Inside the Council Chamber, the embers of mockery had not yet cooled, and whispers of doubt still swirled within the stone walls. Lysa's deep-sea steady breathing, barely audible behind him, was the only anchor in this oppressive ocean. Euron could clearly feel the gazes—some cold, some scorching—sticking to his back. He calmly met the eyes of the lords in the hall, neither startled nor angry.
Just as Dunstan Drumm seemed ready to add more fuel to the fire, as Gymond Botley's sinister eyes flickered with calculation, and Baelor Blacktyde finished the last line of his prayer to the wooden carving—
The unassuming, heavy oak door next to the main throne slid open silently.
Quellon Greyjoy's tall figure appeared in the doorway, like a reef suddenly surfacing. He had not just arrived; his weathered, sharp eyes, polished by waves, were calm and ripple-less, yet seemed to have already taken in everything that had just happened in the hall—every mockery, every look, every trace of unease. His face held no expression, only a profound, abyss-like calm that carried its own invisible pressure.
He stepped inside. His leather boots struck the cold stone floor with a steady, rhythmic sound, each step beating like a drum on everyone's heart. He looked at no one, walking straight to the massive main seat carved from ancient black reef rock—the throne symbolizing the authority of the "Seastone King." His kraken-crested leather armor gleamed coldly in the firelight.
The entire Council Chamber instantly fell into a dead silence, making even the crackle of wood in the fireplace seem jarringly loud. Dunstan Drumm's half-raised goblet froze in mid-air; Gymond Botley's fingers stopped rubbing his chin; Baelor Blacktyde quietly slipped the wooden carving into his tunic. All gazes—reverent, defiant, suspicious—focused on the ruler of the Iron Islands.
Quellon sat on the massive throne, leaning back slightly. His gaze swept over his crew like the most seasoned captain inspecting his ship—or rather, scrutinizing a sea full of hidden reefs. He offered no pleasantries. He simply extended his knuckled, calloused hand and knocked three times on the smooth, cold stone table, neither light nor heavy.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound wasn't loud, but like a hammer striking a warning bell, it echoed clearly in the silent hall, announcing the arrival of the storm.
"Everyone is here. Council begins." Quellon's voice was low and steady, yet carried unquestionable penetration. Every word sank like an iron anchor to the seabed, refusing to float. "What waves do you wish to raise on your islands?"
The brief silence broke as the suppressed tide found an outlet.
The first to attack was still Dunstan Drumm. He slammed down his goblet, splashing wine onto the table. "Waves? The biggest wave is that flock of silk-robed crows from King's Landing!" His voice was loud, filled with undisguised disgust. "Those Septons of the Seven! Scuttling around the islands like sea roaches! Chanting at fishermen on the docks, preaching to thralls at the salt pans! The Drowned Men are barely holding back their rage, Quellon! You let them land, and now they're polluting the Drowned God's sanctuaries! You must give us an answer for this!" His thick finger pointed straight at Quellon, as if accusing a criminal.
Gymond Botley immediately followed up. His voice wasn't as explosive as Dunstan's, but colder, like a reef hidden under a dark current. "Lord Drumm is right; that is indeed a trouble. However, the bigger wave is probably that new port at Lordsport, built with so much manpower and material, isn't it?" The corner of his mouth curled into a sarcastic arc. "What a magnificent pier, brand new stone shores, a towering lighthouse... But aside from crashing waves and seagull shit, what has it brought us? Empty! Empty! As! Air!" He deliberately enunciated each word, stabbing Quellon's reform plan like ice picks. "Not a single merchant ship flying a Seven Kingdoms banner dares to dock! Those merchants would rather detour all the way to Gulltown than approach our coastline! What use is this pile of rocks besides wasting iron ore and labor? Lord Quellon, your 'open' door... outsiders don't even dare to glance at it!"
"Waves?" Baelor Blacktyde's voice carried a heavy compassion. He spoke slowly, his gaze sweeping the seated lords. "My lords, do you not feel the true chill? Winter is Coming!" He spread his hands as if embracing the invisible cold. "The Iron Islands are barren; grain has always relied on purchase or... 'paying the iron price.' How long can the grain in Pyke's warehouses last? Two months? Three? And you," he looked at Quellon, eyes filled with the believer's worry, "you want to raise the salt tax? Salt is one of the foundations of our survival. Raising the salt tax is sucking the last bit of life-saving saltiness from poor fishermen and salt workers! This will make the hearth fires on the islands go out faster! The Drowned God gave us salt to survive, not to drive his children to a dead end!"
As soon as he finished, another spokesman from Old Wyk—a captain with gaunt cheeks and hawk-like eyes—stood up abruptly, his voice scraping like a blade on bone. "Lord Blacktyde hit the root! Grain! Survival! This is the deadliest wave! Lord Quellon, can your dreams of merchant ships, ports, and septons fill the children's bellies? Can they withstand the winds of winter?" He looked around, eyes burning with a primitive, fanatical light. "The Old Way! Only returning to the Old Way! Let our longships sail again! Let our warriors grip their axes again! Go to the rich southern coasts and 'pay the iron price'! Seize the grain for our winter! Take back the lost glory of the Ironborn! This is the Ironborn way approved by the Drowned God! This is the iron anchor that solves everything!"
"Yes! Return to the Old Way!"
"Paying the Iron Price is the righteous path!"
"Rob the damn grain for winter!"
Several radical captains and spokesmen from remote islands immediately echoed loudly. The Council Chamber was instantly shrouded in a fanatical, restless atmosphere hungry for plunder. The cry to "Return to the Old Way" was like a hungry tsunami, fiercely crashing against Quellon and the reform direction he represented.
Quellon sat on the reef throne, face calm as water, fingers unconsciously tapping the cold table surface, as if measuring the depth and power of this surging "wave." His gaze was deep, revealing neither joy nor anger.
And sitting at the very end, Euron remained in a near-solid posture. His small body wrapped in the new kraken robe looked like a micro-reef isolated in a raging sea. When his father appeared, his tense jawline seemed to relax a fraction. Now, amidst the fierce arguments of the lords and the fanatical cries for the "Old Way," beneath his lowered eyelids, his mismatched pupils—the left an abyss swallowing all light, the right an ice-blue freezing the storm—were unusually bright and focused.
He branded every face distorted by anger, anxiety, and fanaticism, every shout filled with interests, faith, and survival demands, deep into his mind like the most precise nautical chart. Lysa's warning echoed in his heart: Silence, observe. In the center of the storm, only absolute sobriety can survive. He was like a detached recorder, silently collecting first-hand intelligence in this power arena, drawing a crucial map of hidden reefs for future voyages.