That afternoon, the axe-throwing grounds echoed with the sharp whistle of steel slicing through the air.
Balon Greyjoy, relying on the natural ferocity of the Ironborn and his own practiced hand, crushed his opponent and successfully advanced to the next round.
Once the axes were put away, the one-on-one melee began.
In this round, Euron's opponent was someone rather special—a female warrior known as the "White Fawn," Wenda.
She was famous for her startling speed and agility. She darted through the arena like a sprite in the woods, her longsword striking with precision and haste.
However, Euron was simply faster.
Just as Wenda lunged, Euron kicked off the ground. Channeling a technique that defied normal limits—The Shave—he didn't just run; he vanished in a blur of motion, leaving only a faint afterimage. To the spectators, it looked as if he had teleported, reappearing instantly behind Wenda.
Before she could react, Euron's arm clamped around her like an iron band. Harnessing the brute, kinetic power of Fish-Man Karate, he swung her around with a fluid, crashing force. Wenda felt an irresistible surge of power lift her off her feet, tossing her out of the designated ring like a ragdoll in a gale.
She had lost, clean and decisive.
Wenda, the White Fawn, didn't exactly thank him for sparing her life. She shot Euron a venomous glare, spat on the dirt, and stormed off in a huff.
---
As night fell, torches once again lit up Harrenhal as bright as day, signaling the start of the chaotic seven-sided melee.
Amidst the many hastily assembled teams, the Golden Company from Essos displayed a level of professionalism that turned heads.
These battle-hardened mercenaries were disciplined and skilled, standing like a fortress amidst the brawl. Their teamwork was seamless, their offense and defense organized—a stark contrast to the scattered, every-man-for-himself tactics of the surrounding teams. After a brutal slog, they emerged as the night's undisputed winners, their performance nothing short of spectacular.
Finally, the day's fierce competition came to a close.
When Euron returned to the Ironborn encampment, covered in dust and grit, he ran into his brother. Balon wasn't shouting or blustering as usual. Instead, he wore a strange look, winking aggressively at Euron with a grin that bordered on lewd.
Euron didn't catch the meaning of the hint at first, assuming Balon was just having another one of his episodes. Perplexed, he wove through the noisy camp and headed straight for his quarters.
However, when he pushed open his door, he froze.
The mysterious Red Priestess, Gwendolyn, was standing silently in his room.
She stood in the shadows, her crimson robes looking like congealed blood against the grey drabness of the Ironborn tents.
Euron paused, a sudden wave of surprise washing over him.
Why would the Red Priestess Gwendolyn suddenly appear at Harrenhal? And why, of all places, was she in his room?
Euron quickly suppressed his shock, plastering a cocky, devil-may-care grin on his face. "What's this?" he asked, his tone teasing. "Did I stay away too long? Did you miss me so much you crossed a continent just to find me?"
Gwendolyn remained unmoved by his banter. Her eyes, which seemed capable of peering through fire and shadow, locked onto Euron. Her voice was low and ethereal, carrying an undeniable certainty.
"It was the call of the Lord of Light. He showed me the path in the flames, telling me that if I came here, I would witness a turning point in fate. I would see... a vision unlike any other."
Euron's smile stiffened slightly. "..."
Gwendolyn let her bright red robe slide to the floor, revealing a body that was nothing short of perfection. She moved lightly toward Euron, her warm arms twining around his neck like vines. Her breath was hot against his ear.
"Let us cast ourselves into the fire together... and see what the Lord wills."
Euron felt her body heat, scorching enough to melt him down. He chuckled darkly, his voice dropping to a rasp. "I could get used to these... religious lessons. Every day, if possible."
Euron entered that heat, plunging into a depth even hotter than fire—
In that indescribable blaze and trance, Euron's consciousness seemed to rip away from his body, pulled into a swirling vortex of light and shadow.
His soul became a hazy orb of light, hand-in-hand with Gwendolyn's spirit, passing through invisible barriers to arrive at a realm he had never touched before.
---
They floated in a void. Before them lay a shocking scene—a massive chair forged from countless twisted, blackened, and broken blades: The Iron Throne.
Upon the throne sat a dignified old man: King Jaehaerys II Targaryen, father of Aerys.
Kneeling before the throne, listening with absolute reverence, was a young Aerys Targaryen.
Jaehaerys II's voice was solemn, every word heavy with the weight of history, branding itself into the void:
"Aegon the Conqueror... he did not conquer Westeros for power alone. What drove him was a dream—a nightmare of a terrible threat rising from the eternal winter of the far North. An invasion of the Others."
His gaze was piercing as he looked down at his heir.
"He believed that only by uniting the Seven Kingdoms, under the blood of the dragon—under House Targaryen—could humanity stand united against this destined apocalypse."
"He called this dream, this prophecy that spans history... The Song of Ice and Fire."
"The prophecy states that in the future, a descendant of dragon's blood will emerge. He shall unite the powers of ice and fire and end the darkness..."
"..."
"This prophecy and Aegon's dream have been passed down from generation to generation within our family, told only to the King and his chosen heir. Every monarch who has known this believed the doom would come in their time, or their children's. Therefore, we must always be ready. We can never rest."
"Today, I entrust the truth and burden of 'The Song of Ice and Fire' to you. And in time, you must pass it to your own heir."
"Generation to generation. Remember this... remember..."
These heavy words echoed like a great bell in the depths of Euron's soul.
Then, the vision shattered like glass. Flames consumed the world, breaking the image into countless fragments—
Within the dancing, broken fire, the scene shifted abruptly, like turning the page of a dusty history book.
A new picture unfurled before Euron's eyes:
A procession was marching along the Kingsroad. The man at the lead rode a tall charger, his posture proud. Though hints of paranoia had begun to crease his brow, he still carried the majesty and confidence of a monarch. It was a middle-aged Aerys Targaryen—now King Aerys II.
Behind him followed a member of the Kingsguard in a pure white cloak, along with dozens of elite royal soldiers, their armor gleaming and banners fluttering.
They were heading toward a very specific destination—Duskendale.