The family dining hall reeked of sea salt, roasted fish, and the faint tang of whale oil.
A massive black stone table, like the backbone of a beached leviathan, stretched cold and unyielding beneath them. Flames flickered in the hearth, casting jagged shadows across the rough walls, but the chill of the sea wind still crept in.
At the head of the table sat Quellon Greyjoy, lord of Pyke, solid as the cliffs themselves, carving a roasted cod with deliberate precision. Beside him, Lady Yrsa moved quietly, flaking fish for young Victarion.
Balf, Quellon's younger brother, drank heartily, while Balon, Euron's elder, hummed pirate songs from the second seat.
Quellon swallowed a bite, lifting a crude pottery cup of wine. His gaze, heavy as a weathered anchor, settled on Euron at the far end. His voice cut through the hall, calm but sharp:
"Today, two lords came to me," he said, letting the words hang as his eyes swept the room, finally resting on Euron's small, composed frame. "They wish to name you—Euron Greyjoy—as my heir."
A soft clink echoed as Lady Yrsa's spoon struck her plate. Her eyes flickered with unease, and she drew Victarion closer. Balf froze mid-pour, letting wine drip down his beard. Balon's gaze dropped to his plate, unreadable but attentive.
Earlier, Quellon had asked Balon in the armory. Balon's reply had been blunt, almost approving:
"Euron? That boy is uncanny. If he can bring more gold and better prospects to the Iron Islands than I, let him. Greyjoy blood still rules."
Balon's loyalty ran deep, even for the unnervingly capable younger brother. Blood was a chain iron could not break. Yet to speak of succession at dinner… that felt reckless. He watched, curious how the prodigious boy would respond.
Quellon broke the hush, voice casual yet cutting like a kraken's tooth:
"Euron, what do you think?"
Euron's heart remained still, almost amused. His knife and fork moved with calm precision, slicing the sea bass like a boy far beyond his years, eyes never lifting.
At last, he placed a piece in his mouth, chewed slowly, wiped his lips on a rough cloth, and lifted his heterochromatic eyes—one dark as the depths, the other pale as ice—to meet his father's gaze.
"Primogeniture," he said evenly, "has always been the cornerstone of the Iron Islands… and even Westeros." His glance flicked over Balon.
Balon snorted, irritation flaring.
"So, Father," Euron continued, spreading his small hands in mock deference, "let Balon take the Iron Islands. Surely his abilities can… manage."
The meaning was clear. He toyed with his elder brother, daring him to rise.
Balon's face burned crimson. Knife and fork clenched in his hands, rage crashing like storm waves:
"You brat! I… will… teach… ye!" His roar shook the hall.
For a moment, chaos reigned. Euron dodged with ease, moving like wind over the waves. Only Lady Yrsa, smiling, lifted him into her arms, allowing Balon to regain composure.
Quellon, watching, nodded toward Balf. "Yer coin's mine, brother—hundred gold dragons."
Balf snorted, flinging a jingling pouch across the table. "By rights, shouldn't the younger conspire to overthrow the elder, and the elder prepare to strike back? Since when did the Iron Islands grow soft?"
Balon slammed his fist on the table. "Tides be damned! I'll not lose to a boy!"
Quellon chuckled. Euron's sharp gaze flickered, noting the undercurrents of plotting in the room.
"Father," Euron said calmly, "they wish to see discord among kin. Let them. The ones quickest to counsel… are the rats."
Balon snorted, jaw tight. "No wonder they call you a monster. We eat the same fare, yet your head works like the sea in a storm."
Euron's eyes flicked to him. "Mind the tides, brother."
Balon's lips twitched into a begrudging smirk. "Storm all you like, whelp—just don't drag me under."
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📚 Author's Note:
Thanks to junior_volpi for the 1 Power Stone!
🇸🇪🐧