Euron jerked his head up. His eyes, which had torn through the night and frozen the depths of the sea, blazed with an almost eerie light in the glow of the fire's last embers. That light pierced through the gravity, contemplation, and faint alarm in Kolen's eyes, straight to the heart of his strategic intent. "Father, the 'raiding exclusion zone' you laid down today at the heart of this storm—the 'Old Way New Rules' that point the Ironborn's axes beyond the Seven Kingdoms—is an incredibly wise restraint! It keeps us from being drawn too soon into the conflagration about to sweep across Westeros, a blaze fierce enough to consume everything. It also protects us from bringing the fire to our own door and becoming targets for everyone."
It was as if the power of a sea beast, sleeping for a thousand years, had awakened inside his small body. A keen edge utterly at odds with his age surged through him, chilling those who heard him, and his voice took on the iron certainty of a prophecy that saw the future:
"When the wildfire jars the Mad King buried with his own hands are finally ignited by his own mad torch—or set off by some desperate spark... when the lions, direwolves, Sunspear Vipers, Golden Roses, and Roaring Stags of Westeros tear into one another amid flames and chaos born of madness, flesh flying everywhere... when the Iron Throne's cold gleam is finally swallowed by endless blood and smoke—"
Euron sprang to his feet! His thick, dark-green sea-monster cloak seemed to come alive in the feeble firelight, its Greyjoy kraken embroidered in gold thread writhing and thrashing, its tentacles lashing out! He spread his small hands, palms up, as though using every ounce of strength to lift an invisible game board that weighed a thousand tons. On it, smoke billowed and blood mingled with fire:
"That will be the golden hour when we cast off the 'New Rules' and let the Drowned God's iron axes drink their fill of our enemies' blood and gold! Then the merchant ships laden with gold from Lannisport, the boundless grain stores of the Reach, the pirate-infested choke points of the Stepstones... all the wealth and lifelines thrown into chaos by civil war, with no time to spare for anything else, will become our lawful hunting grounds for 'paying the iron price'! We can take whatever we want!"
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His voice echoed through the vast, silent stone hall, carrying a primitive, blood-stirring power of persuasion, like the growl of a great beast from the deep:
"The more wildly the Mad King burns, the deeper the chaos in Westeros, the richer and more tempting the hunting grounds beyond the 'safe waters' marked out by our 'Old Way New Rules' will become! Father, we aren't prophets foretelling the storm. We're fishermen who ride it! Mad King Aerys Targaryen is using his madness to churn up a raging sea full of whales and golden-scaled fish for us!"
"The faster the Targaryen banners fall, the fiercer the inferno burns across Westeros, the brighter the glory of our Sea Stone Seat will shine! For that world-burning fire will force everyone on land—lion, wolf, stag, or snake—to leap into the raging sea of chaos in terror, just to survive! And we Greyjoys..." Euron's voice rose, filled with a pride forged from iron and salt, deep in his bones. "We've waited in the raging waves for a thousand years! We were born here, raised here. We are the raging waves themselves! Chaos isn't an abyss that devours everything, Father. It's the only stairway the Drowned God has given us Greyjoys to reach supreme power and eternal glory!"
"Those merchant ships laden with gold, grain, and wine, those castles left without their lords' protection and with their defenses laid bare—they'll be fat sheep without a wolf pack to guard them, ripe for slaughter! The Lannisters' mountains of gold, the Tyrells' granaries, Seagull Town's wine cellars... Our longships will appear like ghosts wherever we choose, and take whatever we want. We'll use our enemies' flesh and wealth to strengthen the Ironborn and sharpen the Drowned God's axes!"
"Enough!" Kolen's roar crashed like thunder, cutting off Euron's incendiary speech. His voice was hoarse, as if ground raw by sand and salt. Each word burst from between clenched teeth, laden with disbelief, a deep chill, and a fear of this terrifying insight that even he himself had yet to recognize. "These... these words that slither into people's hearts like vipers!" His knife-sharp gaze suddenly swept toward Lysa and old Maester Craigon in the shadows, carrying the pressure of a man who would scrutinize everything. "Who? Who put all this into a five-year-old child's head? Was it you, Lysa? The maid who speaks the languages of the Seven Kingdoms and whose origins are unknown? Or you, Craigon? The old scholar with a head full of moldy parchment and ancient tales?!"
Lysa remained motionless in the deepest shadows, as though fused with the stone wall. Her green eyes were lowered, her long lashes veiling all emotion. She seemed entirely unmoved by Kolen's rage, strong enough to crush bones; only her steady, deep-sea breathing proved she was there. In the corner, Maester Craigon shook like a leaf, as though struck by lightning. His gaunt body trembled, his face was as pale as a dead fish on a salt flat, and his cloudy old eyes brimmed with utter confusion and a fear that threatened to swallow him whole. Clearly, Euron's analysis, so far beyond his years and all reason, had left him utterly stunned and unable to defend himself.
"The messages brought by ravens are copied in the Maester's Tower." A childlike yet sly smile crossed Euron's face, deftly deflecting his father's question. "Have you forgotten, Father? I was 'confined' there for a whole month. That was plenty of time to read through those records and think about the Iron Islands' past, present... and future." He admitted it openly. "I did ask Lysa about the southern noble houses and their customs, and I asked Maester Craigon about history. But that dream about the Drowned God last night, and everything I just said..." He pointed to his own little head, his mismatched eyes clear as glass. "It all started here. The more I think about it, the more I feel..."
He paused, then spoke in a tone almost philosophical, clearly voicing words that could shake the entire noble class of Westeros: "Those who follow the right path win support; those who stray from it stand alone! When all the nobles think the person on the throne... doesn't deserve to be there..."
"Silence!" Kolen's bellow burst out like a tsunami, drowning out Euron's words and snuffing out the last spark in the fireplace. His voice mingled with the sudden roar of the waves outside, carrying the unquestionable authority of the King of the Sea Stones: "You have no right to 'think' anything! And you have no right to offer your 'opinion' on the Iron Throne here!" His towering figure loomed in the gloom like a volcano about to erupt. "Everything you just said, every last word, stays buried in your belly! Let it rot there! And you—" His icy gaze swept over Lysa and Craigon again, like a blade made flesh. "Lysa, Craigon! If even one other person learns a single syllable of what was said in this council chamber today... if so much as a whisper gets out..." He left the sentence unfinished, but the murderous chill and iron threat in his voice froze the air, conveying his meaning with absolute clarity.
Lysa bowed slightly, her manner respectful and silent. Craigon was so terrified he nearly collapsed, and could only nod frantically, making a hoarse, choking sound.
Silence fell again, heavier than before. Only the roar of the waves crashing wildly against the rocks outside remained, like the labored breathing of some giant beast.
After a long while, King Kolen's taut fingers finally relaxed a little. He looked at the young son who had left him so shaken, caught between awe and fear, and tapped twice on the cold stone tabletop with his knuckles. The dull sound seemed to mark some difficult decision. "From now on," he said, his voice settling back into its usual low rumble, though it brooked no argument, "come to my study every Wednesday afternoon." He paused, his gaze deep and searching. "Learn... how to read those letters sealed with wax."
As Euron bowed and backed step by step out of the vast stone hall, still charged with the lingering warmth of power and the smoke of an invisible battle, he clearly heard his father's low, almost murmured voice behind him. It mingled with the thunder of the waves outside, rising like an ancient incantation:
"What is dead may never die..."
The heavy oak door slowly closed behind him, cutting off the rest of the words. But the Ironborn maxim, filled with their indomitable spirit, had already been branded into Euron's heart.
In the corridor's shadows, Lysa appeared without a sound, like a ghost. In her hands she carried a thick parchment scroll, recording the vital grain inventories of Pyke and the other islands. She had appeared with the precision of a calculated tide.
Euron raised his little face to meet Lysa's inscrutable green eyes. A glimmer of a plan fulfilled flashed in his mismatched eyes. He winked at her, the faintest curve touching his lips—the plan was going smoothly.
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