The high room in the Bloody Keep reeked of old parchment, sour wine, and salt-dust. Weak light pierced the thick glass, catching drifting motes.
Euron, small and half-lost in a whalebone-and-ironwood chair, seemed swallowed by it. Across him, Quellon Greyjoy sat stern and salt-worn, turning a raven-letter sealed with the bronze mark of the Citadel.
Its words were heavy as lead: summer waned, and winter pressed close upon the isles.
"Euron," Quellon rumbled, voice like thunder rolling over the Narrow Sea, "what do you make of it?"
Euron tilted the parchment, eyes scanning the Maester's scrawl. "The Citadel warns winter is coming. Fierce winter, they say—though none can know its length. Best we fill the storehouses: smoked fish, cured mutton, barrels of grain. Men live on food, not gold."
Quellon's face was a cliff in shadow, jaw set. "A month yet, if we move quick. Highgarden guards its stores; King's Landing takes its share. The North, the Vale… they'll starve before sending aid." His gaze drifted to the gray-green sea lashing the towers. "Only the Free Cities and Pentos answer the iron toll of trade."
"Grain, timber, furs, and oil to keep the folk warm," Euron went on, voice steady as a longship on calm water. At Iron Quay, longships of the Ironhold Merchant League and allied lords bustled with activity, sails snapping in the wind, hulls heavy with provisions for the winter to come.
Yet before winter's bite reached Pyke, another matter demanded attention—the marriage of the eldest son, Balon. In the Isles, marriage was never personal; it was a move on the board, a weapon of power. Balon's bride had to be a pawn of sufficient weight. Winter would come. Balon's bride must be chosen first—or another three years would drag. Euron intended no delay.
...
The next day, Euron stood alone in the Greyjoy crypt. Cold, damp air clung to the whale-oil lamps. His fingers traced the names of drowned lords and fallen reavers, their deeds and deaths carved into stone.
"Euron." Dagmer stepped from shadow, holding a scroll of yellowed parchment. "House Harlaw, as you asked."
Euron took it, eyes sharp. The diagrams traced kinships, holdings, and recent movements of the Harlaws. One name made him pause: Alannys Harlaw, sixteen, niece of the lord, daughter of a Blacktyde mother and a captain lost to raiding the western seas.
"Tell me of her," he said, voice low, echoing against the stone.
Dagmer's scarred face caught the firelight. "Pale green eyes, hair dark as winter waves—uncommon in the Isles. She tends the sick of Harlaw, wields a knife as steady as any reaver, and answers suitors with a hand unbowed and unbroken."
Euron's lips curved in a faint, sly grin. A Harlaw tied to Blacktyde blood, fierce and capable, with knowledge and trade to match—exactly the sort of bride to bind to Balon. She would bear Greyjoy heirs. He imagined it as surely as he imagined the coming winter: steady, certain, unstoppable.
...
Three days later, the yard stank of sweat and sawdust. Balon swung his battle-axe into an oak dummy, splinters flying, muscles coiled like rope.
"Brother." A small, steady voice called from the edge of the yard.
Balon paused, breathing hard, and saw Euron holding an iron-hooped shipskin of wine.
"Try this." Euron held it out.
Balon's brow lifted. He yanked the cork, drained a gulp. Heat hit his chest, sharp and bitter as the Narrow Sea. "Dornish wine? You little… where did this come from?"
"Alannys Harlaw sent it," Euron said, eyes glinting. "She claimed only the eldest son of House Greyjoy deserves liquor to warm the blood."
Balon's ears reddened. He shoved the barrel back. "Hmph! Bookish Harlaws…"
"She's not just bookish." Euron drew a dagger, hilt wrapped in seal fiber. "Last month, a Myr sailor tried to steal her amber necklace. One strike with this—he was dead."
Balon's grip softened. He traced the cold blade, sensing the precision behind it.
"If all goes as expected," Euron said, teasing, "she'll be your salt wife. A gift from the Drowned God—for you, who know only axes and fists."
"You little shit!" Balon roared, hurling a practice axe. The wood slammed into the post. He swung again, each strike rattling the yard. Euron ducked, twisted, laughing.
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📚 Author's Note:
Hey everyone!
Quick confession from your slightly chaotic author: I goofed on the names. I'd called Balon's mom Alannys Greyjoy… but in the books, her name isn't actually stated. To keep the Iron Islands in order, I've renamed Quellon's wife Yrsa Greyjoy. Sea winds forgive me—I hope you do too! 🌊
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Big thanks to DaoistahH8hp for the 3 shiny Power Stones!
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