Greyjoy Steel was Euron's goal, but achieving this was by no means the work of a single day, despite all the proposed improvements.
On the second night at Iron Smoke Isle, the roaring of furnaces served as an incessant background score.
Inside the stone room, lamplight once again cast the shadows of the two onto the rough rock walls, twisting and shaking. The air was filled with a scent identical to the previous night—a mix of sulfur, incense, and a certain subtle sweet, fishy smell.
Euron Greyjoy leaned against the wall, eyes flickering with playful light in the dimness. He looked at Gwendolyn, at her pale face struggling to maintain priestess solemnity yet unable to hide physical and mental exhaustion. A nearly imperceptible arc curled at the corner of his mouth. He spoke again in that deliberately innocent tone: "Gwendolyn, now that the night is quiet, I've been thinking... I want to meet the Lord of Light again, to listen to the old man's teachings."
Gwendolyn's body stiffened almost imperceptibly. Her deep eyes looked at Euron, clearly flashing with speechlessness and intense, barely suppressed anger.
She was almost certain this man wasn't pursuing any divine revelation at all!
He was just... making excuses. Finding a shameless excuse to possess her wantonly again and crown this act with the title of "listening to divine oracles"! She wanted to rebuke his hypocrisy, to tear through his vile disguise, but the cultivation from years of asceticism and awe for the deity made her swallow the curses, turn her head away, and snort coldly.
Euron seemed to find this reaction amusing, continuing his "performance," throwing out those questions he knew would embarrass her:
"If I 'listen' like this every day, will it consume my lifespan?"
"Can a Red Priestess bear children for me?"
"Can you be my Salt Wife?"
Gwendolyn: "..."
Her silence this time wasn't just from shock or humiliation, but more from a powerlessness after seeing through him. She understood; this man didn't care about the answers at all.
These questions themselves were his means to tease her, tear at her sacred cloak, and finally drag her back to the stone couch. He enjoyed this process, this trick of dirtying the sacred with the secular and desire.
He doesn't want to see the Lord of Light... he just wants a pretext to copulate with me again. This realization made her feel a burst of absurdity and deep fatigue. All sacred rituals, all fanatical visions, perhaps to him were just the most stimulating background decorations in this game of power and lust.
"Shameless!" She lowered her head deeply, letting the hood's shadow cover all emotions that might leak from her face—anger, helplessness, even a bit of humiliation from being looked down upon, but ultimately, all turned into a near-resigned indifference. Her clenched fists loosened slightly, no longer resisting, but a posture of giving up argument.
He chuckled low, laughter no longer containing feigned piety, but full of some successful, controlling meaning. "It seems," he stood up and walked to her, grinning, "the Lord of Light has no new teachings to convey tonight." His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"However," his voice lowered, carrying unquestionable intent, "we might... review last night's 'ritual.' After all, practice makes perfect, right? Maybe with more practice, we'll eventually hear something." His words were flippant, purpose naked.
Gwendolyn closed her eyes, saying nothing more. This bastard doesn't believe in R'hllor, the Lord of Light, at all! What he sought was never divine oracles, but her body viewed as a "sacrifice," and the pleasure of control overriding the spokesperson of a god that he could feel in this copulation.
Euron tapped his left shoulder lightly. The soul-fire ball, smaller than a table tennis ball created by the Soul-Soul Fruit, jumped up. Gwendolyn had stayed by Euron's side precisely because of this seemingly soulful flame. Now, this small flame still danced before her eyes, but Euron's tight embrace almost suffocated her...
But the images seen and voices heard last time did not appear... After one round, Euron reflected: Hmm, maybe I wasn't pious enough, attentive enough, didn't use full strength, didn't last long enough... Then, one, two, three, four, again...
The movement of spring played all night!
---
"Blessings never come in pairs," this saying holds no falsehood!
Early next morning, just as Euron Greyjoy set foot on native soil, before the saltiness of seawater faded from his black robe, a piece of bad news carrying a heavy scent of sea and rust impatiently crashed into his ears.
Three of his "Ice and Fire Caravan" merchant ships were hijacked in the waters of the Gullet.
Euron was stunned for a moment: Iron Islands ships? Ironborn ships? Our ships? Hijacked?
How does the saying go? Hunting wild geese all day, only to be pecked in the eye by a goose! He laughed in anger! The ancestor of robbery got robbed at his own doorstep by others, haha...
The salt wind of the Iron Islands never ceased, like the ceaseless whispers of gods, blowing over Pyke's jagged towers and cold stone walls.
Red-haired Oarkwood knelt on one knee, face looking as terrible as if he ate shit, voice trembling slightly from anger and humiliation: "My Lord, it was people from the Arbor! It was Adrian Redwyne's fleet! The captain was his son, Paxter Redwyne."
Euron's eyes narrowed slightly, like a sea eagle aiming at prey. "The Arbor?" His voice was steady but carried a cold texture, like a blade scraping ice. "How can you be sure? The Narrow Sea is full of wild dogs wanting something for nothing, cowards flying skull flags."
Red-haired Oarkwood raised his head abruptly, face flushed with agitation: "Absolutely no mistake, My Lord! Their warships—a full ten of them!—openly flew the Redwyne sigil: on a blue field, a cluster of deep purple grapes so full they were almost arrogant! I wouldn't mistake it even if beaten to death! They surrounded our merchant ships like hunting seals. Paxter Redwyne on the flagship stood right at the prow, wearing bright armor with the sigil, shouting to our men—they said they were acting on the King's orders to 'collect' the 'taxes' the Iron Islands owed King's Landing, saying that grain was meant as tribute to the Iron Throne anyway!"
"On the King's orders? Orders from the Reaper's ghost?" Euron let out a short, mirthless sneer.
Red-haired Oarkwood swallowed, adding with difficulty: "They... they only took all the grain on the ships, didn't leave a single bag of wheat or barrel of pickled fish. But... they didn't kill anyone, didn't even damage the ships much. After emptying them, they just... sailed away, as if they had merely completed an unpleasant tax collection job."
"I was saying... how could there be such polite bandits who announce their identity?" Euron's words were full of ridicule, as if hearing an extremely clumsy yet unusually insulting joke. "The King's orders!? Truly obedient loyal dogs! The King farts, and House Redwyne dares to move against us!?"
"Wulf, go notify my father, brother, Baelor, and Maester Qyburn. We will discuss this in the main keep in half an hour. Oarkwood, settle the brothers from the merchant ships, let them eat and drink their fill. Tell them, those willing to wash away the shame, sharpen your blades and axes for me now. Remember, Ironborn never compromise!"
Wulf and Oarkwood bared their teeth, moving with lightning speed.