The morning mist hadn't yet lifted from the sea when Euron arrived at Ashara's door to say his goodbyes.
Ashara had known this moment was coming, but now that it was actually here, she couldn't stop the tears from welling up in her eyes. Fighting back her emotions, she straightened his tunic, her fingers lingering on the rough fabric for a long time, reluctant to let go.
Before departing, Euron called his personal guard—the "Sorrowful Woman," Victoria Daniels—to his side. The assassin, known for her cold demeanor and lethal efficiency, wasn't exactly thrilled to hear Euron was leaving her behind in Dorne. The thought of being in the same place as her annoying brother made her want to refuse immediately.
"You're staying in Dorne," Euron's voice was low but brokered no argument. "Stay close to Princess Elia and Ashara. Your mission is to ensure their safety—watch for poison in their cups and guard against any knives in the dark." He stared intently into Victoria's sharp eyes. "Send a raven every three days to report on their condition. This matters more to me than any battle."
When she heard she would be guarding Princess Elia, the frost on Victoria's face thawed just a little. She genuinely admired the Dornish princess—she liked Elia's unpretentious way of speaking, her delicate, porcelain-doll features, and that gentle smile that always seemed to put people at ease. More rarely, Elia actually listened when people spoke, her eyes filled with sincere understanding. For Victoria, who was used to a life of solitude and paranoia, Elia was like a sudden break in the storm clouds.
Deep down, a voice warned her: An assassin shouldn't get attached to anyone. If they become a target later, that affection becomes a fatal weakness. But right now, Victoria chose to ignore that voice. After all, ever since she failed to kill Euron and was captured, she wasn't really a "Sorrowful Woman" anymore.
She nodded solemnly, acutely aware of how much weight Euron placed on this. This was far more than a standard guard duty; it carried a heavy, unspoken promise from her master.
Elia didn't refuse the arrangement. She gently held Victoria's hand as they stood on the dock, waving goodbye to the ship as it drifted further away. Arianne, Ashara, and Oberyn stood by the shore as well, though their expressions were a mixed bag. Ashara waved her silk scarf relentlessly, her eyes full of longing; Arianne stood with her arms crossed, looking cold and detached; Oberyn just stood there quietly, his expression unreadable.
On the prow of the ship, Euron looked back. His fingers unconsciously grazed a fresh bruise on his cheek, and he hissed in pain—a "parting gift" Oberyn had left him the night before.
Thinking back to last night, Euron couldn't help but smile wryly.
Oberyn had shown up with a spear, straight to the point: "Spar with me. But you aren't allowed to fight back. Just stand there and let me hit you."
Euron had been dumbfounded. "What kind of duel is that?"
"It's not a duel," Oberyn's spear tip had glinted in the moonlight. "It's me beating the hell out of you to vent! Otherwise, I think I might die of frustration."
Knowing he was in the wrong regarding the whole situation with the women, Euron agreed and took a solid thrashing. The strange thing was, after Oberyn had worked out his aggression, his anger actually vanished. He even broke out some fine Dornish vintage, and they ended up drinking under the stars until late into the night.
Now, looking at the figure on the shore who had beaten him black and blue last night but came to see him off this morning, Euron rubbed the aching spot on his face. The corner of his mouth curled into a helpless, knowing smile.
The ship cut through the gray-green waves, carving a white wake across the vast ocean. Euron stood alone at the bow, the sea wind whipping at his robes. Deep down, he was actually hoping the Mad King would send a few fleets to chase him—it would be the perfect chance to turn his pent-up frustration into warfare and let loose on the open sea.
Truth be told, Euron was feeling suffocated. He never expected to land himself in such a messy situation, but since it had already happened, there was no turning back—like an arrow loosed from the string.
As a man used to steering his own ship, this lack of control made Euron incredibly irritable. He stared at the undulating horizon, his fingers absently tracing the hilt of his blade.
If only a few blind fools would sail their ships my way so I could slaughter them. That would hit the spot...
But the Gods were deaf to his prayers. The voyage was abnormally calm for days on end; not a single suspicious vessel appeared.
The waves slapped rhythmically against the hull, and the cry of gulls accompanied their journey, as if the whole world had decided to stay silent.
Finally, the ship sailed safely into the waters of the Iron Islands. The familiar, rugged coastline came into view, and beneath the gloomy gray sky, the silhouette of Pyke Castle stood tall and imposing, as if it had been waiting forever for the voyager's return.
The moment the ship docked, Euron marched straight for the Great Hall of Pyke. The sea breeze still clung to his clothes, carrying the sharp, salty chill unique to the Islands.
Inside the hall, Lord Quellon Greyjoy sat upon the Seastone Chair, old but commanding. Beside him stood the gloomy-faced Balon and the sharp-eyed Victarion. Even his mother, who rarely left her chambers, was present. They had clearly been waiting for some time; the air in the hall was thick with tension and urgency.
Ever since the Tourney at Harrenhal ended, the Seven Kingdoms had been bubbling like a pot of stew. News was flying everywhere: some said the Mad King had publicly humiliated Tywin Lannister; others whispered that Prince Rhaegar had publicly insulted the Dornish Princess; there were even reports of unrest brewing in the Vale, the North, and the Stormlands... Every raven brought new rumors, and every merchant ship brought new variables.
Euron's gaze swept over his family members, his lips curving into a meaningful smirk. "Looks like I missed all the good stories."
Lord Quellon raised his sharp, aged eyes and nodded slightly at the travel-worn Euron. "You're back just in time. Sit." His voice was as low as waves crashing on a reef, carrying unquestionable authority.
Ever since Lysa had shared a bed with Euron, the way the Greyjoy family looked at her had changed completely. She was now tacitly accepted as Euron's woman, and this change in status gave her a level of trust and importance in Pyke that she hadn't held before.
At this moment, Lysa was in charge of briefing the core family members on the intelligence.
She knew the information flooding in from across the Seven Kingdoms was a mix of truth and lies—some were obvious movements, others were backroom deals; some were shrouded in fog, and others were deliberate disinformation spread by various factions. She analyzed the source and credibility of each piece of intel one by one, occasionally pausing to let the men ask questions, then adding her own judgment.
The firelight from the hearth danced across her face, illuminating her focused expression. Every word she spoke was carefully weighed, for every piece of news carried the weight of the shifting political landscape of the realm.