The massive stone hall of Pyke towered over thirty feet high. Its dome was piled with unpolished obsidian, through which the salty sea breeze seeped from cracks.
Hundreds of whale oil candles were embedded in wall crevices. Their flames danced on the bronze skin of the Ironborn, casting twisted, ghostly reflections of the naval banners hanging between beams and pillars—bloodstained silks embroidered with shipwrecks, broken oars, and bones of the drowned.
Bronze braziers in the center of the hall spewed sulfurous smoke, entangling with the rising aroma of roasted meat.
Long tables stretched across the hall like winding keels. The nobles of the Iron Islands followed the ancient precept: "First toast the sea, then divide the spoils." Whole roast suckling pigs spun on iron spits; crispy skin peeled off with rustling sounds, fat dripping into charcoal fire to raise blue smoke. Servants used iron hooks to tear off the fattiest brisket and stuff it into guests' mouths. Seal ribs piled like small mountains; dark red blood seeped into barrels of pickled cod and salted herring below.
Ironborn tore flesh from bone with bare hands, translucent fish fat sticking between fingers. Oysters in ice buckets gleamed with pearly luster; nobles pried open shells with flint knives, squeezed on sour wild berry wine, and swallowed them whole. Lobsters were skewered on iron spikes and roasted on shields; snow-white meat surged out when shells cracked, children laughing as they fought for the fattest claws. Red wine from the south rippled in silver ewers, pouring into cups a deeper ruby red...
The noise almost lifted the roof. Groups of Ironborn sat around, voices loud enough to drown out the musicians' lyres.
"I swear by the Drowned God!" An old captain with a full beard and scarred chest pounded the table, shaking the wine cups. "The storm we hit on the last voyage had waves higher than Pyke's towers! But do men from Old Wyk fear anything? Only those bathed in the Drowned God's trough sleep soundly in a storm!" Rough laughter and agreement erupted around him.
Elsewhere, several slightly better-dressed lords—perhaps from Great Wyk or House Harlaw—conversed in lower voices, yet full of tension.
"...Lord Greyjoy's fleet grows daily," a thin man twirled his wine cup, whispering, "but grain supply remains a problem. We must ask Lord Euron later where we can 'borrow' a bit more." The person opposite nodded slightly, gaze sweeping the noisy crowd: "Power is justice. The iron and blood of the Iron Islands will naturally trade for what is needed. Only, we must act with caution..."
In a corner, a few guards in gold cloaks looked slightly constrained, out of place with their surroundings. They sipped red wine, observing vigilantly.
"Damn, these Ironborn can really drink," a young Gold Cloak complained in a low voice to his companion, rubbing his ears pained by the noise. "Like pouring seawater."
The older one grunted, tearing a piece of bread to dip in gravy: "Talk less, listen more. In their wild words, there might be things the King wants to know. Remember, we are here to be ears, not mouths." His sharp eyes swept over the bragging Ironborn captains and whispering lords.
Scantily clad serving girls moved through the crowd like butterflies. Their figures were graceful, skin glowing honey-colored in the firelight. They filled cups with smiles, occasionally pulled into embraces by drunken men, triggering laughter. Coquettish cries mixed with crude teasing, blending into the hot air.
The scent of desire and alcohol was equally strong, fermenting and rising amidst the aroma of roast meat and seafood.
Someone started banging on the table, singing an off-key war song. More joined in, voices rough and full of power. Clinking cups, roared toasts, wanton laughter, clashing cutlery, sputtering fat in braziers...
Everything intertwined to form the most primitive, noisy, and characteristically Ironborn banquet symphony on this land, echoing long in this sleepless hall.
Hand of the King Owen Merryweather had long thrown his displeasure to the back of his mind. With a woman in each arm, he was intoxicated by fine wine and soft flesh.
The two Kingsguard maintained their usual restraint, sitting quietly in a corner, observing this feast full of Ironborn wild vitality.
The accompanying Gold Cloaks exchanged toasts with Ironborn warriors, a temporary peace barely maintained by alcohol.
After three rounds of wine, the banquet's noise reached its peak. The air was stirred thick and hot by roast meat steam, alcohol vapors, and boiling voices. At the crest of this chaotic wave, Euron Greyjoy, like the black spine of a sea monster emerging silently from the waves, stood up slowly.
Euron didn't roar; he simply raised the heavy gold-inlaid goblet in his hand. The movement wasn't fast, but carried an unquestionable weight. As if an invisible signal was sent, the noisy tide strangely began to recede.
Noisy chatter, clinking cups, crude songs dropped rapidly as if swallowed by the coast.
All gazes—drunkenly hazy, soberly sharp, wildly uninhibited—were drawn to him, focusing on him alone.
Brazier light danced on his dark finery and the golden cup, making his eyes deeper and unfathomable, sharp as a hawk scanning his pack of wolves.
"I gathered you all at this time," his voice rang out, not high-pitched but unusually clear, every word like a cold stone thrown into a silent water surface, echoing with power between the rough stone walls, "Firstly, to celebrate that this damned winter, long enough to make bones moldy—" he paused, sweeping over every face carved by sea wind and alcohol, "—has finally fucking passed!"
The first wave of roars erupted from the Ironborn, a mix of agreement and venting, wildly pounding tables, creating a rhythmic drumming like war drums.
"And we—" Euron's voice rose steeply, suppressing the commotion, arm waving violently as if encompassing everyone, "—children of the Iron Islands, the Drowned God's chosen! We didn't freeze to death, didn't starve to death, and certainly didn't die weakly by warm fireplaces like Southerners! We still live tenaciously on this land of salt and stone! Doesn't this itself deserve drinking three cups, deserve telling those ancestors sleeping in the watery halls with the loudest shout?!"
"OOH-RAH!!" Answering him was true thunder. It was the war cry bursting from hundreds of throats, the roar of fists hammering heavy wooden tables, the clang of hilts striking shields. The entire hall shook; fanatical flames burned in every pair of eyes. People raised cups madly, splashing wine into the air like an offering to the Drowned God.
"DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!"
Euron enjoyed the boiling atmosphere, a nearly imperceptible arc at the corner of his mouth. He let the sound wave continue for a moment before raising his hand again.
The noise subsided a second time, but now the air was filled with ignited heat and expectation.
"Secondly," his tone changed from an agitator inciting fanaticism to a ruler well-versed in etiquette. He turned gracefully to face those guests who were always out of place—the envoys from King's Landing. His gaze landed on the leader, Earl Owen Merryweather, posture impeccable.
"Let us welcome the esteemed Hand of the King, Lord Owen Merryweather, with the Iron Islands' salt and bread." Just the right amount of respect was injected into his voice, neither servile nor arrogant. "Also, welcome the King's Kingsguard, true knights renowned across the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Lewyn Martell." His eyes swept over the white cloaks of the two Kingsguard, gaze seeming able to penetrate shining armor.
Countless cups pounded the tables forcefully, symbolizing the Ironborn's unique welcome ritual.
"The Iron Islands are remote and bitter cold; only sea wind and loyalty are fervent. My lords have traveled across the angry sea tirelessly; it is our great honor." He raised the golden cup towards the delegation. "May you feel the Ironborn's unique 'hospitality' here. This cup, to the King's envoys, to Westeros'... unity and prosperity."
The etiquette on the surface was flawless; every word landed where it should.
Ironborn lords followed suit raising cups, voicing agreement that was loud enough though not so uniform. However, under this seemingly respectful wave, how many eyes flickered with completely different lights deep down?
Some were pure indifference, some hidden mockery, and more were undisguised, naked contempt for these "soft eggs" in gorgeous velvet and white cloaks.
Cups crossed, noise rose again; the heat wave of the banquet seemed to temporarily drown all calculations.
Red wine stained lips and wet beards; the envoys from King's Landing seemed to relax their taut nerves slightly in this Ironborn-style wildness.
Hand of the King Owen Merryweather's fat face was oily and drunk. He finally leaned forward amidst the noise, voice sticky with drunkenness but revealing an unmistakable persistence.
"Lord Greyjoy," he began, trying to make his voice clear in the noise but unavoidably carrying bureaucratic slurring, "Your hospitality... is unparalleled. However, the King's... needs are like the ocean's tides, never ceaseless. Though winter has passed, the Seven Kingdoms' granaries are empty. The King is particularly concerned about... the Iron Islands' tribute this year, grain, and... hic, the triple salt tax..."
Words were like cold saltwater splashed into boiling oil; surrounding tables quieted instantly. Several Ironborn lords put down cups, gazes turning cold and hard as reefs. The aroma of roast meat in the air seemed to stagnate, leaving only the unpleasant echo of Earl Owen's words.
Euron Greyjoy laughed. That smile wasn't joy, but more like a shark showing teeth before attacking—unhurried, even amused. He didn't answer immediately but sipped his drink leisurely, eyes scanning Earl Owen's face flushed with alcohol and desire, and the two Kingsguard sitting upright behind him, hands on hilts.
"Lord Owen is truly loyal to royal affairs, never forgetting the mission even during feasting; admirable." Euron's voice was smooth as oil, showing no anger. "The Iron Islands' loyalty to the Iron Throne is like the rock beneath the Drowned God's feet, immutable through ages. How dare we neglect what the King needs?"
He clapped his hands lightly.
The hall doors opened again. A team of Euron's trusted Ironborn filed in carrying items. Heavy wooden barrels thudded dully on the stone floor; rough hemp sacks were dragged; and two men struggled to carry a small chest, obviously for ship use. They were placed one by one on the floor before the delegation, forming a strange contrast with the luxurious banquet around.
"Iron Islands specialty, fish!"
"Grain," Euron kicked a bulging hemp sack casually, raising a bit of dust. "This is the best harvest squeezed from skeletal soil." He pointed to the barrels. "Coarse salt, and a little bit of 'White Gold Sand'." He personally pried open the small chest's lock with a dagger and lifted the lid.
Instantly, all firelight in the hall seemed attracted—inside was not real gold dust, but sea salt of excellent quality, crystalline granules actually shimmering with pale, precious light like gold under the firelight.
"The Iron Islands' 'Gold Sand' is salt, Lord Owen." Euron's eyes flashed with something near teasing. "This is the limit of what we can offer. You know, our islands abound in sea wind, stones, and hard bones, producing everything but surplus grain. As for the salt tax... three times is indeed difficult, but this is the 'sincerity' scraped together from the efforts of all salt pans, even scraping salt shakers from dining tables."
He opened his arms, a gesture near generous but carrying iron-cold facts. "Please take these back to the King. Tell him the Iron Islands will forever remember the royal family's 'grace.' These tributes may not fill the royal treasury and granary, but they are enough to prove our... intent."
Intent is very important!
Ironborn present emitted suppressed chuckles and murmurs. They saw clearly—that bit of grain and salt was a drop in the bucket for the Mad King's greed and King's Landing, more like a carefully calculated insulting perfunctory gesture. But it was indeed "tribute," enough so these envoys wouldn't return empty-handed unable to answer to the King.
This was an arrogant obedience, a bowing of the head with a sneer.
Earl Owen's fat face twitched; his drunkenness seemed half-sobered instantly. He looked at the shabby "tribute" on the ground, opened his mouth to say something, but finally, under Euron's gaze and the undisguised cold stares of surrounding Ironborn lords, swallowed his words with difficulty. His fat fingers gripped the wine cup tightly, knuckles white.
Ser Arthur Dayne's white cloak didn't move, but the knuckles of his hand on the sword hilt tightened slightly. Ser Lewyn Martell's sharp gaze swept over the tribute, then Euron's face, a trace of imperceptible assessment and vigilance flashing in his eyes.
Euron Greyjoy raised his cup again, as if everything just now was an insignificant interlude. "Then, let us continue drinking! To the King's health, to... the beautiful future of Westeros!"
The banquet continued until most people collapsed drunk in the hall.