Outside the window, the moonlight cast a cold glow on the calm sea, as if the feast of blood and flesh that had just taken place was merely a hallucination.
On the desk lay a slightly yellowed sheet of parchment. Beside it sat a bottle of dark purple ink—rumored to be made from the ink sac of a deep-sea kraken mixed with wine, giving the words written with it a strange, faint fragrance.
He had promised in Lannisport to write to his fiancée, Ashara Dayne, but had never found the time. Now that things had quieted down, he finally had a moment of leisure. Euron Greyjoy picked up his quill. The nib paused briefly in the air before descending. His handwriting was elegant yet sharp, mirroring his own temperament.
"To Ashara:
The sea wind blows past the towers of Pyke once again, yet it always reminds me of a chill different from that of Lannisport.
Since we last parted, though these days have been busy, there are always moments when I recall the faint light reflected in your eyes as you read. I promised to write to you, but war rose suddenly, and the sea lanes became chaotic. Only today have I found a moment of peace to put my promise to ink.
You must have heard about the events on the Arbor. I did not wish to stir up this storm, but once the iron ships set sail, there was only forward. Balon led the fleet in a frontal assault, while I was ordered to infiltrate the inner harbor to deal with wildfire that should never have been on the Arbor. When the flames rose, iron and blood flew across the sea. Though I did not wish to see such a sight, it had to be done.
We did not harm the civilians, nor did we burn the city. We only took away several winemakers and their craft—perhaps one day, you and I can share a fine vintage that originated from the Arbor but was born in the Iron Islands.
War is not my desire, but as a Greyjoy, for the glory of my House and the Iron Islands, there was no other choice. The salt of the sea will eventually wash away the scent of blood and fire, leaving only one thought as clear as before: on the day we parted, you said you wished me safe voyages.
Now that the winds and waves sing a temporary lullaby, I hope the warm sea breeze of Starfall will still carry my greetings to you.
Awaiting your reply.
— Euron Greyjoy, written at night while moored at Pyke."
He set down the quill, not rushing to seal the letter. His gaze swept over the words again, checking the grammar. Finally, he took a small block of wax, melted it over a candle, and let it drip onto the rolled parchment. He pressed his seal down—the Golden Kraken of House Greyjoy.
In the deep halls of Casterly Rock, the golden stone swallowed any excess echoes, leaving only the crackle of burning logs in the hearth clearly audible. Lord Tywin Lannister sat behind a massive desk carved in the shape of a lion's head, looking like another lion statue carved from gold ore. Between his pale fingers, he held a document delivered by a Citadel raven, stamped with grey wax.
He read it extremely slowly, as if weighing every word on a cold scale. After a long time, he placed the parchment gently on the smooth desk surface, his low voice breaking the silence.
"The Citadel has named that battle the 'Battle of the Arbor,'" he began, his tone steady as if stating a mundane administrative matter, but his next words froze the air. "Euron Greyjoy. Bold and knowledgeable. ...Quellon's son. You've met him."
He didn't offer effusive praise, but that brief comment coming from his mouth was a rare acknowledgment. He waved his hand, and an attendant passed the document to his children in turn.
Cersei Lannister took it first. She quickly scanned the text describing the naval battle, the wildfire, and the stratagems. Her golden eyebrows raised in disdain, as if she smelled something unpleasant. "Just a pirate raid," she tossed the document aside scornfully, her voice like clinking shards of ice. "Hiding in the fog to set fires, taking hostages... these are savage Ironborn tricks. There is no honor in it. The Greyjoys will always be bandits of the sea."
Jaime Lannister picked up the document next. He read faster, his eyes lingering on the descriptions of the battlefield details. When he read how Euron personally led a squad to storm the walls and capture Lord Adrian Redwyne, a trace of genuine admiration mixed into his signature lazy smile.
"Honor? He isn't a knight," Jaime chuckled, feeling a warrior's resonance. "Besides, this is war! His courage to penetrate behind enemy lines and storm the walls against superior numbers to capture the commander isn't fake. The guy has guts worth a whole fleet." He handed the document off, his eyes still holding the imagination of that fierce battle.
Finally, it was Tyrion Lannister's turn. He held the document with both hands, reading the slowest and most carefully. As his eyes moved over the paragraphs detailing the pre-planned layout, infiltration, and the attack during the chaos of the wildfire explosion, his small eyes shone with an unusually bright light. He savored almost every word, as if tasting the best Dornish red.
"Guts? Jaime, that's just his cheapest decoration." Tyrion finally looked up, his voice full of genuine awe. "Look at how he did it. He used everyone's assumptions against them. He knew the Redwynes would be wary of a frontal assault by the Iron Fleet, so he used the most unlikely thing—'wildfire'—to draw all attention, while the real killing blow came from underground and behind. This isn't savagery. This is intelligence. Brilliant intelligence!"
However, Tyrion was puzzled by some details and speculated: "Wildfire from King's Landing exploding on the Arbor, and a Kingsguard, Ser Harlan Grandison, dying in the blast? The document says: Ser Harlan acted unauthorized to transport wildfire to the Arbor. Heh... without orders from King's Landing, such a thing is impossible."
Lord Tywin's gaze slowly swept over his three children and their vastly different reactions. Finally, he spoke again. His voice still held no ripple of emotion, yet it set the final tone for the discussion.
"Jaime saw courage. Tyrion saw wisdom. As for my beautiful daughter... she saw only air." He concluded, his gaze returning to the scroll as if staring out at a distant sea. "But what truly makes this victory valuable is the handling of the aftermath. Not killing surrendered soldiers, not burning the city, keeping his word on ransom and hostages, and even taking artisans and scholars... He turned a pirate act that could have invited the condemnation of the Seven Kingdoms into an unimpeachable military victory that the Iron Islands can publicly boast about. That is the most sophisticated handling of all."
"He didn't just win the war," Lord Tywin said finally, his tone indiscernible between appreciation and wariness. "He won everything there was to take, yet left others with little room for immediate retaliation. Quellon's eldest son might be a warhammer, but this one... is a poisoned dagger. Interesting."
The sun baked the gardens of Sunspear, and the air was thick with the scent of desert heat and spicy peppers. Prince Oberyn Martell—the "Red Viper"—lounged lazily on silk cushions, a scroll from the Citadel held between his slender fingers.
He scanned the text describing the flames of the Arbor and the details of the naval battle carelessly. First, his lips pressed into a thin line, then curled uncontrollably upward, finally dissolving into a low, magnetic laughter that echoed through the lush garden, startling a few brightly colored birds.
"Oh, my dear Arianne," he shook his head as if speaking to his absent niece, his tone full of teasing and undisguised mockery. "Look at this. Take a good look at the 'Ironborn Squid' you turned your nose up at. Look at the great deeds he has done now." He stood up, pacing like an elegant sand panther, the parchment swaying dismissively in his hand.
"Back then, you despised him for being unremarkable, nothing more. You thought, how could a Princess of Dorne stoop to marry the son of a pirate?"
His laughter rang out again. "But now? Look at how he played the Arbor like a fiddle! How he used wits and fire to send one of the strongest fleets in the Seven Kingdoms to the bottom of the sea! How he calmly took everything worth taking after the war—not just gold, but the future! He is now the most terrifying and eye-catching falcon in the sky above these seas!"
He walked to the colonnade, gazing out at the shimmering sea, his tone becoming sharp and mocking. "And now, my dear niece, I fear it isn't that you look down on him... it is that you, and the dowry of Dorne you represent, likely appear insignificant in his eyes. You missed the strongest wind. Now... you are no longer worthy of him."
"He just won a war, and he wasn't even the commander!" Arianne Martell snorted coldly. "Even if he is a gilded kraken, I don't care! There are plenty of men!"