In the days that followed, Euron displayed astonishing organizational prowess.
By day, he held court at Harrenhal in the Riverlands, managing the labyrinthine affairs of his vast new domain. But when night fell, the ring on his finger would glimmer, and he would cross a thousand mountains and rivers in an instant—returning to Iron Wind Isle to be with the heavily pregnant Ashara, or appearing at the Sun Tower in Dorne for a stolen moment of tenderness with Elia.
After King Quellon, Balon, and the Ironborn delegation returned from the coronation and wedding, several messages took wing from Pyke. Carried by ravens, they flew to the six major islands, rippling out like stones cast into a still lake, spreading news to every corner of the Iron Islands.
First: Euron, in his capacity as Lord of Harrenhal, issued a formal summons to all Ironborn warriors hungry for land and glory. The largest castle in Westeros was in dire need of manpower. Anyone willing could report for duty, signaling new opportunities and rewards.
Second: A war summons, thick with the scent of plunder, shook the hearts of all who craved adventure. The Iron Islands would point their swords south toward the Summer Isles. The fleet was expected to sail in six months. Warriors thirsting for loot and glory were to muster at Pyke.
Third: A political marriage was quietly concluded. Tessaya Greyjoy, daughter of Balon Greyjoy, was to be betrothed to Jalabhar Xho, the exiled Prince of the Red Flower Vale in the Summer Isles.
Fourth: A shift in the seat of power. Since King Quellon had been appointed Master of Ships for the Seven Kingdoms and announced he would permanently reside in King's Landing, his son Balon Greyjoy would formally succeed him. The coronation would take place upon the Seastone Chair, the symbol of supreme authority in the Iron Islands.
Finally: Balon's eldest son, Rodrik Greyjoy, announced his betrothal to Gwynesse Goodbrother of House Goodbrother, further cementing internal alliances within the Iron Islands.
These five messages were like cold water thrown into boiling oil—instantly sending the entire Iron Islands into a fervor.
Lords and nobles from every island arrived by ship at Pyke, while countless Ironborn warriors surged in from all directions. The salty sea breeze seemed thick with restlessness and excitement. Between the docks and the castle, the noise was deafening. Pyke had never been so alive with ambition, opportunity, and a raw power ready to erupt.
Thousands of longships packed the waters around Pyke so tightly that latecomers had to anchor far out on the periphery. Ironborn had to hop from deck to deck just to reach the shore.
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On the chosen auspicious day, solemn and ancient prayers echoed through the halls of the Drowned God. The briny scent of seawater seemed to weave itself into the sacred ceremony.
Two weddings were held together, bringing double the joy to the Iron Islands.
One was the union of twelve-year-old Rodrik Greyjoy and Gwynesse Goodbrother. The boy's frame was still thin, and in his overly formal attire, his expression held the confusion and awkwardness typical of his age. Yet, under the weight of family expectation and ancient tradition, he took his first step toward becoming a man. The girl, blushing and proper, possessed the distinct resilience and loyalty of House Goodbrother.
The other was the union of Tessaya Greyjoy and the exiled prince, Jalabhar Xho.
Behind this marriage lay a clear and distinct political stamp—it was one of the conditions for the Iron Fleet to set sail, the most common and effective tool used by Westerosi houses to expand their influence. For Tessaya herself, as a daughter of House Greyjoy, her marriage was not hers to choose; her will had long been bound to the interests of her house.
Fortunately, her new husband, Jalabhar Xho, though dark of skin, was tall and possessed deep, striking features. His speech and manner carried a unique melancholy and noble bearing. When Tessaya looked at him, there was no great revulsion or resistance in her eyes. Only when her gaze occasionally drifted over his dark skin did a simple, private prayer rise in her heart—may the children we bear not inherit that black skin.
On the viewing platform, Euron stood shoulder to shoulder with Balon, watching the noisy celebration below.
Euron nudged his brother with his elbow, his tone teasing. "You really are a piece of work as a father."
Balon's weathered face remained expressionless, his gaze fixed forward, his voice low and proud. "Save your praise. Finding a wife for my son is exactly what a father should do."
"Cut the act," Euron chuckled, his gaze sharp as a knife, piercing Balon's calm facade. "You think I don't know what you're plotting?"
Balon finally turned his head, a grin breaking across his face now that he'd been seen through. "Heh."
It was only natural for a father to be happy about his eldest son's wedding.
But Balon's deeper calculation couldn't hide from Euron. With the expedition to the Summer Isles imminent, Balon, now King of the Iron Islands, burned with the ambition to lead the campaign himself. But having just taken the throne, if he wanted to personally lead the fleet into those unknown and dangerous waters, he first had to settle his "affairs."
Getting his heir Rodrik married off quickly to produce offspring, ensuring the Greyjoy bloodline and rule over the Iron Islands remained secure, was a crucial step in allowing Balon the freedom to go out and reave.
Under the night sky, Pyke was ablaze with light. Whole oxen sizzled over bonfires, and mead and ale flowed like endless streams, filling the horns and wooden bowls raised high by every Ironborn.
The noise—shouting, singing, the clashing of weapons in celebration—was deafening. It was a carnival of triumph. According to ancient tradition, tonight was a night to drink until you dropped; no one went home sober.
When the moon climbed to its zenith and most guests and warriors were thoroughly drunk and swaying, the real council began in secret.
King Quellon, Balon, Euron, Lisa, and the heavyweight lords of the Iron Islands—the core figures controlling the destiny of the archipelago—did not lose themselves in the feast. They slipped away from the noisy hall, passed through dark stone corridors, and entered a secluded chamber deep within the main keep, cut off from all prying eyes and ears.
The heavy stone door rumbled shut behind them, sealing out the clamor of the outside world. Firelight danced on their faces, revealing a sobriety and sharpness in stark contrast to the revelry they had just left.
Here, the planning that would decide the future of the Iron Islands and point toward the distant Summer Isles was just beginning.
Once everyone was seated, King Quellon waved a large hand, cutting off any pleasantries. "No nonsense. Let's get straight to it." His gaze turned to Lisa.
Lisa stood before the table. Her presence here had long transcended her status as "Euron's Salt Wife." Her seat at this core council was earned by her intelligence network and meticulous mind, acknowledged even by these fierce lords.
"The Summer Isles," her voice was clear as her finger traced a path across the map spread before them. "Located in the Summer Sea south of Westeros, a chain of over fifty verdant islands." Her finger tapped on three larger islands. "The three main islands, from north to south, are Walano, Omboru, and Jhala." Her fingertip paused on Jhala. "Jhala is home to the famous Red Flower Vale and Sweet Lotus Vale. Prince Jalabhar Xho, now allied with our house by marriage, hails from the Red Flower Vale."
Euron took over, speaking slowly. "Jalabhar Xho. A prince exiled after losing a ritual war. We have allied with him through marriage and promised to help him reclaim his throne in the Red Flower Vale." He scanned the face of every lord present, his voice ringing with conviction. "But our goal has never been just a tiny valley. I want the entire Summer Isles!"
Lisa spoke again, pulling everyone's thoughts from grand ambition back to concrete profit. "The Summer Isles themselves lack iron, but their earth and seas hold staggering wealth—emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and pearls of all kinds. More importantly," she emphasized the resource the Iron Islands lacked most, "timber."
"Their forestry is extremely developed. Ironwood, bloodwood, ebony, mahogany, purpleheart, tall hibiscus, burl, tigerwood, ivorywood... many rare woods highly sought after by all nations. Among them, Goldenheart is widely considered the best material for longbows, rivaled only by legendary Dragonbone bows. However, the export of Goldenheart is strictly forbidden."
She continued the list. "Furthermore, their agriculture is thriving. They produce nutmeg, cinnamon, pepper, and other precious spices, as well as a variety of popular tropical fruits."
Euron listened to Lisa's report, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. When she finished, he summarized slowly, his tone flat but carrying immense weight. "Ports, timber, gems, spices... these are profits within arm's reach." He shifted gears, smiling. "But these are merely petty gains."
He looked up, his gaze seeming to penetrate the stone walls to the boundless ocean in the south. "What I truly value is the vast expanse of sea we will control once we take the Summer Isles! Controlling that means choking the throat of the Summer Sea. It will be our most solid springboard... With it, our Greyjoy longships can go further than anyone dares to imagine!"
He did not elaborate on where "further" led, but the lords present understood from the depth of his gaze—the Summer Isles were merely the first piece placed on his grand chessboard.
King Quellon looked around at every lord, his voice steady as a reef. "So, state your positions now. Those willing to take part, we sail together. If unwilling, you may withdraw now. I, Quellon Greyjoy, promise here and now that I will not force anyone."
Before his voice had even faded, a burst of boisterous, rough laughter erupted in the chamber.
Ralf Stonehouse, Lord of Old Wyk, whose face was weathered like old tree bark, slammed his hand on the table and roared, "Not go? If I dared tell them I wasn't going, my pack of howling whelps would throw me out of this chair tomorrow and sail off themselves!"
"Not go? Are you joking?" Gorold Goodbrother, built like a bear, wiped wine from his beard. The Lord of Hammerhorn chimed in, "Can't you smell it? The scent of gold and timber in the wind! It's more intoxicating than a woman's perfume!"
Lord Rodrik Harlaw of House Harlaw stood up. His words drew even louder agreement. "House Harlaw will give up the sea only when the ocean runs dry! As long as the waves beat against the rocks, our longships will sail the path of conquest!"
"Well said!" The head of House Drumm pounded the table, his eyes burning with a warlike light. "How could the great cause of conquering the seas lack the axes and roars of House Drumm!"
No hesitation. No retreat.
Fanatical fighting spirit and a thirst for wealth and glory surged like the tides around the Iron Islands—unstoppable. The decision to invade the Summer Isles was set in stone amidst this boiling frenzy of consensus.
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