euron greyjoy
—— WITH DEFT FINGERS, the corsair plucked a vellum scroll from the slab. It spun in his wrist, rotating as if he’d meant it to draw an arc in the air, and reached towards the other person. King’s Landing’s letter quarters, neatly positioned though they were, reminded him of a dove cote from which all life had fled. Dust piled in corners and mixed with a musky scent that vaguely resembled his ship’s hull after a week in port. The iron-barrelled windows allowed only a dim light to peer through. There were no crows to carry the missives, no familiar rats in the corners, nothing but back-bent scribes poring over their papers like broken puppets. It seemed arseways; all this empty space, and no vermin to make use of it. He didn’t much like it, but the paper was good, miles better than whatever he’d gotten his hands on in his tradings. It was also a useful way to watch the coming and going of servants, learned men, and the nobles who had no time or coin to summon a scribe to their chamber. It was precisely this kind of figure he’d cornered across the table.
“Could you please read this out for me?” A plaintive shrug, shoulders hitching almost apologetically. From all the ways to come at an inlander, Euron had found that the easiest trick was to feign grit and ignorance. Ruggedness overall, in fact, served him better than gold. Summon the pretense of as much as you could muster, have it filling your hands to the brim, and you hardly needed to rally anything else to your side. Rough edges men thought they might cut themselves onto. And underneath them, the sleekness that really drew out the blood. His eyes etched, unblinking, on the way his request would be received.
THE SMELL OF THE shit in the streets of King’s Landing made it impossible to catch a breath of salt air, even so close to the streets, and imposing silhouette of the Sept rising out of the mess of the city from all angles made Aeron’s stomach twist in hatred. This was the dwelling place of false gods, and nonbelievers - it was no place for a man so pious as Aeron the Damphair. The Drowned God’s concerns were the Iron Island’s concerns, and thus he deigned to endure this place in order to scope out the kind of foes they were going to have to face.
This dragon king, first and foremost, seemed to pose a problem, if he were as mad as they said in whispers, was Aeron’s concern - especially now that his brother and his niece had made the rightful decision to oppose him. The larger problem, however, entered the keep’s letter quarters, as Aeron was scrawling a hasty letter to Balon, notifying him of his findings in this terrible, terrible place. A chill fell over him as Euron spoke, and it was like he was a child again, small and ever in fear of his brother who had always been unhinged and forged from the roughest of iron. If they had been children again, and Aeron had felt brave, he might have made some haughty joke about how his older brother was an illiterate fool, but as a man grown he knew better, and had been soured by life’s experiences. “You don’t fool me, brother.” He said, leaving the letter hovering between them as eyes that matched Euron’s held his gaze in challenge. “I have no time for your tricks.”