House Harlaw's Ten Towers was nothing like the grim, imposing Pyke. It was more like a vast nest perched atop gray cliffs, pieced together from towers, studies, and an observatory. Even the sea breeze seemed gentler here, carrying the scent of parchment, old ink, and dried seaweed.
When Euron Greyjoy's small boat came ashore, it stirred none of the usual commotion that greeted Ironborn visitors. A few scribal monks in plain robes, their eyes as sharp as hawks, silently led him up stone steps etched with the marks of the tides. Euron was accompanied by only ten guards led by Daggmo, as well as his maid, Lysa.
[Exploration: Discovered Harlaw Island. Gained 80 points]
[Exploration: Discovered Harlaw Island: The Arbor. Gained 15 points]
In the round chamber on the top floor of the largest tower, the Arbor, he met Earl Rodrik Harlaw, known as "the Reader." Unlike most lords of the Iron Islands, the earl was not heavily muscled. He was tall and lean, wrapped in a worn velvet robe, his fingers stained with ink. His perceptive gray eyes peered out from behind a long table crowded with scrolls and astrolabes.
"Euron Greyjoy," Rodrik said evenly, with the caution characteristic of a scholar. "The kraken's fledgling from Pyke has flown alone to Ten Towers. That hardly seems like Kolen's way. Have you come to borrow a few books on greenhouse cultivation, in preparation for the long winter nights ahead?"
Euron bowed slightly, his manners impeccable. His mismatched eyes looked all the more uncanny in the thin daylight filtering through the tower windows. "Earl Rodrik, my father's gaze is fixed on the grain ships from the east. But I've come on a warmer matter, one that concerns the future of the Iron Islands' bloodline." He wasted no time. Taking out a document carefully wrapped in seal skin, he said, "I represent my brother, Balon Greyjoy, heir to Pyke, in asking for the hand of the shining jewel of your house, Lady Aranys Harlaw."
Rodrik did not reach for it at once. He merely tapped a finger against an open ancient book, its pages covered in intricate tide charts. "Balon... That boy is like an unsheathed axe: sharp, but liable to wound himself and those around him. Aranys..." He paused, a touch of an elder's tenderness in his eyes. "She needs more than a husband who can swing an axe."
"That is precisely why this marriage would be so fitting." Euron's voice was as calm as still water. "My brother Balon has the will of stone and the courage to fear nothing. He is a born warrior and leader, capable of carrying Greyjoy glory to new heights. And Lady Aranys—with her wisdom, her skill in healing, even her precise knife work—pardon me, I've heard a few tales—could be the hardiest vine growing upon that stone, smoothing its edges and bringing it abundance. Greyjoy strength needs Harlaw wisdom to guide it, while Harlaw learning and trade networks need Greyjoy arms to protect them. This is not merely the union of two houses. It is a merging of the spirit of the Old Way and the path of the New Way, so that the Iron Islands may grow stronger, not merely richer, through the coming winter and far beyond."
He stepped forward and gently set the document on a clear space on the table. "Besides," he said, raising his eyes as if they could pierce the wall of books, "in the long night soon to descend upon the world, what could bring more warmth and strength than a close bond of blood? This is not conquest, but alliance—a pact as ancient as it is enduring."
Rodrik remained silent for a long time. In the tower chamber, only the howling sea wind and the faint rustle of turning pages could be heard. At last he reached out and brushed his fingertips over the seal-skin document, as if weighing the promise beneath it. He looked out the window, where the shadows of Ten Towers were slowly stretching over the busy harbor below and the boundless sea beyond.
"Aranys once said that, in all of Pyke, only the eldest Greyjoy's temper could bring to mind the taste of Dornish strongwine. Still, I must ask her and her mother before I can give you an answer," the earl said at last, a barely perceptible curve touching his lips.
"Of course you must." Euron blinked. "Since this is my first time on Harlaw Island, I was hoping to look around. Would that be all right?" Every time he explored a new place, he earned points. Letting them go to waste was shameful; little by little, they added up. Even a mosquito's worth was worth having, and Euron never turned his nose up at a small gain.
Rodrik readily agreed. "You're our honored guest. Of course you may!"
Pyke — Temple of the Drowned God
On the wedding day, the Temple of the Drowned God seemed more than ever like the belly of a sunken beast. Beneath its vast stone vault, hundreds of whale oil torches burned in iron rings set into the walls. Their flickering flames illuminated the bald heads of the Drowned God's priests, marked with strange tattoos, and stretched and twisted the guests' shadows across the slick, salt-crusted black stone floor. The air was briny and heavy, mingling the scents of seawater, burning oil, cold stone, and something more primal—the mysterious aura of the Deep Sea Sacrifice.
Balon Greyjoy wore a new black leather tunic, a golden kraken sigil embroidered across his chest. He stood ramrod straight, like a mast driven into the ground before the altar, his jaw clenched. The eyes that usually blazed with anger now held another, deeper and more complicated emotion: a solemn acceptance of the fate approaching, a fate he could not resist. Every so often, his gaze shifted to the woman beside him.
Aranys Harlaw did not wear the elaborate silks favored by noblewomen on the mainland. She wore a simple, thick dark green wool dress, its edges embroidered with silver waves, and a cloak woven from polished black fish scales over her shoulders. Her dark brown hair was braided into a thick plait that hung before her, dotted with tiny pearls like stars. In her hands, she indeed held a Ceremonial Dagger, its sheath made of Walrus Ivory. She did not stand like a bashful bride, but like a warrior about to seal a blood pact with an ally. Her green eyes calmly met the many gazes turned her way—curious, assessing, reverent, and even faintly jealous.
The Drowned God's priest spoke in a loud, hoarse voice, reciting the ancient Wedding Vows of the Ironborn. Each syllable seemed to carry the weight of seawater and the echoes of the abyss.
"...You are the stone, and they are the iron chains that bind you, keeping you upright in the storm..."
"...You are the blade, and they are your whetstone and sheath, keeping your edge from dulling and from turning against you..."
"...Together, you shall sail to the farther shore, where you shall share a place in the Water Palace of the Drowned God..."
The ceremony's climax was not an exchange of rings. The priest brought forth a rough Black Stone Sea Bowl filled with frigid, nearly black seawater. Balon and Aranys plunged their hands into it at the same time, the biting cold instantly tensing their muscles. With a coral-inlaid dagger, the priest quickly made a shallow cut across their overlapped wrists. A few drops of blood mingled with the dark water and vanished at once.
"By salt!" the priest cried, casting a handful of coarse sea salt into the bowl.
"By ice!" He tossed in a small piece of ice that would never melt, said to have come from the Far North.
"By blood!" At last, he pointed to the blood mingling in the water.
"You are wed! Until the seas run dry, until the stars fall!"
The ceremony was complete!
The priest poured the seawater, mingled with salt, ice, and blood, at their feet. It seeped into the cracks in the stone.
There was no tender kiss, no cheering. Instead, all the Ironborn nobles and captains in the temple struck the floor hard with the hafts of their knives and axes. The deep, rhythmic thunder sounded like war drums, like the rumble before a tsunami—a blessing and mark of approval of the highest order in the Iron Islands.
Balon turned his head and looked at his bride for the first time, truly and carefully. Aranys was looking at him too. There was no shy blush on her face, only calm appraisal and resolute acceptance. She raised her dagger slightly, a small yet powerful gesture.
Amid the thunder, King Kolen remained composed, satisfaction in his eyes at the strengthening of his family's interests. Lady Sansa held Victarion close, concern in her eyes, but also a faint hope for the newlyweds' future. She stroked her belly, where a new Greyjoy awaited birth. Uncle Balf grinned and pounded the shoulder of the person beside him.
Euron Greyjoy stood quietly in the shadow of a massive stone pillar in the temple, watching his elder brother and sister-in-law unite in the ancient ceremony, destined to face storms and winter together. He silently offered them his blessing. The marriage alliance he had set in motion—one that served both "fate" and interest—had settled firmly into its appointed place on the vast chessboard. Yet he also felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier. He did not want his future nieces or nephews to meet any tragic fate.
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