"To move a man, you must first place a more comfortable stone beneath his feet..."
When Euron asked Lysa how to persuade his father, this was her answer. "He is the King of the Iron Islands, and your father. Though I have only seen him once, I can feel his loneliness. Beside Lord Quellon, there is no wise counselor who truly stands in his shoes. Only argunts, fights, opposition, and roaring. Standing in the mountains, one often cannot see the whole mountain. Perhaps all that is needed is soone to calmly push aside the fog, and the King will see the whole future!"
Euron laughed. "Makes sense!"
The heavy oak door of the Lord Reaper's study creaked open a crack. Five-year-old Euron Greyjoy slipped inside, quickly closing the door behind him. The room slled strongly of sea salt and heavy exhaustion. Quellon Greyjoy stood with his back to the door, staring out the massive arched window at the lead-gray, churning sea. His broad shoulders were slightly slumped.
"Father?" Euron's voice was soft, carrying the clear tone of a child, perfectly breaking the heavy silence.
Quellon didn't turn. He just gave a low "Hmph," the sound trailing with lingering irritation.
Euron walked in, carefully shutting the door. He didn't approach directly as usual but stopped by the massive table in the center of the room, piled high with charts and scrolls. He needed a little distance, and a little "stage."
"Mother said... Lord Drumm and the others upset you again today." Euron didn't ask; he stated it, his voice carrying a trace of age-appropriate concern.
Quellon finally turned. The deep grooves in his face looked even deeper in the dim light, his eyes tired but sharp. He saw his youngest son, and the calmness in the boy's eyes that belied his age. That calmness sotis comforted him, sotis made him inexplicably uneasy. "A bunch of old fools with brains pickled in brine!" He growled, slamming his fist against the window fra, making the glass hum. "They only see the salted fish in front of them and the scrap tal they steal! They don't understand where the future of the Iron Islands lies!"
Euron listened quietly. When his father's anger subsided slightly, he spoke slowly, his voice steady. "Father, you are right. The Iron Islands need to change." He affird his father's vision first—this was the key Lysa emphasized: Affirm first, then guide.
Quellon's gaze fell on his son, scrutinizing. "Oh? You think so too?"
"Yes." Euron took two steps forward, his mismatched eyes looking particularly deep in the shadows. "But Father, have you considered... does the sea change the shape of the reef by smashing it once with a massive wave, or by the silent, relentless washing of the tide year after year?"
Quellon frowned, clearly not expecting such a taphor from his son.
Euron didn't pause; he had to keep the rhythm. "Farrs on the mainland don't try to dig up a mountain in a day to make a field. They clear a small patch first, plant seeds, wait for them to sprout and harvest. Only when they prove this land can feed people will others be willing to join and clear a bigger area."
He walked to the table, his small finger pointing to the Iron Islands on the map. "Our Iron Islands are like the hardest, rockiest wasteland. You want to make it as rich as the Reach overnight. That is good. But Uncle Drumm, and brother Balon... they are the people used to the wild mountains, afraid of change. If you ask them to drop their axes and pick up hoes imdiately, they will only think you are mad, or... betraying the Drowned God."
Quellon's eyes flickered, seemingly chewing on his son's words.
"The Drowned God gave us the words 'What is dead may never die, but rises again.'" Euron raised his voice slightly, carrying a strange certainty, as if resonating with that ancient entity. "But the Drowned God did not say that 'rising again' must happen in the old ways! Perhaps... using better iron to build stronger ships, using smarter thods to fill warehouses with grain, using greater power to shut the mouths of all who mock the Iron Islands... This is the 'rising montum' the Drowned God truly wants the Ironborn to show in this era! Isn't this more glorious to the Drowned God than grabbing a few bags of gold and a few thralls?"
Quellon's breath seed to hitch for a second. He had never thought of it from this angle. Drowned God... new ways? His sharp gaze locked tightly onto his son.
"Father, we don't need to free all thralls imdiately. But we can start in Pyke, under your nose. Pick a few mines or salt pans to test. Give the most hardworking, obedient thralls a little hope—for example, five years of faultless work, or learning a craft, earns them freedom, maybe even a small patch of poor land to farm? Let them see a future, and they will work harder than any whip can make them! When Pyke's salt and ore production actually rises, when warehouses fill up, won't the other lords be jealous? They will co asking you how you did it!"
"The Old Way... 'Paying the Iron Price' is the ancestors' honor. Throwing it all away at once is like throwing the ancestors' bones into the sea. Of course people can't accept it. But we can... tweak it?" Euron's eyes flashed with shrewd light. "For example, decree that longships cannot raid rchant ships flying the banners of Seven Kingdoms lords? That avoids a lot of trouble. But the pirate dens in the Stepstones, the ships in Slaver's Bay carrying 'living cargo'... Raid them! That's not betraying the Old Way; that's 'cleaning the garbage of the sea'! A just act the Drowned God would approve! Part of the loot goes to the crew, part to you... to buy grain, timber, even hire good smiths to teach our people! This is called 'using the enemy's blood to fatten our roots'!"
"Septons of the Seven..." Euron shook his head slightly. "You can't force a lon to be sweet. The Drowned God has lived on the Iron Islands for thousands of years; you can't just evict Him. Instead of letting them land and make the Drowned n jump with rage, why not... send a few smart apprentice Drowned n to the Citadel in Oldtown?" Reverse thinking, take the initiative. "Let them learn how to keep accounts, how to build ships, how to heal! When they return, they will be the best proof of the union between the Drowned God and knowledge! Ironborn will listen to them! That's more useful than ten septons chanting on the docks!"
"Opening ports is a golden idea, Father!" Euron's tone held sincere admiration. "But to make ships dare to co, opening the door isn't enough. You have to make them believe they won't be chopped into fish bait once they're inside. We can do two things first: One, mark a small 'Safe Zone' in Pyke's harbor, guarded by your most trusted n. Any Ironborn who draws a weapon in the Safe Zone is treated as a traitor to the House! Two, find one or two daring rchants we've traded salt and iron with before. Give them special protection and extrely low taxes. Even let them open a small warehouse in the Safe Zone. Let them take the news of 'Safe Trade in the Iron Islands' back. News spreads. There will always be rchants who want money more than life willing to try. As long as one ship returns safely and fully laden, it works better than shouting 'We've changed' a hundred tis!"
Euron finished, his small chest heaving slightly. The study was left with only the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of the surf. He looked up at his father, his mismatched eyes clear and firm, waiting for judgnt.
Quellon Greyjoy stared at his youngest son for a long ti. Exhaustion seed to fade from his face, replaced by a deep look—a mix of shock, complexity, rekindled hope, and... an indescribable scrutiny. This child... his thoughts were so clear, so... cunning, yet hit the nail on the head. The problems he pointed out were exactly where Quellon had been bashing his head against the wall; the path he proposed, though slow, seed more feasible, less likely to trigger a destructive backlash.
"These..." Quellon's voice was a bit hoarse. He slowly walked behind the desk and sat down, fingers unconsciously tapping the wood. "Did you co up with these yourself? Or did soone teach you?" He asked the crucial question.
"Lysa told that changing people's hearts is like boiling old soup. High heat burns it; a slow simr makes the flavor sink in. Her words woke up, and I thought about it for a long, long ti." Euron answered honestly. "I want to help you, Father. I don't want to see you angry at them every day, and I don't want to see the Iron Islands poor forever."
"Lysa? That little handmaid who speaks seven languages?" Quellon took a long, deep breath and exhaled heavily, as if emptying his chest of frustration. He leaned back in his chair, gazing once again at the restless sea outside, but this ti, there seed to be sothing different in his eyes.
"Slow simr..." He repeated the phrase softly, as if chewing on a piece of tough jerky, trying to taste sothing new. "Perhaps... it is smarter than smashing my old bones against the reef." He looked at Euron, finally revealing a tired but genuine smile of approval. "I will taste this slow-simred soup."
Although Lord Quellon didn't make a final decision imdiately, Euron knew from this tacit consent that his father had listened. As he prepared to leave, Quellon suddenly spoke:
"Starting tomorrow, co with to the Council Chamber."
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