Deep within the towering crags of the Pyke fortress, a single stone chamber fought a losing battle against the damp chill unique to the Iron Islands. A fireplace crackled bravely, but the air remained thick with the scent of old parchment, dry ink, and the eternal, inescapable tang of salt spray.
This was the sanctuary and small library of Pyke's Maester.
Sitting in an oak chair far too large for him was Euron Greyjoy, barely three years old. His short legs dangled above the floor. Wrapped in a thick woolen sweater, his face was pale and soft with baby fat, yet his eyes commanded attention.
The left eye was a bottomless well of ink, absorbing all light in the room.
The right eye was a piercing, crystalline azure—cold as the sea before a storm.
"The Iron Islands have always been the poorest region in the Seven Kingdoms," said Maester Qalen. He was an old man, stooped and white-haired, yet his eyes remained sharp. He stood beside the boy, his gaze a mix of suspicion and an indescribable awe. "But our ancestors used their longships to measure a domain far vaster than the continent of Westeros itself."
"Come, let us learn about the great sigil of House Greyjoy today, shall we?"
Maester Qalen carefully unrolled a thick piece of parchment, its edges worn and darkened with age. The image upon it radiated a fierce barbarism: a terrifying kraken, its thick tentacles covered in suckers, looking as if it might tear through the paper and drag the viewer into the abyss. Heavy scales covered its body, and on its head, two eyes stared back—one as dark as a starless night, the other as cold as a storm. On the pure black field, only the kraken was outlined in shimmering gold leaf, radiating an unsettling majesty in the dim light.
"Look, this is the 'Golden Kraken,'" Qalen's withered finger traced the parchment with deliberate reverence. "It is a symbol of power! Proof that we Ironborn can breathe, fight, and rule beneath the waves! The sea is our hunting ground, and the kraken is us!" He tried to infuse his voice with a passion a child could understand.
"We of House Greyjoy," Qalen continued, trying to draw the young lord's attention, "are descendants of the Grey King. The Grey King—do you know of him? He was a great being, older even than the Children of the Forest on the mainland! Legend says he took a mermaid to wife and ruled all the kingdoms beneath the waves! His blood runs in your veins!" The Maester's tone was absolute.
Unaware of the storm churning in the little boy's mind, Maester Qalen slowly unrolled a yellowed map—a map of the Iron Islands—and began to recount their long history.
The Iron Islands lay in Ironman's Bay, in the Sunset Sea off the western coast of Westeros. To the east, one could sail straight to the Trident and the Neck. The islands were scattered like a broken chain. There were thirty-one islands in total, with seven major islands surrounded by twenty-one smaller ones. The seven major islands were Pyke, Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Harlaw, Saltcliffe, Blacktyde, and Orkmont. Some of the smaller isles were used for sheep grazing; others were uninhabited.
Pyke was like a broken spear pointing at the mainland, its castle perched precariously on sea stacks. Great Wyk's volcanic vents still smoked. The ruins of the Grey King's Hall on Old Wyk were older than Valyria itself. Harlaw looked like a beached whale. Saltcliffe was honeycombed with caves. Blacktyde was the seat of House Blacktyde. And Orkmont—once, during the reign of the ironborn kings of House Hoare, merchants and trade fleets sailed between Orkmont, Lannisport, Oldtown, and even the Free Cities, bringing unimaginable wealth to the islands.
Qalen picked up a stick of charcoal and began to sketch on a piece of rough parchment. "Look, young Euron, these are our Iron Islands." He drew a few crooked circles, like scattered pebbles. "The biggest one is our home, Pyke. The others are Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Harlaw..." He tapped the circle representing Harlaw heavily. "The powerful House Harlaw. They have the best shipyards and build 'longships' that can cleave through storms!"
"And here, Great Wyk," Qalen pointed to another large circle, his tone growing cautious. "Home to House Goodbrother. They are descendants of the Grey King's eldest son. Ancient... very proud. They value tradition." He avoided explaining exactly what "tradition" meant, simply drawing a crude anchor beside it.
"Here, Old Wyk," the charcoal moved. "The domain of House Drumm. The Kingsmoot! Do you know? Long, long ago, the High King of the Iron Islands wasn't born to the title. He was chosen by the captains at a Kingsmoot! House Drumm holds the famous Valyrian steel sword, Red Rain." The Maester's voice held a nostalgia for lost glory. "And here, Blacktyde... House Blacktyde." He drew a wave. "Faithful servants of the Drowned God."
Finally, the charcoal landed on a lonely dot at the western tip of Great Wyk. "Lonely Light, seat of House Farwynd. They..." The Maester paused, as if choked by invisible sea fog. "They are... unique. They rarely leave their keep. Mysterious as the mist itself." He drew a tiny lighthouse symbol.
To Euron, this "map" of rough lines and symbols was the prototype of his world. Pyke was the core; the other islands were the reefs surrounding it. Those names—Goodbrother, Drumm, Blacktyde, Farwynd—were like hazards marked on a nautical chart, weighted down by the Maester's tone. They were bound to heavy words like "power," "pride," "ancient rites," "piety," and "mystery."
"The lords," Maester Qalen concluded, forcing a kindly smile, "are like the tentacles of the kraken stretching in all directions. They must hold tight to the rocks that belong to the Greyjoys, so the great ship of the Iron Islands can sail steady through the storm."
Then, Qalen sighed, tapping his knuckle on the location of Lannisport. "Lord Quellon argued with the captains again this morning. For the third time, he proposed building a merchant fleet. For the third time, he was shouted down."
---
Euron's small fingertip traced the sea between the Iron Islands and the mainland. He remembered his father, Quellon Greyjoy's, reform plans: replacing reaving with iron ore trade, replacing the "Iron Price" with dock taxes, even proposing to build septs for the Seven on Pyke to improve relations with the mainland.
To the Ironborn, these ideas were more terrifying than the White Walkers.
"House Drumm called it blasphemy against the Drowned God," the Maester whispered. "Yesterday, a fisherman carved graffiti on the Pyke docks: 'Reaving beats Sowing.'"
Euron nodded, his voice flat. "Those are the words of our house..."
Outside, the roar of the waves suddenly grew deafening. Euron knew the words carved into the soul of House Greyjoy—"We Do Not Sow." They believed the Drowned God created the Ironborn to take wealth from the weak.
But right now, with his father trying to replace pillaging with trade, seeing the house words carved on the dock was no compliment. It was a spear pointed at Quellon Greyjoy, mocking him for abandoning his vows, his tradition, and his people.
Rumor said a fisherman carved it. But a literate fisherman on the Iron Islands was rarer than a three-legged fish. Euron knew the truth but said nothing. As the second son, he had been watched since birth—the "Avatar of the Drowned God," the proof that "What is dead may never die." Nearly every Ironborn knew of Euron, the "Son of the Drowned God" with the mismatched eyes. But at three years old, he couldn't carry the weight of those titles yet.
The tallest tree catches the wind. The stone that sticks out of the stream gets worn down.
Euron understood this. Until he had real power, he had to hide. Keep your head down, survive a few more episodes. He reminded himself of this every time he spoke or acted.
Seeing the lesson drift, Maester Qalen shook his head and returned to the history. His quill sketched key dates: "Three hundred years ago, Harren the Black built Harrenhal in the Riverlands. We ruled the west coast from Bear Island to the Arbor. Until the War of Conquest... Aegon's dragons burned the Iron Fleet. The sight of Vickon Greyjoy bending the knee still stings our pride. Today, we nominally serve the Iron Throne, but the ghost of Dalton 'The Red Kraken' lives in every captain's heart."
Euron watched the old Maester's hand tremble over the Targaryen sigil. Qalen was born Ironborn, raised Ironborn. Even a decade at the Citadel couldn't wash the salt from his blood.
Qalen held the map up to Euron. "Euron, do you know where you are?"
"Here. Pyke. The seat of House Greyjoy." Euron's voice was crisp, carrying a strange certainty.
Qalen raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Very precise, young master. Your father would be proud."
Euron didn't respond. His gaze swept over the other islands—Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Harlaw... Every name triggered memories from the original books. He knew which families nested on these islands, and he knew which sides they would choose in the wars to come.
"Maester," Euron asked suddenly, "Why do we call ourselves 'Ironborn'?"
Qalen stroked his beard, a habit when thinking. "It is an ancient tradition, young master. Our ancestors believed the Drowned God forged the Ironborn from iron, the Andals from soft gold, and the other races from mud."
Euron nodded, but his mind went to metallurgy. Iron is harder than bronze, but it rusts easily. The metaphor was accidentally accurate.
"The Ironborn way of life differs from the other kingdoms," Qalen continued. "We pay the Iron Price, not the Gold Price."
"Iron Price?"
"Paying with sword and axe, young master. We take what we want." Pride seeped into Qalen's voice. "It is the Old Way."
The Old Way. Just a fancy term for robbery and piracy. In their culture, warriors took loot from defeated enemies—the "Iron Price"—rather than buying things with coin, the "Gold Price." Thralls and salt wives were taken, never bought. Paying gold for goods was considered shameful. Only the things you steal taste sweet... The corners of Euron's mouth twitched upward.
He remembered the disaster that befell Balon Greyjoy in the original timeline when he tried to revive the Old Way. He also remembered the even more extreme path the original Euron took.
"Father wants to change this," Euron said suddenly.
Qalen's expression stiffened. "Lord Quellon does have some... progressive ideas."
Euron knew Quellon was trying to integrate the Iron Islands into the mainstream culture of the Seven Kingdoms. In the original story, this attempt failed, leading to House Greyjoy's decline. But now, with his intervention, history might take a different turn.
Three years. After confusion and denial, Euron had finally accepted his reality. He was in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. He was Euron Greyjoy.
"Tell me about the other houses' sigils and words, Maester Qalen," Euron said, changing the subject.
Relieved, Qalen pointed back to the map. "Aside from House Greyjoy on Pyke, Great Wyk is controlled by House Goodbrother. Their sigil is a warhorn... And House Drumm on Old Wyk, their sigil is a bone hand..."
Euron listened intently, cross-referencing every detail with his memories. House Drumm would support Balon. House Stonetree. House Merlyn. Some would be loyal, others would betray them at the critical moment.