"Euron!"
A booming voice preceded the man. Quellon Greyjoy strode into the room, bringing the scent of the sea breeze with him. He was a giant of a man, his black hair streaked with silver, his face a map of scars that told the story of a hundred naval battles.
"Father." Euron slid off the oversized chair and performed a clumsy, toddler-sized bow.
Quellon laughed heartily and scooped his son up. "What has my little kraken learned today?"
"The state of the Great Houses, Father," Euron answered, then added the unexpected, "And about your wish to abolish the Old Way."
Quellon's smile froze. He shot a sharp, stern look at Maester Qalen. The old scholar frantically shook his head, signaling his innocence.
"How do you know of that, my son?" Quellon set Euron back on the floor and crouched down to look him in the eye.
Euron blinked, feigning innocence. "I heard you arguing with brother Balon. You stopped him from taking the ships out reaving. You said the Old Way keeps the Iron Islands poor."
Quellon's expression grew complex. He ruffled Euron's hair. "You are too young to understand these things. The Old Way is how our ancestors lived. Changing it... is not easy."
Not easy? That was the understatement of the century. Forming a habit is hard; breaking a tradition that has held a culture together for thousands of years is like trying to stop the tide with a spoon.
Euron knew the dilemma his father faced. The Iron Islands were a barren rock pile. Aside from fish and kelp, they produced almost nothing. The Ironborn survived by pillaging. But in a Westeros united under the Targaryen dragons (and now their successors), that lifestyle was a death sentence.
"Father," Euron said suddenly. "If the Ironborn do not reave, how will we live?"
Quellon was startled by the boy's insight. "Trade, my son. We will exchange our iron ore and salt fish for grain. We will build merchant cogs, not just longships."
"But will the other houses agree?"
Quellon smiled bitterly. "That is the very problem. Your brother Balon opposes it fiercely."
Euron recalled the original timeline. Balon Greyjoy, the stubborn fool whose obsession with the "Old Way" led to two failed rebellions and the ruin of his house. Balon was only fifteen now, but his character was already set in stone. Worse, he was the heir. If the father and the heir were at odds, how could they convince the other lords?
"I support you, Father," Euron said seriously.
Quellon didn't take the toddler's political stance seriously, but he laughed anyway, lifting his son high. "You have a political stance at three years old?! My little kraken will be a great lord one day!"
---
When Quellon left, Euron returned to the window. On the distant horizon, a longship was sailing into the harbor, its sail emblazoned with the Golden Kraken of House Greyjoy. Euron knew it was one of his father's trade ships, returning from Lannisport laden with coin and grain—not plunder.
"Young master," Maester Qalen whispered, "Do you truly understand what your father is trying to do?"
Euron turned. In the dim room, his mismatched black and blue eyes shone with an eerie intelligence. "Better than anyone, Maester. The Iron Islands must change, or history will wash us away."
Qalen sucked in a cold breath. Hearing such words from a three-year-old gave him gooseflesh.
---
The days that followed were repetitive but productive. Euron's learning speed was terrifying. He didn't just memorize the lineage of the Great Houses; he began absorbing the basics of navigation and weaponry. Surprised by his youngest son's talent, Quellon had a small wooden training sword made specifically for him.
Every afternoon, Euron appeared on the training grounds, paved with crushed white shells, to learn the art of war.
"Grip it tighter, Euron!" roared Uncle Victarion.
(The text refers to him as "Balf," likely a nickname, but given the description of the future Iron Fleet Commander with muscles like ship cables, this is unmistakably the young Victarion Greyjoy). He was currently a young man in his early twenties, built like a fortress.
"An Ironborn holds his sword like he holds a lover's waist—tight, so she doesn't slip away!" Victarion bellowed, completely forgetting he was teaching a three-year-old who had no concept of what a lover was, let alone how to hold one.
Euron gripped the wooden sword with both hands, dropping into a defensive stance. Victarion laughed and swung his practice blade. Euron managed a clumsy block, but the force of the blow knocked him flat on his ass.
"Not bad!" Victarion hauled him up, dusting the sea salt off Euron's breeches with the flat of his blade. "Better than Balon was at three."
Euron slapped his uncle's hand away, gripped his sword, and glared with steely determination. "Again!"
This world was never safe. Wars between men, games of thrones, and the coming war with the White Walkers... If he wanted to survive, he needed to know how to use steel.
---
After training, Euron retreated to the castle library. Pyke didn't have many books—mostly navigation logs and war records. Standing on his tiptoes, he pulled a tattered copy of The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms from the shelf.
"Young master, you can read already?" Maester Qalen's surprised voice came from behind.
Euron didn't answer. He flipped the page and pointed to a passage. "'Sea Snake' Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides. During the Dance of the Dragons, he..."
Qalen's beard trembled. "By the Gods... you are a prodigy."
Euron smiled bitterly inside. With the memories of an adult, reading was natural. But he had to throttle his progress to avoid looking like a monster. He pretended to struggle with the text, occasionally "asking" Qalen for help with pronunciation.
---
At sunset, Euron joined the family in the Great Hall.
Quellon sat at the head of the table. Beside him was Euron's mother, Lady Sronsa of House Saltcliffe. On the sides sat his brother Balon and Uncle Victarion.
"I hear you improved again today, Euron," Quellon said, cutting a piece of salt fish.
Balon scoffed. "What use is reading? A true Ironborn learns to steer a longship and swing an axe."
Quellon frowned. "Balon, how many times must I tell you? The times are changing. Euron's attitude is commendable."
Dissatisfaction was written all over Balon's fifteen-year-old face. Euron watched the future "King of the Iron Islands," noting the stubborn set of his jaw. This stubbornness would one day doom their family.
"Brother," Euron spoke up. "Reading helps us fight better."
Balon sneered. "How?"
"By understanding the enemy's history and culture," Euron replied calmly. "If you know House Redwyne of the Arbor likes to poison their wine, you won't be assassinated. If you know the Lannisters are proud, you can bait them into a trap. If you know a house's words, you know how they think. To defeat an enemy, you must understand how they live and how they fight."
Euron paused, then added, "There is a saying from the Golden Empire of Yi Ti in the far East: 'If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.'"
The Great Hall fell silent. Everyone stared at the three-year-old. The quote was profound, philosophical—and something no Ironborn had ever heard.
Quellon, who had been hunched over his food, sat up straight. He slammed the table and laughed. "Well said! My son will be the smartest lord the Iron Islands has ever seen!"
The burden of the reformer had weighed heavy on Quellon—he wanted to end thralldom, open ports, and bring septons to the islands, all to drag his people out of the bloody mud of the "Old Way." But Balon's constant opposition had frustrated him deeply.
Quellon turned to his eldest son, his voice stern. "Learn to think with a quill, not just an axe, Balon. The Ironborn need a new anchor. Learn from your little brother. Read more books, and stop playing the finger dance with those filthy sailors!"
Balon's face turned dark. He stabbed his food viciously and fell silent.
A new anchor? Or a new heir?
Balon knew his father threatened him with the succession because of their differing ideologies. But he would not compromise. He glanced at Euron, who sat calmly eating. His eyes filled with disdain—just a brat who knows how to suck up to Father.
---
After dinner, Euron was allowed a moment of freedom. He wanted to go to the shore, but was forbidden. instead, he leaned against the window, watching the Sunset Sea churning in the dark.
The salty wind ruffled his curly hair. The roar of the waves filled his ears. He knew he had offended his volatile brother tonight, but he didn't care. The conflict between the brothers—and the ideologies they represented—was inevitable.
The Reformers vs. The Traditionalists.
He thought back to the Euron of the original books—the "Crow's Eye." That man used Dragonbinder horns, drank Shade of the Evening, and practiced blood magic. Effective, yes, but the cost was madness.
Now, with modern knowledge and foresight of the plot, perhaps he could find a wiser path.
"Young master! Bedtime!" a handmaid called.
Euron took one last look at the dark ocean. He knew he had to build his own power base, befriend key future figures, and prepare for the revolution of the Iron Islands.
A three-year-old body housing an adult soul was both an advantage and a curse. He had to hide his anomaly while seizing every chance to grow. Behind the stone walls of Pyke, the Game of Thrones had already begun.
He would not be the mad Crow's Eye. He would be something new—a ruler who combined modern wisdom with the ruthless ambition of the Ironborn.
Back in his bedroom, Euron knelt by the bed, performing the brief prayer to the Drowned God like any Ironborn child.
"Oh Drowned God," he whispered to himself, "If you truly exist... grant me the power to change the fate of these islands."
He climbed into bed and closed his eyes. His mind was already planning tomorrow's curriculum: Advanced Navigation, Resource Distribution of the Archipelago, and Inter-House Marriage Alliances...