"The False Spring"—a warning etched into the history books of Westeros. How could Euron forget it? He was far more awake than the world imagined, and he had been setting his board for this long before the first chill returned.
For the past two years, whenever the longships of the Ironborn set sail—whether to the Free Cities or the ports of the Seven Kingdoms—they returned with one standing order: half the hold must be filled with provisions. Grain, beans, salted meats... a steady stream of non-perishable food was piling up in the underground granaries of Pyke, Great Wyk, and Old Wyk, forming mountains of survival.
Euron stood on the watchtower of Pyke, gazing down at the harbor where ships were still bustling in the gray light. His eyes were dark and calculating. He wasn't just preparing enough food to drag the Ironborn through three years of winter; he was stockpiling for the wars to come.
The sea wind, thick with the smell of salt and brine, whipped at his dark robes, carrying with it the scent of the distant, approaching frost.
"Winter is coming," Euron whispered to himself. A sharp, predatory smile cut across his face as he added, barely audible, "And war follows close behind."
---
The evening meal was simple, yet it radiated a warmth rarely seen in House Greyjoy.
There were no silver platters or exotic delicacies on the long table—just roasted fish, black bread, and imported Dornish oranges. Yet, the family sat together, talking and laughing in harmony. Lord Quellon's brow, usually furrowed with the weight of rule, was uncharacteristically relaxed. Balon was drinking with Victarion, and even the usually silent Lysa wore a faint smile.
This sound of laughter was more comforting than the finest wine at a king's feast.
Late that night, as the sound of the rising tide grew louder, Euron took Lysa and joined his father, Lord Quellon, and Balon in the solar. The heavy oak doors swung shut, sealing them off from the rest of the world.
"There was... a dishonorable accident," Euron began, breaking the silence. "I owe you an explanation."
Under the flickering candlelight, Euron slowly laid out the hidden secrets of his time in Dorne—his brief fling with Arianne, and the accidental entanglement with Princess Elia. When he finally dropped the anchor—"Elia is with child. And the seed is mine"—the air in the room seemed to freeze solid.
Lord Quellon's goblet stopped halfway to his mouth. Balon shot up from his seat, his chair scraping violently against the stone floor. Lysa instinctively covered her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Outside the window, the waves crashed against the cliffs, each impact sounding like a hammer striking a heart.
A long, dead silence filled the room, broken only by the crackle of firewood in the hearth and the low roar of the sea. Quellon's aged face was written over with shock, his fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of his cup. Balon's eyes flickered with incredulity and... a strange sort of respect. Lysa frowned slightly, her mind racing to connect the dots.
"Are you certain?" Quellon finally spoke, his voice rasping. "Are you certain the blood is yours?"
Euron met his father's scrutinizing gaze, his expression calm but iron-hard. "This isn't a matter I would joke about, Father."
Suddenly, Lysa spoke up, her voice soft but shattering the tension like a stone thrown into a still pond.
"I went to your room early that next morning," she said quietly. "Princess Elia was indeed there."
Her words stamped a seal of confirmation on the shocking news. Candlelight danced on their faces, casting shifting shadows that would brand this night into the memory of House Greyjoy forever.
Euron's gaze snapped sharply to Lysa. "Then why didn't you—"
"Tell you? And then what?" Lysa interrupted gently, looking back at him with complicated eyes. "Wouldn't it have been better for everyone to pretend it never happened? To treat it as a harmless fling? That's what I thought at the time, so I chose silence. But who could have predicted that Princess Elia would..."
"Lysa did the right thing," Lord Quellon barked suddenly. He turned his glare on Euron, his eyes as cold and heavy as the Iron waves. "You damn fool!"
His voice trembled with suppressed rage. "You've always been the calm one, the calculating one! How could you stir up a mess like this?"
The old lord slammed his hand on the armrest of his wheelchair. "How do you intend to clean this up? A former crown princess—no, she was Rhaegar's wife at the time!—and now the Princess of Dorne is pregnant out of wedlock? This isn't some tavern wench story from a port brothel!"
The firelight flickered across Quellon's face, illuminating the mixture of anger and worry in his eyes. The sea breeze squeezed through the window cracks, but it couldn't blow away the heavy atmosphere in the study.
Balon, standing to the side, couldn't hold it back anymore. He let out a string of rough, boisterous laughter, slapping Euron hard on the shoulder.
"Hah! Impressive, brother! I didn't see that coming! You've got stones, lad! One shot, straight to the mark!"
"Shut your damn mouth, Balon!" Quellon slammed the table, making the wine cups rattle. "Do you think we don't have enough trouble already?!"
Euron took a deep breath, meeting his father's furious gaze. "I have already promised the Prince of Dorne that I will take full responsibility for the mother and the child."
"Responsibility? How?!" Quellon nearly pushed himself out of his chair, his face flushing red. "You are betrothed to Ashara Dayne! After Harrenhal, the whole realm knows it! How will you explain this to Starfall? How will you explain this to all of Dorne?"
The fire in the hearth leaped violently, casting Quellon's enraged shadow against the stone wall like a provoked kraken.
Euron spoke with solemn weight. "I promised to give Elia the Stepstones as a gift. My son will hold the title: King of the Stepstones."
Quellon paused. "The Stepstones?"
"The very same," Euron said, the corner of his mouth curling into a sharp smile. "I've had my eye on those waters for a long time. Right now, it's a mess of pirates and conflicting powers—the perfect time to strike."
He took a step forward, looking between his father and brother. "With the Iron Fleet at sea and Dorne's spears on land, taking the Stepstones will be child's play."
Balon's eyes lit up with a warlike glint; the audacity of the plan clearly appealed to him. Lysa stood quietly to the side, her eyes shimmering as she weighed the political implications.
The wind blew Euron's dark hair, bringing the smell of the distant ocean into the room. Behind this seemingly mad plan lay a father's promise to an unborn child, and a captain's ambition for the sea.
The fire of ambition burned in Euron's eyes, his voice low and powerful like the tide. "The Stepstones are just the anchor. They are merely the first step of a much grander blueprint. My ambition goes far beyond a cluster of rocks."
Lord Quellon fell silent for a moment, his rough fingers rubbing the armrest. "Let's not talk of distant dreams yet. What does Prince Doran say to this?"
"Silence," Euron smirked meaningfully. "Prince Doran's silence is consent. He is watching, waiting to see my next move."
The candlelight reflected in his deep pupils. "The ruler of Dorne never shows his hand easily, but his silence has given us all the room we need."
The wind howled through the window, fluttering the maps and scrolls in the study. In the flickering light, Euron stood tall, as if he could already see the wider oceans and new territories on the horizon.
"He will see," Euron said, his tone carrying undeniable confidence. "Not just a King of the Stepstones... but a whole new era."