Euron Greyjoy

Deep within the towering cliffside fortress on Pike Island, a stone chamber was barely warmed by the leaping flames in the hearth, which struggled to drive away the Iron Islands' characteristic damp chill. The air was thick with the musty smell of parchment, the faint bitterness of ink, and the lingering saltiness that the sea breeze could never quite wash away.

This was the home of Pike Island's maester, as well as a small library.

Three-year-old Euron Greyjoy sat in an oak chair far too large for him, his feet dangling above the floor. He was wrapped in a thick wool sweater, which made his chubby little face look even fairer. Most striking of all were his eyes: his left was like a bottomless ancient well, swallowing the light in the room until it looked almost pure black; his right was an icy blue, like the sea before a storm, and astonishingly clear.

"The Iron Islands have always been the poorest lands in the Seven Kingdoms." The old maester of Pike Island, Craigon, stood beside him. His hair and beard were white, his back slightly stooped, yet his eyes remained sharp. They were clouded with uncertainty and a hard-to-describe hint of reverence. "But our ancestors measured out a realm vaster than Westeros with their longships."

"Come, today we'll learn about the great sigil of House Greyjoy, shall we?"

Maester Craigon carefully unfurled a thick piece of parchment, its edges worn and its colors faded. The image upon it had a fearsome, savage air: a monstrous sea creature, its thick, curling tentacles covered in suckers, as if it might burst through the parchment at any moment and drag everything into the abyss. Heavy scales covered its body. On its head, two eyes—one as profound as a starless night, the other as cold as the fiercest sea before a storm—stared intently at the viewer. Against a pure black field, the creature alone was painstakingly depicted in shining gold thread, radiating an unsettling majesty in the dim light.

"Look, this is the Golden Kraken," Maester Craigon said, his thin fingers brushing the parchment with deliberate reverence. "It is a symbol of strength! Proof that we Ironborn can breathe, fight, and rule beneath the waves! The sea is our hunting ground, and the kraken is us!" He tried to make his voice as passionate as a child could understand.

"Our House Greyjoy," Craigon continued, trying to draw his young lord's attention back, "is descended from the Grey King! Do you know who he was? A great being older than even the Children of the Forest on the continent of Westeros! It's said he took a mermaid for his wife and ruled every kingdom beneath the waves! His blood runs through our veins!" The maester's tone was firm and decisive.

Maester Craigon failed to notice the storm raging within his young lord. He slowly unfolded a yellowed map of the Iron Islands and began explaining their long history to Euron.

The Iron Islands lay in Ironborn Bay, in the Sunset Sea off the western coast of Westeros, with the Trident and the Neck directly to the east. The islands were scattered across the Sunset Sea like a shattered chain. The archipelago consisted of thirty-one islands, with twenty-one smaller ones surrounding seven main islands. The seven main islands were Pike Island, Great Wyk, Old Wick Island, Harlaw, Saltcliff Island, Blacktyde Isle, and Oak Island. Some of the twenty-one smaller islands were used for sheep grazing, while others were uninhabited.

Pike Island was like a broken spear pointed toward the mainland, with Pyke rising atop a perilous cliff supported by three sea stacks. The volcano on Great Wyk still smoked, and the ruins of the Grey King's Hall on Old Wick Island were older than Valyria. Harlaw resembled a beached whale, while Saltcliff Island was riddled with honeycombed caves. Blacktyde Isle was the seat of House Blacktyde. In the days when House Hoare ruled as Iron Kings, merchants and trading fleets traveled between Oak Island and Lannister Port, Oldtown, and even the Free Cities, bringing unimaginable wealth to the Iron Islands.

He picked up a charcoal pencil and began sketching on another rough piece of parchment. "Look, young Lord Euron, this is our Iron Islands." He drew a few crooked circles, like a scattering of stones. "The largest one is our home, Pike Island. The others are Great Wyk, Old Wick, Harlaw..." His finger pressed firmly against the circle representing Harlaw. "The powerful House Harlaw. They have the finest shipyards and can build longships that cut through storms!" His tone carried deliberate emphasis.

"And here, Great Wyk," Maester Craigon said, pointing his charcoal pencil at another, slightly larger circle. His voice took on a note of caution. "House Corbray lives there. They're descended from Blackblood Corbray—ancient, very... proud. They value tradition." He avoided explaining what "tradition" meant, drawing only a simple anchor beside the circle.

"Here, Old Wick Island," the charcoal pencil moved. "This is the land of House Drum." Kingsmoot! Do you know what that is? Long, long ago, the great king of the Iron Islands wasn't born to the role; all the captains chose him at a Kingsmoot! House Drum presides over this ancient ceremony." The maester's tone carried a yearning for past glory. "And here, Blacktyde Isle, House Blacktyde." He drew a wave at that spot. "They are the Drowned God's most faithful servants, the bravest warriors among the waves!"

At last, the charcoal pencil landed on a lonely little dot at the western tip of Great Wyk. "Lonely Light, House Farman. They..." The maester paused, as if an invisible sea mist had caught in his throat. "They're unusual. They rarely leave their castle, as mysterious as the fog over the sea." He drew a tiny lighthouse.

To Euron, this "map" of rough lines and symbolic marks was the embryonic shape of the world. Pike Island was its center; the other islands were reefs and hidden rocks all around it. Those names—Corbray, Drum, Blacktyde, Farman—were like dangerous shoals marked on a nautical chart, bearing the hard-to-describe weight in Maester Craigon's voice as they settled heavily into his newborn understanding. They were bound tightly to weighty words like "strength," "pride," "ancient ceremony," "devout worshippers," and "mystery."

"The lords," Maester Craigon concluded, trying to force a kindly smile, "are like the kraken's tentacles reaching in every direction. They must hold fast to the reefs that belong to House Greyjoy, so that the great ship of the Iron Islands can sail steadily through the storms."

"Lord Kolen argued with the captains again this morning." Maester Craigon sighed, tapping the map at Lannister Port with his knuckles. "He proposed forming a merchant fleet for the third time, and was opposed for the third time."

Euron's fingertips traced the waters between the Iron Islands and the mainland. He remembered his father Kolen Greyjoy's reform plans: replacing reaving with iron ore trade, replacing "paying the iron price" with dock taxes, and even proposing statues of the Seven in Pyke to improve relations with the mainland. To the Ironborn, these ideas were more frightening than the White Walkers.

"House Drum says it's blasphemy against the Drowned God," the maester said quietly. "Yesterday, a fisherman carved 'We Do Not Sow' into the docks at Pyke."

Euron nodded and said calmly, "That's House Greyjoy's motto..." Outside, the sound of the waves suddenly grew deafening. Euron knew the words etched into the soul of House Greyjoy: they believed the Drowned God had created the Ironborn to take the wealth of the weak.

But now, at the very moment when his father, Kolen Greyjoy, was proposing reforms to replace reaving with trade, carving House Greyjoy's motto into the docks was hardly a compliment. It was a spear aimed at House Greyjoy, mocking and accusing Kolen Greyjoy of abandoning the family's oath, the traditions of the Iron Islands, and the Ironborn way. It was said to be the work of a fisherman, but fishermen who could write were rarer in the Iron Islands than three-legged fish. Euron understood that, but said nothing. As the second son of the head of House Greyjoy, he had been the focus of attention since birth—the Drowned God's living incarnation, proof that the dead do not die and would rise again, the "hope for the future of the Iron Islands" in the old priests' words, and his unusual, naturally mismatched black and blue eyes... Almost every Ironborn knew Euron by the title "Son of the Drowned God," but at three years old, he couldn't yet bear all those titles.

A tree that stood out from the forest was sure to be struck by the wind; a bank that rose above the shore would be battered by the current; a man who surpassed others would be criticized by the crowd. Euron understood this, so he had to learn to stay hidden until he had enough strength. Keep a low profile and live to see more episodes—that was what he reminded himself before every word he spoke and every action he took.

Their discussion had strayed from the subject of his lessons, so Maester Craigon shook his head and continued with the day's teaching. His quill traced the key moments in the Iron Islands' history on parchment. "Three hundred years ago, when King Harren the Black built Harrenhal in the Riverlands, we ruled the western coast from Bear Island to Summer Isles. Then came the War of Conquest... Aegon's Dragonfire burned the Iron Fleet, and the scene of Torrhen Greyjoy, the 'King of the Iron Islands,' kneeling to surrender his crown still stings the Ironborn's pride. Today, the Iron Islands are nominally subject to the Iron Throne, but every captain carries the ghost of Reaver Cory in his heart."

Euron saw the old maester's hand tremble over the Targaryen sigil. Maester Craigon had been born and raised in the Iron Islands. Even after more than a decade of maester's training at the Citadel, the stories of the Iron Islands still flowed in his blood. He had never forgotten them.

Maester Craigon held the map in front of Euron and asked, "Euron, do you know where you are?"

"Here, Pyke, the seat of House Greyjoy." Euron's voice was clear, but carried a strange certainty.

Craigon raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Exactly right, my lord. Your father would be proud of you."

Euron didn't respond. His gaze swept across the other islands—Great Wyk, Old Wick Island, Harlaw... Each name stirred memories of the original story in his mind. He knew which houses held sway on these islands and what sides they would take in the future.

"Maester," Euron suddenly asked, "why do the Ironborn call themselves 'Ironborn'?"

Craigon stroked his beard, as was his habit when thinking. "It's an ancient tradition, my lord. Our ancestors believed the Drowned God forged the Ironborn from iron, the Andals from soft gold, and the other races from mud."

Euron nodded, but thought of modern metallurgy. Iron was indeed harder than bronze, but it rusted easily. The comparison was surprisingly accurate.

"The Ironborn live differently from people in the other kingdoms," Craigon continued. "We pay the iron price, not with gold or silver."

"The iron price?"

"We pay for things with swords and axes, my lord. We take what we want." Craigon's voice held pride. "That's the Old Way."

The Old Way was just another term for raiding and plundering. In Ironborn culture, warriors took spoils from the enemies they defeated—that was "paying the iron price"—instead of buying things with currency, or "gold." The Ironborn's thralls and salt wives were taken through plunder as well, never bought and sold. To use money to purchase things was considered shameful by the Ironborn. Whatever it was, nothing tasted sweeter than what you took for free... Euron's mouth curled slightly. He remembered the disasters caused by King Balon's attempt to revive the Old Way in the original story, and he also remembered the even more extreme things Euron did in that story.

"Father wants to change all this," Euron said suddenly.

Craigon's expression stiffened. "Lord Kolen does have some... reformist ideas."

Euron knew that his father, Kolen Greyjoy, was trying to bring the Iron Islands into the mainstream culture of the Seven Kingdoms. In the original story, the effort failed and House Greyjoy lost power for a time. But now, with his intervention, history might take a different course. After three years of confusion and uncertainty, Huang Zhengdao had finally chosen to accept his current identity and the reality that he had transmigrated into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire.

"Tell me about the sigils and mottos of the other houses, Maester Craigon." Euron changed the subject.

Craigon sighed with relief and began pointing at the map. "Aside from House Greyjoy ruling Pike Island, Great Wyk is controlled by House Drum. Their sigil is bones and chains..."

Euron listened intently, comparing each detail against what he remembered. House Drum would support Balon in the future; the Stonestreet Family's sigil was a rock clutched in a kraken's tentacle; House Merlyn's motto was "We Endure"... Some of these houses would remain loyal to House Greyjoy, while others would betray them at a crucial moment.