The night wind of Lord Harroway's Town, wrapped in the scent of brine and tar, curled around the stone walls of the inn.
This town was not ruled by Lord Harroway. House Harroway had been granted Harrenhal during the reign of Aenys I, becoming the second house to rule the cursed castle. They had intermarried with Maegor the Cruel, but in the end, were exterminated by him to the last man.
Lord Harroway's Town was named after that extinct house, but it was now the fiefdom of House Roote.
The Inn at the Crossroads.
When Euron pushed open the creaking oak door, a wave of heat mixed with the smell of ale and roasting meat rushed over him.
It was an old tavern built of volcanic rock. Flint bullet casings from generations of drunkards were embedded in the mortar of the walls, and faded banners of various houses hung upside down from the wooden beams of the ceiling. More than twenty low tables were packed full. The rough knuckles of the patrons rapped on the tabletops, beating time for a singer's ballad.
"...Flames burn through the anvil, dragonfire licks the mast..."
A hoarse male voice suddenly exploded into the chorus.
Euron followed the sound. Sitting on an oak barrel in the corner was a one-eyed man. His tattered leather apron was stained with scorch marks, and his left hand, missing an index finger, clutched a wooden tankard. His singing voice was like a quenched steel blade, every syllable wrapped in the unique grit of the Iron Islands:
"The sunset of the Arbor dyes the pirate flag red! The Queen in the flames raises her trident!"
The tavern fell silent abruptly.
Everyone's gaze focused on the one-eyed singer. Euron noticed the faded Kraken sigil embroidered on the pack at his feet—the mark of an old soldier from King Quellon's expeditions.
"Keep singing!" A drunken swordsman pounded the table, splashing ale onto the dirt floor.
The singer's single eye swept over the crowd, suddenly fixing on Euron. He grinned, revealing missing front teeth, his voice rising sharply:
"Now only the Lords of the North Sea, the Kings of the Deep! Their story spreads with strong spirits and fear!"
"...Fire consumes the old idols! Ironborn shout the new King's name! Now only Greyjoy! Only the Iron Islands! The eternal victors, the Kings of the Waves!"
The last clanging syllable struck the rough stone walls of the tavern, stirring a humming echo.
In an instant, the entire tavern erupted with thunderous cheers and the banging of tables. The Ironborn guards beside Euron were beside themselves with excitement, laughing wildly and roaring. One brawny man even kicked over an empty barrel next to him, sending it clattering with a loud crash.
The one-eyed singer jumped down from his barrel stage. His leg seemed injured, giving him a slight limp as he walked. His stained leather apron brushed against the tips of Euron's boots as he stopped before him, bowing respectfully. "Lord Euron!"
"Outside, there is no need for such titles." Euron smiled, appearing quite easygoing. With a flick of his finger, a gleaming gold dragon traced a beautiful arc through the air, landing precisely in the singer's eagerly outstretched palm. "You sang well."
However, right in the midst of this warm atmosphere, a jarring, scornful roar splashed over them like cold water, instantly exploding through the tavern:
"What the hell kind of trash was that singing?!"
Everyone's gaze snapped toward the source. Several men, reasonably well-dressed but wearing expressions of arrogance, were looking over with disdain. Embroidered on their shields and collars was the familiar twin tower sigil—House Frey. They had clearly noticed the exquisite golden kraken badge on Euron's lapel and were deliberately picking a fight.
One of the leading Frey knights sneered, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "Mere Ironborn scum. You grab a little gold and think you're somebody now? Trying to act rich like Lord Lannister and keep singers? Do you crows of the sea really think you're worthy?"
"Shing!"
Before his voice faded, the Ironborn warriors beside Euron were already burning with rage. Blades were drawn instantly, cold light reflecting off their angry faces. The dozen or so Frey warriors didn't back down either, drawing their swords. The atmosphere in the tavern instantly became tense, a bloody conflict ready to erupt at any touch.
Yet, Euron, standing in the center of the storm, merely shook his head lightly, almost imperceptibly. He raised a hand, signaling his men to sheathe their weapons. His gaze didn't even linger on the Freys.
"Not here," Euron said faintly. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a cold, penetrating power. "No need to lower ourselves to their level."
But in the eyes of the Freys, Euron's calm and retreat were the best proof of cowardice and weakness.
"Hmph, at least you iron crows know your place!" Seeing this, the lead Frey knight became even more triumphant. He slammed his sword back into its scabbard with a clang, as if he had won a great victory. He deliberately raised his voice, ensuring the entire tavern heard his mockery: "Tuck your tails and roll back to the sea! That's where you belong! You aren't worthy to meddle in affairs on land!"
His companions burst into laughter, mixing in crude insults like "Krakens are only fit to eat rotten fish" and "Paupers of Pyke." They sat back down, shouting loudly for wine as if they had just shooed away a swarm of annoying flies. The atmosphere became noisy again, but filled with an uncomfortable arrogance of the 'victors.'
A young Ironborn guard couldn't help but spit fiercely on the ground, grinding his teeth. "My Lord! Are we just going to let those bastards from the Twins insult us like this?! They aren't even fit to lick our boots!"
An older Ironborn muttered with a dark face, "House Frey... relying on the crossing and marriages, getting more and more arrogant. But they forget, no matter how wide the river is, it's never wider than the sea."
Euron glanced at them coldly. "Barking stray dogs aren't worth fighting in a busy market. It only dirties your hands and gives passersby a free show."
---
However, House Frey's arrogance didn't recede with Euron's retreat; instead, it intensified.
Three Frey men, clearly drunk and emboldened by lust, swayed to their feet and blocked the path of Euron's group. Their gazes stuck greedily and rudely to Lisa, filled with disgusting desire.
The leader, wearing leather cavalry armor and sporting a filthy grin, actually reached out a dirty hand to touch Lisa's face, breathing alcohol fumes at Euron. "Hey, Ironborn boy, this girl with you is nice—how many copper stars for her to keep us company for a night? We Freys have plenty of—hic—money—"
His obscenities stopped abruptly.
Because in the next instant, Euron moved.
No warning. No scolding. Not even a trace of extra expression. With suffocating speed, he drew the Meito Oto from his waist with a reverse grip.
A flash of cold light, followed by the tooth-aching sound of a sharp blade piercing leather and flesh. The slender, razor-sharp blade had precisely and completely skewered the Frey cavalryman's throat!
The man's eyes bulged violently, filled with incredulous horror. He tried to scream, but could only make a leaking "gurgle-gurgle" sound from his pierced windpipe. Blood sprayed like a fountain, splashing all over his companions' faces.
The other two Freys were stunned, their drunkenness instantly half-scared away by this sudden, bloody slaughter. Subconsciously, they reached for their swords.
But Euron gave them no chance. The moment their fingers touched their hilts, Euron's other hand had already drawn Kogarashi. The twin swords crossed like the wings of the grim reaper, carving two deadly arcs of cold light!
One head flew into the air wearing a frozen expression of shock; the other was cleaved diagonally, nearly split in two.
In the blink of an eye, three Freys were dead souls under the blade.
"She is my woman! You aren't even worthy to look at her." Euron flicked the warm blood from his blades, the movement as light as brushing away dust. He didn't even spare a second glance at the corpses on the ground. In a tone so calm it chilled the spine, he spoke softly and clearly to the Ironborn behind him, who could no longer suppress their killing intent:
"Kill them all. Leave no one alive."
This command was the spark that lit the powder keg. The Ironborn warriors, holding back a bellyful of rage, exploded instantly! Like tigers released from a cage, they roared and pounced on the Frey members who hadn't yet recovered from the shock. The sounds of chopping blades, screams, and shattering furniture instantly filled the tavern. A bloody massacre commenced abruptly.
In the chaos, a fierce light flashed in the one-eyed singer's single eye. He moved silently behind a Frey cavalryman grappling with an Ironborn and, with a carving knife, slit his throat with precise and ruthless efficiency. His movements were skilled and practiced, bearing no resemblance to a crippled singer.
Moments later, the tavern returned to a deathly silence, leaving only the thick, nauseating smell of blood. Every member of House Frey had become a cold corpse lying on the floor.