Euron snapped his head up. His mismatched pupils—one tearing the night sky, the other freezing the abyss—erupted with an almost demonic light in the dying glow of the fireplace. That light pierced through the solemnity, contemplation, and hidden fear in Quellon's eyes, striking straight at the core strategic intent: "Father, the 'Reaving Forbidden Zone' you drew in the eye of the storm today—pointing the Ironborn axes outward via the 'New Rules of the Old Way'—is an incredibly wise bridle! It cleverly prevents us from being drawn too early into the monstrous flames that are about to sweep Westeros and burn everything, protecting us from catching fire and becoming a target for all."
Inside his small body, a power like a sea beast slumbering for a thousand years seemed to awaken, bursting with a heart-palpitating sharpness utterly disproportionate to his age. His voice carried a decisive, prophetic power that saw through the future:
"When the wildfire jars buried by the Mad King's own hand are finally lit by his manic torch, or detonated by a desperate spark... When the Lions, Direwolves, Sun Vipers, Golden Roses, and Roaring Stags of Westeros tear each other apart in the flames and chaos ignited by madness, flesh flying... When the cold light of the Iron Throne is completely obscured by endless blood and smoke—"
Euron stood up abruptly! The dark green velvet kraken robe seemed to come alive in the faint firelight, the gold-threaded Greyjoy kraken dancing hideously, claws extended! He spread his small palms upward, as if holding up an invisible but immensely heavy chessboard of the world with all his strength, a chessboard rising with smoke signals and interwoven with blood and fire:
"That will be the Golden Moment for us to unleash the 'New Rules,' letting the Drowned God's iron axes drink their fill of enemy blood and gold! At that time, Lannisport's merchant ships laden with gold, the Reach's boundlessly fertile granaries, the Stepstones' choke points held by pirates... all the wealth and lifelines left unattended due to civil war and chaos will become our legitimate hunting grounds to 'pay the iron price'! Ours for the taking!"
His voice echoed in the empty, silent stone hall, carrying a primitive, blood-pumping seduction like the low roar of a deep-sea leviathan:
"The madder the King burns, the deeper the chaos Westeros falls into, the fatter and more tempting the hunting grounds outside the 'Safe Waters' defined by our 'New Rules' will become! Father, we are not prophets predicting the storm; we are fishermen riding the storm! And the Mad King Aerys Targaryen is using his madness to churn up a raging sea full of leviathans and golden scales for us!"
"The faster the Targaryen dragon banner falls, the fiercer the sea of fire in Westeros burns, the more dazzling the light of our Seastone Chair will be! Because that world-burning fire will force everyone on land—whether Lion, Wolf, Stag, or Snake—to jump into the chaotic raging sea in terror just to survive! And we Greyjoys," Euron's voice rose, carrying a bone-deep pride forged of iron and salt, "we have waited in the raging waves for a thousand years! We were born here, grew up here, we are the raging waves! Chaos is not an abyss that swallows everything, Father; chaos is the only ladder granted by the Drowned God to us Greyjoys, leading to supreme power and eternal glory!"
"Those merchant ships full of gold, grain, and wine, those castles stripped of their lords' protection and left defenseless, will all become fat sheep without wolf packs to guard them, left for us to slaughter! The gold mountains of the Lannisters, the granaries of the Tyrells, the wine cellars of Gulltown... our longships will appear like ghosts wherever we wish to go, taking whatever we want, using the enemy's flesh and wealth to fatten our Ironborn bones and sharpen our Drowned God's axes!"
"Enough!" Quellon's roar exploded like thunder, abruptly cutting off Euron's inflammatory declaration. His voice was hoarse as if ground by sand and salt, every word shooting from clenched teeth, carrying disbelief, deep chill, and a trace of fear for this terrifying insight even he hadn't realized. "These... these poisonous, seductive words!" His knife-sharp gaze suddenly swept toward Lysa and old Maester Qalen in the shadows, bearing an all-scrutinizing pressure. "Who? Who poured this into a five-year-old's head? Was it you, Lysa? The mysterious handmaid who knows seven languages? Or you, Qalen? The old scholar with a head full of moldy parchment and old legends?!"
Lysa stood still in the deepest shadow, as if merged with the stone wall. Her emerald eyes were lowered, long lashes hiding all emotion, seemingly oblivious to Quellon's bone-crushing rage. Only her deep-sea steady breathing proved her existence. In the corner, Maester Qalen looked struck by lightning, his withered body shaking like a leaf, face pale as a dead fish on salt flats, his cloudy old eyes filled with extreme confusion and a fear that threatened to swallow him—clearly, he was also utterly shocked and rendered speechless by Euron's analysis that transcended age and common sense.
"The news brought by ravens is backed up in the Maester's Tower." A trace of child-like innocence mixed with a sly smile appeared on Euron's face, cleverly defusing his father's interrogation. "Did you forget, Father? I was 'confined' there for a whole month. Plenty of time to flip through those scrolls, thinking about the Iron Islands' past, present... and future." He admitted frankly, "I did ask Lysa some questions about Southern noble lineages and customs, and asked Maester Qalen about history. But the dream about the Drowned God last night, and everything I just said..." He pointed to his small head, his mismatched eyes clear to the bottom. "It all started here. The more I thought, the more I felt..."
He paused, speaking with a near-philosophical tone, clearly enunciating the sentence that would shake the entire Westerosi nobility: "He who follows the Way finds much help; he who loses the Way finds little! When all the nobles feel the man on the throne... is unworthy of his seat..."
"Silence!" Quellon's shout exploded like a tsunami, instantly drowning Euron's words and extinguishing the last spark in the fireplace. His voice mixed with the suddenly intensified roar of the waves outside, carrying the unquestionable, absolute authority of the Seastone King. "You have no right to 'feel'! And no qualification to express 'views' on the Iron Throne here!" His tall figure in the dim light seemed like a volcano about to erupt. "Everything you just said, every word, let it rot in your belly! Rot completely! And you two—" His cold gaze swept toward Lysa and Qalen again, like a physical blade. "Lysa, Qalen! Every syllable heard in this Council Chamber today, if a fifth person knows... even a whisper of wind..." He didn't finish, but the chilling killing intent and iron-blooded threat froze the air like solid ice, the meaning conveyed with deadly precision.
Lysa bowed slightly, her posture respectful and silent. Qalen was so scared he nearly collapsed, nodding desperately, a raspy rattle coming from his throat.
Dead silence descended again, heavier than before. Only the roar of the waves madly beating the reefs outside sounded like the panting of a beast.
After a long time, Quellon's tense fingers slowly relaxed. He looked at this youngest son who made his mind churn with shock and fear. His knuckles tapped the cold reef table twice, a dull thud, as if making a difficult decision. "From now on," his voice returned to its usual low tone but carried an unchallengeable command, "come to my study every Wednesday afternoon." He paused, eyes deep. "Learn... how to read those wax-sealed secret letters."
As Euron bowed and backed out step by step from this massive stone hall filled with the residual warmth of power and invisible smoke, he clearly heard his father's voice behind him, low as a murmur, mixing with the monstrous roar of the waves outside, sounding like an ancient spell:
"What is dead may never die..."
The heavy oak door slowly closed, cutting off the second half, but the motto full of Ironborn unyielding will was branded into Euron's heart.
In the shadows of the corridor, Lysa floated silently like a ghost, holding a heavy parchment scroll in her hands—it recorded the vital grain inventory details of Pyke and the various islands. Her timing was as precise as a calculated tide.
Euron raised his small face, meeting Lysa's unfathomable emerald eyes. A glimmer of a successful plan flashed in his mismatched pupils. He winked at her, the corner of his mouth curling into an almost imperceptible arc—the plan is going smoothly.
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