The woman says, Hey, I am the most experienced leader here. I’ve been toiling away on the Iron Islands for years, being Iron-born, leading Iron-born. It’s my turn to sit on the Salt Throne. Then some guy in the crowd says, A woman will not lead us. But then her closest internal rival says, She’s right. She is a reaver, she is a warrior. I give up my claim to the Salt Throne because she is your rightful ruler. So far, so good. A potentially divisive contest between members of the same immediate family appears to be resolved. The Salt Throne is in the woman’s grasp. But then an unexpected rival comes crashing the Kingsmoot. He’s been away from the Iron Islands for years, a total outsider, but that turns out to be his greatest strength. He says, I heard you managed to fuck things right to the ground. He says, These people led us into two wars we couldn’t win. He mocks his male rival’s mincing words and literal lack of a penis. Then he makes a series of wild, outlandish promises—I’ll build a thousand ships! I’ll seduce the Mother of Dragons! We’ll rule the world!—and the crowd eats it up. They chant his name. And he walks away victorious. Beware, America, the Kingsmoot could be you.