His brief tour of Harlaw finally netted him 160 points. Not a huge haul, but within expectations. Firstly, his stay was short. Secondly, despite his title as the second son of the Iron King, to the entrenched House Harlaw and its people, he was ultimately an outsider to be wary of. Many corners were off-limits, and many gazes held scrutiny, greatly limiting his efficiency in earning "points."
The plan to cross the ocean was approaching, and Euron needed power more than ever. With a thought, the system interface glowed. A full 100 points evaporated instantly, thrown into the unfathomable reward vortex. A chill only he could perceive swept through the depths of his soul, as if the gates of the underworld opened for a split second.
[Obtained - Weapon: Soul Solid]
Cold air condensed, and a slender rapier quietly fell into his hand.
The blade was extremely thin but flowed with an inhuman, eerie blue light, as if forged from ten-thousand-year-old ice marrow. It was unusually light, feeling weightless in his hand yet strangely maintaining perfect balance. This was indeed the sword of Brook, the musician-swordsman of the Straw Hat Pirates and one of the Straw Hat Grand Fleet's senior officers from another world. The tip could not only tear flesh but also infect with bone-chilling cold from the underworld, enough to make enemies wail in despair as their blood froze.
For Euron, who did not excel in pure strength, this light, eerie, and deadly magic sword came at just the right time.
Euron hung Soul Solid on his left hip. It no longer belonged to Brook, so Euron gave it a name of his own—Cold Spirit. This extra rapier attracted some attention, but only attention. Only Balon, hands itching, drew it out to try once, then sneered dismissively: "A little girl's toy!"
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Euron's gaze swept over the gloomy sea horizon outside the window, fingertips unconsciously tapping the rough wooden table. "How many months until the winter predicted by the Citadel Maesters arrives?"
Lysa didn't look up, her voice clear and calm: "Three months. Raven messages from the North confirm this; cold winds are already gathering north of the Neck."
"Three months... time should be enough." Euron stood up, shadows moving on the stone wall with him. "For the next two months, I will visit every remaining island of the Iron Islands, leaving none out. Since Father has entrusted me with heavy responsibility, I must see with my own eyes if their granaries are full, if their roofs can withstand snowstorms, if their swords are sharp—and, if they truly need no help."
His tone was steady, giving a high-sounding reason. However, deep inside, this tour was far more than sympathizing with the people or fulfilling duty.
Every island was a square on a chessboard waiting for a piece to fall. Every appearance, every promise, even every punishment of grace and might would turn into silent chips, accumulating "points" belonging to him, Euron. He needed these points, craving the "reward" draws from the Pirate King System. The journey across the Narrow Sea was calling faintly in the distance—a perilous path filled with unknown storms, eerie arts, and cold enemies. In that vastness, any external help might dissipate like mist; only the power clenched in his own hands was the sole reliance to cleave waves and survive.
For the next two months, Euron Greyjoy's footsteps followed the black hull of the Drinker, crushing every inch of the unruly waters of the Iron Islands.
This was not a relaxed cruise, but a silent storm. The Drinker, like an extension of his will, broke through the lead-gray waves, visiting those rock-forest islands where sea winds howled one by one.
Despite being only seven years old, no lord of the Iron Islands dared treat Euron Greyjoy as an ordinary child.
He controlled "White Gold Sand"—no ordinary thing, but a source of power far more maddening than gold. No one knew the origin of the secret formula, but its blazing white glow obeyed only his will. Every grain of quota the island nobles could obtain was defined by his slender fingers; this grace was enough to raise a family, and its deprivation enough to plunge another into the abyss.
All merchant shipping routes leading to wealth and plunder, like interwoven threads of fate, ultimately converged at his fingertips. It was he who decided which channel was revealed, which "Old Way" raid could proceed. The strength of the Ironborn wielding swords actually stemmed from the meticulous picture silently running in his mind.
Even more awe-inspiring, even the unfathomable Drowned God seemed to crown him through the mouths of priests. Priests praised his "miracles" loudly before smoke-wreathed altars, honoring him as the "Son of the Drowned God." Thus, religious fanaticism and secular authority completed an eerie fusion in him.
When the unique black sails of the Drinker appeared on the horizon of any island, the entire territory would instantly enter a tense ritual state mixed with anticipation and fear.
The horns on the watchtowers would sound in a specific rhythm, no longer warning of foreign enemies but conveying a more complex message: He is here. The port immediately fell into orderly chaos. Lords would never wait for the ship to dock before rushing to prepare. They would immediately don their most decent furs or chainmail, order servants to sweep the courtyards at top speed, bring out the most precious sour ale and salted meat from the cellars, and force those fish-stinking, loud, rude crewmen to restrain themselves temporarily, arranging a guard of honor that at least looked respectful.
No lord would view this visit as a simple courtesy call. In their eyes, the clearer warship carried not a child, but a moving treasury and an invisible scepter.
The welcome ceremony at the dock was always overly grand, even revealing a clumsy ingratiation. The lord himself would surely attend, followed by all important family members and nervous maesters. They piled on smiles as sincere as possible, but deep in their eyes, calculations flew fast—Why is he here this time? To check tribute? Allocate "White Gold Sand" shares? Reveal routes for the next season? Or... did he hear some unfavorable rumors?
No matter how full the cups at the banquet were filled, they couldn't dilute the cautious and probing atmosphere. Every toast hid a sharp edge; every report on the territory's condition was carefully worded. They showed off full granaries and strong warriors not out of pride, but to prove their value and loyalty, hoping to exchange for more favor in the coming "distribution."
They feared not his age of seven, but the absolute power he represented: intelligence on routes that could ignite greed and war, "White Gold Sand" quotas that could determine a family's rise or fall, and the terrifying legitimacy backed by Drowned Priests bordering on theocracy. Every visit by Euron was a mini Kingsmoot for them, a destiny evaluation. The object of their bow was a seven-year-old body, but even more, the undisputed incarnation of power controlling the Iron Islands' lifeline.
He seemed to be fulfilling the duty of a second son patrolling for his father, caringly asking about grain stores, ships, and winter preparations, but those hawk-sharp eyes measured deeper things—the direction of hearts, the price of loyalty, and the depth fear could reach.
Of course, for Euron at this moment, the most important thing was obtaining points that would make him stronger.