Balon moved stiffly, each step heavy as if he dragged invisible chains, the stone floor echoing his slow, deliberate march.
The pride of Pyke's heir had been shattered by his father's severe judgment. The two words Howling Head pierced his rage like cold iron hooks, leaving only the dull ache of humiliation.
He had expected lashes—torn flesh, stinging pain, a warrior's mark of honor. But hard labor? Cleaning barnacles like the lowest salt thrall among sunbaked rocks? This was a trampling of status, a mockery of his birthright.
From the corner of his eye, he caught the glimmer of treasures—the Myrish coins, the Qohorik silks—but the gold and silk mocked him now, silent witnesses to his disgrace.
Euron, however, remained calm.
He cast a final glance at his father's back, straight as a reef, imposing even in the flickering hearthlight. He had anticipated Quellon's anger. He had expected confinement—and in truth, he welcomed it.
The mountains of treasure, cursed by Quellon's eyes, were merely cold, exploitable resources to him.
He fell into step behind Balon.
The tension between them was palpable, each step echoing in the oppressive hall. Balon's fury boiled, yet he swallowed it, waiting for the moment to strike.
At the door, he finally could not restrain himself. His hand shot out, gripping Euron's shoulder like iron. Euron stumbled, yelping at the sudden force.
"You little bastard!" Balon spat through gritted teeth, his voice a hiss of rage and pain. "If it weren't for you, this—this jinx!—Father wouldn't be furious! I might have taken lashes, yes, but why… why must I go to Howling Head?!"
His fingers dug into Euron's shoulder. Euron grimaced, but his deep blue eyes held neither fear nor weakness—only cold mockery and restrained annoyance.
"If not for me, brother, you and your band of fools would have been riddled with arrows in Havana Port," Euron replied steadily. "You owe me your life. Have you already forgotten? By the old ways of the Iron Islands, how is a life debt repaid?"
"That's a separate matter!" Balon snapped, like a sea beast prodded at a wound. "I will repay my debt! But this… this punishment is all because of you!"
Euron's lips curved in a thin, sharp smile. "A 'separate matter'? Ha! It is Father who punishes you! It is he who sees your recklessness and nearly drags the Greyjoys into ruin. Do not blame me for your stupidity!"
Balon spat a mouthful of saliva onto the floor and released Euron's shoulder, shoving him backward.
Just as the tension threatened to explode, Quellon's cold, commanding voice cut through the hall like ice:
"Enough! Before either of you depart for your respective 'reefs' or 'desks,' see your mother first! She has spent the day and night weeping for you both, her eyes nearly blind from sorrow. Bring her peace!"
Balon and Euron froze, the weight of their father's words silencing them. Pain and command intertwined in Quellon's tone, leaving no room for argument.
Silently, they turned and walked toward Lady Yrsa's chamber. The air grew heavy with the scent of herbs and mourning. Balon's anger cooled, replaced by concern for his mother, embarrassment at his failings, and the sharper sting of self-reproach.
He shot Euron a dark glare but said nothing, then pushed open the heavy door.
Lady Yrsa leaned against her pillows, her six-month pregnant belly wrapped in a thin blanket. Tear streaks marked her pale cheeks; her eyes were red and swollen.
Seeing her sons, her anger flared. "Balon!" Her voice was hoarse but sharp. Without warning, she struck him across the face.
Balon stumbled; the impact left a clear mark.
"Why did you take Euron with you? How old is he? That is no place for a child!" she demanded, her voice trembling with fear and fury.
Her gaze fell upon Euron's exposed shoulder, the bruise dark and swollen, a faint, pale mark of a graze still visible.
"Gods!" she gasped, her face paling further.
Whirling back to Balon, she struck him again. "And you, wretched boy! How could you fail to protect your brother?! Did you want to kill him? To make me lose both of you?!"
Balon's cheeks burned. His fists clenched, his gaze sharpened like daggers aimed at Euron. Yet he dared not retaliate against his mother.
Euron flinched, sensing the deadly combination of maternal wrath and protective fury. He knew Balon would not strike Yrsa, but the potential retribution he faced afterward was undeniable.
"Mo… Mother," Euron stammered, his voice weak but urgent, "my head… it feels dizzy, and Maester Tymor said my wound needs tending right away. I… I must see him immediately!"
Like a startled fawn, he stumbled from the room.
Balon's dark gaze followed him. Euron knew a brutal reckoning was inevitable.