Deep within the sea-like halls of the Red Keep in King's Landing, Varys the Spider was silently weaving his web. The flickering candlelight cast his rotund shadow onto the cold stone walls, like a silently expanding conspiracy.
Varys moved with cat-like lightness through shadows and whispers, finally arriving beneath the Iron Throne.
Facing the monarch increasingly consumed by paranoia and rage upon the throne, Varys leaned forward and whispered in his characteristically soft, almost dangerously gentle voice. Every word was carefully chosen, wrapped in honey and probing, quietly slipping into Aerys's ears: "Your Grace, a disturbing piece of news comes with the salty sea breeze. The Greyjoy boy, Euron, who returned from his voyage, is not crying poverty like other lords. On the contrary, he has hoarded mountains of grain in Pyke's harbor, enough to feed an army, yet turns a deaf ear to your generous levy order..."
King Aerys stood up abruptly from the Iron Throne, twisted metal spikes nearly tearing his sleeves. His voice was no longer human, but a mix of hissing and the crackle of burning fire.
"How dare they?! Those rotten fish and shrimp in the salt water, those traitorous scum who can never wash off the stink of the sea! I gave them glory, allowed them to live under the name Greyjoy, yet they use hoarded grain to humiliate the Iron Throne!" He waved violently towards the west, as if to crush the entire Iron Islands across the distance.
"Tell that old squid Quellon Greyjoy—immediately! Right now! Ship every grain of wheat and every grain of salt in all his warehouses to King's Landing! This is what you Ironborn owe the Throne, what you owe the True Dragon!" His voice suddenly became dangerous and low, mad flames burning in his purple eyes.
"If I don't see his fleet in King's Landing harbor within a month... I will send the Arbor fleet to flatten Pyke! I will tear their fishing nets to shreds, sink their longships to the bottom of the sea, and I will mount the head of every Greyjoy on—"
King Aerys suddenly coughed violently, then revealed a hideous smile stained with blood: "No, use wildfire! Burn them all to ash! Now, get out and convey the King's decree."
The will of King's Landing never stopped at cold words brought by ravens. This time, it transformed into a tangible threat, cleaving waves towards them.
A high-masted warship crushed the chilly mist of King's Landing's waters, appearing starkly on the horizon. Its pitch-black hull was like a floating abyss; only the massive banner atop the mast roared in the wind—embroidered with the hideous three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen. With an arrogance ignoring the winds and rules of the Iron Islands, the ship sailed without slowing towards Pyke's heavily guarded harbor. Its very existence was an unquestionable ultimatum of royal power.
Almost simultaneously, a weary-winged raven crossed the long route, stumbling into the window lattice of Pyke's Maester's Tower.
The Maester untied the scroll from its leg. The moment he unrolled the paper, the blood drained instantly from his wrinkled face. He was so horrified he nearly fell off his chair.
Hands trembling, barely able to hold the paper that was light as a feather yet heavy as a thousand pounds, he dared not delay. Stumbling out of the Maester's Tower, he ran towards King Quellon Greyjoy with a hurried pace unbefitting his age.
What that strip of paper carried was no ordinary news, but a portent wrapped in fire and thunder from the core of power.
Quellon's fist slammed heavily onto the long table, knuckles turning white. His voice squeezed through his teeth, suppressing monstrous rage: "The Mad King... actually sent a messenger! Not only levying grain but demanding that triple salt tax! He even threatened that if he doesn't see our grain-laden fleet in King's Landing within a month, he will go to war... with the Iron Islands!"
Hearing this, Balon let out a short, cold sneer, eyes void of fear: "Grain? None. Life? I have one. Why bother with such unreasonable demands? War? Let them come! The sea is always our home ground. Would our Ironborn longships fear the Arbor fleet?"
Amidst the grim atmosphere, Euron laughed softly. He spoke calmly: "Father, things may not have reached the point where war is necessary. Allow me to ask, who is the source of the news brought by that raven?"
"It's Grand Maester Pycelle," Quellon said in a deep voice.
"Our Iron Islands seem to have no friendship with him." Euron looked thoughtful.
"Indeed not. But he has no reason to deceive me. If the news is true, the Iron Islands must plan early."
Euron nodded, thoughts spinning: Grand Maester Pycelle... everyone knows his close relationship with House Lannister; calling him Tywin Lannister's loyal dog in King's Landing isn't an exaggeration. His initiative to send news must have Casterly Rock's shadow behind it, inseparable from that old lion Tywin.
He then changed the subject, tone relaxed as if arranging a family trip: "Coincidentally, a ship is setting sail for Braavos tonight. Father, perhaps you can take this opportunity to take Mother and my brothers across the Narrow Sea to relax. Brother Balon, hasn't your father-in-law written many times wanting to see his daughter and grandchildren? This is a good opportunity; why not take the family for a short stay?"
Balon frowned, and Quellon looked at him sharply.
Euron shrugged, maintaining that cynical smile, but his words were logical: "Don't forget, I am just the second son of the Iron Islands; I can't make decisions on many major matters. It is most appropriate for me to receive the royal envoys. If I can send them away 'satisfied,' that's best; if they are dissatisfied... even if I 'mishandle' something in between, ultimately you, Father, will need to return to make the final decision."
"You want to... stall?" Quellon understood his intent immediately.
"Exactly," Euron affirmed. "The Mad King has always been capricious. Orders remembered today might be forgotten tomorrow. Why clash with him head-on right now? It benefits no one."
It was now 280 AC. Only one year left until the Tourney at Harrenhal in 281 AC, destined to go down in history. And Robert's Rebellion in 282 AC, which would completely rewrite the Seven Kingdoms' landscape, was close at hand.
Why get angry with a destined loser, a dying man?
Euron swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue. The noise of Harrenhal, the Usurper's War, the flames of the Mad King's end... these clear images in his mind were like history already happened, yet he couldn't explain them to his father and brother.
Euron's tone suddenly shifted. His fingertips unconsciously traced the rough map of Westeros carved on the table, voice becoming calm, carrying an almost ruthless scrutiny: "Step back and think, Father. The situation in King's Landing is already like cracked glass. How long can the Mad King's rule last? His madness grows daily; complaints fill King's Landing. Highgarden, the Eyrie, even Casterly Rock... among those powerful vassals, who truly supports the Iron Throne with all their heart?"
His gaze swept over Quellon and Balon, words like cold tide beating against the reef of reality: "Why should we clash head-on with a king deserted by his followers and isolated at this juncture? The Mad King has far more enemies than just us. We only need a little patience, waiting for the situation to ferment itself."
Quellon fell silent, rough fingers unconsciously tapping the table. He knew Euron's suggestion might be the most rational choice right now, but handing the entire Iron Islands, especially the burden of dealing with royal envoys, to his young second son still made him uneasy. He looked up, scrutinizing Euron again, eyes mixing worry and assessment.
Euron seemed to see through his concerns, lips curling into an unfathomable arc, tone relaxed yet with unquestionable certainty: "Relax, Father, it's no big deal. Baelor and his axe, along with old Dagmer, will stay here with me." He paused, looking out at the sturdy Pyke Castle. "On this island, in our territory, are we afraid a few envoys from King's Landing can make any waves?"
The confidence and power in these words finally persuaded Quellon. He took a deep breath of salty air and nodded heavily. "Alright," his voice deep, "The Iron Islands are temporarily in your hands."
That night, accompanied by Euron, Quellon Greyjoy took his wife and two young sons aboard the merchant ship bound for Braavos. Their figures merged with the massive hull under dim torchlight, quietly blending into the night and mist. Meanwhile, Balon took his wife and children aboard a longship to Harlaw, temporarily moving away from the center of the approaching storm under the guise of visiting relatives.
The burden of Pyke quietly fell on Euron Greyjoy's shoulders.