Several days later.
Euron personally led the massive column of five thousand salt thralls, iron thralls, and three hundred elite Ironborn warriors he had gathered from the Iron Islands. After disembarking at the coast, they turned inland.
This motley force marched grandly onto the soil of the Riverlands.
The heavy thud of footsteps, the rumble of cart wheels, and the clinking of chains wove together into a dull, attention-grabbing torrent. They moved slowly along the Kingsroad toward Harrenhal, the ancient, colossal fortress that brooded beside the Gods Eye.
When Euron had left Harrenhal, he had entrusted its management to Oswell Whent and the steward, Erwin Snow. Under their efficient stewardship, Harrenhal had gradually begun to regain order and life.
The Riverlands were scarred by war. Countless farmers and tenants had lost their homes and become refugees. Many soldiers and knights who had survived the battlefields were now scattered, hiding in the shadows.
Oswell and Erwin had recruited many of these displaced refugees, along with warriors and hedge knights eager to build a name for themselves under a new lord, injecting fresh blood into the ancient fortress.
In addition to them, the stonemasons and craftsmen brought back from across the Narrow Sea had arrived ahead of the main group, having departed the Iron Islands earlier upon receiving Euron's orders. When they faced Harrenhal—the largest castle in Westeros, with its ruined towers and titanic walls—their eyes shone with the light of creators, their enthusiasm reaching unprecedented heights.
After days of meticulous inspection and measurement, the masons and craftsmen had already drafted several plans for reconstruction and renovation. Each plan had its pros and cons, waiting only for Euron's return to decide the final blueprint.
When Euron arrived at Harrenhal at the head of his massive column of five thousand three hundred people, the scene before him was vastly different from the dead ruins of the past.
Steward Erwin Snow, having received word well in advance, was fully prepared. As soon as Euron arrived, Erwin displayed extraordinary organizational talent. He and his subordinates worked like a well-oiled machine, diving into the heavy task of settling the newcomers—assigning temporary quarters, distributing food supplies, registering personnel information, and drafting preliminary work assignments for the massive labor to come.
Harrenhal's gigantic courtyards and the partially restored barracks were instantly filled with the flow of people and noise.
For the salt thralls and iron thralls, life had already changed subtly back on the Iron Islands after Euron developed the lucrative platinum sand trade, which greatly alleviated the economic pressure there.
On the islands, their labor intensity had been reduced; they were no longer worked to death in the salt pans or mines. Euron had also ordered improvements to their diet—not great, but at least they didn't go hungry. Their housing was still crude, but it was no longer a choice between freezing to death in a drafty shack or suffocating in a sealed one.
Only freedom remained a luxury beyond their reach.
Their conditions had improved from "no different from livestock" to "slightly better than livestock."
Now, Euron had taken them away from the Iron Islands to this completely strange, green land. Their hearts were filled with unease, unsure where fate was leading them.
On the evening of their first day at Harrenhal, the setting sun cast the castle's gigantic shadow long across the ground.
Euron ordered everyone—including the three hundred Ironborn warriors, the newly recruited refugees and hedge knights, and the five thousand anxious thralls—to gather in the still-empty main courtyard.
The dark mass of people stood against the backdrop of the colossal ruins, looking small yet filled with unknown possibilities.
Everyone held their breath, their eyes fixed on the figure standing high above, waiting to hear what fate this lord who brought them here would pronounce.
Euron stood on the high platform, his voice sweeping across the courtyard like a sea gale, clearly reaching every ear. "On the soil of Westeros, there are no slaves! From this day forth, you are no longer salt thralls, nor are you iron thralls—you are the people of Harrenhal!"
His words were like a thunderclap exploding in the crowd. Many looked up blankly, hardly daring to believe what they had heard.
"From now on, you can be farmers tilling the land, smiths forging swords, masons rebuilding the towers, or even warriors protecting this domain!" He pointed to the steady figure of Erwin Snow beside him. "The Steward will assign you work based on your individual skills."
His gaze swept over the weathered, branded faces below, his voice decisive. "No matter what your status was before, at Harrenhal, everyone starts at the same line! As long as you are loyal to your duty and earn merit, wealth, status—even becoming a noble or being granted land—is not an unreachable dream!"
Finally, Euron raised his hand, his voice booming like a vow, reaching every corner of the courtyard. "I swear by the blood of the ancient Grey King—I will never mistreat anyone who gives their loyalty to Harrenhal!"
After a brief, dead silence, a deafening cheer erupted from the throats of over five thousand former thralls, refugees, and hedge knights, like a long-suppressed volcano finally blowing its top. The wave of sound threatened to topple Harrenhal's ancient towers.
In that sound was the ecstasy of rebirth and a hope for the future they had never known before.
Euron raised his hand slightly. It was a simple motion, yet it seemed to carry an invisible weight, silencing the thunderous cheers as quickly as if cut by a blade. All eyes focused on him again; the courtyard fell silent.
The warmth on Euron's face faded, replaced by a cold hardness. "There are rewards, so naturally, there are punishments!" He slowly scanned the thousands of faces below. "I trust some of you have heard of my reputation, Euron Greyjoy. To those who offer me their loyalty, my rewards are never stingy—they will exceed your wildest imagination."
His tone shifted abruptly, a chilling menace creeping into his voice. "But against enemies, my blade has never been soft. You may have heard of the 'Crown of Skulls' in the Stepstones—the pile of heads I severed stands taller than the highest Ghost Tower of Harrenhal!"
Euron paused, letting the bloody image settle in everyone's mind, then spoke clearly, word by word. "I will not tolerate any form of betrayal. If there is a traitor, although I will not flay you like the Boltons..." His voice dropped lower, yet carried a certainty that made souls tremble. "I dare swear to the Drowned God that the end for a traitor will be... a hundred times more painful than that."
Accompanying Euron this time was Lloyd Hutchinson, a pirate recruited by the "Call for Talent" in the Stepstones—a torturer capable of whittling a prisoner down to a skeleton without letting them die.
Euron planned to let Lloyd Hutchinson demonstrate his "art" of interrogation in front of everyone at the first opportunity, just so they would know he wasn't lying.
The cold warning formed a brutal contrast to the earlier passionate promise, searing a clear understanding of the consequences of loyalty versus betrayal into the hearts of every new citizen of Harrenhal.
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