The roaring of Dunstan Drumm, the cold sarcasm of Gymond Botley, the heavy worry of Baelor Blacktyde, and the fanatical cries for "Returning to the Old Way"—these currents, moving in different directions but equally fierce, collided violently within the icy Council Chamber, almost submerging Quellon and his Seastone Chair.
However, Quellon Greyjoy simply sat upright, his fingers rhythmically tapping the cold stone table. The soft thud, thud maintained a strange field of silence amidst the chaotic noise. When the last spokesman from Old Wyk sat down with the fanaticism of plunder in his eyes, leaving the hall with only heavy breathing and the restless crackling of the fireplace, Quellon finally raised his eyelids.
His gaze, like two spears freshly tempered in the icy sea, pierced Dunstan Drumm with precision.
"Septons of the Seven?" Quellon's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the sharpness to cut through waves. "They are preachers, nothing more. The laws of the Iron Islands, carved on the reefs, which line says 'Under the Drowned God, no others may preach'?" His gaze swept the room, every word hammering like a nail into wood. "Drowned Men can also sail out, go to the ports and towns of the Seven Kingdoms, and spread the Drowned God's words! That is the breadth of an Ironborn's chest! Don't like those silk-robed men?" A cold arc curled at the corner of his mouth. "Close your ears, turn your back! But—"
Quellon's voice suddenly rose, exploding like thunder, making the hall buzz. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto Dunstan Drumm's flushed face like a physical shackle, sweeping over every lord who might harbor ill intentions. "Whoever dares to touch a finger of theirs, whoever dares to splash a drop of seawater on them in disrespect! I, Quellon Greyjoy, swear in the name of the Seastone King," he smashed his fist onto the table with a boom like cannon fire, "I will personally hang that fool on the highest black reef of Pyke! Let the sea wind and gulls peck at his corpse! Let everyone see the end of disobeying my orders and defiling the laws of the Iron Islands!"
This naked, bloody threat was like the bitterest cold wave, instantly freezing the anger on Dunstan Drumm's face and the eager ferocity in some captains' eyes. The air seemed to solidify, leaving only heavy breathing. Baelor Blacktyde opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to argue from a faith perspective, but under Quellon's unquestionable gaze—like an angry sea god—he ultimately lowered his head in silence.
Quellon's gaze turned to Gymond Botley, the cold pressure unabated. "Port? Empty?" He sneered, carrying the certainty of seeing the future. "Open your salt-pickled eyes and look at the further horizon! I have already sent ravens to contact the Prince of Dorne, the Lord of Dragonstone—old friends who traded or even fought alongside the Iron Islands in the chaotic past! Reputation needs time to ferment, Gymond, like a jar of old wine. Trust," he looked around, eyes blazing, "isn't snatched by smashing open gates. It's ground out slowly, trade by honest trade, safe passage by safe passage, like waves washing a reef. One day, our docks will be full of ships! But not today. Patience is another weapon for Ironborn survival in the storm."
He paused, casting his gaze toward the worried Baelor Blacktyde and the captains shouting "Old Way," his tone slightly softer but still decisive. "Grain? Timber? The winter wind is indeed biting at our throats." He acknowledged the grim reality. "Next month, my envoys will sail north, carrying Ironborn iron and salt to Winterfell to meet Lord Eddard Stark! South to Highgarden to meet Lord Mace Tyrell! We will trade our produce for winter grain and timber for ships! That is the way to survive!"
Finally, his gaze fell back like a heavy anchor on those eyes still burning with the desire to reave. His voice became low and full of historical weight. "The Old Way... 'Paying the Iron Price'..." He slowly spat out the words, as if chewing on bitter jerky. "I know, it's the salt and rust flowing in our blood. I admit, trying to cut it off with one stroke before... might have been too hasty."
This rare, almost compromising admission instantly lit a flame of hope in the eyes of Dunstan Drumm and the others. However, Quellon's next words were like a bucket of ice water, precisely extinguishing that flame.
"But!" Quellon's voice became sharp as iron again, bearing the grand mark of Aegon's Conquest. "Remember the War of Conquest! Remember the dragonfire at Harrenhal! Remember the crown offered by Vickon Greyjoy! Aegon Targaryen I pacified the Iron Islands, declaring from atop his dragon: From this day forth, within the borders of the Seven Kingdoms, the Ironborn tradition of reaving is illegal! Violators will burn!"
He stood abruptly, his tall figure elongated in the firelight like an insurmountable reef barrier, his majestic gaze sweeping every lord. "The iron law set by Aegon I remains the cornerstone of the Seven Kingdoms! The Iron Throne still stands! Though the dragons of House Targaryen are hidden, their power remains! I, Quellon Greyjoy, as the Seastone King subject to the Iron Throne, will not, and absolutely cannot, allow you to touch this iron law and drag the Iron Islands back into the abyss of destruction!"
Dead silence filled the Council Chamber, only Quellon's voice echoing off the stone walls like a great bell. "So, the 'Old Way' can be walked, but only outside the waters marked by Aegon I! Ships of the Seven Kingdoms, flying the banner of any lord or castle, are our neighbors, our potential trade partners! Ab-so-lute-ly! Not! To! Be! Touched!" He enunciated each word, every syllable stamping a brand like a hammer. "Your axes and longships, your 'Iron Price,' can only point to—the pirate dens of the Stepstones! The slaver ships carrying live cargo in Slaver's Bay! The remote islands and trade routes of the Summer Sea belonging to no kingdom! The fat merchant ships of the Free Cities with no strong fleet protection! These places, do as you please! Use the enemy's blood and goods to fatten the Iron Islands' bones!"
"This is my decision! The New Rules of the Old Way!" Quellon sat back down, leaning against the cold reef chair, his eyes tired but sharp as ever. "Not abandoning the Old Way, but putting a bridle of wisdom on it! Let it feed the Ironborn without inviting destructive dragonfire! Who approves? Who opposes?" With the last sentence, his gaze turned into an unsheathed blade again, slowly sweeping the face of every lord present, waiting for a new storm, or... temporary submission.
At the end of the long table, Euron remained as silent as before. Under his father's declaration of the "New Rules of the Old Way"—a mix of grace and threat, iron-blooded warning and a door of compromise—his mismatched eyes shone with brighter, more complex light. He saw his father's strong hand and his pragmatic political wisdom—carving a narrow but perhaps navigable channel between iron laws and Ironborn tradition. Lysa's strategy of "silence" allowed him to observe like the calmest chess player, watching the subtle vibrations of every piece on this power board caused by his father's move.
The lords of the islands shouted in unison: "We obey your will, Lord Quellon!"
Quellon waved his hand. "Good. If there's nothing else, dismissed!"