Balon turned stiffly, every step heavy as if dragging invisible chains, the sound of his boots on the cold stone floor distinct and agonizingly slow. The pride of the heir to Pyke had been crushed by his father's heavy punishment. The words "Wailing Point" were like cold iron hooks piercing his boiling rage, leaving only the dull ache of humiliation. He had expected a whipping—flesh torn open, blood flowing freely—that was a warrior's medal. But hard labor? Cleaning barnacles in the scorching sun like the lowest salt thrall? This was trampling on his status!
Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the spoils glittering in the firelight—Myrish gold, Qohorik silk. Their brilliance offered no comfort now; instead, they seemed like countless mocking eyes, silently sneering at the shame his "victory" had brought.
Euron appeared much calmer. He cast a thoughtful, final glance at his father's back—straight as a reef, isolated and heavy in the dancing firelight. He had anticipated his father's rage, and the punishment of confinement was within his expectations—even played into his hands. That mountain of loot might carry a curse in his father's eyes, but to Euron, they were cold, usable resources. His gaze finally settled on Lysa, standing quietly in the shadowy corner. Her calm grey-blue eyes were like two deep wells, reflecting the flickering firelight of the hall, and seemingly mirroring certain unformed thoughts in his own mind. He gave her an imperceptible nod, then turned to follow his brother's steps.
The two walked in silence towards the heavy oak doors. The rage and humiliation in Balon's chest had nowhere to vent, threatening to tear him apart. Just as he reached for the door ring, he stopped abruptly. His large hand, like an iron pincer, clamped down hard on Euron's thin shoulder! The fingers dug deep, the force so great that Euron let out a gasp of pain, his body stumbling.
"Little bastard!" Balon's voice squeezed through his teeth, carrying a hatred even the sea wind couldn't scatter. His hot breath sprayed against Euron's ear. "If I hadn't brought you, you jinx, Father wouldn't be this angry! I'd have taken a few lashes at most, why... why would I be sent to Wailing Point as a laborer?!" The more he thought, the more hateful he became, his fingers tightening as if to crush his brother's scapula.
Euron grimaced in pain, but his dark blue eyes held no fear, only cold mockery and a touch of offended annoyance. Enduring the pain, he met his brother's fire-spitting gaze without flinching, his voice pressed low and cold: "Hmph. If not for me, dear brother, you and your band of brutes would have been turned into porcupines at Havana Port long ago! You owe me a life—forgotten so soon? In the Iron Islands' 'Old Way,' how is a life debt repaid?" He deliberately emphasized the words "Old Way."
"One thing doesn't cancel out the other!" Balon growled low, like a sea beast poked in a wound. "Ironborn keep debts clear! I will repay the life debt! But this punishment is entirely because of you!" He stubbornly pinned all blame on his brother's presence.
"Ha! 'Clear' indeed!" Euron scoffed, wrenching his shoulder in an attempt to break the iron grip. "It is Father punishing you! Because he thinks you, the eldest son and future King of the Salt Throne, led a reckless charge and nearly dragged House Greyjoy into the abyss! You were stupid—don't blame it on me!" His words were fast, each one a knife.
"Pah!" Balon, furious, spat heavily on the stone floor at his feet. The loud sound seemed to be his entire evaluation of his brother's argument. He released his grip and shoved Euron hard, sending him staggering a few steps.
Just as the brothers were at each other's throats, the tension ready to spark, Lord Quellon's cold, weary voice came from the depths of the hall, like a bucket of ice water: "Enough! Before you go to your 'reefs' and 'desks,' go see your mother!" Quellon didn't turn around, his voice filled with impatience and a trace of imperceptible pain. "She's been crying all day for you two reckless fools, nearly blind with tears! Go give her some peace!" He paused, his tone returning to cold command. "Dagmer, you stay!"
Balon and Euron were pinned in place by Quellon's roar. The rebuke about their mother crying herself blind was a lash across both their hearts. Their father hadn't turned, but that voice suppressing pain was heavier than any scolding.
The two turned silently and walked toward their mother, Lady Sronsa Greyjoy's chambers. The air was thick with the smell of herbs and oppression. Their father's rebuke acted like an invisible whip, dispersing the fire of their confrontation. The anger on Balon's face was instantly replaced by a complex look—heartache for his mother, embarrassment at his weakness being exposed by his father, and a deeper self-reproach. He glared at Euron one last time, said nothing, and yanked open the heavy wooden door, disappearing into the shadows outside with lingering hostility and heavy steps.
Lady Sronsa reclined against pillows, her six-month pregnant belly rising under a thin blanket. Tear tracks were still wet on her pale face, her eyes red and swollen. Seeing her two sons enter—especially Balon—a surge of anger instantly overpowered her grief.
"Balon!" Her voice was hoarse but sharp. She propped herself up suddenly, and before Balon could react—Smack!
A loud slap landed viciously on his face. The force was enough to make eighteen-year-old Balon stagger, a clear handprint rising rapidly on his cheek.
"It's fine if you want to die yourself, but why did you take Euron?! How old is he?! Is that a place for a five-year-old child?!" Lady Sronsa's chest heaved violently, her eyes burning with the fire of lingering fear and rage.
Balon clutched his face, stubbornly stiffening his neck. His gaze was dark, but he dared not talk back to his mother.
Just then, Sronsa's gaze swept over Euron and froze instantly on his exposed shoulder where the sleeve was torn—a massive, terrifying bruise of purple and blue, with the faint, white-edged scrape of an arrow graze clearly visible.
"Gods!!" Sronsa gasped, her face turning paler than paper. She whipped around to face Balon, eyes practically spitting fire. She raised her hand and, with every ounce of strength she possessed—
Smack!
Another, even louder slap landed heavily on the other side of Balon's face!
"You bastard of a brother! Is this how you take care of him?!" Sronsa's voice cracked with tears and despair. "Did you want to get him killed?! Do you want me to lose both of you?!"
Both of Balon's cheeks were now swollen and burning red. He gritted his teeth so hard they might crack, fists clenched at his sides until the knuckles popped. His ferocious gaze, like a poisoned dagger, stabbed viciously at Euron. It was a look filled with the rage of public humiliation and resentment toward his brother.
Euron shivered under that gaze. His mother's protection had just become a death warrant. He knew Balon too well. Balon wouldn't dare explode at their mother for this beating and humiliation, but he would absolutely take revenge on Euron—tenfold, a hundredfold.
"M... Mother," Euron stammered, clutching his shoulder in agonizing pain, his voice feigning just the right amount of weakness and panic. "I... I feel dizzy, and the wound hurts... Maester Qalen said I need the dressing changed immediately... I... I'll go find the Maester!"
He spoke fast, giving neither his mother a chance to speak nor Balon a chance to attack. Like a startled deer, he turned and stumbled out of the room, leaving his enraged brother and weeping mother behind.
He had to leave this exploding powder keg immediately. Brother Balon's eyes told him that a bone-deep beating was now only a matter of time.