Once, the Ironborn ruled far and wide. Wherever the salt of the sea could be smelt on the air or the crash of waves rung in ears, we held domain. From the cold northern reaches of Bear Island to the wine-bearing Arbor in the south, we ruled and were feared. Yet when my ancestor, Qhored Hoare, the greatest of the High Kings, died, our realm soon deteriorated. My grandfather, Harwyn Hardhand, recaptured part of our former glory with the conquest of the Riverlands, from the Neck to the Blackwater Rush, seizing the lands from the Storm Kings. His time has passed. The Driftwood Crown is mine to wear. And now I will go further than any before. The sons of salt and sea will rule greater domains than any imagined by the petty kings of Westeros. We will hold dominion over all.
My Small Council has its place, and its rightful influence, but my true advisers gather in a separate council:
Ser Gesarion Pyke, the Red Bastard of Harlaw, Master of Whisperers.
Cinadon Pyke, the Golden Bastard of Harlaw.
Kalyn Umber, a Northman of the Last Hearth, Master-at-Arms.
Ser Dickon Dalt, the Lost Son of Lemonwood in Dorne.
Smygan Farwynd, a Drowned Man of the God.
I am Harren the Black, of House Hoare of Orkmont. The Iron King. King of Salt and Rock. High King of the Iron Isles. King of the Trident. Lord of Orkmont and Harrenhal.
What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.