Every Wednesday afternoon, the top floor of the Maester's Tower was permeated with the scent of aged parchment, sour wine, and a deeper dust that belonged to knowledge.
Sunlight, cut into murky pillars by the thick glass windows, illuminated slow-floating particles in the air. Euron Greyjoy, a child barely taller than the high-backed chair, was curled up in the massive seat made of whalebone and ironwood, almost swallowed by the monstrosity. Opposite him sat King Quellon Greyjoy, immovable as a mountain, his rough fingers stroking a letter just delivered by raven, bearing the bronze link seal of the Citadel.
The news in the letter was heavy as lead: The Long Summer, which had lasted a full ten years, was ending. Following it would be at least three years of bitter winter (277 AC - 279 AC).
"Euron, what do you think?" Quellon's voice was low, like distant thunder. This wasn't asking a child's opinion, but testing an heir's mind.
What do I think? How can I think!? I'll watch lying down~~~ An irrelevant meme from a distant spacetime slid through Euron's mind, bringing a touch of absurd detachment. But his mismatched pupils calmly scanned every rigorous and cold character on the letter. He looked up, his child voice clear and unhesitating: "The Maesters of the Citadel have observed the stars, recorded tides, and dissected clouds for thousands of years. Their prophecies might have slight deviations, but they have never completely failed. This ten-year Long Summer itself is a defiance of the law, so the coming winter must correct it with doubled severity." His small finger tapped the prediction of the winter's duration. "Three years might just be a conservative estimate. The Iron Islands must reserve grain to support us for at least three years. My advice is—the more the better. In a long winter, surplus grain is more powerful than surplus gold."
Quellon nodded slowly, his jawline like a reef eroded by storms. "We have one year. The Roses of Highgarden are busy with themselves; their grain will only flow to the Golden Dragons of King's Landing. The North and the Vale... their vast lands will only produce more hunger in winter." His gaze turned to the grey-green sea under the gloomy sky outside. "It seems only the Free Cities of the East and Pentos remain."
"Grain, timber, and furs and oil to keep our people warm in the icy sea," Euron continued, his tone reciting the most common trade list, "have always been our most important and frequent trade with the outside." Since the news of Winter is Coming spread like a plague through the Seven Kingdoms, the masts in Lordsport grew denser by the day. Under Euron's behind-the-scenes coordination, longship fleets belonging to the "Ice and Fire" company and various lords shuttled through the Narrow Sea with unprecedented efficiency, like busy worker ants hoarding food for the nest.
However, before the breath of winter truly touched Pyke's towering spires, there was a major event concerning the bloodline and power of House Greyjoy that needed urgent resolution—the marriage of the eldest son, Balon. In these islands where iron and blood were law, marriage was never personal pleasure, but a family chess move. Especially for the heir to the Seastone Chair, his bride must be a chip of sufficient weight.
Winter would last three years. Balon's marriage had to be completed before it arrived, or they would wait another three years. According to Westerosi custom, the three years of winter were the best time to make babies. Euron didn't want to delay the birth of his nephews and nieces...
The next day, Euron stood alone deep in the crypts of House Greyjoy. Cold, salty air wrapped around the whale oil lamps burning eternally on the stone walls, casting flickering shadows. His fingertips traced stone sarcophagi eroded by time and sea wind, feeling the ancient glory and death recorded in the inscriptions. The five-year-old's body was as small as a speck of dust under the massive, imposing statues of ancestors, but the cold calculation flowing in his eyes was harder than the ice deep in the tomb.
"Master." A soft but clear voice broke the silence. Lysa had appeared behind him at some point, like a ghost condensing from the shadows. She offered a yellowed parchment scroll with both hands. "The information on House Harlaw you asked for."
Euron took it, the scroll unrolling slowly in his hands. Dense text and diagrams outlined the lineage, power distribution, and recent undercurrents of another great Iron Islands house. His gaze finally settled on a name: Alannys Harlaw—the sixteen-year-old niece of the Lord of Harlaw, her mother from House Blacktyde, her father an Iron Fleet captain who died in the Stepstones ten years ago.
"Tell me about her." Euron's voice was soft, almost swallowed by the roar of waves hitting the tomb's foundation.
Lysa lowered her eyes, firelight dancing on her long lashes. "Eyes are a rare shallow sea green, hair color a deep brown uncommon in the Iron Islands, like oak sunk in deep water. She can mix potions to cure high fever before a still, and play tunes on a seven-stringed harp that make sailors homesick. But last month, someone saw her use a small skinning knife to accurately pierce the neck of a seagull stealing fish from ten paces away. Last year, she threw back the tokens of two sons from House Stonehouse who proposed."
A faint, almost invisible smile surfaced on Euron's lips. Perfect. A close branch of House Harlaw, connected to Blacktyde through her mother, possessing both a heterogeneous cultural refinement and the fierceness in Ironborn bones. More importantly, House Harlaw held the vastest treasure trove of knowledge in the Iron Islands, and their fleet was more keen on trade routes than reaving the Old Way. This marriage could cleverly stitch Greyjoy toughness with Harlaw wisdom and wealth. Besides, in the preordained trajectory, this Alannys was meant to be Balon's Rock Wife, bearing him descendants who inherited the Greyjoy name and wildness. Euron had no intention of altering this already written chapter; he even looked forward to those destined nephews and nieces.
Three days later, the training ground was filled with sweat, the clang of steel, and heavy panting. Balon Greyjoy was violently hacking a heavy battle axe into an oak dummy, wood chips flying. Every swing condensed the nineteen-year-old youth's unvented energy and the sullenness accumulated since his father promulgated the "New Rules of the Old Way." Steam rose from his bronzed skin, the muscles on his back knotting like restless volcanoes.
"Brother." A calm child's voice, utterly incongruous with his current mood, rang out.
Balon paused mid-motion, panting heavily as he turned back to see Euron standing by the field holding a small keg bound with iron hoops.
"Taste this." Euron handed the keg over.
Balon took it suspiciously, pulled the cork, and took a swig. A fierce burning sensation rushed up his throat instantly, making him cough, but his eyes lit up. "Dornish Red Venom?! You little... where did you get this?"
"Sent by Alannys Harlaw." Euron blinked, a sly light flashing in his mismatched pupils. "She said, having tasted all across the islands, only the eldest son of House Greyjoy is worthy of this strong liquor that can ignite the blood."
Balon's ears turned red at a visible speed. As if scalded, he rudely shoved the keg back into Euron's arms, his voice deliberately raised to cover his momentary embarrassment. "Hmph! Those Harlaws who hold books and only know how to count..."
"She isn't like that." Euron unhurriedly took out a dagger from his tunic. The dagger was exquisitely styled, but the hilt was wrapped in non-slip seaweed fiber—strange yet practical. "Look at this—last month near Blacktyde, a Myrish sailor tried to grab her amber necklace. She used this to accurately nail his throat." He paused, adding, "One hit kill."
Balon's movement taking the dagger subconsciously lightened. Fingertips stroking the cold blade, he seemed to really smell a faint trace of rust and blood not fully washed away. He looked silently at the blood-stained weapon, as if seeing something else through it.
"Unless something unexpected happens, she will be your Rock Wife soon, my sister-in-law." Euron's tone carried the undisguised teasing unique to brothers. "You've seen Alannys, brother. In looks, courage, and that spirit, she's a gift from the sea god for a reef like you who only knows how to chop. Don't know what dog shit luck you stepped in to get this~~~"
"Bastard brat! Do I need your mouth for my business?" Balon reacted like a wildcat whose tail was stepped on. The budding, unfamiliar emotion was instantly replaced by familiar irritability. "Looks like we haven't been 'intimate' for a long time, skin itching, eh? Come! Let your dear brother see if your tongue is sharper than your moves!"
Before his voice fell, he kicked a heavy wooden practice axe on the ground toward Euron, drew another backhanded, and chopped down with a vicious wind! The force was fierce and merciless, yet miraculously avoided all vital points.
Euron dodged nimbly sideways, the wind from the wooden axe ruffling the black hair on his forehead. Unarmed, but with a knowing smirk on his lips, he began to circle his enraged brother on the gravel-covered training ground.
For a time, the field was left with only the dull thud of wood clashing, Balon's roars, the wind from Euron's occasional nimble dodges, and a certain... hardcore, scalding way of "communication" unique to the Greyjoy brothers of the Iron Islands.
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