Euron Greyjoy stood at the end of Sunspear's shadowed corridor, gazing at the southern sunlight that burned hot even in winter. Yet his gaze had already pierced through time and space, seeing the blood and fire about to sweep across the land.
He clearly foresaw that the war destined to overturn the Seven Kingdoms was imminent, its footsteps faster even than the seawater melting the ice of spring.
As the floating ice on the sea began to loosen and melt, Euron found Elia and placed a strangely shaped silver snail into her hand.
The object was cool to the touch, its surface flowing with the luster of mithril, and its shell was carved with ancient and intricate runes. Clearly, it was no ordinary item. He carefully taught Elia and her most trusted companion, Victoria, how to use this mysterious creation to communicate with him over long distances.
This magical item left Elia and Victoria marveling, sighing at the wonders of magic and creation.
With all this done, Euron lingered no longer, formally bidding farewell to the blazing sun and red sands of Dorne.
He had to return to his fleet and people before the storm fully descended.
Euron made the return journey alone, shedding the burden of a large entourage. His method was extremely simple and direct. He boarded no ship; instead, he lay leisurely on the broad, ridge-like back of the giant beast, the "King of the Near Sea." This terrifying Sea King creature broke through the waves, its speed far surpassing the fastest longship, speeding toward the Iron Islands like an arrow.
Upon reaching Pyke, Euron leaped directly from the back of the "King of the Near Sea." Wading through the shallows, his muscular upper body bare, he walked step by step out of the cold seawater, dripping wet. The salty water streamed off him, and under the gloomy sky, he looked like an ancient god returned from the deep.
Just as he stepped onto the familiar black stone beach, he encountered a group of children practicing swordplay by the sea—the future of House Greyjoy.
There were his brother Balon's children: the older Rodrik Greyjoy, struggling to wield a heavy iron sword; Maron Greyjoy, competing stubbornly beside him; and Asha Greyjoy, young but already showing surprising agility and a defiant look in her eyes.
At the same time, his gaze swept over his three younger brothers: Victarion Greyjoy, tall and already showing the makings of a fierce general; Urrigon Greyjoy, silent but sharp-eyed; and the youngest, Aeron Greyjoy, unusually composed.
This group, the future of the Iron Islands, stopped their actions at that moment. With awe and surprise, they all looked toward their uncle (or brother) who had returned in such an extraordinary manner.
When Euron Greyjoy strode onto the shore, all voices fell silent, leaving only the whine of the sea wind through the stone windows. They swarmed forward, surrounding the returning captain like a tide, every pair of eyes shining with different desires.
Rodrik and Maron squeezed to the front first, their young faces flushed with excitement. "Uncle Euron," Rodrik's voice carried irrepressible urgency, "we heard you unhorsed three knights at the Tourney at Harrenhal! Is it true?"
Maron added immediately, his fingers gesturing unconsciously, "They say you shattered the shield of the 'Golden Rose' with a single lance thrust!"
Urrigon squeezed out from the crowd, the scent of sea salt still clinging to his hair. He disregarded everything else and tugged at Euron's fur cloak. "Where's the beast! The giant beast that just brought you back? You promised to let me see the monsters of the sea! Are they really as the sailors say—some bigger than warships, with tentacles that can wrap around a whole sea cow?" His eyes were frighteningly bright, as if he could already see the shadows in the abyss.
Victarion stood still, his arms crossed over his solid chest. His voice was low as thunder, overpowering the surrounding noise. "Tourneys are pastimes for children. Brother Euron, tell us about the war in the Stepstones. How did it start? How were supply lines maintained? The fleets of the Free Cities—what weaknesses do their warships have?" His gaze was sharp as a knife, caring only for the truths written in blood and steel.
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Asha's crisp laughter came from the back of the crowd. She pushed past her cousins, the twin short axes at her waist clinking. "War, sea monsters... is that all you know? Personal strength is the hard truth!" She lifted her chin at Euron, challenge dancing in her green eyes. She grabbed Euron's arm familiarly. "Uncle, you owe me a lesson. You said you'd teach me how to use two longswords, to become a champion of the tourney like you—right now!"
Aeron stood quietly in the corner, his fingers brushing the water skin at his waist. When the clamor subsided momentarily, he spoke slowly, his voice raspy like waves eroding a reef. "Brother, you must tell me... how can one hear the whispers of the Drowned God? Those ancient legends from the Age of the Grey King... are there still people singing them on the distant shores?"
Euron's lips curled up slowly. He scanned every pair of eyes, unhooked the wineskin from his waist, drained it, and threw the empty skin to the ground with a dull thud.
"One by one," his voice held a hint of a smile. He pointed to his dripping hair and pants. "But surely you won't make me talk to you while soaking wet... We'll meet at the banquet later! For now, learn well from Master Raphael Ortega. My swordplay and footwork were all taught by him."
Euron bowed to his teacher, then his figure disappeared at the end of the stone path leading into the castle.
Raphael Ortega—the old instructor with skin as rough as tanned leather—scoffed and withdrew his gaze. He kicked the sand, raising a small cloud of dust, pulling the children's eyes back from the distance to himself.
"Little brats, stop staring at him!" His voice was hoarse but cut through the seaside noise like a blade. "Didn't you hear Euron? All his killing skills were taught by me personally."
He suddenly drew the blunt training sword at his waist. The tip sliced through the air with a dull whistle. Several of the young ones instinctively took half a step back.
"Stand straight!" Raphael growled. "Side stance against the enemy—like this! Hide half your body; don't be foolish enough to present your whole chest as a target." He demonstrated a crisp side step, twisting his body like a sea snake. "Minimize exposure, avoid strength contests! Brute force is a game for louts, and you want to go home alive for dinner."
His blade tip thrust out abruptly, so fast it left only an afterimage. "Target the vitals! Throat, armpit, groin—strike wherever it's vulnerable. Move! Never stay in one spot for more than a breath!" His boots slid on the wet sand, steady as a seagull on a reef.
"Balance! A swordsman who loses balance is a dead man, just not done breathing yet." He stood on one foot, the other suspended, yet remained steady as a rock. "Be swift! Be deadly! Don't learn to dance like those iron-canned lords."
Raphael suddenly froze, his gaze sweeping over every young face like a hook.
"Keen perception!" He tapped his temple. "Fight with this, not just muscles. Elegant action—killing can also be an art. Control your fear; let it become ice in your veins, not fire that burns out your brain."
Finally, he sheathed his sword with a crisp clack.
"Remember: A true swordsman never needs armor." The sea breeze lifted his graying hair; in that moment, he seemed like legend itself. "His speed is his shield; his insight is his armor. Now—everyone, side stance! Let me see if you brought your brains to the beach! Let's see if you have even a fraction of Euron's talent for the sword."
The instruction continued. One could hear the Water Dancer's pride in having a student like Euron.
Waves crashed on the shore, whoosh whoosh, as if echoing this ancient and cold teaching.