The next morning, a long and narrow boat glided silently away from the cold dock of Pyke, heading towards the distant Iron Smoke Isle, which constantly spewed thick smoke—the island gathering all blacksmiths and iron ore of the Iron Islands.
A small boat of three. Euron Greyjoy stood at the prow. Aboard were only Dagmer and the Red Priestess Gwendolyn.
Dagmer, Euron's guard, rowed the oars with effort. Red Priestess Gwendolyn, claiming to study fire and light, actively volunteered to accompany Euron upon hearing he was going to Iron Smoke Isle and might stay for a few days. "My Lord," her voice was low with a strange rhythm, like crackling firewood, "true fire not only forges steel but tempers the soul, and can... reveal the future. The power you seek may not solely originate from cold hammers and furnaces."
Euron scrutinized her with habitual, undisguised skepticism. What insight could a Red Priestess have on iron smelting? He almost scoffed, but thinking of magic's wonders and the comfort of having an eye-candy beauty around even if useless, he brought her along.
Gwendolyn's bright red robe appeared exceptionally dazzling between the grey sea and sky, like a drop of thick blood in ink. Her hood was slightly lowered, revealing a pale, chiseled face with deep eyes that seemed to burn with invisible flames.
The boat moved forward in silence. Dagmer focused on rowing, ignoring the priestess.
Gwendolyn sat with eyes closed, hands folded on her lap, lips moving silently as if whispering to some existence invisible to mortals.
Before docking, the familiar pungent smell of sulfur mixed with coal ash hit their faces. The once desolate small island had completely changed appearance.
Densely packed rough stone houses were built along the coast, roofs covered with thick seagrass to resist sea wind erosion. A newly opened road wound from the simple pier to the island center, where grime-covered workers pushing mine carts were seen everywhere. The scene in the island's center was even more spectacular: dozens of stone chimneys of varying heights stood like an abruptly grown forest of iron trees, spewing rolling thick smoke day and night, dyeing the sky an eternal grey-yellow. Huge bellows roared heavily and rhythmically inside sheds, like the island's giant lungs breathing. The clanging of hammers on anvils was dense as rain, incessant, playing a rough symphony of iron and fire.
All excellent blacksmiths recruited from the Iron Islands had moved here with their families as ordered. Their families formed small villages on the island. Women and children picked shellfish by the sea; children ran and played amidst smoke and dust, adding a trace of bitter life breath to this hardcore industrial island.
At the island's highest point stood the two most magnificent furnace workshops. The managers, Marwyn Stephens and Atticus Whitney—two master blacksmiths personally appointed by Euron—were already waiting at the pier. Marwyn was a middle-aged man strong as an ox, arms thick as ordinary thighs, taciturn, face always flushed from furnace heat. He was a practical man, the most skilled smith. Atticus was slightly thinner, eyes sharp, fingers exceptionally flexible from years of precision work. He was a theoretical man, skilled in improving processes.
"My Lord." The two bowed, voices weakened somewhat by surrounding noise.
Euron nodded, gaze sweeping the bustling scene on the island: "Show me around Iron Smoke Isle."
They passed through the noisy workshop area. Inside huge furnaces, crimson molten iron rolled and flowed like hellish rivers; heat waves distorted the air. Burly apprentices shouted chants, stirring the mixture inside furnaces with long poles; sweat evaporated instantly upon dripping. Formed iron blooms were tonged out to anvils, repeatedly forged under experienced hammers, splashing dazzling sparks.
"Houses are built, My Lord, enough to accommodate all craftsmen and families." Marwyn's voice was dull and powerful like his hammer blows. "The two largest furnaces are lit. Bellows, anvils, quenching pools... all equipment is in place. We... can formally begin smelting iron."
His tone held little joy, but rather a trace of heaviness.
Atticus took over, tone more direct: "My Lord, ore... is piled mountain-high, as you ordered. But..." He paused, bending to pick up a dark red-brown ore from the roadside and handing it to Euron, "Quality is uneven. Most are too low grade with too many impurities, especially high sulfur and phosphorus content. Using this ore, we need to consume more charcoal and time for repeated calcining and purification. The resulting wrought iron... is brittle, prone to cracking, strength far below expectation."
Euron took the ore, scrutinizing it carefully. This stone was heavy and rough, indeed far inferior to the dark, dense ores from high-quality veins he had seen in Essos.
At the island's edge, as Atticus said, iron ore from across the Iron Islands piled into several small hills. But their dull appearance silently spoke of poor quality. No excitement of initial production could be seen on the blacksmiths' faces, only fatigue and disappointment with the material.
Euron pinched the ore, feeling its roughness. Silence ensued for a moment; the deafening hammering around seemed to become background noise. His eyes narrowed slowly, gaze moving from the ore to the chimney cluster spewing endless black smoke, then to the surging sea in the distance.
Then his lips curled into a cold arc, as if mocking nature's stinginess or challenging the predicament before him. "Then find a way. There's a solution to everything. The Iron Islands never produce anything easily obtained—be it wealth or steel!" He tossed the ore back onto the pile with a dull thud.
Euron's voice rose steeply, suppressing the noise, carrying unquestionable command: "Continue smelting! Grope for better formulas, improve your processes! Remember, I don't want a few pretty daggers, but steel to arm an entire fleet! If quality isn't enough, make up for it with quantity and experience!" Scanning the island he forcibly endowed with a mission, ambition hotter than furnaces burned in his eyes. "Iron Smoke Isle isn't named in vain. Marwyn, Atticus, show me the complete smelting process. In the next few days, we will find a way together."
Euron Greyjoy did not immediately issue harsh orders on craftsmanship or ore quality as the two masters expected. Instead, he changed the subject, eyes scanning those soot-blackened, tired faces.
"Marwyn, Atticus," his voice suppressed nearby hammering, "take me to see where you live."
The two masters were stunned, seemingly not reacting. See living quarters?
"And your wives, children," Euron added, tone flat but unquestionable, "and where other craftsmen and workers eat, sleep, and wash."
With a trace of confusion, Marwyn and Atticus led Euron away from the noisy core industrial area to the residential area built along the rugged terrain at the island's edge. The stone houses here were lower and simpler. Seagrass roofs were thick but couldn't hide poverty; narrow windows let in faint light.
They first came to Marwyn's home. His wife was a woman with coarse hands and feet and a weathered face, washing soot-stained clothes outside with two half-grown children. Seeing the Lord suddenly arrive, she stood up in panic, wiping wet hands on her apron while children hid fearfully behind her. Euron didn't enter, just stood at the door scanning the interior—simple stone fireplace, rough wooden table, clutter in corners. He asked if the sea wind was too cold, if the roof leaked.
Next was Atticus's slightly tidier dwelling. His wife seemed of slightly better origin, literate, with a small row of worn books inside. Euron asked similar questions, picked up the black, hard staple bread on the table to look, and pinched it.
They walked through the public kitchen area. Huge iron pots boiled thick soup mainly of dried fish, beans, and a little coarse grain. The smell wasn't pleasant, but it filled stomachs. Euron stirred with a ladle, asking how many times a week they ate meat besides seafood, if there were fresh vegetables, and if meat and vegetable varieties changed often.
They came to several simple cisterns and washing areas carved against the cliff. Workers scrubbed bodies here after work; the water was bone-chillingly cold. Euron reached out to test the water temperature and frowned.
He even stopped, squatted down to eye level with a little boy playing with polished stones, asking his name, if he missed home, if he was happy here. The boy answered timidly but stared curiously at Euron's black-and-blue heterochromatic eyes.
Walking, looking, asking all the way.
Euron didn't say much, but his observation was meticulous. He saw some signs of improvement, but more hardship, scarcity, and making do.
Finally, Euron had the two managers gather all residents of Iron Smoke Isle. He stood on a slightly higher rock in the residential area, black smoke-spewing furnaces behind him, craftsmen and their families who stopped work looking at him uneasily in front.
His voice rang out again, no longer low, but clearly entering everyone's ears, drowning out the distant hum of bellows:
"I saw your sweat, heard the sound of hammers striking. That will be House Greyjoy's most solid shield and sharpest spear. I care about the quality of iron; that concerns our survival and power."
He paused, eyes slowly sweeping every soot-stained face carrying fatigue and expectation.
"But today I wanted to see more of the lives of the people forging this steel. Because the strength of steel originates not only from fire and hammering but from the spirit and strength of the forger!"
"I once promised you," his voice rose with decisive force, "Follow me to this island, and you will receive rewards far exceeding before. Your families will be protected, your skills respected. You will no longer be slave laborers ordered about by some lord, but Iron Casters of Euron Greyjoy, the foundation of the Iron Islands' future!"
His gaze burned: "I saw your stone houses can be sturdier and warmer; more meat and ale should appear in your meals; your women and children need warmer water for washing; your craftsmen need better tools. And your children... perhaps should have a safe place to learn to read and play. They need a teacher to teach them swordsmanship, language, and writing."
A suppressed commotion rose in the crowd; disbelief and faint hope began to flicker in their eyes.
"Everything I promised," Euron's voice was like a hammer hitting an anvil, every word heavy and clear, "I will realize for you one by one! Not charity, this is what you deserve! Because your value far exceeds this!"
He pointed to the pile of low-quality ore, then to the newly formed weapons glinting coldly.
"Only by letting you live well, live with peace of mind, live with a future, can you smelt the best iron and forge the sharpest swords for me! This is not the end; this is just the beginning. Tell me, what else are you lacking? What else do you need?"
After a brief silence, the crowd erupted in shouts mixed with excitement, gratitude, and urgent needs. Euron Greyjoy stood on the rock, listening, remembering. His eyes no longer held only cold calculation but were injected with a pragmatism and determination to win hearts. He knew deeply that to squeeze out ultimate loyalty and power, one must first fill their stomachs, warm their bodies, and tether their hearts.