The revelry was set to last all night until dawn, or until every man lay senseless drunk on the beaches or the hall floor. But as night truly fell, King Quellon left the Great Hall. Euron, Balon, and Balf followed shortly after.
The stone chamber deep beneath the Sea Tower of Pyke was far removed from the dying embers of the celebration in the square. Here, there was no laughter or song, only the hissing of the cold, salty wind through the cracks in the stone and the restless flickering of candlelight.
Gathered in the room was the core of the Iron Islands: King Quellon sat upon a smaller version of the Seastone Chair, his face as dark as the sea before a storm.
His two sons were present. Euron leaned against the stone wall, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the shadows. Balon stood like a tightly wound statue, fists clenched on his knees, every line of his body radiating suppressed rage. Balf stood guard by the door, silent as a reef, while the elderly Maester Clygon nervously fingered the links of his chain.
Lisa, the handmaiden who usually drifted through the castle like an unremarkable shadow, was now the center of the storm.
Her voice was clear and calm as she reported, word by word, the whispers that had been coiling around the two princes like vipers for the past three or four years.
"It started when Lord Balon was in his cups," she said, her gaze lowered but her voice unwavering. "Someone 'accidentally' brought up the distribution rights of the Old Way and the traditional rights of the firstborn... Recently, these voices have grown louder and more direct. They openly say the profits from the White Gold Sand should be controlled by the heir, and they hint that Lord Euron's accumulation of wealth, his recruitment of Red Priests and Shadowbinders, are acts of subversion." She paused. "In the last two months, people have started approaching Lady Alannys, trying to convey through her to Lord Balon... the 'necessity' of striking first."
She turned her gaze slightly toward Euron, her tone shifting. "As for Lord Euron... the approach is more subtle. It is mostly flattery. They praise his wisdom and valor as far surpassing others, lament that his talents are limited by his birth order, and use this to gently remind him to beware of jealousy and plots from his closest kin."
Lisa's voice faltered for a moment here. Her long lashes lowered, as if carefully considering how to relay the next, overly blunt proposal without losing propriety. The air in the stone chamber seemed to stagnate; the candlelight cast wavering shadows across her pale face.
After a moment, she lifted her eyes. She didn't look at either prince, but respectfully focused on the floor in front of King Quellon. Her voice remained report-clear and calm, but was tainted with an undeniable, delicate tension.
"Recently... some have even extended their probing tentacles to me." She chose her words cautiously. "They didn't use direct threats or bribes. Instead, using a tone of... feigned concern for my future, they revealed to me—or perhaps warned me—that Young Master Balon feels 'deeply unfair' and 'depressed' about the current distribution of profits."
She took a small breath and continued. "After that, they asked me in a tone bordering on pity... if I was willing to 'make plans for myself early.' They hinted that with my looks and intelligence, if I could gain Young Master Balon's favor, my future would surely be more than just a handmaiden." She finally whispered the word. "They asked me if I would be willing to become Young Master Balon's 'Salt Wife'."
The temperature in the stone chamber seemed to drop several degrees. This proposal went far beyond ordinary power plays. It was a cold, venomous snake, seeking not only to drive a wedge between father and son, brother and brother, but to turn a seemingly unrelated handmaiden into a pawn on the board. The malice was naked. Everyone knew that this "seemingly unrelated" handmaiden had followed Euron since she arrived in the Iron Islands, handling all his affairs. In everyone's eyes, she was destined to be Euron's Salt Wife—it was only a matter of time.
The older brother, Balon, harboring designs on his younger brother Euron's future Salt Wife!
Such a rumor... The chamber fell into dead silence, broken only by King Quellon's heavy breathing. Balon's face flushed red with rage. Balf's expression turned extremely ugly, and Maester Clygon let out a soundless sigh.
"Enough." King Quellon's voice broke the silence like a rolling boulder. His massive frame rose from the chair. His gaze, cold as an iron anchor, pinned his two sons in place one after the other.
"These poisonous insects hiding in the shadows," he growled, "trying to use whispers and lies to rot my bloodline and split my islands." His fist slammed onto the armrest. "Lisa, watch them! Every single one! I want to know who is pulling the strings behind this damned plot!"
After a moment of silence, King Quellon's fingers tapped heavily on the armrest of the Seastone Chair, a dull thud punctuating his resolve. His deep gaze swept over everyone present, finally resting on his two sons with the crushing weight of the deep ocean.
"But for now, the dagger of probing must be sheathed." His voice was low but carried unquestionable authority, echoing in the chamber. "These little moves, these whispers breeding in the dark, are like holes bored in a hull—they look small, but they are enough to sink the strongest warship. They bring no honor. They only flood our family's deck with the sewage of suspicion, feeding the fires of division with every private word."
He slowly stood up, his massive shadow engulfing almost everyone. "It is time to end it. Otherwise, these rumors will stop being whispers and become a storm that rips out our throats. Didn't the old woman of House Redwyne try to provoke us openly just today? If we don't stop it now, more people will say similar things in the future!"
The Next Morning.
As the lords of the various islands, nursing hangovers and loaded with loot, prepared to depart, they were summoned once more before the Seastone Chair.
King Quellon stood amidst the morning light and sea wind. His face bore no trace of the revelry, only cold majesty.
"The party is over!" His voice drowned out the roar of the waves, entering every ear clearly. "Before you leave, one thing must be made clear. It is Iron Law!"
He extended a hand, pointing to the stone-faced Balon standing beside him.
"Balon Greyjoy, my eldest son, is the sole, legitimate heir to the Iron Islands! His rights are granted by the Seastone Chair and the traditions of the Old Way, and they are not to be questioned!"
His gaze swept across the crowd like a blade, lingering for a moment on the faces of certain lords.
"I hear some people possess tongues as venomous as sea snakes, enjoying spreading rumors and sowing discord between my sons." His voice suddenly became incredibly dangerous. "Listen well. This is my first and last warning: Watch your tongues. If anyone dares to utter another rumor, trying to split House Greyjoy or challenge my decision—whether he is a lord, a captain, or a priest—I will personally rip out his tongue and chain him to a reef as an offering to the Drowned God!"
The cold warning washed over them like a winter tide, instantly sobering everyone up.
In that moment, they realized clearly that the King's wrath was far more terrifying than an enemy fleet. In absolute silence, the lords bowed their heads in submission, then quickly and quietly boarded their ships, leaving Pyke behind.
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