Arranging a Marriage for My Brother

Every Wednesday afternoon, the top floor of the Maester's Tower was always filled with the scent of aged parchment, sour wine, and a deeper, dustier aroma belonging to Knowledge.

Sunlight, cut into hazy beams by the thick stained-glass windows, illuminated the slow-drifting motes in the air. Yulon Greyjoy, a child barely taller than the high-backed chair, was curled up within its massive frame, made of whalebone and ironwood, almost swallowed by the behemoth. Opposite him, Kolen Greyjoy, the King of the Sea Stones, sat like a mountain, his rough fingers stroking a letter just delivered by raven, bearing the bronze chain sigil of the Citadel.

The news on the letter was heavy as lead: the Long Summer, which had lasted a full decade, was nearing its end, and would be followed by at least three years of bitter cold (277AC-279AC).

"Yulon, what do you think?" Kolen's voice was deep, like distant thunder. This wasn't asking a child's opinion, but testing an heir's mind.

What do I think? What can I think!? I'm lying down and thinking... A nonsensical meme from some distant time and space flickered through Yulon's mind, bringing a sense of absurd detachment. But his mismatched eyes calmly swept over every precise and cold character on the letter. He raised his head, his childish voice clear and without hesitation: "The Maesters of the Citadel have observed the stars, recorded the tides, and dissected the clouds for thousands of years. Their prophecies may have minor deviations, but they have never been entirely wrong. This decade of Long Summer was itself a defiance of natural law, so the ensuing winter will surely correct it with double severity." He pointed a small finger at the letter's prediction of the winter's duration. "Three years may be a conservative estimate. The Iron Islands must stockpile enough grain to last at least three years, and my recommendation is--the more, the better. In a long winter, surplus grain is more powerful than surplus gold."

Kolen nodded slowly, the lines of his jaw like reef stones eroded by wind and wave. "We have one more year. The roses of Highgarden have their own troubles; their grain will only flow to the golden dragons of King's Landing. The North and the Vale... their vast lands will only produce more hunger in winter." His gaze drifted to the gray-green sea beneath the overcast sky outside the window. "It seems only the Free Cities to the east and Pentos are left."

"Grain, timber, and the furs and oils that will keep our people warm in the icy seas," Yulon chimed in, his tone like he was reciting a common trade list. "They have always been our most important and frequent trade with the outside world." Since the news of the coming winter spread like a plague throughout the Seven Kingdoms, the masts in the salt ports had grown denser by the day. Under Yulon's behind-the-scenes coordination, the longship fleets belonging to the 'Ice and Fire' merchant guild and various Lords were shuttling through the Narrow Sea with unprecedented efficiency, like busy worker ants stockpiling food for the winter.

However, before the breath of winter truly touched the towering spires of Pike, there was a major matter concerning the Greyjoy family's bloodline and power that urgently needed to be resolved—the marriage of the eldest son, Baron. In these islands where iron and blood were the law, marriage was never a matter of personal pleasure, but a game of family chess. Especially for the heir of the King of the Sea Stones, his bride had to be a sufficiently valuable chip.

Winter would last 3 years, and the marriage alliance with his elder brother Baron had to be completed before then, or they would have to wait another 3 years. According to Westerosi customs, the three years of winter were the best time to have children. Yulon did not want to delay the birth of his nephews and nieces...

The next day, Yulon stood alone in the depths of the Greyjoy family crypt. The cold, damp air wound around the eternally burning whale oil torches on the stone walls, casting flickering shadows. His fingertips traced the stone coffins, their inscriptions weathered by time and sea winds into illegible reliefs of ancient glory and death. The body of a five-year-old child was as insignificant as a speck of dust beneath the massive, imposing statues of his ancestors, yet the calm calculation in his eyes was colder than the ice in the deepest part of the crypt.

"Master." A soft yet clear voice broke the silence. Lysa appeared behind him from nowhere, like a phantom coalescing from the shadows. She held out a roll of yellowed parchment. "The information on House Harlaw you requested."

Yulon took it, the scroll slowly unfurling in his hand. Dense text and diagrams outlined the bloodline, power distribution, and recent undercurrents of another great house of the Iron Islands. His gaze finally settled on a name: Aranys Harlaw—the niece of the current head of House Harlaw, only sixteen years old. Her mother was from House Blacktyde, and her father was an Iron Fleet captain who died ten years ago in the Stepstones.

"Tell me about her," Yulon's voice was very soft, almost drowned out by the roar of waves crashing against the crypt's foundation.

Lysa lowered her eyes, the firelight dancing on her long lashes. "Her eyes are a rare sea-green, and her hair is a deep brown, uncommon on the Iron Islands, like oak sunk in deep water. She can mix potions to cure high fevers at a distillation cauldron, and she can play a seven-stringed lute that makes sailors homesick. But last month, someone saw her precisely shoot a seagull in the neck with a skinning knife from ten paces away as it snatched fish. Last year, she threw back the betrothal tokens of two sons from House Stonestreet."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Yulon's lips. Perfect. A close relative of House Harlaw, closely connected to the Blacktydes through her mother's side, possessing a certain unconventional cultural refinement and the inherent fierceness of the Ironborn. More importantly, House Harlaw controlled the Iron Islands' most vast treasure trove of Knowledge, and their fleet was more inclined towards trade routes than raiding the Old Way. This marriage alliance would cleverly fuse Greyjoy's strength with Harlaw's wisdom and wealth. Moreover, in the predetermined course of fate, this Aranys was destined to be Baron's rock wife, bearing him descendants who would inherit the Greyjoy name and wildness. Yulon had no intention of altering this already written chapter; he even looked forward to the nephews and nieces who were destined to be born.

Three days later, the training ground was filled with sweat, the screech of clashing steel, and heavy gasps. Baron Greyjoy was ferociously swinging a heavy battle-axe into a wooden dummy, wood chips flying. Every swing condensed the restless energy of the nineteen-year-old youth and the pent-up frustration since his father had decreed the "New Old Way." Steam rose from his bronze skin, his muscular back like a restless volcano.

"Brother," a calm childish voice, completely at odds with his current mood, sounded.

Baron's movements faltered. He turned back, panting, and saw Yulon standing at the edge of the field, holding a small wine barrel bound with iron hoops.

"Try this," Yulon handed him the barrel.

Baron took it suspiciously, pulled out the wooden stopper, and took a deep gulp. The intense burning sensation shot up his throat, making him cough, but his eyes lit up. "Dorne's Red Viper?! You little... where did you get this?"

"Aranys Harlaw sent it," Yulon blinked, a mischievous glint in his mismatched eyes. "She said that after tasting all the islands, only the eldest son of House Greyjoy is worthy of this liquor that can ignite the blood."

Baron's earlobes turned red at a visible rate. As if scalded, he roughly shoved the wine barrel back into Yulon's arms, his voice deliberately raised to hide his momentary embarrassment. "Hmph! Those Harlaw folk who hold books and only know how to count...!"

"She is not like that," Yulon unhurriedly took a dagger from his embrace. The dagger was exquisitely crafted, but the handle was wrapped with anti-slip seaweed fiber, its style peculiar yet practical. "Look at this—last month near Blacktyde Isle, a sailor from Myr tried to snatch her amber necklace. She used this to precisely pin his throat." He paused and added, "A single blow, fatal."

Baron's movements as he took the dagger unconsciously softened. His fingertips traced the cold blade, and he seemed to smell a faint, not entirely washed-away scent of rust. He silently looked at the bloodstained weapon, then seemed to see something else through it.

"If nothing unexpected happens, soon she will be your rock wife, my sister-in-law," Yulon's tone carried the undisguised teasing unique to brothers. "You've met Aranys, brother. In terms of looks, courage, or that spirit of hers, she's a gift from the Sea God for a reef like you who only knows how to chop. I really don't know what bad luck you ate to get this fortune~~~"

"You damn brat! Why are you meddling in my business?" Baron, like a wild cat whose tail had been stepped on, his nascent, unfamiliar emotions instantly replaced by familiar rage. "It seems you haven't had a 'good time' in a while, your skin's itching, isn't it? Come! Let your dear brother show you if your tongue is sharper than your skills!"

Before the words were out, he kicked a heavy practice wooden axe on the ground towards Yulon, then drew another with his free hand and swung it down with a fierce wind! The force was powerful, merciless, yet it miraculously avoided all vital points.

Yulon nimbly dodged to the side, the wind from the wooden axe rustling his dark hair. He had no weapon, only a knowing smile playing on his lips as he began to circle his enraged brother on the sandy training ground.

For a time, only the dull thud of wood striking wood, Baron's roar, the sound of wind from Yulon's occasional agile dodges, and a certain... hardcore and scorching "communication" method unique to the Greyjoy brothers of the Iron Islands filled the field.