The docks reeked of salty brine and the acrid smell of burnt wood.
The Ironborn longships, like a pod of gorged sea monsters, sat heavy in the water, their gunwales dangerously low from the weight of a century's worth of Arbor plunder. Casks of golden-red wine, gleaming silver and gold plate, ancient books, tapestries, and even the carefully wrapped golden grapevines of the Arbor—all had been loaded onto the ships in perfect order.
Most of the gold and treasure had already sailed; this was just the final tail end.
Lady Olenna stood at the edge of the pier like a small, hard statue, looking as if the things being hauled away had nothing to do with the Arbor or Highgarden. The sea breeze brushed her wrinkled cheeks but couldn't ruffle the cold scrutiny in her eyes. She watched Euron Greyjoy. Unlike his captains, who were brimming with ecstasy, he wore only a faint, almost imperceptible smile, as if this massive victory were merely an amusing game to him.
Two Ironborn guards escorted Lord Adrian Redwyne forward. The old Earl's clothes were relatively clean, but his face was pale, his eyes darting away, unable to meet his sister's gaze. Olenna's eyes lingered on her brother for only a second before she nodded slightly. Attendants behind her quickly stepped forward to receive him.
Heavy wooden chests were carried to the edge of the pier by Ironborn soldiers and dropped heavily onto the rough stone slabs with a dull, heart-shaking thud. A soldier pried open a lid with his sword. With a creak, the contents were revealed—thousands of gold dragons packed tight. Even under the leaden gray sky, they reflected a heavy, seductive dark-gold light. They lay there silently, a testament to the massive price paid by House Tyrell—these twenty thousand gold dragons were the price of Lord Adrian Redwyne's life.
The transaction was completed in an eerie silence. The salty, humid air seemed to stagnate, leaving only the monotonous sound of waves slapping against the quay, oppressive and suffocating.
Lady Olenna's gaze slowly lifted from the dazzling gold. Looking past the cold wealth, her eyes locked onto Euron Greyjoy again with the precision of a hawk. Her voice wasn't loud, but it pierced strangely through the low whistle of the wind and the moan of the waves. Every syllable was distinct, cold as a polished ice pick.
"Euron Greyjoy."
Euron took a step forward. The habitual smile on his lips seemed to deepen slightly. He nodded. "Yes, Lady Olenna."
The old woman stared at him. There was no relaxation in her eyes now that the deal was done; instead, she looked like a chess player scrutinizing an opponent's latest move. She was silent for a moment before speaking slowly, throwing out a question that sounded routine but hid a sharp edge.
"These gold dragons," she indicated the open chests with her eyes, "aren't you going to count them?"
Her tone was flat, as if mentioning it in passing, yet she placed a microscopic weight on the word "count." It could be a simple reminder, a subtle challenge to his trust, or perhaps her own final, cold examination of the humiliation this "ransom" represented.
Euron let out a low, raspy chuckle, as if he'd heard an amusing joke. He waved his hand casually, his posture as relaxed as if refusing an extra cup of wine.
"No need, My Lady." His gaze swept over the coins without a hint of attachment, finally returning to Olenna's face. "The credit of House Tyrell of Highgarden shines far brighter than these cold pieces of metal. And I," he paused, his tone becoming meaningful, "am more inclined to trust in the... character and honor of Lady Olenna herself. To count coins when dealing with you would be far too vulgar."
His answer was perfect. He elevated her status, deftly caught her probe, and painted this naked cash transaction with a layer of almost hypocritical, respectful chivalry.
On the pier, the tension seemed to grow even more complex and indecipherable after this exchange. The shine of the twenty thousand gold dragons now seemed like a cold footnote to this silent contest of wills.
She spoke again. "I have long heard of your extraordinary nature. Daring to sail across the Narrow Sea at age seven—such courage has no second in Westeros. I heard that in Lannisport, even Jaime Lannister, knighted by the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne himself, was defeated by your hand. That is Valor."
Euron blinked, then explained casually, "I was afraid of the cold, so I did go play across the Narrow Sea for a few years, though I had hundreds of guards with me. As for the duel with Jaime Lannister in Lannisport, that was just after-dinner entertainment. It doesn't count."
She paused slightly, her gaze sweeping over the town that hadn't been sacked and the dejected but alive Tyrell soldiers who had surrendered.
"Breaching the city without harming civilians, accepting surrender without killing captives, holding wildfire but not using it to burn the city... That is Mercy."
"Every promise made before the battle has been honored today without fail. That is Integrity."
"As for this battle—" She chuckled lightly, though there was no warmth in it. "If not for your boldness and care, infiltrating the Arbor beforehand, using fire to distract the enemy, and finally capturing the leader to secure victory... even if you had won, the price would likely have been doubled. That is Wisdom."
Her voice suddenly rose a notch, ensuring that everyone around, especially the Ironborn, could hear her final conclusion:
"King Quellon! You have raised a truly fine son!"
These words were like a carefully thrown stone, stirring up undercurrents beneath the calm surface.
The Queen of Thorns smiled amiably, as if offering genuine praise. But everyone who knew the Iron Islands knew that the heir to the Seastone Chair was Balon Greyjoy.
She lifted Euron extremely high—high enough to overshadow his brother, high enough to ignite the dry wood of ambition, or to draw his brother's jealous gaze.
Euron laughed, a low, raspy sound. He would have to be a fool not to hear the intent behind her praise. "You flatter me, My Lady." He looked up, his eyes flashing strangely in the shadow. "The fame of 'Lord Pufferfish' is the one that has truly spread across the Seven Kingdoms. Everyone knows it."
"I never expected to have such a... unique son either, but he happens to be the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. My belly disappointed me, only giving me one son. If I had any other choice, he wouldn't be sitting in that seat. That is fate!" The Queen of Thorns, Olenna Redwyne, didn't mind Euron's counterattack at all. She laughed too; after all, she was the one who gave Mace Tyrell that nickname.
Euron said calmly, "I believe Highgarden will surely flourish under Lady Olenna's leadership!"
King Quellon, tired of listening to the two of them publicly praising and secretly undermining each other, shouted, "Euron, it's time to sail!"
Lady Olenna smiled and nodded. "It's been a long time since I've met such an interesting young man. If you have time in the future, come to Highgarden. House Tyrell will host you well."
Euron boarded the ship, waving his hand. "The most beautiful castle in all of Westeros? I will definitely visit!"
The Ironborn ships sailed away, fully loaded.
Lady Olenna slowly turned around. Her gaze swept over the group in front of her—her brother, Lord Adrian Redwyne of the Arbor. His usually ruddy, proud face was now as gray as death, his head hanging heavy and low, as if the twenty thousand gold dragons had broken his neck. Her nephew had practically buried his face in his chest, afraid to meet anyone's eyes.
Behind them stood the soldiers of House Redwyne. Their faces and armor were stained with soot and blood, their once-proud cloaks embroidered with golden grapes now tattered. Every face bore the humiliation of crushing defeat, the bewilderment of seeing their home stripped bare, and a deep, silent disappointment. The entire pier was thick with a despair heavier than the salt air.
Lady Olenna's gaze was like a cold dagger, slowly scraping across every dejected face. In the silence, only the crashing waves and the distant, mournful cry of gulls could be heard.
Finally, she spoke. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was incredibly sharp, instantly piercing the heavy air.
"It was just a lost war." She said coldly, her words distinct, hammering into every heart. "Look at you. Did the Arbor sink? Will the sun never shine on our vineyards again? or did your hearts get pried out by the Ironborn along with the gold in your chests?"
She took a small step forward, her tiny frame radiating an authority that made it hard to look directly at her.
"They took our gold, burned our ships, and stained our honor. Yes, this is defeat. It is humiliation!" Her voice rose sharply, like a whip cracking the air. "But at least your arms are still attached to your shoulders, and your heads are still on your necks! You are still alive!"
She paused, letting the word "alive" land heavily on everyone.
"As long as you are alive, the days ahead are long. Long enough for us to remember every ounce of today's shame. Long enough for us to sharpen every sword and fill every wineskin—not just with wine, but with the oil of vengeance!" Her gaze swept over her brother and nephew again, her tone fierce. "If all you can do is hang your heads like frosted vines and reek of the sour rot of failure, then I'll show you a clear path right now—"
She suddenly raised her withered hand and pointed to the churning, deep, cold sea.
"Jump in right now! Drown yourselves! Save Highgarden the food, and save House Redwyne from being the laughingstock of enemies who see us unable to stand up straight!"
Silence fell over the pier, deadly still. But into the stagnant despair, a red-hot iron seemed to have been dropped. Some soldiers unconsciously straightened their backs and clenched their fists. The extinguished fire in their eyes seemed to be rekindled into a faint but resilient light by these cold, venomous, yet undeniably realistic words.
"Let's go. See what we have left." Lady Olenna gestured for her brother and nephew to follow her for an inspection.
"They really cleaned us out. Scraped a layer off the walls. The floor is three feet higher..."
"Though they had a bit of conscience. Our father's portrait is still hanging in its place."
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