Salt Wife Council

Kolen's words, "From tomorrow on, you'll come with me to the council hall," were like a boulder dropped into a still pond, stirring up a thousand waves in Yulon's heart. The brief silence in the study was shattered by this sudden decision, the air seeming to solidify, even the flames dancing in the fireplace appeared to hold their breath.

Yulon's head snapped up. His mismatched eyes—the left like an abyss swallowing light, the right like ice frozen before a storm—revealed a pure, childlike astonishment before his father for the first time. Five years old? The council hall? Even his brother Baron, the heir who could battle the waves on a longship at fifteen, had only been allowed to occasionally observe there recently! Had his father gone mad? Or... did he take his childish ramblings about reefs and tides so seriously?

Kolen took in his young son's shock, the weary smile on his face deepening slightly, tinged with admiration, even mixed with a hint of Ironborn expectation, almost cruel. "What? Scared?" He stood up, his tall figure casting a long shadow in the flickering firelight, almost engulfing Yulon. He carried an undeniable, reef-hard authority. "Where did that commanding presence go, the one discussing the tides and reefs just now, my little sea monster?" He stepped closer, his voice low but each word like a hammer blow. "Don't you want to help me? Don't you hate seeing me angered by those salt-pickled stones every day? Then come! See with your own eyes how hard these 'reefs' of the Iron Islands truly are! Hear with your own ears how many poisoned daggers are hidden behind those voices that 'fear change'! Just poring over maps in the study, contemplating the ebb and flow of the tides, isn't enough!"

This was not a discussion, it was an order. It was the Iron Islands' "King of the Sea Stones" putting his heir to the test—even though this "heir" was currently only the second son, a five-year-old child. Kolen's gaze was sharp as Valyrian steel, as if intending to peel away Yulon's tender skin and excavate the extraordinary wisdom, along with its disguise, from his soul to see what monster or miracle lay within.

Yulon opened his mouth, his throat feeling choked with sea salt, dry and unable to make a sound. He could feel the heavy weight behind his father's words—trust, a test, and an invisible, immense force dragging him into the icy, bone-chilling vortex of power. The council hall was no training ground paved with white sea salt; there were no crisp clashes of wooden swords, only silent blades, poisoned words, and cold calculations capable of tearing a person apart. He instinctively clenched his small fists, his fingernails digging deep into his soft palms, bringing a sharp sting. Only then did he manage to maintain a thin veneer of composure on his face.

"Yes, Father." He heard his own voice, clear, yet like a taut bowstring, with a barely perceptible tremor. "I will... watch carefully, and listen well."

Kolen nodded in satisfaction, as if completing a crucial strategic deployment. "Very good. Now, go prepare. Tomorrow," he emphasized, like driving in a ship's nail, "don't be late." He waved his hand, carrying the salty tang of sea wind, and turned back, once again facing the restless sea outside the window, churning like ink in the twilight. To him, this earth-shattering decision seemed as ordinary as ordering a longship to set sail.

Yulon practically floated out of the study, thick with the smell of tobacco and heavy pressure. The cold stone walls of the corridor touching his slightly flushed cheek brought his agitated mind back to reality. Lysa, like a silent shadow, had been waiting in the corridor's depths, as if she were part of the ancient stone castle. Her emerald eyes were calm and unruffled in the dim light, reflecting the faint glow of the wall lamp, as if she had foreseen this storm.

"Master?" Her voice was still as gentle as the sea breeze brushing over reefs.

"He... told me to go to the council hall tomorrow." Yulon's voice was low, tinged with a confusion he couldn't quite decipher himself, and... a hidden excitement at being drawn into the heart of the storm?

A flicker of understanding flashed in Lysa's eyes, then was replaced by a deeper, well-like calm. "The tide rushes to the reef, and the reef will eventually reveal its jagged true face," she murmured, as if stating an immutable natural law. "Are you ready? To see, to listen, to... be silent."

"Silent?" Yulon furrowed his small brow in confusion.

"The center of the storm is often the quietest place," Lysa said, bowing slightly, her posture humble yet imbued with a strange insight. "Before you learn to unleash a tempest capable of destroying everything, first learn how to steady your small boat in the raging waves. Watch more, listen more, think more. Words are sometimes the most useless oars; they can even attract the attention of sharks, especially among people who are accustomed to using battle-axes instead of their tongues."

Yulon silently chewed on Lysa's words. "Silent..." he mumbled, the waves of astonishment in his mismatched eyes gradually subsiding, replaced by a focused calm, akin to a hunter in ambush. Lysa was right. The council hall was a more dangerous arena than any battlefield. He was still too weak. Waving a battle-axe of words rashly would only expose his position prematurely, making him a target for all arrows. He needed to be like an octopus among the reefs, hidden, observing, learning the schemes etched in the wrinkles on every lord's face, discerning the hidden blades in every seemingly peaceful sentence, deciphering the trades concealed behind every meaningful silence. He needed to be, as Lysa said, the quietest, most clear-headed point at the center of the storm's vortex.

However, this deliberately sought "silence" was destined not to truly descend on this turbulent night in Pike.

That day, deep into the night.

The night was as dark as ink, thick and unyielding, only the salty sea wind whimpering between the cold stone walls of Pike. In the shadow of the armory's back window, a small figure clung to the rough wall, lurking like a gecko. Through the narrow window crack, a scene on the reef below clearly entered Yulon's eyes—the Drowned God's altar.

His brother, Baron, stood bare-chested in knee-deep seawater, the cold waves constantly lapping at his taut calf muscles. On his broad chest, a newly tattooed design writhed menacingly under the dim moonlight and flickering torchlight—a longship sailing through waves, its sails billowing, but its hull spewing eerie green flames, its twisted mast formed from piled white bones! On either side of the altar, seawater lapped at their slender ankles, stood two barefoot girls. Their once-gorgeous green silk gowns were thoroughly soaked by the salty sea, clinging tightly to their young bodies, outlining their helpless curves like a second, pale skin.

The old priest's voice scraped like rusted chains on the reefs: "From whence do you come?"

"Suns... Sunspear." The taller girl's voice trembled uncontrollably. A few grains of fine Dornish red sand glinted faintly in the firelight amidst her curly hair, the last mark of her homeland.

"You are dead!" The cold iron staff struck the girl's smooth forehead with undeniable authority, accompanied by a faint hiss of burning flesh and a scorched smell, leaving a bloody brand of rebirth. "Be reborn now, Wife of the Ironborn!"

As the heavy iron staff turned towards the second, smaller girl, Yulon's gaze fixed on her slender neck—a delicate silver chain glinted in the firelight. It was the most famous "Nightingale Collar" from Lannister Port, each intricate link engraved with a different name, like medals for her regrettable past. The girl seemed to sense the prying gaze. The moment the iron staff was about to fall, she suddenly lifted her head! Her amber eyes, a gift from the summer island sun, were now filled with terror and an almost beast-like vigilance. Even more chilling was her right eye, covered by a cloudy white film, like a burst fish bladder, lifelessly reflecting the dancing flames.

"You are dead!" The old priest repeated the action, branding the girl's forehead: "Be reborn now, Wife of the Ironborn!"

"Had you seen enough?" Baron's voice exploded in Yulon's ears like a cold anchor, without warning! Before he could even turn, a powerful force, reeking of brine and sweat, seized his collar and roughly dragged him out from behind the window crack! Immediately after, a fist, carrying the fury of a gale, smashed into his cheek!

"Urk!" Yulon grunted, his small body falling like a kite with a broken string onto the sharp, broken rocks below. The taste of iron and salty seawater instantly filled his mouth, and half his face burned with pain.

This was the first time the brothers had seen each other since his month-long confinement. This punch was Baron's revenge. Although he had held back, it still hurt like hell, the bastard!

Baron's towering figure loomed over him, carrying the damp, cold scent of the sea. He roughly grabbed the dark fabric of Yulon's collar at the back of his neck, like lifting a stranded fish, and held him facing the altar. "Did Father allow you to sneak a peek?" Baron's voice was low, but it rumbled like thunder over the reefs, each word laced with ice shards. "King Kolen is busy counting the gold coins the Braavosi are paying as compensation right now, he doesn't have time to worry about where his 'clever' little son is messing around! Brat, open your eyes and see clearly! Ironborn don't buy wives with wool and gold coins at the market! We take them by force! This is the salt and iron that flows in the Greyjoy bloodline!"

At the edge of the altar, the old priest was holding the Dornish girl's chin, forcing a large bowl of murky, cold, death-scented saltwater down her unwilling throat. The girl's futile struggles were drowned out by the roar of the waves, her heart-wrenching choking and whimpers cruelly torn apart by the sea wind.

"You punched me, so consider it even for when you were punished last time. Alright, let me down, I have something to tell you." Yulon calmly patted Baron's hand and said, "Brother, Father told me... to go to the council hall tomorrow."

"The council hall?!" Baron's mouth stretched into a grin, but his previously violent laughter froze on his face, as if encased in ice. He abruptly lowered his head, his hawk-like eyes fixed intently on Yulon's face. His voice dropped even lower, but it was like the rumbling thunder accumulating power deep within the clouds before a storm, filled with unbelievable danger. "Has Father... really gone mad?!" The fingers gripping Yulon's hair tightened unconsciously, causing a stinging pain. "Brat, you can't even lift the lightest longsword, what are you going to do there? Be a joke for those old foxes like Drock? Let all the captains of the Iron Islands see that the second son of House Greyjoy is just a babbling infant who only knows how to talk?"

Yulon spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, enduring the pain in his face, and forced a nonchalant smile. "The council hall isn't a fighting arena, do we need to swing swords there?"

"Nonsense!" Baron straightened abruptly, his black hair whipping like seaweed in a gale, his anger intensifying. "Your little tricks might work on a three-year-old! But the council hall? That's a wolf's den! Colder than the Drowned God's altar! Those old men, their veins don't carry blood, they carry ice and poison! They'll chew you up, skin and bones, and spit out nothing but the gristle! All to laugh at Father, to humiliate Greyjoy!" Beneath his rage, his voice suddenly carried a hint of anxiety Yulon had never heard before, subtle and faint. "What can a five-year-old child understand about politics? What can he discuss? Every word they speak hides a knife behind it! Do you understand?"

"Actually, it's alright," Yulon tried to steady his suspended body, his voice as calm as possible. "Just observing is also learning. We'll all be lords sooner or later, and council... is part of what needs to be learned." He paused, his mismatched eyes looking directly into Baron's enraged gaze, with a hint of inquiry. "Are you worried about me?"

"I'm worried about the reputation of House Greyjoy!" Baron retorted immediately, like a startled seal, his voice rising, but his hand gripping Yulon's hair unconsciously loosened slightly. He impatiently threw Yulon onto the broken rocks, turned, and delivered a fierce kick to an abandoned empty wine barrel nearby, the wooden barrel rolling with a hollow thud. "Father is putting our honor, the majesty of the 'King of the Sea Stones,' on the chopping block for those bastards to pound on!" He stood with his back to Yulon, his shoulders heaving with anger, but his voice gradually lowered, filled with a heavy sense of defeat. "I'm afraid you, this ignorant brat... will be scared to tears by those old men's eyes... and then all the reefs of the Iron Islands will mock us, saying Kolen's son... is a weakling who wets his pants at the sight of a storm!"

Before his eyes, uncontrollably, flashed the scene from three years ago—on the training ground paved with white salt stains, three-year-old Yulon was repeatedly knocked to the ground by a heavy wooden sword, his small body hitting the hard stone ground with a dull thud, the purplish bruises stark against his fair skin. Yet, those damned mismatched eyes, one black and one blue, always burned with a stubborn flame that even made Baron feel a sting. That kid might be annoying, he might always say things people didn't understand, but... he was never a weakling.

Yulon chuckled, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, and struggled to stand up, looking up at Baron's tense profile. "That's why I came to find you, big brother. Going to the council hall... are there any special rules I should pay attention to? Which lords should I avoid even looking at? What topics are absolute no-go zones? Teach me..."

"What does it have to do with me!" Baron interrupted furiously, turning sharply, his eyes as fierce as if he were about to devour Yulon. His chest heaved violently, clearly struggling to suppress his surging rage. He glared fiercely at Yulon, as if trying to pin him to the rocks behind him. After a few breaths, as if he had exhausted all his strength, he gritted his teeth and squeezed out a cold command, like deep-sea cold iron:

"Quiet. Don't speak carelessly." He took a deep breath of the night air, tinged with blood and brine, and added, his voice decisive and unquestionable, "No. Don't speak at all! Sew your mouth shut! Shut up!"

"And don't be late!"