Euron's brief tour of Harlaw Island ultimately earned him 160 points. It wasn't a bountiful haul, but it was about what he'd expected. For one thing, he hadn't been there long. For another, though he bore the title of the Iron Islands' king's second son, he was still an outsider to House Harlaw and its people, with their deep-rooted traditions and tangled ties. He couldn't set foot in many places, and plenty of eyes watched him with suspicion. That severely limited how efficiently he could earn "points."
His plans to cross the sea were drawing near, and Euron needed strength more than ever. With a slight shift of his thoughts, the system interface shimmered, and a full hundred points vanished in an instant, cast into the unfathomable whirlpool of rewards. A chill only he could feel swept through the depths of his soul, as if the gates of the underworld had opened for a moment.
[Obtained—Weapon: Soul Reaver Sword]
The cold gathered, and a slender rapier appeared in his hand.
Its blade was exceedingly thin, yet it shimmered with an inhuman, ghostly blue light, as though it had been forged from the heart of an ancient glacier. It was unnaturally light, almost weightless in his grip, yet somehow perfectly balanced. It was the sword of Brook, musician and swordsman of the Straw Hat Pirates, one of the senior officers of the Straw Hat Grand Fleet, from another world. Its point could do more than pierce flesh: it could infuse its target with the bone-deep chill of the underworld, leaving enemies to howl in despair as their blood froze.
For Euron, who wasn't known for brute strength, this light, uncanny, and deadly enchanted sword had come at just the right time.
Euron hung Soul Reaver Sword at his left hip. It no longer belonged to Brook, so Euron gave it a name of his own: Cold Spirit. The extra rapier drew some attention, but no more than that. Only Baron had been unable to resist drawing it to try it out, then scoffed, "A little girl's toy!"
Euron gazed out at the gray sea beyond the window, tapping his fingers unconsciously on the rough wooden table. "How many months until the winter the maesters at the Citadel predict?"
Lysa didn't look up. Her voice was clear and calm. "Three months. The ravens from the North confirm it. The cold winds are already gathering north of the Neck."
"Three months... That should be enough time." Euron rose, his shadow shifting across the stone wall with him. "For the next two months, I'll visit every other island in the Iron Islands. I won't miss a single one. Father has entrusted me with this important duty, so I need to see with my own eyes whether their granaries are full, their roofs can withstand the snow and wind, and their swords are sharp—and whether they truly need no help."
His tone was even as he gave the respectable reason for his journey. But deep down, this tour was about far more than caring for the people or fulfilling his duty.
Each island was a game board waiting for its piece to be moved. Every appearance, every promise, even every punishment that mingled favor with fear, would become a silent bargaining chip, adding to the "points" that belonged to him, Euron. He needed those points, and craved the "rewards" drawn from the Pirate King System. The journey across the Narrow Sea beckoned from afar, a perilous route filled with unknown storms, strange arts, and ruthless enemies. Beyond that vast expanse, any outside help might vanish like mist. Only the strength he held in his own hands could carry him through the waves and keep him alive.
Over the next two months, Euron Greyjoy's footsteps, carried by the black hull of the Hao Yin, trampled across every inch of the Iron Islands' defiant seas.
It was no leisurely tour, but a silent storm. The Hao Yin was an extension of his will, cutting through lead-gray waves as it visited one island after another, each bristling with cliffs and howling with sea winds.
Though he was only seven years old, not a single lord in the Iron Islands dared to treat Euron Greyjoy as an ordinary child.
He controlled Platinum Sand—not some common substance, but a source of power more intoxicating than gold. No one knew where its secret formula came from, but its incandescent white glow obeyed only him. He allotted every grain that the nobles of the islands received with his slender fingers. His favor could lift a family to greatness, while his withdrawal could send another plunging into the abyss.
Every trade route used by ships bound for wealth and plunder, like intertwined strands of fate, ultimately converged at his fingertips. He decided which sea lanes to reveal and which raids under the "Old Way" could go ahead. The Ironborn might wield swords, but their strength sprang from the intricate plans silently turning over in his mind.
More awe-inspiring still, even the inscrutable Drowned God seemed to crown him through the voices of the priests. Before smoke-wreathed altars, the priests loudly proclaimed his "miracles," honoring him as the Son of the Drowned God. Thus, religious fervor and secular power merged within him in a strange union.
Whenever the Hao Yin's distinctive black sails appeared on the horizon near an island, the entire domain would instantly fall into a tense ritual state, caught between anticipation and fear.
The horns atop the watchtowers sounded in a particular rhythm. No longer a warning of enemy ships, their notes carried a more complicated message: he was here. The harbor then erupted into orderly chaos. The lords would never wait until the ship docked before making hurried preparations. They immediately donned their finest furs or mail, ordered their servants to sweep the courtyards as fast as possible, brought out the finest sour ale and salted meat from their cellars, and forced their loud, rough sailors, reeking of the sea, to quiet down and form a procession that looked at least somewhat respectful.
Not one lord saw the visit as a simple courtesy call. In their eyes, the approaching warship did not carry a child. It carried a moving treasure trove and an invisible scepter.
The welcoming ceremonies at the docks were always excessively grand, and sometimes clumsily ingratiating. The lord had to attend in person, followed by every important member of his family and a nervous maester. They wore smiles as sincere as they could manage, but behind their eyes, their minds raced. Why had he come this time? To inspect their tribute? Allocate their share of Platinum Sand? Reveal the next season's routes? Or... had he heard some unfavorable rumors about them?
No matter how full the wine cups, they couldn't dilute the cautious, probing atmosphere. Every toast concealed a hidden barb, and every report on the state of the domain was weighed word by word. They showed off their full granaries and strong warriors, not out of pride, but to prove their worth and loyalty—and hopefully earn more favor in the next "allocation."
They didn't fear his age of seven. They feared the absolute power he represented: the intelligence on sea lanes that could ignite greed and war, the Platinum Sand quotas that could decide a family's rise or fall, and the terrible, almost theocratic legitimacy endorsed by the Drowned God's priests. Every visit from Euron was a small-scale Kingsmoot, a reckoning with fate. They bowed to a seven-year-old body, but even more to the undisputed embodiment of power who controlled the lifeblood of the Iron Islands.
He seemed to be fulfilling his duty as the king's second son, touring the islands on his father's behalf and asking with concern about their provisions, ships, and preparations for winter. But those hawk-sharp eyes of his measured far more: the loyalties of their people, the price of their allegiance, and the depths of the fear he could inspire.
Of course, what mattered most to Euron at that moment was earning the points that would make him even stronger.
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