"Euron!"
A booming voice echoed outside the chamber door.
Lord Quellon Greyjoy strode in, the sharp scent of sea wind trailing behind him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, streaks of silver in his dark hair, and the scars on his face spoke of storms survived and battles won upon the open sea.
"Father," Euron said, sliding down from his chair and offering a slightly clumsy bow.
Quellon laughed and swept the boy up into his arms. "What did my little kraken learn today?"
"About the Great Houses, Father," Euron replied—and then added with disarming directness, "And about your plans to end the old way."
Quellon's smile faltered. His eyes shifted sharply toward Maester Tymor, who raised both hands in alarm.
"I said nothing, my lord," the maester insisted.
Quellon set Euron down carefully and crouched until they were eye-to-eye. "And how did you come to know this, son?"
Euron blinked innocently. "I heard you and Balon arguing. You said raids make the Iron Islands poor."
Quellon exhaled slowly. His hand rose to rest on Euron's head. "You're too young to weigh such matters. The old way built our name—changing it will not come easily."
Not easily at all, Euron thought. Centuries of tradition were harder to uproot than any fortress. The Iron Islands were bare stone and restless sea, relying on raids because the land had nothing else to offer. But the age of dragons had ended, Westeros had changed, and the Ironborn had not.
"Father," Euron asked quietly, "if we stop raiding… how will we live?"
Quellon hesitated, surprised by the clarity of the question. "Through trade," he said at last. "We have iron ore, salt, timber for shipbuilding. We can sell these, purchase grain, build merchant ships instead of longships."
"But will the other houses accept that?"
Quellon gave a bitter smile. "That is the heart of the trouble. Your brother Balon opposes it fiercely."
Euron knew that stubbornness well. Balon already bore the pride of a future Iron King—a man shaped more by the salt wind than by reason.
"I support you, Father," Euron said, sincere.
Quellon chuckled, brushing away the weight of such words. "You're barely three and already taking sides? My little kraken may grow into a fine lord someday."
After Quellon left, Euron returned to the window. Out on the horizon, a longship glided into the harbor, its sail marked with the golden kraken. One of Quellon's merchant ships—part of his attempt to bring the Iron Islands into a new age.
Behind him, Maester Tymor approached. "Young lord… do you truly grasp what your father is trying to achieve?"
Euron turned. His storm-blue eye glimmered. "More than most, Maester. The Iron Islands must change—or be crushed by history."
Tymor froze. Hearing such conviction from a child his age was unsettling.
The days that followed were steady and quiet, but Euron's growth was anything but ordinary. He absorbed lessons on the lesser houses, the strength of their fleets, the scattered resources of the isles, even the fundamentals of sailing. Quellon was amazed and had a small wooden sword made for him.
Every afternoon, Euron trained on Pyke's salt-covered yard.
"Hold tighter, Euron!" Balf Greyjoy, his uncle, roared. The young man, barely in his twenties and built like a ship's mast. "An Ironborn grips his sword as he grips victory!"
Euron raised the wooden blade, feet set. Balf lunged, and though Euron blocked, the force sent him sprawling.
"Good!" Balf hauled him upright and tapped his backside with the flat of his own sword. "Better than Balon ever was at three."
Euron brushed himself off, lifted the sword again, and said firmly, "Again."
The world was cruel, and strength was survival. He knew that all too well.
At sunset, the hall filled for supper. Lord Quellon sat at the head, with Lady Alannys beside him—slender, soft-spoken, a woman of House Harlaw. Balon sat stiffly on one side, Balf on the other.
"I hear you've made fine progress today, Euron," Quellon said warmly.
Balon scoffed. "Bah. Reading won't teach him to command a longship. Or win a shield-wall."
"Balon," Quellon snapped, "the world is shifting. Learning strengthens a man, whether he sails or fights."
Balon stabbed at his meal in brooding silence.
Euron studied his older brother. In the tales he remembered, Balon clung to the old way so fiercely that he dragged their house into ruin—twice. That same hard will was already visible in the boy's eyes.
"Brother," Euron said gently, "reading does make us better fighters."
Balon snorted. "How?"
"Knowing how others think," Euron answered. "Their customs, their strengths, their grudges. Understanding a rival's pride shows where he's weak. Learning a house's history explains why they fight the way they do. If we understand the people of the mainland, we can defeat them—or outmaneuver them."
Silence fell.
The hall stared at him as though a spirit had spoken.
Quellon blinked… then burst into laughter and struck the table with his palm.
"Well said, my boy! Quick-witted and clever—just like a true son of the Iron Islands!"
Balon's face darkened. To him, Euron's words were not wisdom—they were a child's trickery, a way to flatter their father. His glare held resentment sharpened by fear: the fear that Quellon might someday name a different heir.
But Euron felt no joy in outshining him. He knew future storms between them were inevitable.
After supper, Euron stood by a window, gazing at the crashing waves of the Sunset Sea. The wind whipped through his black hair. Balon's temper had flared again—an early sign of the vast chasm between them.
But that was not his concern tonight.
In this world, fate was written in blood and steel. To survive—and to change anything—he needed allies, knowledge, and influence. Quietly. Carefully. Patiently.
"Young lord," a handmaiden called. "It's time for bed."
Euron took one last look at the darkening sea before turning away. In his mind, plans swirled: lessons to study, maps to memorize, people to win over. He would not become the mad Crow's Eye of the stories. He would forge a new path—one guided not by chaos, but by purpose.
Back in his chamber, he sank to his knees like any Ironborn child and whispered to the Drowned God.
"If you hear me," he murmured, "grant me the strength to reshape the fate of the Iron Islands."
Then he climbed into bed, closed his mismatched eyes, and drifted into sleep—already plotting the tides he would one day command.