Deep within Pyke's towering fortress of black stone, a narrow chamber struggled against the damp chill that clung to every corner of the Iron Islands. The lone fireplace crackled faintly, its flames barely warming the room, where the scent of old parchment, bitter ink, and ever-present sea salt filled the air.
This was the modest library of Maester Tymor, the keep's aged, white-haired scholar.
Three-year-old Euron Greyjoy sat upon an oversized oak chair, his small legs dangling as he wrapped himself in a thick wool sweater that made his round, soft face appear even paler. Yet nothing about him was ordinary. His left eye was a deep, bottomless black—like a well that swallowed light—while the right gleamed a sharp, storm-blue, as cold as the sea moments before a tempest.
Maester Tymor watched the boy with a mixture of uncertainty and reverence. "The Iron Islands have always been the poorest realm in the Seven Kingdoms," he began, his voice thin but steady. "Still, the reavers of old carved out a dominion greater than any mainland lord could boast—armed with nothing but their longships."
He unfurled a dark, timeworn parchment.
The image upon it practically breathed: a monstrous golden kraken, its tentacles coiled in fierce, predatory motion, as if ready to burst free from the page and drag the world into the deeps.
"This, young lord, is the sigil of House Greyjoy," Tymor said reverently, his bony fingers tracing the golden outline. "The Golden Kraken. A symbol of power—and of who they are. The sea is their hunting ground. The kraken is them."
He glanced at Euron, attempting to speak with a passion a child could grasp.
"So the Ironborn say," he murmured, "that they descend from the Grey King—older than the Andals, older even than the Children of the Forest. A king who wed the sea herself, and who bent storms to his will. Such tales run deep on these islands, young lord."
The maester gently unrolled a faded map of the Iron Islands.
"The Iron Islands lie in Ironman's Bay, reaching toward the Trident and the Neck," he explained. "Thirty-one islands in all. Seven great ones, and many smaller."
He tapped each crudely drawn island.
"Here is Pyke—your home. Great Wyk, still crowned by its smoking volcano. Old Wyk, ancient as memory, where the Kingsmoot once chose High Kings of the Isles. Harlaw, shaped like a beached whale, home to shipwrights unmatched. Saltcliffe with its endless sea-caves. Blacktyde, fiercely pious. Oakenshield—once Oakmont—where merchants from Oldtown and the Free Cities brought wealth in ages past."
Euron listened quietly as the maester sketched crude circles to represent each isle.
"House Harlaw rules from here," Tymor said, pressing heavily on the parchment. "Proud, powerful, and cunning. On Great Wyk, the Goodbrothers—ancient and stubborn. On Old Wyk, the Drumms, keepers of the Kingsmoot's traditions. The Blacktydes—devout servants of the Drowned God. And far to the west… Lonely Light. The Farwynds." His voice lowered. "Strange folk. Mysterious as sea mist."
The map before Euron was crude, but in his growing mind it formed a world—a world whose future he already knew.
"Each lord," Maester Tymor concluded, "is like a kraken's tentacle reaching outward. If any slackens its grip, the whole Isles drift off-course."
He sighed and added quietly, "Lord Quellon quarreled with the captains again this morning. For the third time he proposed a merchant fleet. For the third time they spat the idea back at him."
Euron's fingertip traced the sea between the isles and the mainland, remembering his father Quellon's reforms: abolishing raids in favor of iron trade, replacing the iron price with tariffs, even proposing to build shrines to the Seven to ease relations with the continent.
To the Ironborn, these ideas were more frightening than wildling ghosts.
"House Drumm called it blasphemy," Tymor whispered. "And yesterday someone carved 'We Take What Is Ours' on Pyke's dock."
Euron's voice was soft. "That is our house motto."
But at present, it was less a boast and more a blade held against Quellon's throat.
Everyone knew a fisherman hadn't carved it—fishermen who could write were rarer than calm seas in winter. But Euron, reincarnated as Johann, a man from another world now trapped in a child's body, kept that thought to himself. He knew how to stay silent. How to survive.
For three years—since awakening in this infant body in 256 AC—he had grappled with disbelief. Now he had accepted the truth: he had been reborn in the world of Westeros, as the fourth-born son of House Greyjoy.
And even legends needed time to grow.
"Tell me about the other houses," Euron said suddenly.
Relieved to leave dangerous topics behind, Maester Tymor pointed again at the map.
"House Drumm of Old Wyk—bones and chains. House Stonehouse—its sigil shows a rock held in a kraken's grip. House Merlyn—'Dead but Not Gone.' House Blacktyde—pious warriors of the waves."
Euron committed every detail to memory. He knew which would stand loyal in years to come—and which would betray.
Maester Tymor continued his lesson, describing the rise and fall of Iron Kings, the burning of Harrenhal, Aegon's conquest, and Torren Greyjoy kneeling to the Targaryens. His voice trembled with pride and bitterness.
At last he asked, "Euron, do you know where you are?"
The boy pointed at Pyke. "Here."
Tymor nodded, satisfied. "Your father would be proud."
Perhaps. But pride meant little in the Iron Islands.
Strength mattered. Cunning mattered. Survival mattered.
And Euron—intended to survive, no matter what storm awaited.