"To move a man, you must first place a more comfortable stone beneath his feet..."
When Euron asked Lysa how to persuade his father, this was her answer. "He is the King of the Iron Islands, and your father. Though I have only seen him once, I can feel his loneliness. Beside Lord Quellon, there is no wise counselor who truly stands in his shoes. Only arguments, fights, opposition, and roaring. Standing in the mountains, one often cannot see the whole mountain. Perhaps all that is needed is someone to calmly push aside the fog, and the King will see the whole future!"
Euron laughed. "Makes sense!"
The heavy oak door of the Lord Reaper's study creaked open a crack. Five-year-old Euron Greyjoy slipped inside, quickly closing the door behind him. The room smelled strongly of sea salt and heavy exhaustion. Quellon Greyjoy stood with his back to the door, staring out the massive arched window at the lead-gray, churning sea. His broad shoulders were slightly slumped.
"Father?" Euron's voice was soft, carrying the clear tone of a child, perfectly breaking the heavy silence.
Quellon didn't turn. He just gave a low "Hmph," the sound trailing with lingering irritation.
Euron walked in, carefully shutting the door. He didn't approach directly as usual but stopped by the massive table in the center of the room, piled high with charts and scrolls. He needed a little distance, and a little "stage."
"Mother said... Lord Drumm and the others upset you again today." Euron didn't ask; he stated it, his voice carrying a trace of age-appropriate concern.
Quellon finally turned. The deep grooves in his face looked even deeper in the dim light, his eyes tired but sharp. He saw his youngest son, and the calmness in the boy's eyes that belied his age. That calmness sometimes comforted him, sometimes made him inexplicably uneasy. "A bunch of old fools with brains pickled in brine!" He growled, slamming his fist against the window frame, making the glass hum. "They only see the salted fish in front of them and the scrap metal they steal! They don't understand where the future of the Iron Islands lies!"
Euron listened quietly. When his father's anger subsided slightly, he spoke slowly, his voice steady. "Father, you are right. The Iron Islands need to change." He affirmed his father's vision first—this was the key Lysa emphasized: Affirm first, then guide.
Quellon's gaze fell on his son, scrutinizing. "Oh? You think so too?"
"Yes." Euron took two steps forward, his mismatched eyes looking particularly deep in the shadows. "But Father, have you considered... does the sea change the shape of the reef by smashing it once with a massive wave, or by the silent, relentless washing of the tide year after year?"
Quellon frowned, clearly not expecting such a metaphor from his son.
Euron didn't pause; he had to keep the rhythm. "Farmers on the mainland don't try to dig up a mountain in a day to make a field. They clear a small patch first, plant seeds, wait for them to sprout and harvest. Only when they prove this land can feed people will others be willing to join and clear a bigger area."
He walked to the table, his small finger pointing to the Iron Islands on the map. "Our Iron Islands are like the hardest, rockiest wasteland. You want to make it as rich as the Reach overnight. That is good. But Uncle Drumm, and brother Balon... they are the people used to the wild mountains, afraid of change. If you ask them to drop their axes and pick up hoes immediately, they will only think you are mad, or... betraying the Drowned God."
Quellon's eyes flickered, seemingly chewing on his son's words.
"The Drowned God gave us the words 'What is dead may never die, but rises again.'" Euron raised his voice slightly, carrying a strange certainty, as if resonating with that ancient entity. "But the Drowned God did not say that 'rising again' must happen in the old ways! Perhaps... using better iron to build stronger ships, using smarter methods to fill warehouses with grain, using greater power to shut the mouths of all who mock the Iron Islands... This is the 'rising momentum' the Drowned God truly wants the Ironborn to show in this era! Isn't this more glorious to the Drowned God than grabbing a few bags of gold and a few thralls?"
Quellon's breath seemed to hitch for a second. He had never thought of it from this angle. Drowned God... new ways? His sharp gaze locked tightly onto his son.
"Father, we don't need to free all thralls immediately. But we can start in Pyke, under your nose. Pick a few mines or salt pans to test. Give the most hardworking, obedient thralls a little hope—for example, five years of faultless work, or learning a craft, earns them freedom, maybe even a small patch of poor land to farm? Let them see a future, and they will work harder than any whip can make them! When Pyke's salt and ore production actually rises, when warehouses fill up, won't the other lords be jealous? They will come asking you how you did it!"
"The Old Way... 'Paying the Iron Price' is the ancestors' honor. Throwing it all away at once is like throwing the ancestors' bones into the sea. Of course people can't accept it. But we can... tweak it?" Euron's eyes flashed with shrewd light. "For example, decree that longships cannot raid merchant ships flying the banners of Seven Kingdoms lords? That avoids a lot of trouble. But the pirate dens in the Stepstones, the ships in Slaver's Bay carrying 'living cargo'... Raid them! That's not betraying the Old Way; that's 'cleaning the garbage of the sea'! A just act the Drowned God would approve! Part of the loot goes to the crew, part to you... to buy grain, timber, even hire good smiths to teach our people! This is called 'using the enemy's blood to fatten our roots'!"
"Septons of the Seven..." Euron shook his head slightly. "You can't force a melon to be sweet. The Drowned God has lived on the Iron Islands for thousands of years; you can't just evict Him. Instead of letting them land and make the Drowned Men jump with rage, why not... send a few smart apprentice Drowned Men to the Citadel in Oldtown?" Reverse thinking, take the initiative. "Let them learn how to keep accounts, how to build ships, how to heal! When they return, they will be the best proof of the union between the Drowned God and knowledge! Ironborn will listen to them! That's more useful than ten septons chanting on the docks!"
"Opening ports is a golden idea, Father!" Euron's tone held sincere admiration. "But to make ships dare to come, opening the door isn't enough. You have to make them believe they won't be chopped into fish bait once they're inside. We can do two things first: One, mark a small 'Safe Zone' in Pyke's harbor, guarded by your most trusted men. Any Ironborn who draws a weapon in the Safe Zone is treated as a traitor to the House! Two, find one or two daring merchants we've traded salt and iron with before. Give them special protection and extremely low taxes. Even let them open a small warehouse in the Safe Zone. Let them take the news of 'Safe Trade in the Iron Islands' back. News spreads. There will always be merchants who want money more than life willing to try. As long as one ship returns safely and fully laden, it works better than shouting 'We've changed' a hundred times!"
Euron finished, his small chest heaving slightly. The study was left with only the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of the surf. He looked up at his father, his mismatched eyes clear and firm, waiting for judgment.
Quellon Greyjoy stared at his youngest son for a long time. Exhaustion seemed to fade from his face, replaced by a deep look—a mix of shock, complexity, rekindled hope, and... an indescribable scrutiny. This child... his thoughts were so clear, so... cunning, yet hit the nail on the head. The problems he pointed out were exactly where Quellon had been bashing his head against the wall; the path he proposed, though slow, seemed more feasible, less likely to trigger a destructive backlash.
"These..." Quellon's voice was a bit hoarse. He slowly walked behind the desk and sat down, fingers unconsciously tapping the wood. "Did you come up with these yourself? Or did someone teach you?" He asked the crucial question.
"Lysa told me that changing people's hearts is like boiling old soup. High heat burns it; a slow simmer makes the flavor sink in. Her words woke me up, and I thought about it for a long, long time." Euron answered honestly. "I want to help you, Father. I don't want to see you angry at them every day, and I don't want to see the Iron Islands poor forever."
"Lysa? That little handmaid who speaks seven languages?" Quellon took a long, deep breath and exhaled heavily, as if emptying his chest of frustration. He leaned back in his chair, gazing once again at the restless sea outside, but this time, there seemed to be something different in his eyes.
"Slow simmer..." He repeated the phrase softly, as if chewing on a piece of tough jerky, trying to taste something new. "Perhaps... it is smarter than me smashing my old bones against the reef." He looked at Euron, finally revealing a tired but genuine smile of approval. "I will taste this slow-simmered soup."
Although Lord Quellon didn't make a final decision immediately, Euron knew from this tacit consent that his father had listened. As he prepared to leave, Quellon suddenly spoke:
"Starting tomorrow, come with me to the Council Chamber."