There was a chair by a window in a small, airy chamber atop the tallest of Harlaw Hall’s six towers. From the window, one could see the little garden in the yard of the castle below, and the apple orchard penned in by a wall of unmortared stone. You could see the moors of billowing purple heather, tall hills with juts of grey-black stone breaking out from beneath dense green foliage. Sparse and wind-blown trees with thin canopies of leaves, circling cormorants, herds of sheep on a steep and distant pasture. Granite clouds shifted slowly over the dark and twisted hedgerows, great sheets of rain fell upon men toiling over long furrows of peaty black sod, on the turf cottages with the thin columns of smoke swirling up from their chimneys. The chair and the window had once belonged to Marwyn Harlaw, and with them all that could be beheld in the lands beyond. It was not the seat of the Harlaw, that was the Reaper’s Throne, the chair of varnished wood that sat beneath two vast scythes of beaten silver in the Great Hall where petitioners would gather and reavers would bring their hauls that their liege might receive his share. Instead it was an elaborate construction of ash and wicker, a well-loved thing despite its plainness, carvings along its arms that were clearly the addition of a later owner but which had been preserved by more recent layers of varnish that gave the whole thing the feeling of having been set in amber, a remnant of a bygone time.
The chair, the window, and the lands beyond them now belonged to Ashlen Harlaw, the Harlaw, the first woman to hold the Reaper’s Throne in centuries. There were legends, of course, Saersha had recounted them. Mad Morwenna Harlaw, the Blood-Crowned Queen, a rebel and a renegade who had slit the throat of her Greyiron husband and named herself Queen, had ruled for seven years before one of her rivals cast her down. Dymna Harlaw had known a more peaceful reign, though she was only a regent, she ruled Pyke for nearly twelve years until her son by Gorrik Hoare came of age. They called her Dymna the Drowner, though. She didn’t get that peace of hers by her beauty, nor by asking nicely. Those were Harlaws who had held onto the seats of their dead husbands, though. There were a dozen or so of those, depending on whose tales you believed. To find the last Harlaw woman who’d inherited her seat you had to go back a thousand years, to Fair Aeffa, born to a father whose wife had miscarried ten sons, small and sweet and cunning as a fox. She had held on to her seat by outsmarting every man who’d tried to strip her of it, beating swindlers and murderers and fell-handed captains. There were half a hundred stories, and Ashlen wasn’t sure she could trust any of them. Supposedly she married Brave Rurrik, the one from the songs, which went to show you just how old the story was. And then she sired a score of sons, and left Harlaw stronger than it had ever been before.
That was what Ashlen Harlaw desired, more than anything. To leave this island stronger than she had found it, and to be remembered for so doing. She wished to be a lady who stood up to her father’s legacy as a Lord. But when she thought on what Aeffa Harlaw had gone through, she did not know if she could bear that. After her most recent delivery… She was not sure that she could bear going through childbirth again. It had been three days of blood, and screaming, lying in indignity with only Crannock and his orderlies for company. And when she had endured that, there had been the fever, lying insensate, shivering, convinced that she would soon with nothing more than two sons, a coup, and some blood-stained sheets for her legacy. She had risen from that bed, though there had been days when she had thought she would not, though even the Maester had been muttering prayers to those blasphemous wooden gods of his. She had risen, alive but diminished, gaunt and weak. It had left her as she was now, secluded up in her father’s old solar, blankets piled up around her, a fire roaring in the little fireplace even in the very height of summer. When she held her daughter in her arms, her Morwenna, she could not but think that it had been worth it, but nor could she bring herself to go through it again. She had her daughter with her often, a little comfort in these hard, cold days. As the Summer brought its usual bounties to the Iron Islands, winds that were merely blustery rather than biting, and rains that were well short of freezing, it did warm her heart to see the girl’s small, red face with those faint curls of black hair, swaddled tight in a blanket as she dozed. If she never had another child, she could be happy with this one.
But she had more than children to worry herself with now. She had an island to rule, an island that was not some memory of the distant past, nor some pleasant construction in a song. She had all of Harlaw to rule, and she had it to rule alone. Nyall was off on his reaving with the Greyjoy, and with him had gone a good part of her most reliable swords. Derfel, Jorrick Boarsblood, the Shatterhand and the Bolt-Eater. She would need to rule this island now not with force, but with wit, with the good sense that her father had used to keep his people in line for more than thirty years. The Rook had never been a warrior, though he had benefitted from the strength of warriors. So too had he not been a priest, but benefitted from the wisdom of holy men. He had drowned more than his fair share, but none without cause, and none without a fair trial first. Her father was still spoken of as an example to follow, long after he had died. That, she thought, was the very least to which she ought aspire. Dermod would rule this island after her, with Emmett beside him. She had to set an example to them, as well. An example by which they would know that their mother was the equal to any man who claimed rulership over these isles.
Of course such aspirations were not realised simply by thinking on them. She was weakened by her ordeal, diminished, but not extinguished. She may not look the part of a lady, her hair dull and dishevelled, hanging loose about a face whose cheekbones were more pronounced than they had erstwhile been, wrapped in blankets of soft wool with her swaddled babe in her arms, but her mind was as sharp as it had ever been.
The world does not wait for you, Her father had told her once, in the early days of his final illness, the first time it had confined him to his bed. He had been as pale as a ghost, his hair more grey than black, and yet there were papers strewn all around him, piled up about the furs. He had propped himself up against the headboard of his bed, with a small folding desk of Crannock’s design set over his lap. Sick, wounded, struck by grief or madness, the world carries on. Your enemies plot against you, your subjects rankle at their station, the blight works its way through your crops, the sickness through your cattle. There is always some foe, some problem to be solved. Your excuses will not halt it.
Her father had worked until he died. He had made a peaceful island, a proud example, a light amidst the Iron Isles. But if that island had been a candle in the darkness, then Marwyn Harlaw had been its wick. He had been burned to a stub in service of this island. But that is what it takes, that is what it is to rule. She had asked for this, of course. When Theold seized her throne, she could have turned away, left him to it. She could have lived the wild, free life that her sister Saersha led. The Siren was, at this moment, wandering the Westerlands, singing serenades to Lord Lannister’s lady, dazzling all of the Green Lands with her voice. But that had never been Ashlen’s calling. She did not have her sister’s talent with the lyre, nor even with the sword, but what she did have was a voice that, when men heard it, they listened. The Drowned God gives each of us our gifts, and should we wish to gain his favour, we must use them well.
Of course she hadn’t been ruling alone until this moment. Not really. Her husband had sworn to be her leal man, obedient, if not subservient, but there were many and more within these walls who answered to the Eagle-Eye before her. It was natural, she supposed, that men would look to a man to command them, and he was a man worth following. Nobody understood the logistics of a fleet better than Nyall Harlaw, none stayed so calm or perceptive when leading ships into battle. He had been useful, too, in running the island. He had consulted with the Hewer when new ships needed to be built, he had chosen captains to replace the ones that had died in the Hour of the Crow, he had organised the training of their new men at arms. Too much, it occurred to her, as she looked into their daughter’s eyes, a dark emerald green that regarded her curiously, almost expectantly. He has lain too much of the foundations of my rule. Men will say I was only his consort, rather than the true way of it. Derfel, too, though it pained her to admit it. She loved her uncle, she always would. She still had, still treasured, so many of the keepsakes he had brought her back from his reavings. But his strength cut both ways for her, just as it did with her father. Had Derfel not acted, had he not killed Rolf One-Ear and the Hanger, had he not defeated Theold in single combat, then she might not rule this castle. But she was not the only one who saw that. There would always be those who said that Derfel Pyke, not Ashlen Harlaw, was the true ruler of these isles. The Ironborn were a people who recognised strength, more than any talk of noble blood or sacred matrimony. They might be a little wary to follow a man so cold-blooded as the Storm Crow, but he had a famous name, and famous deeds, while Ashlen did not.
Yet the Storm Crow was not here, and neither was the Eagle-Eye. They were off on their reavings, and it was left to her to rule. That notion weighed upon her as she sat there by the window, her island laid out before her, plain earth upon which new foundations could be set. Crannock was with her, and her cousin Simmon. Her castle’s Maester, and its steward. The Northern Maester was the same as he had ever been, squat, broad-shouldered, with a nose that had been broken half a dozen times and a jaw like a statue’s, yet with a warm wisdom in his grey eyes. Simmon, on the other hand, had grown into his station. As tall as his brother, but more portly than Theold had ever been or was like to ever be again, Simmon had a head of curly brown hair that framed plump cheeks and thick eyebrows prone to furrowing. If he had any misgivings about his brother’s fate, he never seemed to have cause to share them. They came to her with reports on the harvest, on the state of their stocks of grain and barley, on the productivity of their fisheries and smokers and the taxes they had levied on each barrel of salt cod sold. They stood, a dim firelight contending with the cloud-dimmed sun to cast them in a distinctly dingy hue, as she sat there listening to their accounts. It was soporific stuff, but she knew she needed to heed it. These isles are ruled by fools who think that to be a lord is to sail and reave and pillage, her father had told her. Harlaw is richer, stronger, more respected than any of their lands, and why? Because of our fish, because of our grain, because of the people whom we rule. If a lord loses sight of those details, he loses sight of his dominion. She listened, she questioned, she let her will be known. From time to time she would ask after some past command she had given, some directive for a new granary to be built, or money set aside for repairs to the roof of one of the smokehouses, and she would test them by their answers, see how well her instructions were followed. When she was well enough she would ride out and see these improvements for herself, or else she would see both men tied to drowning posts on Brinerstown’s beach.
She had designs that went beyond patching some thatch, however. An opportunity opened itself before her, even in this isolated room that smelled of old parchment and peatsmoke, and the Rook’s daughter would not let an opportunity pass her by. “No word as yet, I take it, from my husband or from Derfel Pyke?” She inquired, as though the question were an afterthought, cradling Morwenna against herself with her left hand while the right held up one of Crannock’s reports to her eyes.
“None, my lady,” came the reply in a voice like stones tumbling down a hillside, displaced by snowmelt.
“Then we must make do without them,” She sighed, setting the dispatch down on a small table that had been set beside her seat. “And look to matters of ships, and swords. How fares the Hewer?” Haralf Byrne had been building Harlaw’s ships since before Ashlen had been born. Indeed he had built ships for Gerrod Harlaw, who had been her grandfather. Grim Harvest had been his handiwork, as had Solemn Promise, Final Word, Merling Queen and Bloody Smile and Ill Omen. All the great ships that had spread this island’s reputation to the most distant shores had been his handiwork, but he was becoming an old man now, and the word was his eyes were failing him.
“He has been overseeing the new longships that Lord Nyall ordered before his departure,” Simmon started, though the sympathetic smile on his face could have spared him the bother of finishing the sentence. “But he relies more and more on his assistants to see that the keels are laid as he would like them.”
“Assistants?” She inquired, realising that it truly had been too long since she last went down to the shipyard. Emmon’s Cut was a small town, a little way along from Brinerstown, the seat of the Byrnes, and the centre of the island’s shipbuilding. She knew that Haralf had aides, but she was ashamed to realise that she did not know any of their names.
“His son, Falmer, is expected to succeed him, and is seldom far from the Hewer’s side,” Simmon explained. There was a scornful smile on Crannock’s face at that, one which she was keen to interrogate. “Along with him, there are a few others: Donnel Byrne, Haralf’s nephew; Cotter the Rasp, Erron Pyke, Wex of Brinerstown. The Hewer isn’t keen on sharing his position, though.”
“You’re not keen on Falmer, eh?” She asked, looking over towards Crannock, boring down on his scornful smirk.
“He’s proud to be the Hewer’s son, no doubt,” the Northman said. You wouldn’t think him much of an expert on shipbuilding, and were he here, no doubt Falmer would be saying the same thing, but the Northman prided himself on being a quick learner, and he had been living among the Ironborn for more than a decade now. “But he’s more interested in boasting and starting squabbles in taprooms than he is in learning from his father.” Simmon’s frown, almost regretful, spoke to the truth of the accusation.
“You’d have a better recommendation, then?” She inquired. This was, after all, the opportunity she had been looking for. Name the Hewer’s successor, and she would have a man who owed his position to her, who was loyal to her before Nyall.
“The Rasp, without a doubt,” Crannock said, definitively.
“Not Donnel?” Simmon spoke up, tentatively, glancing aside and down toward the Maester.
“Donnel’s got a decent head on his shoulders, and you’d want to give a Byrne some power, or else they’ll grumble, but he’s got the same problem as Donnel, Erron Pyke, the rest of them. They can do a passable job of impersonating the Hewer, but all they’ll ever do is impersonate. Recreate what a better man has done, and once he’s stopped doing it, all you’ll get are increasingly flawed memories of what his work used to look like. Cotter’s the only one with any new ideas. He came up from the timbersmiths, the men will like him, and he knows every inch of the yards. You could do no better.”
The notion of a common man appealed to her. A man who would owe his position entirely to her. If he was the most capable choice, then that was all the better. But she couldn’t leave this choice sitting around where anyone might lend their voice to it. “If the Hewer’s eyes are already done, then there’s no sense waiting around on him. Send a rider tonight. Bring a purse of gold to Haralf, and tell him to retire to his hall. Better yet, tell him he’s always welcome in mine. But Cotter the Rasp shall be my new Shipbuilder.”
“So soon? The Byrnes…” Simmon grimaced, but she cut him off.
“The Byrnes should be glad I have forgotten what Hanger Bennick tried to do to me,” She said sharply, even if it was not in her nature to blame a whole house for one callous fool’s actions, it suited her just fine if the Byrnes should think otherwise. “And if it still stings, then mayhaps granting Falmer the Felling Blow might salve that a little.”
Crannock nodded his approval of the position, Simmon frowned still but spoke no protest. In her arms, Morwenna squalled a little, but once she started to rock her, the storm seemed to pass. “We’ll need to look to our swords, along with our sails.” She didn’t have so clear an excuse to tighten her grip here, but that didn’t make it any less vital that she do so. “Fetch Mattock Mallos here, I wish to speak with him. Midden Polder, too. I want some new captains, and some new men for the guard.” Nyall’s men, Derfel’s men, they could have the reavings, but she wanted her men on the soil of Harlaw, keeping its laws, watching over its people. She wanted her word to be the thing to which people looked, when there were disputes, when anyone was so foolish as to defy her edicts. Her husband might have left her up in this tower, left her to almost die bringing their daughter into the world, but he would return to a Harlaw that was hers, and hers alone.