Late in the year 283 AC.
With the full support of the Redwyne and Stannis fleets, the Lannister armada finally breached the last stronghold of the Targaryen dynasty—Dragonstone. In the fierce battle that ensued, the former Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon, stained the steps with his blood, dying a martyr for his fallen masters.
The news of victory reached King's Landing, but it failed to bring a smile to the face of the new King, Robert Baratheon.
Robert had received news that enraged him far more than the victory pleased him: Although Queen Rhaella, wife of the Mad King Aerys, had indeed died in childbed, her seven-year-old son Viserys and her infant daughter Daenerys had slipped through his fingers. In the chaos before the castle fell, the Red Keep's master-at-arms, Ser Willem Darry, along with a handful of loyalists, had risked almost certain death to smuggle them off the island.
They had crossed the raging narrow sea, vanishing into the mists of the Free City of Braavos. The survival of these two Targaryen bloodlines was like a poisoned barb buried in Robert's heart, a harbinger of future threats and unrest.
For the continent of Westeros, however, the fall of Dragonstone marked the end of the Usurper's War. After nearly two years of bloodshed, a period full of regrets and hidden worries was finally drawn to a close on the map. Yet, every player in the game knew the truth: the end of a war is often just the opening move of a new game—the game of power.
(The Maesters of the Citadel officially recorded the rebellion that overthrew the Targaryens as "The Usurper's War." When King Robert heard this title, he was so furious he nearly marched his army on Oldtown. He threatened to hang every waterlogged-brained Maester he could find, whip them soundly, and then crack their skulls open to see if they were filled with brains or dog shit. In the end, only the intervention of the Hand of the King persuaded him to let it go.)
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Life in the Iron Islands, after the turmoil of 282 and 283 AC, finally settled into a peace that smelled of salt and brine.
At the break of dawn, Euron could often be found on the training grounds of Pyke. Side by side with Ashara, amidst the biting sea winds, he instructed the Ironborn warriors in their drills before sharing a midday meal with the Greyjoys.
As the sun grew fierce, Euron would return to Iron Wind Island. Lysa was usually waiting there, her desk covered in letters and intelligence reports from every corner of the world. They would speak in hushed tones or fall into deep thought, pulling threads from the tangled web of information to fill in vital details of his grand design.
Occasionally, in the dead of night, deep in the hidden bowels of the island where no outsider ever ventured, Euron would join Qyburn and the two sorceresses. Accompanied by vague ripples of magic and indescribable whispers, they conducted experiments that could never be spoken of in the light of day, exploring the dangerous boundaries of power and taboo.
But no matter how busy the day or how consuming the research, when night fell and the warm hearth fires were lit, Euron always appeared at the head of the long table on time. Dining with Ashara, Lysa, and the rest of his family was an unbreakable rule. In those moments, there was no Lord, no schemer, no explorer of dark arts—only a family sitting together, enjoying the most common yet precious warmth amidst the aroma of food and easy laughter.
This peace was like the sea surrounding the Iron Islands—calm on the surface, but beneath churned the sweat of the training grounds, the undercurrents of the intelligence network, and the secrets of the deep earth, together forming the foundation upon which Euron Greyjoy stood.
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The first letter from the Citadel informed the Seven Kingdoms that the Long Summer was coming.
A month later, a more precise prediction arrived from Oldtown. When the raven bore this message to the Iron Islands, it brought not joy, but widespread skepticism. The Maesters solemnly declared that following the end of the war in 284 AC, Westeros would enter a Long Summer lasting thirteen years, stretching all the way to 297 AC.
The news was like a stone thrown into a still lake, sending ripples through taverns, docks, and markets.
"A summer lasting over ten years?" An old sailor squinted his wrinkled eyes against the sun, his rough hands absentmindedly rubbing his arms. "I've lived sixty years and never seen a summer that long. Have the old men at the Citadel clogged their brains with ink?"
Housewives gossiped as they hung laundry that seemed never to fully dry. "Summer is good, but that's too long! The crops will bake in the fields. Will the rivers run dry? It doesn't feel right. It feels like the 'Year of the False Spring.' It's a bad omen."
The fog of doubt spread. Most people suspected the Maesters' calculations were another collective blunder, just like the infamous False Spring.
Behind a high window in Iron Wind Keep, Euron Greyjoy stood facing the sea, the parchment from the Citadel in his hand. Snatches of the fishermen's arguments drifted up from below. He merely gave a faint, knowing smirk.
The sea breeze brushed his cheek with the stagnant warmth unique to high summer. He knew better than anyone that the Citadel was not wrong this time. As a soul from another world who knew the history, Euron knew this continent was indeed about to enter a summer longer than anyone dared imagine. And this long summer was merely the prelude to the much greater upheaval that would follow.
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The envoy from King's Landing stepped onto the rough, reef-stone docks of Pyke, the sea breeze seeming to carry the scent of the southern capital with him.
Before King Quellon, the envoy loudly read the edict of Robert Baratheon: The new King would hold his coronation ceremony at the Red Keep in the spring of the following year, where he would also wed Cersei Lannister, daughter of the Warden of the West, Tywin Lannister. The edict specifically emphasized that King Quellon and the Greyjoy family were requested to attend, as there were important matters to discuss.
After the formal audience concluded, the envoy—clad in the stag sigil of Baratheon—used the opportunity of presenting the gift list to quietly approach Euron, who was standing to the side.
"Lord Euron," he lowered his voice, his tone earnest. "Before I left, His Grace specifically pulled me aside. He said others may come or go as they please, but you... you must be there personally."
Euron toyed with a finely carved kraken badge in his hand, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He looked up, the corner of his mouth lifting in a meaningful arc. "Tell His Grace that Euron Greyjoy will be there on time."
This promise wasn't entirely out of obedience to the crown.
Even without the special request, Euron had already planned to visit King's Landing. He needed to meet face-to-face with Tywin Lannister and the matriarch of the Reach, Lady Olenna (of House Redwyne by birth), to discuss the grand matter of forming the bank. The highly anticipated coronation was the perfect cover for a tripartite negotiation.
Furthermore, the Dornish prisoners who had been toiling in the mines needed to be moved. They would travel with Euron, destined for the Wall.
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For Euron, and indeed for the entire Iron Islands, the three months that followed brought news far greater than any royal edict.
The greatest joy was simple: Ashara was pregnant!