Half an hour later, the Great Hall of the Keep.
Old One-Eye Wolf and Red-Haired Oakwood were on their knees, slowly recounting the details of how their merchant ship had been hijacked.
Balon, a man with a hair-trigger temper, lunged forward and started laying into them with his boots and fists. "Goddammit! You just stood there and watched while they hijacked our ship?! Why didn't you just give them a hand loading the crates while you were at it? You're a goddamn embarrassment to every Ironborn who ever lived!"
King Quellon's face was like stone. Losing three ships of grain was a nuisance; the insult to his pride was a catastrophe. Balf grinned like a shark, already smelling blood and iron in the air. Maester Clygon stood there trembling—it had been years since anyone dared to hijack an Ironborn ship. This wasn't just a crime; it was a slap in the face to the entire Iron Islands.
It meant one thing: War was coming.
Euron spoke up, his voice cool and level. "Balon, enough. Killing them won't fix anything. Besides, it was three merchant ships with maybe twenty guards against ten warships and hundreds of soldiers. Fighting would've been suicide. At least they're alive to tell us who did it."
The hall fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the wind howling through the stone window slits. This kind of "restrained" robbery was more insulting than a bloody massacre. It wasn't the chaos of a pirate raid; it was a cold, calculated move—like a bureaucratic seizure of assets from a subordinate who had missed a tax payment. It was pure arrogance.
Euron Greyjoy turned slowly toward the window, looking out at the churning, slate-gray sea.
House Redwyne of the Arbor owned one of the most powerful fleets in Westeros. Their wine was famous across the Seven Kingdoms, and their gold could fund a dozen navies. Lord Adrian Redwyne—a calculated, loyalist old aristocrat—wouldn't pull a stunt like this unless he had permission from above, or thought he'd found a perfect opening.
The Fire and Ice Trading Company was the Iron Islands' soft spot, and a vital piece of Euron's ambitious expansion plans. Redwyne had hit them exactly where it hurt.
Euron's fingers tapped rhythmically against the cold stone sill. Are they testing the "King of the Iron Islands"? Do they want to see whose fleet is actually top dog? Or did some idiot in the capital give them a "legal" excuse to crush our trade and choke our rise? Or is it just because our ships are cutting into the Arbor's profits?
Maybe all of the above. But I'll rip the truth out of their throats soon enough. Right now, it's not about why it happened—it's about how we hit back.
"Lord Quellon," Maester Clygon stammered, "what do we do? Should we send envoys to the capital to protest? Or maybe go to the Arbor to negotiate? Or..."
King Quellon shot the Maester a look so cold it made the man flinch.
"Negotiate? Protest?" Euron let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "If talking fixed things, the Ironborn wouldn't need swords and longships. Might makes right, Maester. Always has. If we tuck our tails and play nice now, the capital and the Arbor will think they can seize our ships whenever they feel like it. Today it's the Redwynes; tomorrow it'll be the Stepstones, and the day after that, the Lannisters."
"So... you mean we fight?"
"If you make yourself a sheep, the wolves will eat you."
Euron turned around. His pale, handsome face wasn't twisted with rage; it was set in a chilling, icy calm. His eyes swept over every man in the room. "They didn't just steal some grain and salted fish. They trampled on our pride. They spit on the Greyjoy name. They think we've been domestic for too long—that our teeth are dull and we've forgotten our motto: 'We Do Not Sow.'"
His voice rose, cutting through the room like a blade.
"I'm not just talking about 'fighting' them."
He paused, letting the murderous intent settle in their bones.
"I'm talking about breaking them. I'm talking about ending them."
"They love that little grape crest on their blue banners, don't they?" Euron's mouth curled into a predatory grin. "Fine. Let's water their vineyards with blood. Let's use their bones for fertilizer. I want every man who sees a Redwyne banner to feel a deep, soul-crushing fear of the ocean, of sails on the horizon, and of the very name 'Ironborn'!"
A wild fire burned in his eyes—a hunger for something deeper than loot. He wanted total destruction.
"I'm going to lead the charge. We'll rip their precious vineyards out by the roots. We'll smash their sweet wine cellars and wash the ruins into the sea! I want the Arbor's coastline to burn, and I want the Redwyne fleet at the bottom of their own harbor acting as a reef!"
He looked at the crowd, his voice sounding like a final judgment. "I want the Seven Kingdoms to understand one thing: We follow the law now not because we're weak, and not because we're afraid of anyone. We follow it because we chose to be part of Westeros. But if anyone mistakes that choice for weakness and thinks they can ride over us—they've got a war on their hands!"
King Quellon Greyjoy, who had been sitting in silence on the main throne, slowly stood up. He didn't move fast, but he carried the heavy weight of a true ruler. His voice was steady as the rocks beneath the castle.
"Euron speaks with the fire of the Ironborn," the King said, acknowledging his son's grit before pivoting like a captain adjusting his sails. "But we are going to make sure Westeros understands two things very clearly."
He held up one thick finger. "First: This isn't a war. This is a lawful retaliation against House Redwyne for their pathetic act of piracy and public insult. They drew first; we're just finishing it."
He held up a second finger, his gaze sharp. "Second: Our beef is with the Arbor and House Redwyne. We are not declaring war on the Iron Throne, and we aren't picking a fight with the rest of the country. We have a specific debt to settle with a specific person. If you insult us, we crack your skull. We need to make sure everyone understands that distinction."
Balon Greyjoy let out a feral grin, practically vibrating with excitement. "Damn right! Let those softies in the Seven Kingdoms see who really owns the sea. The Iron Fleet is the baddest navy on the water—always has been, always will be. The Redwynes and the Royal Navy can go eat shit and feed the fish!"
Euron nodded, picking up where his father left off, his eyes gleaming with cold calculation. "The King is right. We play it by the book first." He turned to Maester Clygon. "Send out the ravens. The first goes to the Arbor, straight to Lord Paxter Redwyne. Keep the tone 'polite' but firm: He has three days to return ten times the amount of grain he stole and issue a public apology. If he misses the deadline... the consequences are on him."
"The second wave of ravens goes to every major castle in the Seven Kingdoms," Euron added with a cold smirk. "Send them to Tarth, Oldtown, Casterly Rock, Highgarden—everywhere. Tell them the facts: House Redwyne ignored the law and hijacked a legal merchant ship. Tell them we tried to settle it peacefully by asking for an apology, but let them know that if Redwyne refuses, the Iron Islands will use any means necessary to protect our rights."
Euron knew perfectly well that the proud and powerful Redwynes would never agree to pay a tenfold fine or apologize.
But that was the point. This move took the moral high ground. It branded the Redwynes as the "pirates" and put the diplomatic pressure on them. You can go anywhere when you have "the law" on your side—even if you have to write that law in blood and iron.
King Quellon nodded, satisfied. Euron's plan was exactly what a ruler needed. His booming voice rang out like a war horn. "Good! Get it done! And send word to all our vassals in the Islands. Tell them to bring their best longships, their sharpest axes, and their toughest men. Everyone assembles at Pyke!"
He swept his hand through the air, as if seeing the massive fleet already gathered.
"We're going to the Arbor. We're going to knock on Redwyne's front door and take back what's ours—in the only language those bastards understand!"
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