The heavy oak door to the Pyke Lord's study creaked open, and Euron slipped inside, closing it quietly behind him. The room smelled of salt and sea air, carrying the weight of endless toil and fatigue.
Quellon Greyjoy stood with his back to the window, gazing out at the storm-grey sea, broad shoulders slumped, the weight of the Iron Islands pressing on him.
"Father?" Euron's voice was soft but clear, a child's brightness cutting through the tension in the room.
Quellon did not turn immediately. Only a low, reluctant "Hmm" escaped him, carrying irritation sharpened by fatigue.
Euron paused by the large table piled with sea charts and scrolls, careful to maintain a respectful distance. This was not the time for a child's impetuousness—he needed a stage for his words.
"Mother said… you were angered by Lord Drumm and the others again today," Euron said, stating it rather than asking, his voice gentle yet thoughtful.
Quellon finally turned, his face lined and weary, but his eyes sharp. He studied his son, noting a calmness beyond his years—an unsettling mix of precocity and focus. "A bunch of old fogies, their brains pickled in salt!" he growled, slamming his fist against the window frame, making the glass hum. "They only see salted herring and plundered spoils. They have no idea what the future of the Iron Islands requires!"
Euron listened quietly, letting his father vent. When the storm of his anger eased, he spoke, steady and deliberate: "Father, you are right. The Iron Islands must change." He first affirmed his father's vision.
Quellon's gaze narrowed. "Oh? You think so too?"
"Yes," Euron said, taking two careful steps forward. Shadows played across his mismatched eyes, lending a depth beyond his years. "But Father, consider this—does the sea reshape the reefs through violent storms, or through the quiet erosion of tides, year after year?"
Quellon frowned, caught off guard by the metaphor.
Euron continued, unhesitating: "Mainland farmers do not dig up a mountain in a single day. They clear a small plot, plant seeds, and wait for them to grow. Once they see the land can sustain life, only then will more join. The Iron Islands are the toughest land of all. You want them to be fertile all at once, which is noble. But Lord Drumm, Lord Blacktyde, and the others are set in the old ways. If you demand they put down their axes and pick up hoes immediately, they will think you are mad… or that you've betrayed the Drowned God."
Quellon's eyes flickered, considering his son's words.
"The Drowned God grants us the saying: 'What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger,'" Euron continued, voice rising slightly with conviction. "But He never said we must rise the same way as our ancestors. Building stronger ships, acquiring grain through wiser methods, and using power to silence those who mock the Iron Islands—this is the true resurgence! Is it not more glorious than stealing a few bags of gold or capturing a few slaves?"
Quellon's breath caught. The idea of a new path, sanctioned by the Drowned God, had never occurred to him.
Euron pressed on. "We don't need to free all slaves at once. Start in Pyke, in a few mines or salt pans. Give the diligent laborers hope: after five years without fault, or by learning a skill, they can become freefolk, even given a small plot to cultivate. When production increases and warehouses are full, the other lords will envy you. They will come to ask how you did it."
He tapped the sea chart with his small finger. "The old way—the Iron Price—is the glory of our ancestors. To discard it all at once is like throwing their bones into the sea. But we can… change it. For instance, forbid raids on Seven Kingdoms merchant ships, while striking pirate dens in the Stepstones or Slaver's Bay. This is not abandoning the old way—it is cleansing the sea. A portion of the plunder goes to the crew, a portion to you… to buy grain, timber, and skilled blacksmiths to teach our people. That is using the enemy's blood to strengthen our roots!"
"Septons?" Euron shook his head. "A rotting fish does not turn fresh. The Drowned God has ruled these islands for thousands of years. Instead of letting outsiders preach on our shores, we send clever drowned apprentices to Oldtown's Citadel. Let them learn accounts, shipbuilding, medicine. When they return, they will prove the Drowned God and knowledge can coexist. The Ironborn will listen. It is far more effective than ten septons chanting on the docks!"
"Opening ports is brilliant," Euron said, genuine admiration in his tone. "But doors alone do not guarantee safety. Two steps first: designate a small safe zone in Pyke Harbor, protected by your most trusted guards. Anyone who draws a weapon there betrays the house. Then, invite one or two daring merchants, offering protection, low taxes, and small warehouses. Let their success spread word—one fully loaded ship returns safely, and all will know the Iron Islands have changed."
Euron's chest rose and fell as the words settled. Only the crackle of the fire and the faint roar of the sea filled the room. He looked at his father, eyes unwavering, awaiting judgment.
Quellon stared at his son, fatigue giving way to surprise and thoughtfulness. The boy's words struck exactly where he had struggled. A slow, patient approach—feasible, less likely to bring ruin.
"Did you think of this yourself?" Quellon asked, voice rough.
"Yes, Father," Euron replied, his gaze steady. "I thought about the islands, about our people. Rushing change only brings anger and rebellion. If we move carefully, step by step, we can make them stronger without destroying what we have."
Quellon exhaled slowly, the weight of years in his eyes. For the first time in a long while, a flicker of hope appeared. "Step by step… Perhaps this old man has been too eager to crash against the rocks." He gave a rare, tired smile. "I will follow your counsel."
As Euron turned to leave, Quellon called after him, voice firmer now: "Starting tomorrow, you will come with me to the Council Chamber."