Inside the Lord's study on Pyke, the air was cold and heavy. Braziers threw long shadows over Lord Quellon Greyjoy's table, the sea charts, the half-rolled Ironhold manifests, and the tense stillness of lord, lady, and son.
Euron stood small but unyielding, chin lifted.
"Father. Mother," he said, voice steady but still a boy's. "Winter is coming. I don't want to spend it shut inside these walls… like onions buried in a cellar, waiting to rot."
He drew a sharp breath.
"I don't want to just sit here. That feels like dying too."
Quellon said nothing. His thick hand pressed on the bronze paperweight. Dark, tired eyes fixed on the boy.
At length, he spoke.
"You speak as though you were grown, Euron. But you're seven. Not ready. I will not risk you for your stubbornness."
Euron's jaw tightened.
"I don't want to just sit here. I can do more than nothing."
"Enough!"
Quellon's fist struck the table; the bronze paperweight skittered.
"You are my blood, boy! You do as I say—nothing more."
His words were sharp, but his eyes betrayed his fear—losing a son before he had grown.
For a heartbeat, Euron's defiance faltered.
"Of course I fear death, Father. Terribly."
Quellon's eyes narrowed.
"That is precisely why I will not throw myself headlong into danger."
He stepped forward, placing a small hand on the map of Essos.
"Pentos holds our largest storehouse, with more than a hundred men to run it. Lys has three streets of folk who answer to us. Volantis and Qohor—our trusted traders."
He tapped each mark with practiced precision.
"And Dagmer will sail with me—three ships, three hundred sworn Ironborn. They've taken the salt oath. They will not fail me."
A pause.
"In Pentos, Maleo Romis has hired a hundred seasoned sellswords. They'll keep me safe. I'm not seeking glory, Father. I intend to secure the trade routes that will keep the Iron Islands alive through the coming winter."
Lady Yrsa sprang to her feet, pale and trembling.
"No! Absolutely not!"
"Essos is crawling with slavers, cutthroats, pestilence, and sorcery. You could be killed—or worse, fall to some sickness. I forbid it!"
To her, Essos was not a land—it was a maw ready to swallow her son whole.
Euron met her gaze, small but firm.
"Mother… not yet. I swear it."
He rested a hand lightly on the map.
"I'll wait until the first snow coats Pyke. When winter grips Westeros, then I will go."
Silence. The fire hissed. Wind keened through the tower's narrow windows.
Quellon studied his son—calm, calculating, unnaturally steady. Not reckless. Not begging. Declaring.
After a long, heavy breath, the Lord of Pyke spoke.
"It seems," he said slowly, "that you have made your decision. Not as a boy asking permission… but as a Greyjoy declaring his course."
Euron did not deny it.
"Yes, Father."
Quellon leaned back, face half-hidden in shadow, eyes sharp as iron hooks.
"Then hear my terms," he said, voice regaining its authority.
"Before the first snow falls, bring me every scrap of this plan—your ships, your men, your ledgers, your routes. Lay it all out clean. Nothing hidden, nothing left to chance."
He pointed at his son.
"If it falls short of perfect, I'll bar every ship in my fleet from taking you. Not a soul will sail you a mile."
Not approval. A challenge. A test.
Euron simply nodded, a small, serious smile crossing his face.
"Of course, Father. As I said—I am very afraid of dying."
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📚 Author's Note:
Just wanna say… rest in peace to my GOAT, D. Xebec! Still the greatest captain of the God Valley arc. Forever legendary.
Big thanks to tasa_jom for the 3 shiny Power Stones!
🐧