Inside the Council Chamber, the embers of mockery had yet to cool, and whispers of doubt still clung to the cold stone walls.
Euron could feel the burning and judgmental gazes piercing his back; he met each pair of eyes calmly, showing neither fear nor anger.
Just as Hrothgar Drumm seemed poised to add more fuel to the fire, Garrik Botley's calculating gaze flickered with subtle strategy, and Korren Blacktyde concluded his quiet prayer to the wooden Drowned God carving he held.
Then, a silent, heavy oak door next to the main seat glided open.
Quellon Greyjoy appeared, tall and imposing, like a reef emerging from the dark sea.
He had not just arrived; his weathered, sharp eyes, honed by years on wind-whipped waves, were calm yet all-seeing. He had absorbed everything—every taunt, every glance, every twitch of unease.
There was no expression, only a profound, abyssal calm—a pressure that filled the chamber invisibly but unmistakably.
Each of his leather-clad boots struck the cold stone floor with steady rhythm, a measured drumbeat that resonated in the hearts of all present.
Quellon ignored the lords and walked directly to the massive Sea Stone Seat, the seat of the Lord of Pyke. His kraken-emblazoned armor gleamed under the flickering firelight, cold and uncompromising.
The chamber fell into sudden silence. Even the crackle of burning logs seemed to hesitate.
Hrothgar Drumm's half-raised cup froze mid-air. Garrik Botley stopped stroking his chin. Korren Blacktyde tucked his small wooden carving closer, reverent and wary.
All eyes—reverent, defiant, suspicious—were fixed on the ruler of the Iron Islands.
Quellon settled onto the throne, leaning back slightly, scanning the chamber like the most seasoned captain surveying a sea full of hidden reefs. He offered no greeting, no smile, no pretense. He tapped three times on the smooth, black stone table before him:
"Thump. Thump. Thump."
The sound echoed clearly in the hushed hall, like a ship's hammer striking an alarm bell, signaling the arrival of a storm.
"Everyone is here. Let the council begin," Quellon's voice was calm, deep, and authoritative. Each word sank like an iron anchor, allowing no dissent to float unchallenged.
"What waves are stirring on your islands?"
A tense silence followed, as though suppressed tides were waiting to break.
Hrothgar Drumm slammed his cup on the table; ale splashed onto the rough wood.
"The waves? The largest come from the silk-robed crows of King's Landing!" He spat the words, thick with disgust.
"Priests of the Seven Gods scuttling across our islands like sea cockroaches! Preaching to fishermen at the docks, meddling with the salt workers! The priests of the Drowned God can barely hide their anger. Mylord! You allowed them to land, and now they defile our holy places. Explain this!"
He pointed his thick, calloused fingers at the Lord of Pyke, as though he alone bore guilt.
Garrik Botley interjected with a slow, chilling precision:
"Lord Drumm speaks truth. But the greater wave, in my eyes, is the new port at Pyke. Built at great cost, with sweat and iron and toil, and yet—what fruit has it yielded?"
A sarcastic curl appeared on his lips.
"Brand-new stone quays, towering lighthouses… and for what? Merchant ships of the Seven Kingdoms avoid our coasts as though cursed. What good are these stones if no trade arrives? Your open gates are ignored by those you hoped would enter."
Korren Blacktyde's voice, calmer yet heavy with concern, cut through the chamber.
"Mylord, do you not sense the true chill? Winter is coming. The Iron Islands are barren. Food is always imported—or paid for with the iron price. How long will Pyke's stores last? Two months? Three?" He fixed Quellon with a worried gaze.
"And you would raise the salt tax? Salt sustains life here. Tax it too heavily, and you extinguish the hearths of your people. The Drowned God gave us salt to live, not to starve his followers."
Before the council could respond, a lean captain from Old Wyk leapt to his feet. His eyes burned like fire over the sea.
"Lord Blacktyde speaks the truth! Food and survival are the deadliest waves! Mylord, can your ports, merchants, or priests fill children's bellies or warm their homes? No! The old way remains—the longships, the axes, the iron price! We must seize the fertile lands of the South! Reclaim provisions! Reclaim the glory of the Ironborn! This is the way of the Drowned God—the iron anchor that solves all problems!"
"Return to the old way!"
"Pay the iron price!"
"Plunder their stores for winter!"
Cries from other captains echoed, and the chamber erupted in a fervor of blood, salt, and tradition.
The storm of voices battered Quellon's reforms. Each shout, each demand, each plea for survival weighed upon the throne.
Quellon remained unmoved, fingers tapping lightly on the table, silently measuring the depth and strength of the "waves" before him.
And Euron, at the end of the table, stayed perfectly still.
His small body, swaddled in a kraken robe, seemed like a reef suspended in the surging sea.
At the sight of his father, his taut jawline relaxed slightly.
Beneath his lowered eyelids, Euron's recorded every detail. Every angered face, every anxious glance, every shout born of faith, survival, and greed was etched into his mind with the precision of a master navigator charting treacherous waters.