Ten Towers, the seat of House Harlaw, was not as grim and imposing as Pyke. It resembled a massive nest perched on grey cliffs, cobbled together from towers, libraries, and observatories. Even the sea wind seemed milder here, carrying the scent of parchment, old ink, and dried seaweed.
When Euron Greyjoy's skiff docked, it didn't stir the usual clamor of an Ironborn visit. Only a few scribes in plain robes with eyes sharp as falcons silently led him up the tide-marked stone steps. Euron was accompanied only by a guard of ten led by Dagmer and his handmaid, Lysa.
[Exploration: Discovered Harlaw Island. Reward: 80 Points.]
[Exploration: Discovered Harlaw Island: Book Tower. Reward: 15 Points.]
In the circular room at the top of the largest "Book Tower," he met Lord Rodrik Harlaw, known as "The Reader." Unlike most muscle-knotted Ironborn lords, he was tall and thin, wrapped in a worn velvet robe, fingers stained with ink. A pair of world-wise grey eyes hid behind a long table piled with scrolls and astrolabes.
"Euron Greyjoy," Rodrik's voice was calm, carrying a scholar's prudence. "The kraken hatchling of Pyke flying alone to Ten Towers... that doesn't seem like Quellon's style. Did you come to borrow books on greenhouse planting for the coming long winter night?"
Euron bowed slightly, his etiquette impeccable. His mismatched eyes looked even more eerie in the thin daylight from the tower window. "Lord Rodrik, my father's gaze is fixed on the grain ships from the East. My journey is for something warmer, and more vital to the future bloodline of the Iron Islands." He didn't detour, directly taking out a document carefully wrapped in sealskin. "On behalf of my brother, the heir to Pyke, Balon Greyjoy, I propose a marriage alliance with the brightest pearl of your house, Lady Alannys Harlaw."
Rodrik didn't take it immediately. He simply tapped his finger on an open ancient tome depicting complex tidal charts. "Balon... that child is like an unsheathed axe. Sharp, but prone to hurting himself and those around him. Alannys..." He paused, a trace of elder softness flashing in his eyes. "She needs more than just a husband who can swing an axe."
"Precisely why this union is so fitting." Euron's voice was steady as water. "Brother Balon possesses a will of rock and fearless courage; he is a born warrior and leader who can take Greyjoy glory to new heights. Lady Alannys, with her wisdom, her healing skills, and even her precise knife work (forgive me for hearing some anecdotes), can become the toughest vine on that rock, smoothing the edges and adding fertility. Greyjoy's ferocity needs Harlaw's wisdom to guide it, and Harlaw's knowledge and trade network need Greyjoy's might to protect them. This isn't just the union of two houses, but a fusion of the Old Way spirit and the New Path, to make the Iron Islands stronger, not just richer, in the coming winter and the further future."
He stepped forward, placing the document gently on an empty spot on the table. "Besides," he looked up, his gaze seeming to pierce the barrier of books, "in the long night about to envelop the world, what brings more warmth and strength than the tight bond of blood? This is not conquest, but alliance—the oldest and strongest covenant."
Rodrik was silent for a long time. Only the whistle of sea wind and the rustle of pages filled the tower top. Finally, he reached out, fingertips brushing the sealskin scroll, as if feeling the weight and promise beneath. He looked out the window; the shadow of Ten Towers was slowly lengthening, covering the busy port below and the endless sea beyond.
"Alannys did say once that in all of Pyke, only the rage of the eldest Greyjoy son reminded her of the taste of Dornish strongwine. However, I must seek her and her mother's opinion before replying." The Earl finally spoke slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting in an almost imperceptible arc.
"Of course." Euron blinked. "Since this is my first time on Harlaw, I thought I'd walk around and see the sights, if that's convenient." Every new location explored earned points. Waste was shameful; every little bit counted. Euron never turned down free points.
Rodrik agreed readily: "Our honored guest, certainly!"
---
Pyke - Temple of the Sea God
On the day of the wedding, the Temple of the Sea God looked more like the belly of a sunken leviathan than ever. Under the massive stone dome, hundreds of whale oil torches in iron wall rings flickered, casting shadows that made the twisted kraken reliefs seem alive. The light illuminated the bizarre tattoos on the bald heads of the Drowned Priests and stretched the guests' shadows across the slick, salt-frosted black stone floor. The air was salty and heavy, a mix of seawater, burning blubber, cold stone, and a primal, mysterious scent of deep-sea sacrifice.
Balon Greyjoy wore a brand-new black leather tunic with the golden kraken sigil embroidered on the chest. He stood straight as a mast nailed before the altar, jaw tight. In eyes usually burning with rage, there was now a deeper, more complex emotion—a solemn acceptance of an irresistible coming destiny. His gaze occasionally swept over the woman beside him.
Alannys Harlaw did not wear the complex silks common to mainland noble ladies. She wore a thick, dark green wool gown, simple in style, edged with silver-embroidered wave patterns, and a cloak woven from polished black fish scales draped over her shoulders. Her deep brown hair was braided into a thick plait hanging in front, dotted with tiny pearls like stars. In her hand, she indeed held a ceremonial short knife, its sheath made of walrus ivory. Her stance wasn't that of a shy bride, but of a female warrior about to swear a blood oath with an ally. Her green eyes calmly met the various gazes around her—curiosity, scrutiny, awe, and even a hint of imperceptible jealousy.
The Drowned Priest's voice was loud and raspy, chanting the ancient Ironborn wedding vows. Every syllable seemed to carry the weight of seawater and the echo of the abyss.
"...Thou art the Rock, she is the Iron Chain binding thee, holding thee upright in the storm..."
"...Thou art the Blade, he is thy Whetstone and Sheath, keeping thy edge forever sharp yet safe..."
"...Together ye shall sail to the Far Shore, sharing a seat in the Drowned God's watery halls..."
The climax of the ceremony wasn't the exchange of rings. The priest brought a rough black stone bowl filled with bone-chilling, nearly black seawater. Balon and Alannys plunged their hands into the water simultaneously, the biting cold tensing their muscles. With a coral-inlaid dagger, the priest quickly cut a shallow line on their overlapping wrists. A few drops of blood merged into the inky water, vanishing instantly.
"With Salt!" The priest shouted, throwing a handful of coarse sea salt into the bowl.
"With Ice!" He dropped in a small chunk of unmelting ice (legend says from the far north).
"With Blood!" He finally pointed to their mingling blood.
"Ye are joined! Until the seas dry, until the stars fall!"
It is done!
The priest poured the water mixed with salt, ice, and blood at their feet, letting it seep into the stone cracks.
No sweet kiss, no cheering. Instead, all Ironborn nobles and captains in the temple slammed their knife hilts and axe handles heavily on the ground, creating a low, uniform rumble like war drums or muffled thunder before a tsunami. This was the highest recognition and blessing of the Iron Islands.
Balon turned his head, truly and carefully looking at his bride for the first time. Alannys was looking back at him. No shy blush on her face, only a calm assessment and firm acceptance. She raised the short knife in her hand slightly—a small but powerful gesture.
Amidst the rumbling, King Quellon looked calm, satisfied that family interests were solidified. Lady Sronsa held Victarion tightly, a trace of worry in her eyes but also a glimmer of hope for the couple's future, stroking her belly where a new Greyjoy (Aeron) waited to be born. Uncle Baelor grinned, punching the shoulder of the man next to him.
Euron Greyjoy stood quietly in the shadow of a massive stone pillar, silently blessing the brother and sister-in-law united by ancient ritual before the altar, destined to face storms and winter together. This marriage, pushed by his own hand, fitting both "destiny" and interest, had landed firmly in its predetermined spot on the vast chessboard. But at the same time, he felt a heavier weight on his shoulders. He didn't want any tragic fate for his future nephews and nieces.