The ship slowly approached the docks of Dragonstone. The salty sea wind grew harsher, and the air seemed thick with the unique sulfurous smell of this volcanic island and the heavy weight of ancient magic.
The heir to the Iron Throne was traditionally granted Dragonstone and styled as the Prince of Dragonstone—currently, Prince Rhaegar.
Euron Greyjoy was the first to step onto the black lava ground, followed closely by Lisa. Beside them were the ever-vigilant "Cleftjaw" Dagmer and six elite Ironborn guards. This small group stood out starkly on this strange island filled with the marks of House Targaryen.
Legend had it that about a hundred years before the Doom fell upon the Freehold of Valyria, the Valyrians expanded their power to the Narrow Sea. They annexed this island, which guarded the throat of Blackwater Bay, and built a castle upon it. However, they did not continue west, making Dragonstone the westernmost territory of Valyria.
The towers of the castle were shaped from rock by Valyrian magic to resemble giant dragons, creating an eerie and terrifying atmosphere, hence the name Dragonstone.
Perhaps because this small island was full of Valyrian magic, the exploration points granted were more than other towns.
[Exploration: You discovered Dragonstone. Gained 120 Points.]
Euron stepped into the Stone Drum, the gloomy and solemn main hall of Dragonstone. His gaze was immediately drawn to the figure beside the throne.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stood up. His silver-gold hair flowed with a faint luster under the torchlight, his face as handsome as the gods of legend, his demeanor impeccably elegant. However, most striking were his dark indigo eyes. They should have been sharp and majestic like an emperor's, but now they held a deep melancholy, as if the ashes of Summerhall had never faded from his gaze.
"Welcome to Dragonstone, Euron Greyjoy," Rhaegar's voice was gentle and magnetic, yet carried a trace of imperceptible distance. "The sea wind brings the valor of the Iron Islands here. I have heard of your deeds on the Arbor." His wording was cautious and appropriate, welcoming but not overly enthusiastic, his movements elegant and dashing.
Euron nodded slightly, meeting the Prince's gaze without evasion. "Thank you for your reception, and for allowing me to come and accept your guidance, Prince Rhaegar. Though the Iron Islands and Dragonstone are separated by vast seas, the ocean always brings interesting souls together. As for the Arbor, it was merely... a necessary voyage." His response was equally skillful, acknowledging the facts while lightly brushing them aside.
In the somewhat dim but solemn main hall of Dragonstone, Euron calmly scrutinized the Prince, as if assessing a precious but fragile work of art. At the same time, he noticed the three white-cloaked knights—Kingsguard—shadowing the Prince.
The most eye-catching was naturally the living legend, Ser Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning." He stood quietly diagonally behind the Prince's seat, his posture as upright as a cedar on a lonely peak. The famous greatsword "Dawn" on his back seemed to emit a faint glow even in its sheath. His sharp eyes, like a hawk's, calmly scanned Euron and his Ironborn, carrying customary scrutiny and unapproachable majesty.
However, when his gaze met Euron's, a flicker of complex light seemed to pass through that cold scrutiny—because his sister, Ashara Dayne, had been betrothed to Euron back in Lannisport, and she had mentioned in her letters that they had been corresponding constantly, deepening their understanding of each other.
This private connection created an indescribable atmosphere between two equally proud and powerful men—a mix of familiarity and distance. Ser Arthur didn't speak, only gave Euron an extremely slight, almost imperceptible nod—an acknowledgment transcending duty, existing only on a personal level.
Standing on the other side was Ser Oswell Whent of Harrenhal. His expression was steady, his seasoned appearance making him look as reliable as a rock. His gaze lingered more on the surroundings, fulfilling his duty as a guard.
In the center of the three white cloaks was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, the "White Bull." He was older, his aura majestic and solemn, his white armor spotless. He didn't deliberately flaunt authority, but his steady demeanor and naturally imposing eyes clearly stated his identity as the leader of the Kingsguard. His gaze rested quietly on Euron, with official caution and assessment.
The presence of these three top knights was like an invisible barrier, highlighting the Prince's noble status while silently reminding every visitor of the martial power and majesty possessed by House Targaryen.
Ser Oswell Whent leaned forward slightly. A subtle smile appeared on his weathered face, his tone mixing commercial appreciation with a hint of probing. "Lord Greyjoy, I heard that for the grand tourney my brother is hosting at Harrenhal, all the wine will be exclusively provided by your Iron Islands? And there will even be a speech about 'sponsorship' at the opening? Truly... an ingenious business mind."
Oswell paused, genuine curiosity entering his voice. "Truth be told, self-brewed red wine from the Iron Islands? That's a first for me. Does this so-called fine wine... have the salty taste of seawater mixed in?"
A faint smile played on Euron's lips. "Ser Oswell flatters me. It is merely a mutual exchange. Harrenhal needs fine wine to add luster to the feast, and the Iron Islands happen to have some unique new vintages, eager to find noble guests who can appreciate them." He paused, his tone carrying confident indifference. "As for whether sea salt affects the flavor? Perhaps it is precisely because it is bathed in the winds and waves of the North Sea that our 'Kraken' possesses unique mellowness and unruliness. We brought some with us this time. If Ser Oswell is interested, you can taste it later and judge for yourself."
He added confidently, "We introduced the best winemakers and equipment in all of Westeros, purchased the best grapes from the best vineyards in Pentos. After the wine was made, we invited the best sommeliers to taste it, confirming its quality far surpasses the Arbor wine of old. I believe that with just one sip, you will be full of praise and astounded."
The steady, majestic voice of Lord Commander Gerold Hightower joined the conversation. His white beard was neatly trimmed, and his torch-like gaze fell directly on Euron. "As for martial arts, Lord Greyjoy, I have heard different rumors from Arthur."
As Gerold spoke, Arthur Dayne remained silently majestic. "Arthur says your dual-wielding technique is swift as wind, ruthless, precise, and steady. There are even rumors that Lord Tywin's arrogant son, Jaime Lannister, was defeated by your hand at his knighting ceremony." Ser Gerold's tone held the pure interest of a warrior wanting to verify rumors. "Since you are at Dragonstone, you must practice well later. Let us see just how good the swordsmanship that impressed the Sword of the Morning truly is."
Euron said calmly, "Ser Hightower is well-informed. Ser Arthur's praise is more than I deserve. The spar with Jaime Lannister back then was merely a game between boys; it doesn't count."
"As for swordsmanship—it is exactly what I wished for, though I dared not ask. I came to Dragonstone precisely to receive guidance from you seniors, hoping to achieve a good result in the upcoming tourney." Euron's eyes released a warlike light. "The tides of the Iron Islands only taught me how to survive and kill most effectively, not elegant performances for the arena. My blade work may be rough, but it is absolutely practical. Since the Lord Commander has such interest, I am naturally happy to oblige. It is a perfect chance to learn a thing or two from true sword masters."
The words of the two Kingsguard, one about business and one about martial arts, outlined their perception and interest in this Ironborn visitor from different angles, foreshadowing that Euron's trip to Dragonstone would not be limited to simple pleasantries.
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The dining hall was brightly lit with candles, silver and crystal sparkling in the light.
Euron's gaze looked past the noisy crowd and landed on Princess Elia Martell.
Her beauty was distinct from Cersei Lannister's sharp, almost aggressive radiance.
Elia's beauty was exquisite, requiring careful savoring. Her features were delicate and soft, her eyes holding the warm sun and gentle sands of Dorne, without a trace of Cersei's haughty coldness. She was like a piece of precious, fragile porcelain from the East, elegant and demure, radiating a kind and introverted glow.
Were it not for this beauty and temperament, Elia Martell would not have been chosen by the "Mad King" to replace Cersei Lannister and marry his eldest son and heir, Rhaegar.
However, this beauty seemed shrouded in an invisible fragility. Her face was pale to the point of transparency, the faint blue veins visible beneath her skin—a mark of weakness left from giving birth to her daughter, Rhaenys Targaryen, last spring, from which she had not fully recovered.
At this moment, she was holding her daughter, not yet a year old. The little princess had rosy cheeks, contrasting sharply with her mother. The scene was breathtakingly beautiful, yet so fragile it made one hold their breath.
Princess Elia's gentleness wasn't just superficial. Euron noticed her softly thanking the servant pouring wine and smiling understandingly at the guard standing by. Her kindness was like warm spring water, naturally flowing to everyone around her.
When her gaze finally landed on Euron, there was no scrutiny or pickiness in her eyes, only pure and friendly curiosity.
Elia leaned forward slightly, her voice soft as a summer night's breeze. "Lord Euron, my brother Oberyn mentioned you in his letters. He said you are a warrior of extraordinary insight, having sailed the Narrow Sea and experienced legends far beyond many elders." A sincere smile bloomed on her pale face. "He has always praised you highly. I wonder if you would be willing to share a story or two with me? Though trapped in my sickbed, my heart always yearns to hear stories of the wide world."
The noise of the banquet seemed to form a warm barrier around them.
In his low, slow tone accented with the Iron Islands, Euron painted pictures of the customs across the Narrow Sea—the canals and bravos of Braavos, the spice markets of Pentos, and the bizarre customs of those distant lands.
Princess Elia leaned back in her chair, a faint flush of color appearing on her pale face due to her interest. Her eyes shone with obvious curiosity and fantasy, as if through Euron's words, she was seeing those vast worlds she had never set foot in.
She often asked questions, her tone soft and sincere. "Can the 'Water Dancers' of Braavos really walk on ropes as if on flat ground, as legends say?" Especially when Euron's stories involved her reckless brother Oberyn Martell, her concern and curiosity grew intense. "When my brother was there, did he cause any more trouble to give my brother the Prince a headache?"
But she maintained excellent breeding, never interrupting at will, only expressing her amazement or questions appropriately during pauses in his narration.
They chatted happily, the atmosphere harmonious as if they were old friends.
However, in this seemingly harmonious atmosphere, Euron's sharp gaze caught a coldness that could not be ignored.
His eyes inadvertently swept over the host of the banquet—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—several times.
The Prince, with his silver-gold hair looking godlike under the candlelight, moved among the guests with impeccable manners and elegance.
But from beginning to end, he almost never cast a glance at his wife, Elia.
Aside from a few necessary words required by etiquette, there was no private communication or eye contact that should exist between husband and wife.
That indifference wasn't a deliberate distancing, but a deeper, almost thorough blindness to her existence, as if she were merely an inconsequential decoration in the hall.
This silent coldness formed a sharp contrast with the warm corner where he was chatting happily with Elia, quietly casting a heavy shadow beneath the glamorous surface of the feast.
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