In the banquet hall, the clear, melodious sound of silver strings suddenly cut through the noise, enveloping the entire hall like morning light piercing through fog.
All conversation ceased abruptly.
People's gazes turned in unison to the dais—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat in the shadows, an ancient harp resting in his embrace. His slender fingers gently stroked the strings, and notes poured out like flowing water—sometimes weeping and complaining, sometimes impassioned and surging, as if narrating ancient legends and unfulfilled dreams.
Candlelight gently outlined his chiseled profile. His pale violet eyes were downcast, and his silver-gold hair glowed with a faint halo under the light.
Maidens unknowingly held their breath, forgetting to sip from the goblets in their hands, tears of emotion even welling up in the corners of some eyes. The music echoed in the hall; even the hardest warriors couldn't help but soften their gazes, brought into another realm by this transcendent performance.
When the last note slowly dissipated in the air, the lingering sound winding around the beams, the entire hall fell into a moment of silence before erupting into tide-like applause.
Lord Whent stepped onto the stage at the right moment, his voice loud and full of respect. "My lords and ladies, allow me to introduce—the one who cleansed our souls with heavenly sounds tonight is none other than the Prince of Dragonstone, His Highness Rhaegar Targaryen! His arrival brings glory to Harrenhal!"
Rhaegar rose slowly, nodding slightly to the crowd with elegant and composed posture, as if born to stand in the center of attention.
With a shrewd smile like a merchant, Lord Whent swept his gaze over Euron in the crowd, then announced loudly, his voice echoing in the grand hall: "Distinguished guests, please raise your glasses with me! Thanks to the Iron Islands, thanks to the generosity of House Greyjoy! All the fine wine and platinum sand for this tourney are provided by them with passion!"
He paused briefly, his smile growing even brighter, introducing as if reciting poetry: "White, crisp and cool; Blue, deep and profound; Purple, mellow and rich; Golden, magnificent and noble—four kinds of Kraken wine, there is always one to conquer your taste buds!"
The hall burst into knowing laughter. Guests raised their glasses high, saluting the direction of House Greyjoy, crystal and silver clinking crisply.
On the high seat of honor, Prince Rhaegar sat peacefully, the Princess of Dorne and the Targaryen Princess accompanying him like pearls, quietly observing the noise below.
Euron leaned against the long table, a half-smile on his lips, acutely feeling a gaze that almost pierced him. He raised his eyes lazily, meeting the fire-spitting eyes of the Lord of the Arbor directly—a gaze so fierce it seemed to want to swallow him whole.
To this, Euron merely raised an eyebrow indifferently. He completely understood this hatred; after all, it was war, a life-and-death struggle with no retreat. For the future and survival of the Iron Islands, once things were done, there was no need for regret, nor overthinking.
Euron even found the other party's unconcealed anger somewhat amusing.
Thus, instead of avoiding it, Euron proactively met that murderous gaze. With a leisurely posture, he raised the goblet in his hand, toasting Lord Redwyne from afar, his face wearing a near-mocking "magnanimity."
His gaze shifting, Euron spotted another figure, and a trace of genuine surprise mixed into his usual cynicism—Old Walder Frey, that old man nearing eighty, actually dragged his old bones all the way to Harrenhal personally?
Euron almost admired the old guy's tenacity. Traveling such a long distance at this age, wasn't he afraid of accidentally dying on the road and becoming unheeded dry bones by the wayside?
Holding a cup of amber-dark Kraken wine, Euron walked calmly through the noisy crowd, finally stopping before the Lord famous for his advanced age and numerous offspring. He leaned forward slightly, the wine cup gleaming in his hand.
"Lord Frey," his voice was steady but carried a trace of imperceptible chill. "First time meeting. Allow me to introduce myself—I am Euron Greyjoy."
Old Walder Frey raised his muddy, yellowed eyes, a dry cough sounding in his throat like broken bellows. "Your name has long thundered in my ears." His voice was hoarse but every word clear. "At the Crossroads, the blood shed by our Frey warriors... hasn't dried yet. House Frey will not forget Lord Euron's 'lesson'."
Euron's face held no expression. leaning closer, his voice dropped lower, like ice scraping over rock. "Then it is best not to forget it for a lifetime. Remember it well."
Euron paused, as if suddenly remembering something, speaking softly at a volume only the two could hear. "I wonder if Lord Frey has heard a popular tune recently—'The Flames of the Arbor'?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued whispering, his tone like sharing a secret story. "The sea... is ultimately not a place House Frey should go. The wind is strong and waves are urgent; ships capsize easily."
With that, he didn't wait for Frey's answer and walked straight away, heading toward the direction of the Reach.
The Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna Redwyne (Tyrell by marriage) of Highgarden, also noticed Euron's presence. Unlike her brother Adrian Redwyne (Lord of the Arbor), who looked ready to crush his wine cup, this old lady known for wisdom and sharpness wore her signature smile laced with a hint of mockery. Instead of avoiding his gaze, she elegantly raised her goblet toward Euron and took a sip of the deep purple liquid.
"I must say," her voice wasn't loud but clearly reached the ears of those around her, "the taste of this Kraken wine is actually quite good. It seems after the celebration, we at Highgarden will have to order a few barrels from the Iron Islands. Whether for entertaining guests or enjoying ourselves, it is quite suitable."
These words were like a stone thrown into calm water. Her brother, Lord Adrian Redwyne beside her, turned his head sharply, glaring at his sister as if looking at a shameful traitor. He squeezed the words through his teeth: "Our Arbor wine is the best in the Seven Kingdoms! These... these things from the Iron Islands are just swill with the salty taste of seawater!"
Her son, Mace Tyrell, the Warden of the South and Lord of Highgarden, puffed up his cheeks like an enraged pufferfish upon hearing his mother. Adrian was his uncle, and the Arbor was one of Highgarden's most important bannermen. The Iron Islands' plunder of House Redwyne was undoubtedly a slap in Highgarden's face too. Emotionally and logically, Euron counted as his enemy.
The heir to Highgarden, Willas Tyrell, merely smiled and savored the wine in his cup. He seemed unwilling to comment too much on the war that had already settled into dust.
Lady Olenna ignored her brother's anger, stating calmly, "Good is good, bad is bad. Fine wine won't turn into swill just because of your hostility." Her sharp gaze swept over everyone present. "After the tourney, I dare say every noble in Westeros will know the name of Kraken wine, and orders will fly to the Iron Islands like crows. Your evaluation cannot change any facts."
She paused, her tone becoming more meaningful, speaking for everyone to hear. "Smart people should know when to let go of what matters." Her gaze finally landed on her son's flushed face, adding ruthlessly, "Stop staring and puffing, my 'Lord Pufferfish'. Even if you blow your cheeks until they burst, you can't change the fact that Kraken wine is about to become popular." She had clearly long given up on reforming this son who was "good at neither letters nor martial arts," turning instead to her eldest grandson. "Willas, what do you say?"
Willas Tyrell nodded steadily, displaying wisdom beyond his years. "Grandmother speaks reason. At least in this matter, the outcome is set. However," he pivoted, appreciation showing in his eyes, "House Greyjoy's marketing method is truly novel and efficient, very much worth our learning."
Euron walked calmly before the Highgarden nobles, bowing elegantly. His gaze swept sequentially over the Queen of Thorns Olenna, Lord Mace Tyrell, the iron-faced Lord Adrian Redwyne, and the steady Willas Tyrell.
"Since our last parting, it has been a long time," his voice was steady, as if just greeting old friends. "I trust everyone has been well?"
Lord Adrian Redwyne of the Arbor huffed coldly and walked away directly.
Lady Olenna raised eyes that were sharper than her age should allow, sneering unceremoniously. "Well? How could we be well!" She swirled the wine cup slightly, the deep red liquid like blood. "Our cellars were emptied, treasury hit bottom, ships in the harbor either towed away or turned to ash. Even century-old vines were uprooted—" Her voice rose suddenly, carrying sharp sarcasm. "The most excessive part is, you took every last one of our winemakers to those rocky islands! And now, you use our skills to brew this 'Kraken Wine,' trying to cut off the Arbor's livelihood completely?"
She coughed lightly, her gaze scraping Euron's face like a knife. "You've learned quite well from Tywin Lannister. Now in this Harrenhal, that song 'The Flames of the Arbor' can be heard everywhere..." The old lady's words were quenched in cold hatred. "You crush the Arbor's honor as a stepping stone, and even stomp it into the mud. Tell me, how can we be well?"
Euron hadn't expected the old lady to be so direct. The corner of his lip lifted, revealing an elusive smile. "War has always been cruel, My Lady. In it, there is only life and death, where is there benevolence and morality? Precisely because of this, we should remember the price of war, try our best to avoid flames, and seek peace."
Olenna Redwyne stared at him without backing down. "Spoken beautifully. So do you plan to return the abducted winemakers? Don't tell me they were 'lost in battle'; even dogs wouldn't believe that." Her voice lowered, but every word was clear. "Or are you saying the Iron Islands will wash your hands in a golden basin and never brew wine again? Otherwise, tell me, where does this 'peace' start from?"
Euron's expression remained unchanged as he replied steadily. "What is done is done; discussing it further is useless. I cannot return the winemakers, but perhaps we can have other ways of cooperation."
"Cooperation?" Olenna raised an eyebrow, clear mockery in her tone. "I'd like to hear it."
"All the grapes produced by the Arbor," Euron said calmly, "we are willing to purchase at thirty percent above market price."
Olenna scoffed, turning her head to glance at him as if looking at a madman.
Euron didn't mind and continued smiling. "And trade. The world is big, not just Westeros—across the Narrow Sea, the markets of the Free Cities far exceed what you and I imagine. Our Iron Islands alone cannot swallow the entire East." He leaned forward slightly, temptation in his voice. "If you are willing, the Arbor can be the exclusive agent for Kraken wine in Essos."
Olenna fell silent for a moment, her sharp gaze retracting slightly. "That is worth considering. Is that all?"
"And the Stepstones," Euron said slowly, lowering his voice further. "I wonder if you have any interest... in those islands?"
A sharp light flashed suddenly in Olenna Redwyne's eyes. Almost without hesitation: "Deal!"
Lord Mace Tyrell blinked blankly, his gaze moving back and forth between his mother and Euron, his chubby face filled with confusion. "You... you settled it just like that? The Stepstones? That place is chaotic as hell, more pirates than merchant ships, what interest can there be?"
Lady Olenna sighed deeply, a sigh wrapped in endless helplessness and disappointment. She rubbed her brow as if overwhelmed. "Gods above, I truly cannot figure out how I gave birth to such a..." She paused, swallowing the harsher words, leaving only a cold mockery. "...son as dull as a pig. Pity, you're already born, can't stuff you back in."
She turned to Mace, her tone becoming sharp and urgent, like teaching a forever-dense apprentice. "Didn't you notice? The Iron Islands just launched a giant ship not long ago, heard to be several times larger than the Lannisters' Lioness! Their shipyards don't stop day or night; warship after warship is pushed into the sea. Do you really think they build so many warships just to do business peacefully?"
Without waiting for her son's answer, she sneered and answered herself. "Fight? We may not beat them now. Do business? Looks like we can't beat them there either. Now that Euron Greyjoy personally offered a step, if we don't take the opportunity to climb down, are we really going to wait to be thoroughly squeezed out?" Her voice lowered, carrying an unquestionable sharpness. "Moreover—the Stepstones! That disputed land itself is an unguarded gold mine! Controlling the shipping lanes there has far more future than guarding a few acres of grape fields!"
Lord Mace Tyrell still looked blank. He lowered his voice, his fat face written with incomprehension and contempt. "But he is just the second son of that King Quellon of the Iron Islands! A second son, what authority does he have? What can he promise on behalf of House Greyjoy?"
Lady Olenna sighed deeply again, wrapped in despair over such an obtuse heir. "If you're dull, read more books!" Her voice was sharp as ice. "I tell you to read the news from everywhere usually, but you didn't listen to a bit of it. Though Euron Greyjoy is a second son, everything he has done, every bit of ambition he has shown, has long exceeded what ordinary people can reach. The rules of the Iron Islands are being rewritten because of him; the future of the Iron Islands will also become... beyond your imagination because of him."
Lord Mace's face flushed red instantly, eyes bulging like a startled frog, cheeks puffing up like an inflated fish. "That... that's not a good thing! Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows the legal heir of the Iron Islands is the eldest son Balon! What families taboo most is this kind of brothers fighting within the walls, struggling for power and profit; that will thoroughly destroy a family!"
Lady Olenna looked quietly at her son, her gaze sharp enough to pierce all his fears and shortsightedness.
She spoke softly, her voice not loud, but like an ice needle piercing all the noise:
"What if... he never limited his vision... to those few cold islands?"
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CaveLeather
lots of story Game of Thrones