Euron ultimately chose to lay everything on the table.
The atmosphere in the Lord of Pyke's study was heavier than the storm brewing over the sea outside. Whale-oil lamps cast wavering halos across Kolen Greyjoy's enormous black-stone desk, illuminating the spread-out sea charts, a half-unrolled trade ledger, and the silent clash of wills among a family of three—or rather, nearly the entire Greyjoy inner circle.
Euron Greyjoy was only seven years old, yet he stood as steady as a sea reef. His clear voice cut through his mother Sansa Blacktyde's ragged breathing.
"Father, Mother. The Long Night is coming, and it will last three years. I don't want to waste these precious thirteen hundred days and nights hiding behind Pyke's thick stone walls, existing like an onion in a cellar and waiting to be slowly consumed." His choice of words far outstripped his age. "Waiting is a kind of death in itself."
King Kolen did not answer at once. His thick fingers unconsciously rubbed a bronze paperweight on the desk, an artistic piece shaped like a drowning man in agony. His gaze was an abyss, scrutinizing his youngest, strangest, and most uncontrollable son.
"I know your head is full of thoughts far beyond your years, as if the Drowned God had possessed you." Kolen finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse, roughened by the sea wind. "But your body, Euron, is only seven years old. A single wave or a bout of chills on the Narrow Sea in winter could wipe away all that makes you 'different.' If you were five years older, or even three, with shoulders strong enough to withstand a storm, my answer might be different."
The corner of Euron's mouth lifted in the faintest, almost mocking smile. His mismatched eyes shimmered with an inhuman light in the lamplight. "Father, have you forgotten? They call me the Son of the Drowned God. Some even whisper in taverns that I'm the Grey King, returned from the depths... Do you think the sea would easily reclaim its own creation?"
"Get out!" Kolen slammed a hand on the desk, making the paperweight jump. "Don't try to fob me off with the same nonsense you use to fool fishermen and salt wives! You're my son, you have my blood in your veins, and you're not some damned myth!" His roar carried the irritation of a man confronted with a taboo, and a deeper unease. Sometimes, even he couldn't tell whether his son was simply gifted—or whether something ancient had truly taken over his body.
Faced with his father's fury, Euron's expression abruptly turned intensely practical, even somewhat cold, dispelling the mysterious air in an instant. "Of course I'm afraid of dying, Father. Terrified." He admitted it so readily that it was all the more unnerving. "That's exactly why I won't jump into the icy sea unprepared."
He stepped forward and placed a small hand on the coastline of Essos on the sea chart. "Pentos has our Ice and Fire trading company's largest warehouse and at least a hundred loyal Ironborn. Three alleys in Lys are packed with our agents. We have trading partners in Valantis, and even farther away in Qohor. I'm not going wandering. I'm going to inspect the holdings we already have."
His finger tapped several key locations, his voice as calm as if he were reciting an account book. "'Rhaegar' Daggmo will lead his longship Hao Yin and two other swift ships, along with three hundred of the bravest and most loyal Ironborn, as my escort. They've drunk their fill of salt water and sworn to protect me with their lives."
He paused and raised his eyes, his gaze sharp. "Besides, I've had Maleo Romis—you know, the Braavosi who handles our 'gray' affairs—hire a company of elite mercenaries in advance for a hefty sum. A hundred battle-hardened professionals will meet me in Pentos and guard me on land. I'm not going to start a war, Father. I'm only going to... secure our trade routes, take stock of our warehouses, and make sure gold and supplies continue flowing to the Iron Islands like blood, even in winter. That's safer and more important than any raid."
"No! Absolutely not!" Lady Sansa could no longer hold back. She sprang to her feet, her face as pale as salt, her voice shrill with fear. "You're only seven! Seven! Essos? It's crawling with slave traders, assassins, and plagues! They'll kidnap you and sell you to some eastern sorcerer to use as an ingredient in a potion! Or you'll catch a fever and die in some filthy inn! I won't let you go! You're not going anywhere! You'll stay in Pyke, where I can keep you in sight!"
As a mother, she saw no grand ambition. She saw only a small child about to be swallowed by the terrifying East.
Euron turned to his mother. His voice softened, but his resolve was unshakable—a chilling sight on a child's face. "Mother, I'm not leaving now. I promise you. I'll wait until the first real snowflake lands on Pyke's towers, until a thin layer of ice begins to form on the sea, confirming that Westeros has officially entered its dormancy. Only then will I leave." His promise sounded more like a countdown.
A deathly silence fell over the study, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the mournful wailing of the sea wind against the tall windows.
King Kolen's gaze moved from his wife, trembling with agitation, to the calm, almost indifferent face of his youngest son. He saw what lay in the depths of those eyes: not a child's caprice, nor a youth's recklessness, but a cold, precisely calculated ambition and... a hunger for a much larger stage. He realized this was not a discussion. It was a notification.
After a long while, the King of the Sea Stones let out a heavy breath, the sound seeming to rise from the bottom of the sea. "It seems," he said slowly, each word as if pressed beneath a thousand pounds of weight, "you've already made up your mind. You're not asking your father's permission as a son. You're... announcing your actions as a Greyjoy."
Euron gave a slight nod, making no attempt to deny it. "Yes, Father."
Kolen leaned back into his massive stone chair. Shadows covered most of his face, but his eyes remained sharp as knives. "Then," he said, his voice once again carrying his customary, unquestionable authority, "make every preparation before the first snowflake falls. I want to see the maintenance records for every ship, the names and backgrounds of every guard, every detail of the agreements with the mercenary company, and the exact locations and contact methods for every supply point. Your plan must be as seamless as Nagga's scales. Otherwise, even if I have to chain you beneath the Drowned God's altar, I won't let you set foot outside Pyke."
This was no blessing. It was an order, a test. A father's ultimatum to his son—and the King of the Sea Stones' ultimatum to the "being" who might lead his family into uncharted waters.
Euron nodded and smiled. "Absolutely! I told you, I'm afraid of dying."
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