[New Location Unlocked: Ten Towers, Harlaw Island — 80 EXP gained]
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The Harlaw's Ten Towers was unlike the brooding, storm-battered cliffs of Pyke. It resembled a vast cluster of towers, archives, observatories, and narrow walkways clinging to a grey headland. The sea breeze here was gentler, carrying the scents of parchment, old ink, and dry seaweed.
When Euron's skiff slipped into the small stone harbor, it caused none of the usual stir Ironborn visitors provoked. Only a handful of robed scribes met him, their sharp, birdlike eyes studying him with quiet appraisal. They led him up the tide-worn steps. Euron brought only ten guards under Dagmer's command.
[New Location Unlocked: Harlaw Library Tower — 90 EXP gained]
At the top of the largest tower—aptly named the Library Tower—Euron met Lord Rodrik Harlaw, "the Reader." Tall and thin beneath a worn velvet robe, Rodrik's hands were stained with ink from years spent handling scrolls, codices, and astrolabes. His pale grey eyes were keen with the habit of lifelong study.
"Euron Greyjoy," Rodrik greeted him calmly, voice steady with a scholar's caution. "For the kraken's youngest son to come alone to Ten Towers… that is not Lord Quellon's usual way. Are you here seeking books on greenhouse cultivation for the coming winter?"
Euron bowed with impeccable poise. In the filtered daylight, his mismatched eyes seemed even more unsettling.
"Lord Rodrik, my father's attention is on the grain fleets to the east. My errand is different—warmer, and far more vital to the future of the Iron Islands."
He drew out a sealskin-wrapped document.
"I come on behalf of my brother, Balon Greyjoy, heir of Pyke, to propose a marriage alliance with your niece, Lady Alannys Harlaw."
Rodrik did not immediately accept the document. He merely tapped the open book beside him—an ancient chart of shifting tides and star routes.
"Balon," he murmured. "A fine warrior, but with the temperament of an unsheathed axe—useful, yet dangerous to those who grasp it unwisely. And Alannys…" A faint softness crossed his face. "She deserves more than a husband who only knows the way of the blade."
"Exactly why this union is ideal," Euron replied smoothly. "Balon is a rock—unyielding, fearless, born to lead. Alannys possesses discipline, skill, and the rare steadiness of mind lacking in many Ironborn. Her knowledge of healing, her sharp judgment, and—if the stories are true—her impressive accuracy with a knife, make her the perfect complement."
He placed the document upon the cleared space of Rodrik's table.
"The Greyjoys' strength paired with the Harlaws' wisdom and trade influence will not only fortify both houses, but ensure our people survive the coming winter. Alliances forged by blood, not loot, endure the longest storms."
Silence settled between them—broken only by the sea wind brushing past the tower windows.
At last, Rodrik's ink-stained fingers rested upon the scroll.
"Alannys once said Balon's temper burns hotter than Dornish strongwine," he said quietly. "But I must speak with her and her mother before giving an answer."
"Of course," Euron nodded. "And since this is my first time on Harlaw Island… I would like to explore, if you permit."
Rodrik gave a faint smile. "By all means, Lord Euron. Ten Towers is yours to see."
...
The temple resembled the ribbed interior of a leviathan more than a place of worship. Whale-oil torches burned in iron sconces, their wavering light stretching shadows across the salt-encrusted black stone floor. The air smelled of seawater, oil, and ancient rites.
Balon Greyjoy stood before the altar, straight-backed, clad in new black leather embroidered with a golden kraken. His normally fierce eyes now carried something deeper: solemnity—and a guarded acceptance of duty.
Beside him stood Lady Alannys Harlaw.
She wore a dark green wool tunic, hemmed with iron-threaded waves, and a black seal-hide cloak smoothed by salt and wind. Her dark hair was braided with iron rings and bone beads. A walrus-ivory dagger hung at her hip. She stood not as a timid bride, but as a warrior bound for a solemn pact.
The drowned priest raised his voice, hoarse from years of salt and prayer.
"You are the rock, and she the chain that binds you in the storm."
"You are the blade, and she the whetstone that keeps you from cracking."
"You shall sail together into darkness and find rest in the halls of the Drowned God."
He brought forth a driftwood basin, seawater black as the storm-lashed Narrow Sea. Balon and Alannys plunged their hands in, flinching at the briny bite.
The priest drew a coral-inlaid dagger, scoring shallow cuts across their wrists. Blood mingled with the water.
"By salt!"
He cast coarse sea salt into the basin.
"By wave!"
A shard of frozen seawater fell, unyielding.
"By blood!"
He gestured to the crimson streaks tainting the brine.
"You are joined," he thundered. "Until the seas go dry. Until the stars fall."
He flung the mixture onto the stone floor, where it seeped into the cracks like a blessing—or a warning.
No kisses. No cheers. Only Ironborn lords and captains struck the floor with axe handles and dagger pommels—deep thuds echoing like the heartbeat of a coming storm.
Balon turned to Alannys, studying her as his wife. She met his gaze without fear, raising her ceremonial blade in acknowledgment—and challenge.
Lord Quellon Greyjoy watched with calm satisfaction. At his side, Lady Yrsa Greyjoy held young Victarion close, her hand resting on the swell of her stomach.
Euron stood nearby, small and bright-eyed, watching the ceremony. The union of his brother and Alannys settled into place like a longship finding its course.
He hoped—sincerely—that the future children of Balon and Alannys would escape the tragedies he remembered from another life.
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📚 Author's Note:
Thanks to FortDudeXoXoZo for the 1 Power Stone!
🐧