The first batch of curved sabers from Iron Smoke Island was finally ready.
In the dimly lit workshop, where the heat of the charcoal fires still lingered, Euron Greyjoy casually picked up a new blade.
The curve of the blade flowed like a wave, reflecting the cold scrutiny in his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, the edge sliced through the air with a faint hiss, chopping down onto an old iron sword resting nearby. With a crisp clang, the old sword snapped cleanly in two, the cut as smooth as a mirror.
"Not bad," Euron commented faintly, his fingertip lightly tracing the spine of the blade, feeling the toughness and sharpness that far exceeded the current craftsmanship of the Iron Islands.
Euron handed the saber to Vittorio Grey, who stood beside him. The former Khal took the curved blade, his rough fingers caressing every curve in the Dothraki manner, weighing its balance. He then walked outside and delivered a sudden, horizontal slash at an upright wooden stake!
A flash of steel, and the stake separated soundlessly into two pieces, the top half sliding off to the side.
Vittorio turned around, his usually stern face showing a look of near-shock. "This blade," he said in heavily accented Common Tongue, his voice husky with excitement, "is better, faster, tougher, and thirstier for blood than the arakhs currently used on the grasslands!" His endorsement was the ultimate validation for these new weapons.
Since the superiority of the blades was confirmed, Euron's plan moved forward immediately. He summoned his uncle, Balf Greyjoy, who had traveled with him across the Dothraki Sea and witnessed the vastness of the grasslands.
"You know the language of the Horse Lords, and you've seen their Khals," Euron ordered. "You will lead a team. Take the best longship, load this batch of new blades, and sail for the grasslands. Our goal is clear: trade blades for horses. As many as possible."
Trading precious steel for horses that were almost useless to islanders? This deal confused both King Quellon and Balon.
"Horses?" Balon frowned in the council chamber, his tone full of disbelief. "What use do we have for so many horses? Are we going to charge across the reefs?"
King Quellon didn't speak, but his deep gaze held the same question.
Facing the skepticism of his father and brother, Euron remained composed. "Horses are indeed useless for us living on these islands," he admitted, then pivoted. "But to the lords and knights of Westeros, they are symbols of war, glory, and status. They are hard currency that never devaluates. We can sell as many as we get, and the price will never be low."
He paused, a deeper calculation flashing in his eyes. "Besides, who can say what the future holds? Perhaps one day, the sons of the Iron Islands won't just ride the waves, but will need to gallop across broader lands. Stockpiling quality warhorses now... will never be a losing deal."
Though the explanation didn't fully erase their doubts, the argument that it was "never a losing deal" was persuasive enough.
King Quellon slowly nodded, and Balon ceased his objections.
Euron smiled and turned to Vittorio. "This time, you go back to the grasslands with Balf. I remember your son is still in Braavos with his mother. Pick them up on the way back to the Iron Islands. Only by being taught at his father's side can he grow into a true man."
Vittorio was overwhelmed with gratitude. "Thank you, My Lord!"
And so, a longship laden with newly forged curved blades raised its sails under Balf's command, heading for the distant eastern grasslands, toward unknown trade and destiny.
The smoke of the Battle of the Arbor had not yet fully cleared, but Euron Greyjoy's plunder had already precisely severed Highgarden's proudest lifeline.
Euron had directed his Ironborn to sift through the populace like panning for gold. He rounded up every key figure involved in winemaking on the Arbor—from the masters controlling fermentation secrets to the skilled hands regulating cellar temperatures, and the overseers grading the vintages. Almost every soul critical to the process was bound and stuffed onto the longships, "scooped up" and taken back to the Iron Islands.
When Lord Adrian Redwyne and his sister, the famously shrewd and tough "Queen of Thorns" Lady Olenna, dragged their weary bodies back to their homeland and saw the ravaged vineyards with precious vines torn up by the roots, they were so angry their hands went cold and their bodies trembled.
However, this was only the beginning of the nightmare.
They soon discovered that far worse than losing the vines was the disappearance of every master winemaker who possessed the knowledge to turn grapes into gold.
In an instant, rage and panic seized the siblings. They furiously wrote to Pyke, demanding the return of these "technical prisoners" in the harshest terms, while simultaneously sending ravens to the Iron Throne with a string of bloody complaints. However, the reply from Pyke was a cold, arrogant phrase: "Battle Casualties." All losses were blamed on the cruelty of war. Return the people? Impossible. But the messenger added a stinging postscript: Perhaps in time, the Iron Islands might consider "selling" Arbor wine back to House Redwyne.
This was rubbing salt in the wound. The rise of House Redwyne began with "Gilbert of the Vines," who brought the art of winemaking to this land and forged a golden legend. But as his descendants were ennobled, they gradually distanced themselves from the scent of soil and the dampness of oak barrels. All knowledge and details of brewing were handed over to these families of artisans cultivated over generations. A noble certainly wouldn't brew wine with his own hands; that would be too damaging to his dignity.
Now, they were paying the price for that dignity...
Today, these living treasures had been uprooted and stolen, and even the scrolls recording ancient recipes and techniques had been swept away. The only old Maester who might have reconstructed parts of the process from memory washed up on the shore days later, a bloated, pale corpse. His death, naturally, was also attributed to—"Battle Casualties."
Standing before the empty, silent wine cellars, looking out at the barren vineyards, Lord Adrian felt a bone-deep powerlessness and confusion for the first time. They held noble titles and vast lands, yet they had lost the Midas touch. They could only watch helplessly as the source of their family's century-old glory dried up completely.
Euron had no interest in the wailing or curses of House Redwyne; his gaze was locked only on the future.
The winemaking masters he had uprooted from the Arbor needed to take root again among the rocks of the Iron Islands, to flow with golden liquid as soon as possible and create the value they were owed.
All personnel related to winemaking were concentrated on a carefully selected uninhabited island. Just as he had settled the smiths on "Iron Smoke Island," Euron named this place: Iron Fragrance Island. The name carried the cold brand of the Ironborn while hinting at the rich aroma soon to permeate the air. This island was given a singular mission: to become the wine cellar and wealth spring of the Iron Islands.
Unlike the smiths who were easier to control, these winemakers were mostly freefolk of Westeros. If news of their forceful detention spread, it would give the Seven Kingdoms a pretext for action.
Euron understood this game well, so his methods were more sophisticated. On the surface, he promised staggeringly high wages and generous supplies, even pledging to bring their families to the island for reunification—a policy of utmost appeasement. But in the shadows, absolute control never relaxed.
The location of Iron Fragrance Island was carefully chosen. It sat in the center of the waters between Pyke, Saltcliffe, and Great Wyk, like a pebble guarded by three giant beasts. No unauthorized ship could approach these heavily monitored waters silently. The island was swarming with Euron's most loyal Ironborn confidants. They were both guards and jailers, their cold eyes constantly patrolling to ensure no one could escape, and no prying eyes could infiltrate.
Artisans on the island had already built shelters and necessary living facilities for the winemakers. All brewing equipment—from massive presses to rows of oak barrels—had been transported and installed properly.
The geography and soil of the Iron Islands meant they couldn't grow top-quality grapes, but grapes could be bought. In his earlier travels, Euron happened to know of several excellent vineyards across the Narrow Sea.
Three days ago, the first batch of premium grapes, urgently shipped from Braavos, finally arrived at the docks. As the deep purple juice began to flow, the rich scent of fruit began to weave with the salty sea breeze.
From this once desolate island, now the secret workshop named Iron Fragrance Island, the aroma of new wine finally wafted out for the first time.
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