In the end, Euron chose to lay his cards on the table.
Inside the King's Study at Pyke, the atmosphere was heavier than the sea brewing a storm outside. Whale oil lamps cast swaying haloes on Quellon Greyjoy's massive black stone desk, illuminating the spread-out sea chart, half-rolled trade manifests, and the silent clash of wills between a family of three—no, nearly the entire core of House Greyjoy.
Euron Greyjoy, only seven years old, stood steady as a reef. His clear voice cut through the rapid breathing of his mother, Sronsa Blacktyde.
"Father, Mother. The Long Night approaches, lasting three years. I do not wish to waste these precious one thousand three hundred days and nights hiding behind Pyke's thick stone walls, existing like an onion in a cellar, waiting to be slowly consumed." His phrasing was far beyond his years. "Waiting, in itself, is a form of death."
King Quellon did not answer immediately. His thick fingers unconsciously rubbed a bronze paperweight on the desk, an artwork molded into the agonizing shape of a drowning man. His gaze, like an abyss, scrutinized this youngest, most bizarre, and most uncontrollable son.
"I know your head is filled with thoughts far beyond your age, as if possessed by the Drowned God." Quellon finally spoke, voice low and raspy, worn by sea wind. "But your body, Euron, is only seven. A seven-year-old child on the Narrow Sea in winter... one wave, one chill, could turn all your 'difference' into nothing. If you were five years older, even three, with shoulders capable of withstanding a storm, my answer might be different."
The corner of Euron's mouth curled into an extremely faint, almost mocking arc. His mismatched pupils shone with inhuman luster under the lamp. "Father, have you forgotten? They call me 'Son of the Drowned God.' Some even whisper in taverns that I am the 'Grey King' returned from the deep... Do you think the sea would easily take back its own creation?"
"Get out!" Quellon slammed the table, making the paperweight jump. "Don't use that nonsense meant for fishermen and salt wives to fob me off! You are my son, my blood flows in you, not a damn myth!" The roar carried an irritation at a taboo touched, and a deeper unease—sometimes he couldn't tell if this son was naturally gifted or truly occupied by something ancient.
Facing his father's rage, Euron's expression suddenly became extremely pragmatic, even somewhat cold, instantly dispelling the mysterious aura. "Of course I'm afraid of death, Father. Scared to death." His admission was so crisp it was startling. "Precisely because of that, I won't jump into an icy sea without preparation."
He stepped forward, placing a small hand on the coastline of Essos on the map. "Pentos holds the largest warehouse of our 'Ice and Fire' Trading Company and at least a hundred loyal Ironborn. Three alleys in Lys are filled with our informants. Volantis, even distant Qohor, have our trade partners. I am not going to wander; I am going to inspect our existing assets."
His finger pointed to several key locations, tone calm as if recounting accounts. "Dagmer Cleftjaw will lead his longship Drinker and two other fast ships, totaling three hundred of the fiercest and most loyal Ironborn as my guard. They have drunk their fill of saltwater and sworn to protect me with their lives."
He paused, looking up with sharp eyes. "Furthermore, I have had Malyo—you know, that Braavosi who handles 'grey' matters for us—pre-hire a company of elite mercenaries with heavy gold. One hundred battle-hardened professional soldiers will meet me in Pentos to handle onshore security. I am not going to start a war, Father. I am just going to... consolidate our trade routes, inventory our warehouses, and ensure gold and supplies continue to flow to the Iron Islands like blood even in winter. This is safer and more important than any raid."
"No! Absolutely not!" Lady Sronsa could no longer suppress herself. She stood up abruptly, face pale as salt, voice shrill with fear. "You are only seven! Seven! Essos? That is a place where slavers, assassins, and plagues run rampant! They will snatch you, sell you to Eastern wizards as potion ingredients! Or you'll catch a fever and die in some filthy inn! I forbid you to go! You are not going anywhere! You stay in Pyke, where I can see you!"
As a mother, she saw not grand plans, but only a small body about to be swallowed by the terrifying East.
Euron turned to his mother, tone softening but carrying an unalterable determination that looked particularly frightening on a child's face. "Mother, I won't go now. I promise you. I will wait until the first real snowflake falls on Pyke's towers, until thin ice begins to form on the sea, confirming Westeros has officially entered dormancy. Then, I will depart." His promise sounded more like a countdown.
Silence fell in the study, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the sobbing of the wind hitting the high windows.
King Quellon's gaze moved from his wife, trembling with agitation, to his youngest son's calm, almost indifferent face. He saw what lay deep in those eyes—not childish willfulness, nor boyish recklessness, but a cold, precisely calculated ambition and... a hunger for a bigger stage. He realized this was not a consultation, but a notification.
After a long time, the Seastone King exhaled heavily, a sound seemingly from the seabed. "It seems," he said slowly, every word weighed down by a thousand pounds, "you have made up your mind. Not asking permission as a son to a father, but announcing your action as... a Greyjoy."
Euron nodded slightly, not denying it. "Yes, Father."
Quellon leaned back into the massive stone chair, shadows covering half his face, leaving only his eyes sharp as knives. "Then," his voice returned to its usual unquestionable authority, "before the first snowflake falls, make perfect preparations. I want to see the maintenance record of every ship, the list and background of every guard, every detail of the agreement with the mercenary company, the exact location and contact method of every supply point. Your plan must be as airtight as Nagga's scales. Otherwise, even if I have to chain you under the Drowned God's altar, I will not let you take a step out of Pyke."
This was not a blessing; it was an order, a test. An ultimatum from a father to a son, and from the Seastone King to the "existence" that might lead the family into unknown waters.
Euron nodded and smiled. "Absolutely! As I said, I am very afraid of death."
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