Every Wednesday afternoon, the top floor of the Maester's Tower was thick with the scent of aged parchment, sour wine, and something deeper—the dust of knowledge.
Sunlight passed through the thick glass windows, broken into murky shafts that illuminated the particles drifting slowly through the air. Euron Greyjoy, a child only slightly taller than the high-backed chair, was curled up in a massive seat made of whalebone and ironwood, nearly swallowed by its bulk. Across from him, King of the Sea Stones Kolen Greyjoy sat like a mountain, his rough fingers brushing over a letter just delivered by raven, bearing the Citadel's bronze-chain seal.
The news in the letter was as heavy as lead: the Long Summer, which had lasted ten full years, was about to end, and at least three years of bitter cold would follow (277 AC–279 AC).
"Euron, what do you think?" Kolen's voice was low, like distant thunder. He wasn't asking a child's opinion; he was testing the mind of an heir.
What do I think? What can I think!? Lie down and think~~~ A ridiculous joke from some far-off time and place crossed Euron's mind, bringing with it a brief sense of absurd detachment. But his mismatched eyes calmly scanned every grave, uncompromising character in the letter. He looked up, his child's voice clear and steady, without a trace of hesitation. "The maesters of the Citadel have observed the stars, recorded the tides, and studied the clouds for thousands of years. Their prophecies may sometimes be slightly off, but they've never been wholly wrong. This ten-year Long Summer is itself a defiance of the natural order, so the winter that follows will surely be twice as harsh to correct the balance." His small finger tapped the letter's prediction of winter's duration. "Three years may be a conservative estimate. The Iron Islands must store enough food to last at least three years. My advice is— the more, the better. During a long winter, surplus grain is more powerful than surplus gold."
Kolen nodded slowly, his jawline like a reef weathered by countless storms. "We have another year. Highgarden's roses have troubles of their own; their food will flow only to the Gold Dragons in King's Landing. The North and the Vale... their vast lands will produce nothing but more hunger in winter." His gaze turned to the gray-green sea beneath the gloomy sky. "It seems the only options are the Free Cities to the east and Pentos."
"Food, timber, and furs and fat to keep our people warm on the freezing sea," Euron added, his tone as if reciting the most ordinary trade list. "Those have always been our most important and frequent trades with the outside world." Ever since news of the coming winter had spread through the Seven Kingdoms like a plague, the masts at Iron Salt Port had grown denser by the day. Under Euron's unseen direction, longships belonging to the Ice and Fire trading company and various lords were crossing the Narrow Sea with unprecedented efficiency, like busy ants stockpiling food for winter.
However, before winter's breath truly reached the soaring towers of Pyke, a major matter concerning House Greyjoy's bloodline and power still had to be settled—the marriage of its eldest son, Balon. On these islands, where iron and blood were the law, marriage had never been about personal pleasure. It was a game played by families. And for the heir to the King of the Sea Stones, his bride had to be a worthy piece on the board.
Winter would last three years. Balon's marriage had to be arranged before it came, or they would have to wait another three years. By the customs of Westeros, those three years of winter were the best time to have children. Euron didn't want to delay the birth of his nieces and nephews...
The next day, Euron stood alone in the depths of the Greyjoy family crypt. Cold, salty air clung to the stone walls, where whale-oil torches burned without end, casting wavering shadows. His fingertips passed over one stone coffin after another, their inscriptions blurred by age and sea wind, feeling the ancient glory and death recorded there. Beneath the towering, imposing statues of his ancestors, the five-year-old looked as tiny as a speck of dust. Yet the calm calculation in his eyes was harder than the ice in the crypt's deepest reaches.
"Master." A soft but clear voice broke the silence. Lysa had appeared behind him at some point, like a ghost coalescing from the shadows. She held out a roll of yellowed parchment in both hands. "The information on House Harlaw you requested."
Euron took it, and the scroll slowly unfurled in his hands. Dense lines of text and diagrams outlined the bloodline, sphere of influence, and recent undercurrents of another great family of the Iron Islands. His gaze finally settled on one name: Aranys Harlaw—the sixteen-year-old niece of the head of the family. Her mother was from House Blacktyde, and her father had been an Iron Fleet captain, killed in battle on the Stepstones ten years ago.
"Tell me about her," Euron said softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the roar of waves pounding the crypt's foundations.
Lysa lowered her eyes, firelight dancing on her long lashes. "Her eyes are a rare pale sea-green, and her hair is a deep brown, uncommon in the Iron Islands, like oak sunk in deep water. She can mix a medicine to cure a high fever over a still, and play a seven-stringed lyre well enough to make sailors homesick. But last month, someone saw her use a skinning knife to pierce the throat of a gull stealing fish from ten paces away. Last year, she threw back the tokens of both sons of House Stonehouse when they came to court her."
The faintest, almost imperceptible smile touched Euron's lips. Perfect. A close branch of House Harlaw, connected through the maternal line to House Blacktyde, she had a measure of foreign cultural refinement as well as the Ironborn's innate ferocity. More importantly, House Harlaw held the Iron Islands' greatest storehouse of knowledge, and its fleet preferred trade routes to the Old Way of reaving. This marriage could cleverly bind the Greyjoys' strength to the Harlaws' wisdom and wealth. Besides, in the course already laid out by fate, Aranys was meant to be Balon's rock wife, bearing him children who would inherit the Greyjoy name and wildness. Euron had no intention of changing a chapter already written. He was even looking forward to the nieces and nephews destined to be born.
Three days later, the training yard rang with the clatter of steel, the rasp of sweat and the heaving breaths of men at exertion. Balon Greyjoy was savagely driving a heavy battle-axe into an oak dummy, sending splinters flying. Every blow channeled the restless energy of a nineteen-year-old and the pent-up frustration he'd felt since his father issued the Old Way New Rules. Steam rose from his bronze skin, and his muscular back bulged like a restless volcano.
"Brother." A calm child's voice, entirely at odds with his mood, rang out.
Balon paused and turned, panting. Euron stood at the edge of the yard, holding a small cask banded with iron.
"Try this." Euron held out the cask.
Balon took it suspiciously, pulled out the stopper, and gulped. The burning liquor shot straight down his throat, making him cough, but his eyes lit up. "Dornish Red Viper?! You little... where did you get this?"
"Aranys Harlaw had someone bring it." Euron blinked, mischief glinting in his mismatched eyes. "She said that of all the men in the islands, only the eldest son of House Greyjoy deserved a liquor strong enough to set his blood alight."
Balon's ears reddened before his eyes. As if burned, he roughly shoved the cask back into Euron's arms, deliberately raising his voice to hide his sudden embarrassment. "Hmph! Those Harlaws with their noses in books, who can do nothing but count..."
"She's not like that." Euron calmly took a dagger from inside his clothes. The dagger was finely made, but its hilt was wrapped in nonslip seaweed fiber, making it strangely practical. "Take a look at this. Last month, near Blacktyde Isle, a Myrish sailor tried to steal her amber necklace. She used this to put a blade straight through his throat." He paused, then added, "One strike, one kill."
Balon took the dagger more gently than he'd meant to. His fingertips traced the cold blade, and he seemed to catch a faint trace of rusty blood that hadn't quite been washed away. He stared silently at the bloodied weapon, as if seeing something else through it.
"Unless something unexpected happens, before long she'll be your rock wife and my sister-in-law." Euron's tone held the unmistakable teasing of a brother. "You've met Aranys, brother. In looks, courage, and sheer spirit, she's a perfect match for a blunt rock like you. The Drowned God must have smiled on you for you to get so lucky~~~"
"You little shit! You think you get to meddle in my business?" Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, Balon's unfamiliar, barely budding feelings were instantly replaced by his familiar temper. "Looks like it's been a while since we've had some 'fun.' Got an itch for a beating? Come on! Your beloved brother will see if your tongue's quicker than your hands!"
Before the words had left his mouth, he kicked a heavy wooden practice axe on the ground toward Euron, then drew another and swung it down at him with a vicious gust. The blow was powerful and merciless, yet somehow avoided every vital spot.
Euron nimbly dodged to the side, the wind from the axe stirring the black hair on his forehead. He had no weapon; only a knowing, faint smile curled his lips as he began circling his furious brother across the sandy training yard.
For a while, the only sounds in the yard were the dull thuds of wooden weapons clashing, Balon's roars, the rush of air as Euron nimbly dodged, and a certain... hard-edged, fiery way of communicating unique to the Greyjoy brothers of the Iron Islands.
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