The World Was So Vast

The prophecy of winter was like an invisible chill, seeping into the bones of the Iron Islands even before the cold, salty sea breeze blowing in from the Narrow Sea.

Beneath the dome of Maester's Tower, Euron Greyjoy's gaze did not linger on the map before him, marked with the granaries and forests of the various regions of Westeros. Instead, he stared for a long time at the enormous, ancient map of Essos on the wall, its edges blurred by the ravages of bookworms and damp.

There was another option for facing the coming winter: go to another continent.

On the parchment, from the frozen Shivering Sea to the smoke-shrouded Valantis, from the serpentlike Rhône River to the mysterious, gloomy Asshai, that vast Eastern land was depicted as a patchwork of countless city-states, deserts, oases, and seas of grass.

King Kolen's deep voice analyzed the Vale's food stores, the North's predicament, and the Narrow Sea routes that would soon become treacherous and unpredictable. But Euron's thoughts had already set sail on the winds of imagination, flying across that storm-lashed expanse.

Euron knew that winter in Westeros was no ordinary season. The maesters of the Citadel explained it through the paths of the stars and climate cycles, but deep down, they all harbored an older, more unsettling understanding: the seasons of this land were distorted by some vast, primordial, incomprehensible magic.

Long Summer was both a blessing and a curse, heralding the long winter that followed, one capable of freezing souls and civilizations alike. It was an affliction rooted in the very laws of the world, tormenting Westeros alone.

But what of Essos, across the Narrow Sea? While ice crystals covered Winterfell's battlements, the Riverlands lay buried beneath deep snow, and even the beggars' gangs in King's Landing huddled in corners, shivering...

The south of Essos might be basking in the everlasting sunshine of Lys and Valantis. Warm breezes still drifted through the Spice Islands, while olive trees and vineyards continued to dot the Ghiscali hills. Their winter was merely a mild footnote in the trade calendar, one that called for an extra velvet coat.

Their worries were tariffs on trade routes, sellsword contracts, and the price of slaves—not whether they could dig their last grain of food out of the snow.

The laws governing the world were so starkly divided between one shore and the other.

Euron's fingertip silently traced the narrow, dark-blue strip on the map that represented the Narrow Sea. This trench of water divided more than just two continents; it seemed to separate two utterly different destinies.

Westeros struggled on the Gods and Demons' chessboard, bearing the cost of its extreme seasonal shifts, and perhaps secretly nurturing ancient powers to match them, such as the Children of the Forest, the White Walkers, and dragons. Essos, too, had its gods, its Blood Magic, and its shadowbinders, but the continent as a whole seemed to operate under a different, more "secular" set of rules, one more devoted to trade, conquest, and pleasure—and free of the periodic divine punishment wrought by magic.

Euron thought of how every shard of Valyrian steel sang with a lost incantation; how the sacrificial flames in every Red Temple might burn with genuine divine power; how every Undying One in Qarth might guard the secrets of time; how every misshapen creature on the edge of the Smoking Sea might be the product of some twisted magical experiment.

In the system's laws, all of these were gleaming, harvestable "points." His journey east would be a grand hunt. His prey would not be lions or bison, but miracles, mysteries, and forbidden knowledge itself.

In Westeros, magic had faded, becoming a pale ghost. The Citadel dismissed it as superstition, while the nobles did little more than observe ancient rituals. Its presence was as faint as the last trace of warmth at summer's end. Dragons had long gone extinct, the Children of the Forest had retreated into legend, and the White Walkers had become bedtime stories told to frighten children. The world here had grown drab, trapped in the dull cycle of steel, honor, and power.

But in Essos... magic had never truly died. It had merely changed form, hiding in the shadows and waiting to be awakened.

Euron's fingertip came to rest on the ruins of Valyria, and he could imagine the furious energy of Blood Magic and Dragonfire still lingering in its billowing sulfurous mists. He thought of the Shadow Lands of Asshai, where, it was said, sorcerers still bartered with things that did not come from this world. He thought of the Undying Ones of Qarth, perhaps immersed in pools of jade and peering into the currents of time. He thought of the Red Temples, where priests of the Lord of Light might truly be able to revive the dead through their faith.

To Euron, this pervasive, living power—something that could perhaps be touched, even mastered—held a more alluring promise than any gold or crown. The system needed "anomalies" and exploration, and perhaps, deep in his soul, he yearned to understand, even control, the wild and dangerous primordial force that formed the world's underlying logic.

The Seven Kingdoms played the game of power, while in certain corners of Essos, the Gods and Demons played their game of chess. He wanted to go there not merely to watch, but to learn, so that one day he could... join the game.

Finally, there was the matter of having a fallback. If, by some chance, Westeros could not withstand the White Walkers, the lands across the Narrow Sea would be the Ironborn's last sanctuary.

History had already proven the value of the East through the Targaryen family's earlier exile, before Aerys the "Mad King." When Westeros's harsh winters or wars became unbearable, the East was a natural refuge and supply line. Dragonstone was the outpost, and Essos the vast rear base.

The light of the whale-oil lamp flickered in Euron Greyjoy's mismatched eyes, reflecting the enormous, astonishingly detailed map of Essos spread across the table. His fingertip slid slowly over the rough surface of the parchment, from the Pyramids of Meereen in Pentos to the Black Forest of Qohor, finally coming to rest beside the shadow-shrouded Asshai. This was more than a geographical tour; it was like a search for the poles of fate.

"The Narrow Sea becomes a roaring beast in autumn and winter," Kolen said, bringing Euron back to reality. He was pointing at the strait on the map, his brow furrowed. "Storms can tear apart the sturdiest longships, and reefs—and worse things—lurk in the fog. Every crossing is a gamble with the Drowned God. All the ships can do is stay ashore, and all trade must come to a halt."

The risks. Yes, the risks were enormous.

But that very risk was a natural barrier, protecting Essos from being immediately swept up in Westeros's cold currents and filtering out the brave and the desperate who had the nerve and skill to cross it.

An idea rose in Euron's heart like a sea monster quietly surfacing in the darkness: The world is so vast. I want to see it.

Not just see it. He wanted to touch, taste, and understand that land, untouched by the curse of the magical winter.

The system needed points, and Essos was full of "anomalies" and "stories"—a perfect hunting ground for earning them.

More practically, it had the food and timber Westeros urgently needed, and the Ice and Fire Trading Company's network required him to personally integrate, strengthen, and expand it.

This trading network was complex and intricate, involving too many Free Cities, too many cultural differences, and too much greed and betrayal. It needed a mind with absolute authority, extraordinary calculating ability, and icy determination to integrate it in person, exert control, and make split-second decisions. The agents and partners needed to see Greyjoy's will for themselves, even if that will resided in the body of a seven-year-old child.

This wasn't an inspection. It was a way to bring the network to life, to turn potential trade routes into the Iron Islands' lifeline.

His father and the others would worry about his safety, but they didn't know that in the past two years, thanks to its far-sighted business instincts and a little "luck"—which came from Euron's hints—the Ice and Fire Trading Company had already quietly laid the groundwork in Pentos, Braavos, and even farther away in Lys. Nearly a hundred Ironborn elites—not only merchants, but craftsmen, spies, and even warriors disguised as sellswords—had driven their way like wedges into several of the Free Cities.

He wasn't venturing into unknown danger. He was going to inspect and take hold of the net he had already quietly cast.

The lords of Westeros were still fighting tooth and nail over the Iron Throne, their lands, and their claims to succession. But had they ever looked up to see the world?

True power might come not only from cold blades and ancient bloodlines, but also from rivers of gold, networks of information, and a deeper understanding of the rules governing the world. Essos was the best classroom for understanding all of it.

Euron longed for a "winter camp" on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

This wasn't an escape, but another form of ambition. While Westeros curled up in the winter, licking its wounds and gathering strength, he, Euron Greyjoy, would build another kind of power on a different stage—for House Greyjoy and for himself, power enough to overturn everything in the future.

His gaze returned to the unfamiliar place names on the map of Essos. It was as if he could already see the forests of smokestacks, the bustling slave markets, the fragrant spice bazaars, and beneath it all, the ceaseless currents of gold and power. It was a hot, vibrant world, unfrozen by Westeros's long winter, waiting for him to explore and conquer it in a way different from the Ironborn's Old Way.