The highest tower of Pyke was now haunted by the piercing wails of a woman.
Ashara lay in the cold stone chamber, sweat soaking her black hair. Every contraction felt like invisible, giant hands tearing at her body.
Outside the birthing room, Euron Greyjoy paced anxiously like a sea beast trapped in a cage.
His brother, King Balon, tried to stop him with a strong arm, muttering about the traditions and taboos of the Iron Islands. However, when another pain-filled scream from Ashara pierced the heavy wooden door, a look of absolute resolve flashed in Euron's eyes. He broke free from the restraint and slammed the door open as if splitting wind and waves.
"The three sisters stay! Everyone else, get out!" Euron's low growl echoed off the stone walls, brooking no argument.
The midwives scattered in panic under his terrifying gaze. In the end, only the loyal three sisters remained outside like stone statues, shutting out the rest of the world.
Inside, the smell of blood and sweat was thick.
Euron stared at his wife's pale, contorted face. He leaned down, placing a cold hand gently on her high, violently trembling abdomen. In the next second, a strange shimmer flowed through his palm—he activated the power of the Door-Door Fruit.
Above Ashara's belly, the air twisted and peeled open like melted wax. A "door" emitting a ghostly glow with clear boundaries was created out of thin air. There was no blood, only supernatural light dancing at the edges. Through this passage of life, Euron reached in carefully, and with gentle firmness, lifted a warm, wet little life out from within.
Euron deftly cut the umbilical cord connecting mother and child. Immediately, the "door" that defied natural laws healed silently, as if it had never existed.
"Waaah—!"
The infant's loud cry erupted suddenly, causing the water cup on the table to buzz and the torches on the walls to flicker.
This cry, like a horn announcing the arrival of a new king, shook the entire ancient stone tower.
The door was gently pushed open, and the three sisters stepped aside silently like three synchronized shadows.
The maids and wet nurses who had been waiting outside filed in quietly and orderly, carrying basins of warm water, soft cotton towels, and clean clothes.
The room was filled with the faint scent of blood and sweat, but mostly with the peace of new life. Ashara lay on the bed, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, her face pale but bearing an indescribable softness and exhaustion.
Rachelna signaled the maids to come forward. Nitier tested the water temperature, while Zoia soaked and wrung out the softest cotton towel. Without a word, they began to wipe the sweat from Ashara's forehead and the blood from her body with delicate, gentle movements, every action full of careful solicitude.
When everything was tidied up, an experienced wet nurse gently placed a baby, tightly wrapped in soft swaddling clothes, into the crook of Ashara's arm. The child was so small, his skin still flushed and wrinkled from birth, with a head of thick, dark black hair and a pair of violet eyes. He smacked his little lips, making a faint, cat-like mewling sound.
Ashara looked down, her eyes instantly filling with uncontrollable tears and love. She adjusted her posture carefully; in this moment, she held the most precious treasure in the world.
Euron had stayed by the bedside the whole time. Now he leaned down, using his strong arms to encircle both Ashara and their newborn. He lowered his head and pressed a long, tender kiss onto Ashara's sweaty forehead. All the hardship, waiting, and worry seemed to melt away in this silent kiss.
Ashara leaned tiredly but contentedly against Euron's solid chest, a weak smile spreading across her lips. She whispered, "It's a boy."
Euron smiled. "Boy or girl, it doesn't matter. Both are treasures you have given me." He gazed at the small, wrinkled red face in the swaddling clothes, his eyes lingering on those hazily opening pupils. "Look, he has violet eyes just like yours. truly beautiful."
Ashara followed his gaze, the softest part of her heart gently touched.
"Have you decided?" She looked up at him, hope in her eyes. "What to name him?"
The door was pushed open a crack.
More than a year old, Daeron Greyjoy wobbled in. His small face was full of fear and restraint unsuited for his age. He had listened to his mother's suppressed cries of pain outside the door for too long. Seeing everything calm now, he finally rushed to Ashara's legs, buried his face in her soft dress, and his small shoulders began to shake uncontrollably—the tears he had held back for so long finally burst the dam.
Fighting her exhaustion, Ashara used her free hand to gently stroke Daeron's back, comforting him silently.
Watching this scene, a rare warmth rose in Euron's eyes. His broad palm landed on Daeron's fine, soft hair, stroking it gently. "Don't be afraid, Daeron. Mom is okay!" His voice held a reassuring strength. He then looked up, meeting Ashara's gaze in the air, and clearly pronounced the name he had chosen long ago: "Alexander Greyjoy."
Ashara was slightly stunned, her long eyelashes trembling.
"Alexander?" She repeated softly, trying to search for this syllable in the scrolls of her memory. It was a completely unfamiliar name, carrying the dust of exotic lands and a distant aura, untraceable in any family tree or Iron Islands legend she knew.
Euron took in her subtle confusion and smiled gently. "Yes, this name has never appeared in Westeros. It is one I read in a fragmented ancient scroll." His voice was low, carrying the unique rhythm of telling an ancient legend, as he slowly recounted: "From lands farther east than the Sunset Lands, across oceans and seas of sand, there was a king named Alexander. He rode a warhorse no one could rival, and the armies under his command marched across the territories of countless kingdoms. From golden palaces to towering pyramids, even the banks of distant foreign rivers echoed with the horns of his expedition."
Euron withdrew his gaze and looked back at the clear violet eyes of his son in Ashara's arms. "He was not only a conqueror but also unified his vast empire with wisdom. In those yellowed pages, he is the embodiment of 'greatness,' 'conquest,' and 'wisdom.' I hope our son," Euron's hand gently brushed the infant's fine hair, "can inherit the spirit and glory behind this name."
Ashara repeated those words in a low voice: "Greatness, conquest, wisdom..." Complex light flowed in her violet eyes. Her slender fingers unconsciously tightened on the edge of the swaddling clothes. Behind that name symbolizing supreme glory, she seemed to see the cold glint of swords and the dangerous waves of long voyages.
Euron keenly caught the fleeting worry in her eyes and said softly, "If you don't like it, we can change it."
"No, I like it very much." Ashara shook her head gently, holding the child a little tighter. She raised her eyes, her gaze gentle and earnest. "It's just, Euron, perhaps the hearts of mothers everywhere are the same. Greatness, conquest... they are all too distant, too heavy. I only wish for our Alexander to grow up safe and healthy, without having to fight in stormy seas or struggle for survival amidst swords and shadows."
"Heh," Euron let out a low, confident laugh upon hearing this. "Isn't that simple? We will cut down all the thorns on the path ahead for him. We will flatten all the risks he should take and all the difficulties he should face. When the time comes, our son will only need to steadily take over a stable kingdom and rule with peace of mind."
Ashara's lips moved slightly, but before she could respond, clear footsteps came from outside the room.
The heavy wooden door was pushed open. King Balon Greyjoy's tall figure stepped in first. Behind him, Lady Alannys, Lisa, and Baelor followed quietly. Other Greyjoys crowded outside the door. Behind them, shadowy figures of the island lords gathered in the corridor could be seen.
In an instant, the private warmth was replaced by public scrutiny.
Almost instinctively, Ashara straightened her back. The soft worry of a mother quietly faded from her face, replaced by the calm and dignified expression befitting a Lady of House Greyjoy.
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