The prophecy of winter invaded the bone marrow of the Iron Islands like an invisible chill, earlier than the salty cold wind from the Narrow Sea.
Under the dome of the Maester's Tower, Euron Greyjoy's gaze did not linger on the map marking the granaries and forests of Westeros before him. Instead, he stared for a long time at a massive, ancient map on the wall, its edges blurred by bookworms and dampness—the full map of Essos.
Another choice facing winter: Go to another continent.
On the parchment, from the frozen Shivering Sea to the smog-shrouded Volantis, from the giant snake-like Rhoyne to the mysterious and gloomy Asshai, that vast eastern land was depicted as a puzzle of countless city-states, deserts, oases, and grass seas.
King Quellon's low voice analyzed the grain reserves of the Vale, the plight of the North, and the Narrow Sea routes about to become furious and unpredictable. But Euron's thoughts had already set sail on the canvas of imagination, flying over that storm-ravaged sea.
Euron knew the winter of Westeros was unusual. The Citadel Maesters explained it with star trajectories and climate cycles, but buried deep in their hearts was an older, more disturbing recognition—the seasons of this land were twisted by some vast, primitive, incomprehensible magic.
The Long Summer was a gift, but also a curse, foretelling a long winter closely following, severe enough to freeze souls and civilization. This was a chronic illness rooted in the laws of the world itself, tormenting only Westeros.
What about Essos across the Narrow Sea? When Winterfell's battlements were draped in ice crystals, when the fields of the Riverlands were covered in deep snow, when even the beggars of King's Landing huddled shivering in corners...
Southern Essos might be bathing in the never-fading sunlight of Lys and Volantis. The Spice Islands still drifted with warm breezes; the hills of Ghiscar remained dotted with olive trees and vineyards. Their winter was merely a mild footnote on the trade calendar, requiring an extra velvet coat.
Their troubles were trade route tariffs, mercenary contracts, slave prices—not whether they could dig the last grain from deep snow.
The laws by which the world operated were so fragmented between this shore and that one.
Euron's fingertip silently traced the narrow ink-blue gap on the map representing the Narrow Sea. This trench divided not just two continents, but seemingly two distinct destinies.
Westeros struggled on a chessboard of gods and demons, bearing the cost of extreme seasonal shifts, perhaps secretly nourishing corresponding ancient powers (Children of the Forest, White Walkers, Dragons). Essos, though having its gods, blood magic, and shadowbinders, seemed to operate under a more "secular" rule obsessed with trade, conquest, and pleasure, exempt from the periodic, magical divine punishment.
Euron thought: Every shard of Valyrian steel sings lost spells; every sacrificial fire in a Red Temple might burn with real divine power; every Undying of Qarth might guard the secrets of time; every twisted creature on the edge of the Smoking Sea might be the product of warped magical experiments.
In the system's laws, these were all shining, harvestable "Points." His journey east would be a grand hunt. The prey was not lions or buffalo, but miracles, secrets, and forbidden knowledge itself.
In Westeros, magic had faded into a pale ghost. The Citadel dismissed it as superstition; nobles stopped at ancient rituals. Its presence was as faint as the last warmth of summer's end. Dragons were extinct, Children of the Forest retreated into legend, White Walkers became bedtime stories to scare children. The world's colors became monotonous here, imprisoned in a dull cycle of steel, honor, and power.
But in Essos... magic never truly died. It just changed form, lurking in the shadows, waiting to be awakened.
Euron's fingertip paused on the Ruins of Valyria. He could imagine the furious energy of blood magic and dragonfire still lingering in the sulfurous mists. He thought of the Shadow Lands of Asshai, where wizards reportedly traded with things not of this world. He thought of the Undying of Qarth, perhaps soaking in chalcedony pools peeking at the torrent of time. He thought of the Red Temples, where priests of the Lord of Light might truly revive the dead through faith.
This omnipresent, living power, possibly touchable or even controllable, emitted a scent more alluring to Euron than any gold or crown. The system needed "anomalies," needed exploration. And his soul, perhaps in a deeper place, yearned to understand and even master this wild, dangerous primal force that constituted the underlying logic of the world.
The Seven Kingdoms played the Game of Thrones. But certain corners of Essos played a chess game of gods and demons. He wanted to go there, not just to watch, but to learn, to eventually... join the game.
Finally, it was an insurance policy. If, just if, Westeros couldn't withstand the White Walkers, the land across the Narrow Sea would be the last sanctuary for the Ironborn.
Historically, House Targaryen's exile before the Mad King proved the East's value. When Westeros' severe winter or war became unbearable, the East was a natural refuge and supply line. Dragonstone was an outpost; Essos was the vast rear base.
The whale oil lamp's light flickered in Euron Greyjoy's mismatched eyes, reflecting the massive, incredibly detailed map of Essos on the table. His fingertip slid slowly across the rough parchment, from the stepped pyramids of Pentos to the black forests of Qohor, finally resting beside the shadow-shrouded Asshai. It was not just a geographical tour, but a search for the magnetic pole of destiny.
"The Narrow Sea becomes a roaring beast in autumn and winter," Quellon's voice pulled Euron back to reality. He pointed at the strait on the map, brows furrowed. "Storms can tear apart the strongest longships; mist hides reefs and worse things. Every crossing is a gamble with the Drowned God. All ships can only stay on shore; all trade must stop."
Risk. Yes, the risk was enormous.
But this risk itself was a natural barrier, protecting Essos from being immediately affected by Westeros' cold wave, and filtering for the brave and desperate capable of shuttling through it.
A thought, like a kraken surfacing quietly in the dark, became clear in Euron's mind: The world is so big, I want to go see it.
Not just see. He wanted to touch, taste, and understand that land cursed not by magical winter.
The system needed points, and the continent of Essos was full of "anomalies" and "stories," an excellent hunting ground for points.
More practically, there was the grain and timber Westeros desperately needed. The trade network of the Ice and Fire Trading Company required him to personally integrate, strengthen, and expand it.
This trade network was complex and precise, involving too many Free Cities, cultural differences, greed, and betrayal. It needed a brain with absolute authority, transcendent calculation, and cold determination to integrate, intimidate, and make instant decisions personally. Those agents, those partners, needed to see the will of Greyjoy with their own eyes, even if that will resided in a seven-year-old body.
This was not an inspection; it was an activation, turning potential trade lines into the Iron Islands' lifeline.
His father and everyone would worry about safety, but they didn't know that the Ice and Fire Trading Company, relying on advanced business acumen and some "luck" (from Euron's tips) over the past two years, had already quietly laid out layouts in Pentos, Braavos, and even distant Lys. Nearly a hundred Ironborn elites—not just merchants, but craftsmen, spies, even warriors disguised as mercenaries—had driven into several major Free Cities like wedges.
His trip was not barging into unknown danger, but inspecting and tightening the fishing net already quietly cast.
The lords of Westeros were still bleeding for the Iron Throne, fiefdoms, and inheritance rights. But had they ever looked up at the world?
True power might not come only from cold blades and long bloodlines, but also from rivers of gold, information networks, and a deeper understanding of the world's operating rules. Essos was the best classroom to understand all this.
Euron craved a "Winter Camp," located across the Narrow Sea.
This was not escape, but another form of progress. While Westeros curled up in winter, licking wounds and gathering strength, he, Euron Greyjoy, would accumulate another form of power on a different stage—power enough to overturn everything in the future—for House Greyjoy and himself.
His gaze fell back on the strange place names on the Essos map, as if seeing the chimney-lined workshops, the noisy slave markets, the fragrant spice bazaars, and the undercurrents of gold and power surging beneath it all. It was a fiery, vivid world unfrozen by Westeros' long winter, waiting for him to explore and conquer, in a way different from the Ironborn Old Way.