Before the Seastone Chair, every noble and lord of the Iron Islands held their breath.
King Quellon's voice rolled through the Great Hall of Pyke like thunder from the deep sea. Every word carried unquestionable weight as he formally declared Balon Greyjoy the sole, legitimate heir to the Iron Islands—a proclamation that was sent to the Seven Kingdoms.
This declaration acted like invisible, unbreakable shackles, instantly locking away Balon's wild, uninhibited life.
The Balon who could fight all day, sharpen his combat skills on the deck, drink and laugh with sailors and pirates, and even secretly participate in the deadly "Finger Dance," vanished.
His dreams of raiding across the Narrow Sea and his nights spent seeking pleasure in brothels became a past he could no longer touch.
In their place was a suffocation he found unbearable.
Now, Balon had to spend his days following his father's mountain-like, majestic shadow, learning how to govern these islands ruled by iron and blood. He was forced to sit before a desk piled high with scrolls, listening to endless disputes over territory and fishing rights between island lords, trying to decipher their winding complaints and accusations. He had to rack his brain to weigh every word, drafting letters to the great houses of Westeros in a tone befitting an heir—strong yet polite.
It all made his head spin and his temper flare.
When Euron offered to hand over the entire "Old Way" spy network and its complex intelligence system to Balon, and signaled Lisa to explain the codes, ciphers, and verification methods one by one, Balon's patience finally snapped.
"Enough!" He waved his hand violently, interrupting rudely. His facial muscles were tight with extreme disgust and frustration. "My brain feels like a cabin trashed by a bunch of drunk sailors—it's a mess! I can't stuff anything else in there! So many names! So many damn codes! And all this true-false, real-fake news—I have to analyze which one is bait and which is a trap? It's annoying as hell! I don't need to know these details!"
He grew angrier as he spoke, directing his fury at Euron, slamming his fist on the table. "Bastard! You know I hate this twisty, confusing shit the most! Now you're deliberately shoving it down my throat—do you just want to see me fail? Want to see me make a fool of myself?!" His frustration spilled over, and he snarled without thinking, "If I knew being this damn heir meant facing this every day, I would have just given it to you from the start!"
Euron rolled his eyes visibly, his tone cooling into businesslike detachment. "How is this deliberate? You are the firstborn. That is Iron Law. It is the responsibility and duty you must bear sitting in that seat. It has nothing to do with what you like or dislike."
Balon didn't argue back immediately. He just stared deeply at Euron, his gaze trying to pierce the habitual, cynical mask his brother wore. After a long time, he sighed heavily, his voice carrying a rare, almost sincere exhaustion. "Euron, honestly... you are more suited for this seat than I am."
Euron's expression froze for a second, then quickly returned to normal. He lowered his voice, his tone sharp and wary. "Shut up, Balon. Stop saying stupid things like 'I don't want to be heir,' and don't say anything about me being suitable and you not. Walls have ears. If outsiders hear this, they'll spin endless rumors to drive a wedge between us. Do you think we don't have enough trouble already?"
Euron paused, seeming to weigh his options quickly, then made a pragmatic concession. "How about this: From now on, when intel comes in, I'll have Lisa organize and report it to me first. I'll analyze and judge it, then tell you what kind of command needs to be issued to the Old Way network. You just make the final decision and give the order. Is that acceptable?"
Hearing this, Balon's tense face finally relaxed. This solution at least rescued him from the endless quagmire of information. He let out a long breath and nodded, accepting the arrangement.
Similarly, regarding the distribution rights for the incredibly profitable "White Gold Sand" (salt), he had zero interest in managing it deeply. He simply glanced over the distribution plan drafted by the Maester, then waved his hand, delegating full authority for daily management and accounting to the Maester, only demanding to see the final results. As for the core refining secret, King Quellon sealed it as a top secret, its location known only to the father and his two sons—and Balon had no desire to seek it out.
The noise of war receded like the tide, and life in the Iron Islands gradually returned to its original rough and resilient rhythm. However, the changes brought by this victory were branded deep into the island's texture, like salt permeating reef rock.
For the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, the conflict between the Iron Islands and the Arbor was nothing short of a spectacular, costly drama. Lords in their halls savored the battle reports from the Citadel, re-evaluating with great interest the shocking strength and hidden political wisdom of this cold archipelago they had ignored for so long.
At the same time, King's Landing's attempt to pin the blame for the wildfire explosion entirely on the dead Kingsguard, Ser Harlan Grandison, was a clumsy cover-up. It made the lords sneer, but also forced them to re-examine the growing madness and delusion of the King on the Iron Throne—such an excuse, which even the Others wouldn't believe, was a dangerous signal in itself.
For Balon Greyjoy, the identity of heir was a shackle. He felt like a kraken of the northern seas forcibly locked in a cage. Though granted the authority to command the pack, his soul yearned day and night to roar and fight in the wild storms. The tediousness of administration and the twists of strategy were far more exhausting and suffocating to him than facing a ship full of fierce enemies. This was a war with no glory, only endless scrolls and whispers.
For his brother Euron, the once-crucial "White Gold Sand" trade and the massive "Old Way" intelligence network were now like two children who had been birthed, weaned, and grown strong—they no longer needed his micromanagement. Their smooth operation freed up his precious time and energy, allowing him to invest in deeper, more dangerous schemes.
His thoughts quietly sailed toward new horizons: The winemaking masters brought back from the Arbor needed to be settled quickly, letting their ancient craft take root on the northern islands to brew liquid gold for the Iron Islands, accumulating true wealth.
The "Iron Smoke Island" workshop, already taking shape, was about to spit out its first batch of refined iron tools. This was just the beginning; continuous improvement and expansion were needed to forge stronger armaments.
Most importantly, he needed to invest more time in honing his own martial prowess. Swordsmanship, lancing, and even the more secret combat techniques from the One Piece system—all had to be elevated to new heights.
Because in his calculations, the sky over Westeros was being shrouded by heavier and heavier dark clouds. The storm destined to arrive in 282 AC—the War of the Usurper that would overturn the dynasty—was approaching. Its footsteps were getting louder.
He had to be fully prepared.
He would use this opportunity to make the Seven Kingdoms, and even the whole world, know the Iron Islands.
To know him, Euron Greyjoy!
The future is here!