Quellon's sentence—"Starting tomorrow, come with me to the Council Chamber"—was like a boulder thrown into a stagnant pool, sending waves crashing through Euron's heart. The brief silence in the study was shattered. The air seemed to freeze; even the flames dancing in the fireplace held their breath.
Euron snapped his head up. His mismatched eyes—the left an abyss swallowing light, the right ice frozen before a storm—revealed pure, childish astonishment to his father for the first time. Five years old? The Council Chamber? Even Brother Balon, the heir who could wrestle waves on a longship at fifteen, had only recently been allowed to audit occasionally! Was Father mad? Or... did he truly weigh those childish words about reefs and tides so heavily?
Quellon took in his youngest son's shock. The tired yet amazed smile on his face deepened, mixed with an Ironborn's cruel expectation. "What? Scared?" He stood, his tall figure casting a long shadow in the flickering firelight, almost completely enveloping Euron. His presence carried an unquestionable authority, hard as reef rock. "Where is the spirit that just lectured me on reefs and tides, my little kraken?" He took a step closer, his voice low but heavy as a hammer. "Didn't you want to help me? Didn't you want to save me from anger at those salt-pickled stones? Then come! See with your own eyes how hard the Iron Islands' 'reefs' truly are! Listen with your own ears to how many poisoned daggers are hidden in the voices that 'fear change'! Staring at maps and pondering tides in a study isn't enough!"
It wasn't a request; it was an order. A trial from the Lord Reaper to his heir—even if this "heir" was currently just a second son, a five-year-old child. Quellon's gaze was sharp as Valyrian steel, as if dissecting Euron's tender skin to dig out the unnatural wisdom and disguise within his soul, to see what monster or miracle hid inside.
Euron opened his mouth, his throat blocked by sea salt, too dry to speak. He felt the heavy weight behind his father's words—trust, a test, and an invisible force dragging him into the freezing center of the power vortex. The Council Chamber wasn't a training ground paved with white shells; there were no crisp sounds of wooden swords, only silent blades, poisoned words, and cold calculations that could tear a man apart. He instinctively clenched his small fists, nails digging deep into his soft palms, the sharp pain barely maintaining the thin ice of his composure.
"Yes, Father." He heard his own voice, crisp but tight as a bowstring, carrying an imperceptible tremor. "I will... watch closely, and listen well."
Quellon nodded with satisfaction, as if a crucial strategic deployment were complete. "Good. Now, go prepare. Tomorrow," he emphasized, like hammering a ship nail, "don't be late." He waved his hand, carrying the scent of the sea, and turned his back again to face the restless, ink-black ocean outside. To him, this earth-shattering decision seemed as routine as ordering a longship to set sail.
Euron practically floated out of the study, heavy with tobacco smoke and pressure. The cold stone wall of the corridor touching his warm cheek finally brought his agitated mind back to reality. Lysa, like a silent shadow, was waiting in the deep shade of the hallway, as if she were part of the ancient castle itself. Her emerald eyes were calm in the dim light, reflecting the faint sconce, as if she had foreseen this storm.
"Master?" Her voice was gentle as the sea breeze over a reef.
"He... told me to go to the Council Chamber tomorrow." Euron's voice was low, carrying a confusion he hadn't fully identified, and... a secret excitement of being swept into the eye of the storm?
Understanding flashed in Lysa's eyes, quickly covered by a deeper, well-like calm. "The tide rushes the reef; the reef must eventually reveal its jagged face." She whispered, stating an eternal natural law. "Are you ready? To look, to listen, to... be silent."
"Silent?" Euron frowned, puzzled.
"The center of a storm is often the quietest place." Lysa bowed slightly, humble yet with strange insight. "Before you learn to raise waves that destroy everything, please learn how to steady your own small boat in the monstrous surf. Look more, listen more, think more. Words are sometimes the most useless oars; they can even attract sharks, especially among men who are used to speaking with axes instead of tongues."
Euron chewed on Lysa's words silently. "Silence..." he murmured. The shock in his mismatched eyes faded, replaced by a focused, hunter-like calm. Lysa was right. The Council Chamber was a gladiatorial arena more dangerous than any battlefield. He was too weak; swinging the axe of language rashly would only expose his position early, making him a target for every arrow. He needed to be an octopus among the reefs—hiding, observing, learning the depth carved into every lord's wrinkles, distinguishing the hidden blades in every peaceful sentence, decoding the transactions behind every meaningful silence. He needed to be, as Lysa said, the quietest, most lucid point in the eye of the storm.
However, this deliberately sought "quiet" was destined not to descend on Pyke this turbulent night.
---
That Night. Deep Darkness.
The night was thick as ink, with only the salty wind sobbing through Pyke's cold stone walls. In the shadow of the armory's rear window, a small figure clung to the rough wall like a gecko. Through the narrow slit, a scene on the rocky beach below crashed into Euron's vision—the Altar of the Drowned God.
His brother Balon stood shirtless in knee-deep water, the cold waves slapping his tense calf muscles. On his broad chest, a fresh tattoo writhed hideously in the dim moonlight and flickering torchlight—a longship breaking waves, sails snapping, spewing ghostly green fire, its twisted mast made of piled white bones!
On either side of the altar, seawater lapping at their slender ankles, stood two barefoot girls. Their once-gorgeous green silk dresses were soaked, clinging to their young bodies, outlining helpless curves like a second, pale skin.
The old priest's voice dragged like a rusty chain on rock: "Where do you come from?"
"Sun... Sunspear." The tall girl's voice trembled uncontrollably. In her curly hair, a few grains of Dornish red sand glinted faintly in the firelight—the last mark of her homeland.
"You are dead!" The cold iron staff, carrying unquestionable authority, pressed heavily onto her smooth forehead. Accompanied by the hiss of burning flesh and the smell of scorching, it left a bloody brand symbolizing rebirth. "Rise now, as a wife of the Ironborn!"
When the heavy iron staff turned to the second, petite girl, Euron's gaze locked onto her slender neck—a delicate silver chain reflected cold light. It was the famous "Nightingale Collar" of Lannisport, each tiny link engraved with a different name, like medals of a past she couldn't bear to look back on. The girl seemed to sense the voyeuristic gaze. As the staff was about to fall, she jerked her head up! Amber eyes, gifts of the Summer Isles sun, were now filled with terror and a beast-like vigilance. More heart-stopping was her right eye, covered by a cloudy white film like a punctured fish bladder, dead and reflecting the dancing fire.
"You are dead!" The old priest repeated the motion, branding the girl's forehead. "Rise now, as a wife of the Ironborn!"
"Seen enough?" Balon's voice exploded in Euron's ear like a cold iron anchor, without warning! Before he could even turn, a massive force smelling of brine and sweat grabbed his collar, violently dragging him from behind the window slit! Then, a fist wrapped in angry wind smashed into the side of his face!
"Urgh!" Euron grunted, his small body thrown onto the sharp gravel beach below like a kite with a cut string. His mouth filled instantly with the heavy taste of rust and salt water, half his face burning with pain.
One month of confinement. This was the first time the brothers had met since. This punch was Balon's revenge—pulled, yes, but still painful, dammit!
Balon's towering figure loomed over him, carrying the damp chill of the sea. He roughly grabbed Euron by the back of his collar, lifting him like a beached fish, facing the altar. "Did Father let you peek?" Balon's voice was pressed extremely low, like muffled thunder rolling over reefs, every word icy. "Lord Quellon is busy counting the gold coins from the Braavosi compensation; he doesn't care where his 'smart' little son is fooling around! Brat, open your eyes and look! Ironborn don't trade wool and gold for wives at the market! We take them! This is the salt and iron flowing in Greyjoy blood!"
By the altar, the old priest pinched the Dornish girl's chin, forcing a bowl of murky, freezing, death-scented salt water down her throat. Her futile struggles were drowned by the surf; her heart-rending choking and sobbing were cruelly shredded by the wind.
"You punched me. Consider it payment for the punishment I caused you last time. Now, put me down. I have something to say." Euron calmly patted Balon's hand. "Brother, Father told me... to go to the Council Chamber tomorrow."
"Council Chamber?!" Balon grinned, but the violent laughter froze on his face like ice. He lowered his head sharply, falcon eyes nailing Euron. His voice dropped even lower, dangerous as thunder building deep in the clouds before a storm. "Is Father... truly mad?!" His fingers unconsciously tightened in Euron's hair, causing sharp pain. "Brat, you can't even lift the lightest longsword. What can you do there? Be a joke for old foxes like Drumm? Let every captain in the Iron Islands see the Greyjoy second son is a milk-sucking baby who only knows how to talk?!"
Euron spat bloody saliva, enduring the pain in his face, and pulled a nonchalant smile. "Council Chamber. Not a fighting pit. Do I need to chop people with a sword?"
"Bullshit!" Balon straightened abruptly, his black hair whipping like seaweed in a gale, anger blazing. "Your little cleverness might work on three-year-olds! But the Council Chamber? That's a wolf den! It's colder than the Drowned God's altar! Those old things don't have blood in their veins, but ice and poison! They'll chew you up bones and all, just to laugh at Father, to humiliate Greyjoy!" Beneath his rage, a trace of imperceptible anxiety Euron had never heard before mixed in. "What does a five-year-old know of politics? What can you discuss? Every word they say hides a knife! Can you even understand?!"
"It's fine, really," Euron tried to steady his dangling body, keeping his voice calm. "Just listening is learning. Watch more, listen more. We'll be lords sooner or later; council... is part of the learning." He paused, his mismatched eyes looking straight into Balon's burning ones, probing. "Are you worried about me?"
"I'm worried about the Greyjoy name!" Balon retorted instantly like a seal whose tail was stepped on, voice rising, but his grip on Euron's hair loosened subconsciously. He tossed Euron onto the gravel in frustration, turning to kick an empty barrel violently. The barrel rolled with a hollow boom. "Father is putting our dignity, the majesty of the 'Lord Reaper,' on the chopping block for those bastards to hammer!" He turned his back to Euron, shoulders heaving with anger, voice lowering into heavy frustration. "I'm afraid you ignorant brat... will be scared to tears by those old men's eyes... and then every reef in the Iron Islands will laugh at us, saying Quellon's son... is a soft egg who wets his pants at the sight of waves!"
Uncontrollably, a memory flashed before his eyes—three years ago, on the white shell training ground, three-year-old Euron knocked down again and again by the heavy wooden sword, his small body thudding onto the hard stone. The purple bruises were glaring on his pale skin, but in those damn black and blue eyes, a stubborn fire burned that even Balon found stinging. The kid might be annoying, might talk nonsense, but... never a soft egg.
Euron grinned, wiping blood from his mouth, struggling to stand. He looked up at Balon's tense profile. "That's why I came to find you, big brother. For the Council Chamber... are there any special rules to watch out for? Which lords should I avoid eye contact with? What topics are absolute minefields? Teach me..."
"None of my business!" Balon interrupted violently, spinning around with a fierce look as if to eat Euron alive. His chest heaved, clearly suppressing boiling rage. He glared at Euron, pinning him to the reef with his gaze. After a few breaths, as if exhausting all his strength, he squeezed a command out through clenched teeth, cold as deep-sea iron, word by word:
"Quiet. Don't talk nonsense." He inhaled the bloody, salty night air deeply, then added with unquestionable finality: "No. Do not speak! Sew your mouth shut! Shut up!"
"And, don't be late!"