𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 112: 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖆𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖊𝖞𝖏𝖔𝖞.
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The Iron Islands were a chain of islands to the west of Westeros, battered by wind and sea, with rugged shores and an unforgiving land. They were made up of Pyke, Harlaw, Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Orkmont, and Saltcliffe. During Aegon's conquest, when Harren and his bloodline were consumed alongside Harrenhal, dominion over the islands passed to House Greyjoy, which ruled from Pyke for generations.
Until the Impaler.
Vlad had arrived on their islands and, in less than a day, reduced several centuries of depravity and impunity to ashes; to tell the truth, he did not know why the great houses of Westeros had allowed the Greyjoys to exist for so long.
He suspected that the Targaryens, in their infinite arrogance, thought keeping the ironborn around would allow them to exert more influence over the west, but, obviously, it had not worked.
Fortunately, Vlad had been far more definitive, dealing such a devastating blow to their cultural memory that he doubted another ironborn would climb aboard a ship with the intention of raiding for at least three generations; after that, who knew, but he would deal with it in a few centuries.
Now, several months after the fall of Pyke, the Iron Islands remained in complete silence, and the next house that, by proximity or power, should have held the lordship, the Harlaws, had not even dared to put to sea, let alone the other smaller houses.
After all, they had all witnessed the attack; the islands were not so far apart from one another that they could not see each other, so most had a front-row seat to witness the destruction of the Greyjoys.
And they all knew they could be next, because the story had spread like wildfire, not the story of the destruction, though that one had spread as well, but the story of its cause.
It was said that one of the Greyjoy captains had kidnapped a young girl whose life Vlad had saved and that the girl, grateful and unaware that he was her new lord, had offered him some of the little food she had, so Vlad, to repay the gesture, had promised her his protection, but the ironborn had taken her away, forcing him to break his promise.
Obviously, this was not true, but rather a story generously funded by Vlad to give the destruction of Pyke even greater moral superiority, although that did not matter much either, because in reality only the peasants believed it, while the nobles knew that it was, at best, a half-truth; even so, nobody had any interest in putting it to the test.
So nobody left the Iron Islands, and they all remained waiting for the Impaler to send his representatives, although that never happened, because Vlad had no reason to make the effort. When the Harlaws were preparing their ships to sail for Casterly Rock with the intention of negotiating, the Silence arrived on their shores.
Euron Greyjoy had arrived on the shores of Pyke almost fantasizing about how his family would receive him, imagining Balon's fury at seeing him return from his exile not only stronger, but also with treasures he could never have obtained, and savoring the look on his face when he discovered that he wore a full suit of Valyrian steel armor.
He also thought of Aeron, of how he would tremble when he saw him, because he still remembered the fear in his eyes well and wanted to see it again. By the gods, he knew exactly what he would tell him; he had repeated it in his head more than once:
"I was the one who taught you to pray, little brother. Have you forgotten? I used to visit your room at night when I drank too much… I could hear you praying from outside the door. I always wondered if you prayed for me to choose you or to ignore you."
He could almost taste that fear.
But all his fantasies collapsed completely the next second, when "the Silence" reached the shores of Pyke.
Euron was bewildered. Before him stood the five pillars of natural stone he knew so well, from which the fortress of Pyke rose, with its characteristic towers and suspension bridges, but there were no walls or towers before him, only the pillars covered in melted stone, as if candle wax had flowed over them.
What had happened? He wondered, for a castle could not disappear overnight. Seeking answers, he disembarked.
After docking as best he could, with not a single pier intact and the remains of ships sunk and blackened by fire scattered around, he advanced through what had once been his homeland, but there was nothing left.
There was not a single structure standing or even remotely recognizable, no huts, no taverns, nothing, only blackened earth, lightning patterns, and glass craters left behind after an electrical storm. He headed toward where his fortress should have stood, but found only platforms of melted stone, already cooled, that did not even reach his knees.
How could such an attack have happened? The scale of the destruction was unprecedented; there were not even legends that came remotely close to what he was seeing.
With no more answers to find on the inert island Pyke had become, he hurried to board a ship for Harlaw to demand explanations from those who, without a doubt, must have witnessed what had happened.
He expected to be received with respect or fear. However, when he entered the halls of the Harlaws, he understood that they not only did not want him there… they pitied him.
Pity. Him.
Nobody was openly hostile, and he was even allowed an audience with Marlon Harlaw, but there was no negotiation or the usual subtleties between lords, for the Lord of Harlaw asked him directly how long he intended to remain on the island.
The Harlaws had never been particularly warm, but neither had they been hostile; they were practically relatives due to the marriages between both houses and, nevertheless, he only needed to hear what had happened to understand everything.
Pyke had been destroyed, as had everyone who lived there, including his entire bloodline, and that was the reason people looked at him with pity and disdain: he was the last one.
The last of the Greyjoys.
Vlad Drakul had descended upon Pyke, leaving a trail of death and fire in his wake, cutting off at the root any rebellion his foolish brother might have planned, and Marlon Harlaw did not want to be the next one the Impaler used as an example.
The Lord of Harlaw made the situation of the last Greyjoy clear from the beginning, for Euron would receive no ships, men, or support on that island, as the Harlaws were unwilling to risk themselves for him and, in fact, the only consideration he would receive there was that they would allow him to leave in peace.
Furthermore, he warned him that there would be no second chance, so if he ever set foot on Harlaw again, he would be imprisoned and handed over to the Impaler as an offering of peace.
Euron was furious and incredulous at the same time, refusing to accept that everything had ended like this, because Pyke could not have disappeared along with all its people in a single night.
No one possessed such power and, if anyone could possibly achieve it, the closest to doing so should have been him, for he had his sorcery, his rituals, and his dragon horn, so the power of the gods to destroy cities, defeat dragons, and subjugate men should have been his.
He could not accept that the name whispered in fear throughout Westeros belonged to a foreign horse lord.
His blood boiled with anger, resentment and, above all, envy, and he even considered killing Marlon, but, despite being an unbalanced psychopath, Euron was not a fool, so perhaps he could escape after killing him, although it would be difficult and he would not come out unscathed, not even with his Valyrian steel armor.
So he restrained himself, for he needed answers and details, but nobody in Harlaw wanted to speak to him about the Impaler.
However, the lord of the castle had let one small detail slip: one of the few survivors of the attack was now a permanent resident of his dungeons.
There had been survivors, some of whom had escaped wounded and many of whom ended up committing suicide days later, unable to endure what they had seen during the destruction of Pyke, while others had simply fled to the mainland, getting as far away as they could from the Iron Islands and anywhere associated with the Lord Impaler.
The man in the dungeons had been found on the coast, and Marlon had tried to interrogate him, but it was in vain, for he screamed for hours, barely slept, and was incapable of maintaining a coherent conversation; by all appearances, he was completely insane.
That detail was what had led Euron to reluctantly leave the halls of Harlaw and sneak into its dungeons, and it was also what had brought him to this exact moment, as he stabbed an unsuspecting guard over and over again to vent his frustration.
And that was already the fifth, but his anger did not fade, for he needed to know what powers the Lord Impaler possessed, and only then would he discover how to surpass him.
The dungeons of Harlaw were damp, cold, and narrow; water constantly seeped through the cracks in the stone, forming small puddles across the uneven floor, while the air smelled of dampness and dried blood. Torches barely illuminated the corridors, leaving large stretches shrouded in shadows, although it was still enough to distinguish the prisoners chained behind the bars.
At the end of the corridor was the last cell, where a man sat in a corner, hunched over himself and hugging his legs in a fetal position. His clothes were dirty, his hair fell messily over his face, and much of his body was covered in old, stained bandages, placed over terrible burns that showed through between the layers of cloth.
He barely reacted when Euron stopped in front of the bars.
Euron watched the man for several seconds from the other side of the bars, and he barely seemed aware of what was happening around him, as he slowly rocked back and forth, still hugging his legs, while muttering something incomprehensible under his breath.
—Look at me —Euron ordered as he opened the cell—. Do you recognize me?
The prisoner barely raised his head; his eyes were red and vacant, and for a few seconds he seemed to look directly at Euron, although he soon shifted his attention toward an empty corner of the cell.
Euron almost felt offended when he was not recognized immediately.
—It wasn't me —he murmured in a weak voice as he slowly shook his head—. Alan, he's surely coming to see you.
Euron frowned upon hearing the man deliriously speak, closed the cell door behind him, and slowly advanced until he was standing in front of the man.
—Do you know who I am? —he asked, leaning slightly toward him.
The prisoner did not answer, merely scratching nervously at one of the bandages on his arm until he stained it with blood again before looking once more toward the empty corner of the cell and speaking as if Euron were not standing there.
—I need you to answer a few questions —Euron continued in a cold voice as he looked down at him—. If you do, I'll be good to you; if not, I can be very bad.
The man continued to ignore him as he argued heatedly with the air.
—I'm not going to talk, Alan —he whispered, speaking to nothing—. Don't insist, I won't talk to him.
Euron was beginning to lose patience, so he took a step forward and abruptly grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to raise his head.
—What happened in Pyke? —he asked, squeezing his face hard—. What did the Impaler do?
The prisoner's body immediately tensed, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets as he began to breathe with difficulty, while his behavior became increasingly erratic and he clutched his head.
—No... no... no... it was him, he did it all —he answered hurriedly while shaking his head violently.
He shifted against the damp floor, clearly agitated, before continuing.
—I will never tell, Alan —he said, looking at the corner of the cell—. I swear by the Old Gods and the New that I won't tell, I don't even want to think about it.
Euron finally released him with disdain and remained there for several seconds, watching as the man continued staring into nothingness, as if there really were someone else inside the cell.
—Speak —he finally ordered in a dry tone.
The prisoner slowly raised a trembling hand and pointed toward an empty corner of the room.
—If you want me to tell you, let him… —he murmured without taking his eyes off the nothingness.
Euron felt irritation beginning to overcome his patience, so he crossed his arms and watched the man with growing hostility, trying to think of how he could make him talk.
Torture and threats were out of the question; he would not survive more than a few minutes if he did, the only alternative he had was to negotiate, unpleasant as it was for him.
—How afraid of him are you? —he asked contemptuously.
The prisoner reacted immediately: his red, vein-filled eyes widened as he recoiled and struck his head against the wall, repeatedly shaking his head and trembling.
—You would know if you had seen him —he replied in a broken voice filled with madness, but with a moment of lucidity—. Then you wouldn't want to know anything else, don't provoke him, I've seen him furious.
The brief lapse was interrupted when he once again shifted his gaze toward the empty corner.
—I won't say anything else, don't provoke him —he insisted, almost pleading as he looked into the emptiness again—. Stop insisting, Alan, I don't want to talk to him anymore.
Euron remained silent for several seconds as he watched him breathe heavily against the wall, and he was no longer sure how much of it was madness and how much was fear.
Finally, he let out a sigh laden with annoyance before taking out a small flask and placing it in front of the man, along with a short knife he had taken from the dead guard.
He knew that at this point, the man only wanted to drown his madness in alcohol and perhaps end his suffering, so Euron chose to use the carrot instead of the stick.
—Drink and talk —he said, pushing both objects toward him with his foot.
The prisoner stared at the drink for several seconds before lunging at it in complete desperation, and as he drank, he spilled some of the liquid over his own bandages, still trembling.
He told what he could while drinking, but the details were vague and unclear, Euron could only make out the idea that the attack had been carried out by the dragons.
—He was burning us all… —he murmured with his eyes fixed on the floor—. There was fire everywhere, suddenly he became enraged and…
He stopped abruptly, his entire body shuddering as fear and madness once again appeared on his face.
—No —he whispered, quickly shaking his head.
He swallowed before continuing, still clutching the flask between his hands.
—I will only say one thing… —he murmured in a trembling voice—. I think he summoned the lightning... like God.
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As I mentioned, this short mini-arc has two objectives: first, to show some slice-of-life moments for Vlad and Daenerys, and second, to reveal the fate of characters like Euron, who hasn't interacted with Vlad, meaning his timeline remains unchanged.
I should note that the slice-of-life chapter will feature a "musical moment", simply because I felt like including one, but I'm not turning this into "Hazbin Hotel" or anything of the sort, so readers who prefer a more serious tone can rest easy.