castle Pyke, the Greyjoy brothers and their sister, Alannys, were welcoming the nightfall over Sunset Sea. News of Aegon II's coronation in King's Landing had reached the Iron Islands in the morning, and since then only the youngest, Greydon, had given a thought to their father's recent death. Greydon was only a boy of 7 while the rest were all in their teens, but Dalton had been on his first reaving at 6; pity was absent in Lord Greyjoy's heart.
Greydon persisted, "When will we put father to rest?"
"I might just send you with him, little brother," Dalton replied plainly.
Alannys took her baby brother by the shoulder and guided him away. "Go on to mother, see that she's eating."
Veron, the second eldest, watched in silent judgement as his baby brother left. Alannys noticed and chastised her older brothers, "We weren't all made to destroy what we see. Anyway, you should be glad; when Dalton inevitably dies like a fool, Greydon won't be a threat to your succession. He'll make a fine priest one day."
"Enough." Dalton, usually only ever half-present, suddenly rose with a light in his eyes. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and walked to the window. In the sky, storm clouds were gathering to the east. Within hours, the seas around Pyke would be deadlier than any Ironborn raid. A hint of a smile crept on his face.
Veron poured himself a drink and dropped down in to a seat. A map of the Sunset Sea was laid out before him, and on it, the positions of ports, trade centers, and foreign fleets were marked by figurines. "I could piss on Banefort from this chair. Give me a boat and I'll beat the storm to the Westerlands. Faircastle will be under siege by the end of the week."
Dalton remained silent, fixated on the darkening sky. Veron turned his eyes to the east. "Seagard, then. The Tully fleet is strong enough to threaten the Iron Islands if our fleet sails south, and south is where the gold is, brother. And the women."
Dalton's eyes shifted slightly, but he gave no response. Alannys sat down across from Veron and laughed. "House Hoare crippled itself trying to rule the Riverlands. Greyjoys took these islands for it, and for a century Greyjoys have been pissing on Banefort from that same chair. Whatever Dalton accomplishes will establish a legacy for our House beyond the traitorous, backstabbing thieves we are. Let's be more ambitious than living as a shadow."
Veron drank his cup and shot back, "Let's hear a plan then."
"We sail north, for Flint's Finger, and strike their port. From there we can raid freely along the entire northern coast. From Barrowtown to Deepwood Motte, our reavers will take as they please."
By now it was too dark to see the clouds, but Dalton stared on in to the void as if something were there, entrancing him. His siblings looked to him, waiting for a response. It was silent for a time, until thunder cracked and lightning gave view to the clouds again. The waters began to churn as rain pattered down, and suddenly Dalton's eyes were wide. His breath quickened as his heart rate rose with each swell of the sea. "Leave me. I shall draw up the orders alone. Prepare all the ships and men. We cast off as soon as the storm breaks."