Marriage Alliance with Harlaw

House Harlaw's Ten Towers was not as grim and imposing as Pike, but more like a massive nest built on gray cliffs, pieced together from towers, studies, and observatories. The sea wind here seemed to soften, carrying the scent of parchment, old ink, and dried seaweed.

When Euron Greyjoy's skiff docked, it didn't stir the usual clamor of an Ironborn arrival. Only a few scribes, clad in plain robes with eyes as sharp as falcons, silently led him up the stone steps marked by tidal carvings. Euron was accompanied only by ten guards led by Daggmo, and his handmaiden Lysa.

[Explore: Discovered Harlaw, gained 80 points]

[Explore: Discovered Harlaw: The Arbor, gained 15 points]

In the circular room at the top of the largest "Arbor," he met Lord Rodrik Harlaw, known as "The Scholar." Unlike most Iron Islands lords, the Count was not burly; he was tall and thin, wrapped in a worn velvet robe, his fingers stained with ink, and his world-weary gray eyes hidden behind a long table piled with scrolls and astrolabes.

"Euron Greyjoy," Rodrik's voice was calm, with the deliberation of a scholar, "Pike's Kraken chick flies alone to Ten Towers. This is not like King Kolen's style. Is it for the long winter nights ahead, seeking to borrow some tomes on greenhouse cultivation?"

Euron bowed slightly, his etiquette impeccable. His mismatched eyes seemed even more uncanny in the thin daylight filtering through the tower window. "Lord Rodrik, my father's gaze is fixed on the grain ships to the east. As for my purpose here, it is for something warmer, something that concerns the future bloodline of the Iron Islands." He spoke directly, taking out a scroll carefully wrapped in sealskin. "On behalf of my brother, Balon Greyjoy, heir to Pike, I come to propose a marriage contract to the brightest pearl of your House, Miss Yara Greyjoy."

Rodrik did not take it immediately. He merely tapped a finger on an open ancient book, adorned with intricate tidal charts. "Balon... that boy is like an unsheathed axe, sharp, but prone to harming himself and those around him. Yara..." He paused, a hint of elder's gentleness flashing in his eyes, "She needs more than just a husband who can wield an axe."

"Precisely why this union is so fitting," Euron's voice was as steady as water. "My brother Balon possesses the will of stone and fearless courage. He is a natural warrior and leader, capable of bringing Greyjoy glory to new heights. As for Miss Yara, her wisdom, her healing arts, even her precise knife skills (forgive me for hearing some anecdotes), can be the most resilient bindweed on the stone, smoothing rough edges and adding fertility. Greyjoy's might needs Harlaw's wisdom to guide its direction, and Harlaw's knowledge and trade networks require Greyjoy's strength for protection. This is not merely the union of two families, but a fusion of the Old Way and new paths, to make the Iron Islands stronger, not just richer, in the coming winter and the further future."

He stepped forward, placing the scroll gently on an empty space on the table. "Moreover," he raised his eyes, his gaze seeming to pierce through the scrolls, "in the long night that is about to engulf the world, what can bring more warmth and strength than the close ties of blood? This is not conquest, but an alliance, the most ancient and steadfast of pacts."

Rodrik remained silent for a long time. The only sounds at the tower's peak were the howling sea wind and the faint rustle of paper. He finally reached out, his fingertips brushing the sealskin scroll as if feeling its weight and promise. He looked out the window, the shadow of Ten Towers slowly lengthening, covering the busy port below and the endless sea beyond.

"Yara did once say that only the rage of the eldest son of Greyjoy could remind her of the taste of Dornish wine. However, I must seek her and her mother's opinion before replying," the Count finally said slowly, a barely perceptible curve forming at the corner of his lips.

"Of course, you should," Euron blinked. "It happens to be my first time on Harlaw, and I'd like to look around. Is that convenient?" Every time he explored a new location, he gained points. Wasting them was shameful, and small gains add up. Euron never disdained them.

Rodrik readily agreed. "Our honored guest, of course, you may!"

Pike - Temple of the Drowned God

On the wedding day, the Temple of the Drowned God was more like the belly of a sunken behemoth than ever before. Beneath the vast stone dome, hundreds of whale oil torches were stuck in iron rings on the walls. The flickering flames cast the tattooed, bald heads of the Drowned God priests in alternating light and shadow, stretching and distorting the shadows of all the guests onto the slippery, salt-crusted black stone floor. The air was salty and heavy, mixed with seawater, burning oil, cold stone, and a more primal, mysterious scent belonging to the Deep Sea Sacrifice.

Balon Greyjoy wore a new black leather jerkin, embroidered with a golden kraken sigil on the chest. He stood straight, like a mast nailed to the altar, his jaw tight. His eyes, usually burning with rage, now held a deeper, more complex emotion—a solemn acceptance of the impending, irresistible fate. His gaze occasionally swept over the woman beside him.

Yara Greyjoy did not wear the elaborate silks common to mainland noble ladies. She wore a simple, thick, dark green wool gown, its hem embroidered with silver thread in wave patterns. A cape woven from polished black fish scales was draped over her shoulders. Her dark brown hair was braided into a thick plait that fell in front, adorned with small, star-like pearls. In her hand, she indeed held a ceremonial dagger with a walrus ivory sheath. Her stance was not that of a shy bride, but of a warrior woman about to make a blood pact with an ally. Her green eyes calmly met the gazes of those around her—curiosity, scrutiny, awe, and even a hint of imperceptible jealousy.

The Drowned God priest's voice was loud and hoarse, chanting the ancient Ironborn wedding vows, each syllable seeming to carry the weight of seawater and the echo of the abyss.

"...You are the rock, he is the chain that binds you, so you stand unyielding in the storm..."

"...You are the blade, he is your whetstone and your sheath, so your edge never dulls nor wounds yourself..."

"...You two shall sail together to the shore beyond, sharing a place in the Drowned God's Water Palace..."

The climax of the ceremony was not the exchange of rings. The priest brought a rough black stone sea bowl filled with bone-chilling, almost black seawater. Balon and Yara simultaneously plunged their hands into the water, the biting cold instantly tensing their muscles. The priest used a dagger inlaid with coral to quickly make a shallow cut on their clasped wrists. A few drops of blood dissolved into the dark water, disappearing quickly.

"Salt!" the priest shouted, scattering coarse sea salt into the bowl.

"Ice!" He then added a small piece of never-melting ice (legend said it came from the far north).

"Blood!" He finally pointed to their mingled blood.

"You are joined! Until the seas run dry, until the stars fall from the sky!"

The rite was complete!

The priest splashed the seawater mixed with salt, ice, and blood onto the ground at their feet, letting it seep into the stone cracks.

There were no sweet kisses, no cheers. Instead, all the Ironborn nobles and captains in the hall struck the ground heavily with their axe handles and sword hilts, creating a deep, synchronized roar like war drums, like the muffled thunder before a tsunami. This was the highest form of recognition and blessing in the Iron Islands.

Balon turned his head, looking at his new bride carefully for the first time. Yara was also looking at him, her face devoid of shy blushes, only a calm assessment and firm acceptance. She slightly raised the dagger in her hand, a small but powerful gesture.

Amidst the roar, King Kolen's face was serene, satisfaction in his eyes at the consolidation of family interests. Lady Sansa held Victarion tightly, a hint of worry in her eyes, but also a sliver of faint hope for the couple's future. She caressed her belly, where a new Greyjoy awaited birth. Uncle Balf grinned, heartily clapping the shoulder of the person next to him.

Euron Greyjoy stood quietly in the shadow of a massive stone pillar in the temple, watching his brother and sister-in-law, united in an ancient ritual before the altar, destined to face storms and winter together. He silently offered his blessings. This marriage, which he had personally set in motion, fitting both "fate" and interests, had settled firmly into its predetermined position on the vast chessboard. Yet, he also felt a new weight on his shoulders, not wanting his future nephews and nieces to suffer any tragic fate.