The blood-spattered Ironborn warrior jerked his head around, his ferocious gaze sweeping over the cowering patrons in the corner of the tavern like a beast.
His eyes finally landed on Euron. He didn't speak, but his tight grip on the dripping blade and the undisguised killing intent in his eyes clearly asked one question: Should we kill all these witnesses to silence them?
Euron's gaze calmly swept over the terrified faces, then he slowly shook his head. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a condescending indifference, as if what they had just crushed wasn't a group of Freys, but a nest of noisy rats. "No need," he said faintly. "It was just House Frey. Killed is killed. Besides..."
He paused. "From the moment the conflict started, some 'smart people' had already slipped out to report to the local lord. Locking it down now is too late; it would only make us look guilty."
Not long after his words fell, chaotic footsteps and the clanking of armor were heard outside the tavern.
The local lord had indeed arrived with a small squad of guards. Their sigil was a brown, two-headed horse on a field of green waves—House Roote.
"I am Lucas Roote." However, this lord's attitude was very subtle. "It seems your dispute is over."
He and his soldiers merely blocked the entrance of the tavern. They didn't rush in to demand answers or punish anyone. It looked more like they were there to maintain order, prevent the situation from escalating, and protect unrelated civilians. He glanced at the Frey corpses littering the floor and the Ironborn standing with swords drawn, frowning deeply, but ultimately offered no opinion. Clearly, he had no wish to be easily dragged into a blood feud between two powerful factions.
"It is over. This gold dragon is compensation for the damage to the tavern." Euron wasn't surprised by the lord's reaction at all. He calmly took a gold dragon coin from his pocket and flicked it. The coin spun precisely through the air, landing with a clang on the counter in front of the dumbstruck innkeeper.
With another flick, a second gold dragon landed in front of the innkeeper.
"I'll need you to help bury these later," Euron instructed, his tone as casual as paying for a drink, rather than paying someone to dispose of a dozen corpses. With that, he didn't spare another glance at the wrecked tavern. Leading his men, under the silent watch of the lord's guard, he calmly left this place of right and wrong that had just weathered a bloody storm.
The Ironborn methodically executed their ancient tradition—"paying the iron price," which meant stripping all valuables from fallen enemies after a battle.
The bodies of the Frey soldiers were quickly searched. They didn't have much coin on them, but from the bosom of one corpse that looked like a minor leader, two letters carefully sealed with wax were found.
The letters were presented to Euron. He broke the wax seal and quickly scanned the contents. The first letter was addressed to Harrenhal, informing Lord Whent that Lady Sarya Whent (a daughter of House Whent), the fifth wife of Lord Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, had recently passed away from illness. The tone was quite formal.
The second letter was addressed to House Rosby of the Crownlands. The content was much more urgent. It revealed that Lord Walder Frey, before his fifth wife was even cold in her grave, was impatiently seeking to marry Lady Bethany Rosby as his sixth wife, aiming to strengthen House Frey's ties with the Crownlands nobility through a new alliance.
Euron looked at the two letters, a barely perceptible sneer curling his lips.
Walder Frey, born in 208 AC and now over seventy, possessed a vigor and obsession with marrying and producing heirs that was simply staggering. He currently had over a dozen legitimate sons and four or five legitimate daughters, not to mention an unknown number of bastards.
His fifth wife, Sarya Whent, had just been buried, yet negotiations for the sixth wife were already on the way.
"That old turtle never lets his bed get cold," an Ironborn warrior who had leaned over to glimpse the letters muttered, his tone filled with a mix of disdain and an inexplicable admiration for the old man's shocking vitality.
Does House Frey have breeding sow genes flowing in their veins instead of blood? Even Euron had such an absurd thought flash through his mind.
Euron shook his head, as if to fling the untimely thought away. He handed the two letters to the towering "Cleftjaw" Dagmer beside him and ordered, "Give these two letters, unopened, to Lord Whent of Harrenhal. If he asks about what happened here, tell him the truth. No need to hide anything."
That night, they stayed at a local inn. In the room, the light of an oil lamp cast shadows on the walls. Euron noticed Lisa sitting on the edge of the bed, looking somewhat dazed—far from her usual calm and sharp self.
"What's wrong?" Euron asked, his voice exceptionally clear in the quiet room. "Scared by what happened this evening?" He referred to the sudden slaughter.
Lisa shook her head, her unfocused gaze landing on a point in the empty air. "No."
"Then what is it?" Euron stepped closer, looking down at her.
Lisa finally looked up. Her eyes, which usually hid countless thoughts, looked straight at him. Her voice was very soft but carried an unusual seriousness. "This evening... when that Frey insulted me, you said to them—you said 'She is my woman'—what did you mean by that?"
Euron was visibly stunned for a moment, seemingly not expecting her to dwell on this. Then, his face returned to its usual, slightly playful expression. "Literally what it means, naturally. What else?"
"I was sent to your side when I was twelve," Lisa's voice was calm, but sounded like she was stating a fact she had prepared for a long time. "It has been six full years now. I am eighteen, Lord Euron."
In Westeros, an eighteen-year-old woman might already be the mother of several children.
"Mm," Euron acknowledged, his tone betraying little emotion. "I remember clearly."
"But you have never touched me." Lisa's words were like a stone thrown into a still lake—direct and clear.
"Respecting you, isn't that good?" Euron chuckled lightly, trying to defuse this sudden directness in his usual way.
However, Lisa wasn't easily brushed off as usual. Her gaze didn't waver; instead, it became sharper. "But you and the Red Priestess Gwendolyn... have been together many times. Right in the tower. I know."
The air in the room seemed to freeze. The flame of the oil lamp flickered slightly.
Euron looked at her, elusive light shifting in his deep eyes. After a moment of silence, all his teasing and avoidance seemed to dissipate, replaced by a primal, unquestionable resolve.
"Then today."
Before his voice faded, he suddenly stepped forward, swept his arm around her, and easily lifted Lisa into his arms.
Lisa let out a soft cry, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck. In the next moment, she was tossed not-so-gently onto the simple bed covered with furs. Euron's figure pressed down, his shadow engulfing her, the lamplight outlining his aggressively masculine silhouette from behind.
All words and probing, in this moment, turned into the most direct action.
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