The winter crept over the Iron Islands long before the sea turned cruel.
It lay in the chill of empty hearths, the silence on the docks, the restless stir of men who knew cold was only the beginning.
Under the stone arches of the Sea Tower, Euron traced Westeros with a fingertip. His gaze drifted east, past the Narrow Sea, to Essos—distant, vast, and unclaimed.
Another world waited.
From the frozen Shivering Sea to Volantis' sun-baked coasts, from the winding Rhoyne to Asshai's shadowed edges, Essos sprawled: Free Cities, deserts, forests, caravan routes, endless grass seas.
At his side, Lord Quellon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke, spoke in a low, hard voice of failing grain in the Vale, the starving Northmen, and the Narrow Sea's dangers.
Euron barely listened. His mind had already sailed east, beyond the gray waves, to a world untouched by Westeros' curse.
...
Winter was no mere season.
The maesters tracked its rhythms, but even they whispered that it answered only to powers older than crowns, older than kings.
While Westeros froze, Essos thrived. Lys glittered. Volantis hummed with trade. Ghiscari fields remained green.
Westeros counted graves. Essos counted gold.
...
The continents were close on a map—but worlds apart.
To Euron, the Narrow Sea was a line between all he knew and all he wanted.
Westeros obeyed old powers—gods, the Others, legends that refused to die.
Essos obeyed men: trade, conquest, coin. Magic lingered, but men shaped it.
To Euron, Essos gleamed with opportunity:
• Valyrian steel whispered secrets.
• R'hllor's fire promised both miracles and terror.
• Qarth's warlocks guarded truths no sane man should touch.
• The Smoking Sea birthed half-formed things, proof that magic still walked the world.
These were not myths.
They were tools. Points to power.
If Westeros fell to ice and hunger, the East—warm, fertile, untouched—would be the Ironborn's refuge.
History had shown it. The Targaryens survived exile, gathering wealth and allies before returning with fire.
...
The lamp flickered across Euron's mismatched eyes as he drank in the map: Pentos, Qohor, Myr, Asshai.
This was no map. This was destiny.
Quellon's voice broke the silence.
"The Narrow Sea turns savage after autumn," he said, finger on the strait. "Storms smash longships. Mist hides rocks… and worse. Any captain who dares sail risks everything. Trade dies. All ships stay ashore."
Risk. Immense risk. But also a shield—a barrier, preserving opportunity for the bold… or the mad.
The world was vast. And he would see it. Not merely see it—touch it. Master it. Bend it to his will.
The Ironhold Merchant League needed command. In Braavos, Pentos, and Lys, their hold had taken root—but weakly. Euron would see it strengthened.
While Westeros clawed for crowns and birthrights, few looked beyond their shores. True power came from gold, knowledge, networks.
His winter stronghold across the sea would not be refuge—it would be advance. He would build, gather, dominate. A power unlike any the Ironborn had ever known.
He let his eyes roam the names on the parchment: Norvos, Volantis, Qohor, Vaes Dothrak, Asshai.
• Furnaces blazing.
• Markets crowded.
• Gold flowing in silent rivers.
• Slave auctions ripe for manipulation.
A continent alive. Unbroken. And Euron intended to claim it all.
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📚 Author's Note:
Big thanks to Briffit for the 3 shiny Power Stones!
🐧