Euron was soon to set off for King's Landing to attend Robert's coronation and wedding.
Standing before the window of Iron Wind Keep, looking out at the turbulent sea, his thoughts drifted back to his own wedding. Robert had sent a generous gift from thousands of miles away—a complete, darkly gleaming dragon skull, which still lay treasured deep in the family vault.
This friendship, he etched into his heart.
"It's time to prepare a return gift," he muttered to himself.
Several days later, Euron appeared on Iron Smoke Island—the island of smiths.
Deafening hammering and waves of scorching heat rushed toward him, but he paid them no mind, walking straight to the forge in the deepest part of the island.
There, the managers of Iron Smoke Island—Marwyn Stephens and Atticus Whitney—who were also the best blacksmiths in the world, quietly awaited Euron's instructions.
Marwyn Stephens drew the blueprints and made the molds according to Euron's ideas, while Atticus Whitney wielded the hammer himself for the forging. They were the finest smiths Euron had brought back from Qohor across the Narrow Sea.
"Thicken this part," Euron pointed to the connection point of the warhammer, his voice clear even over the clang of metal. "The head must be made of the finest high steel. Shift the center of gravity forward by three parts; it needs more impact force." The firelight reflected on his deep-set face, flickering with his precise vision for this special gift.
What Euron wanted to forge was not just a divine weapon, but a symbol of power that perfectly fit Robert's fighting style.
In the deepest forge of Iron Smoke Island, the furnace fire never died.
Old smiths versed in the ancient quenching secrets of Valyrian steel threw meteorite iron from the stars and deep-sea cold iron from the abyssal trenches into the earth-fire core under Euron's personal supervision. After a thousand folds and ten thousand hammer strikes to remove all impurities, the steel bone finally forged had a density far surpassing ordinary iron. Although it lacked the magical properties of Valyrian steel, its toughness had reached the pinnacle of what mortal metal could achieve. Even in a head-on clash with legendary magical blades, it would not be easily damaged.
The finished warhammer was forged entirely from this exotic high steel. The head alone weighed ninety-nine pounds; an ordinary man couldn't even lift it. The main face was a rounded striking surface the size of a millstone, covered in dense, deep diamond-shaped chisel marks. Each mark looked like a battle scar gouged out of the steel bone by a giant's fingernail—hideous and full of power.
The reverse side broke with convention. It wasn't a traditional blunt face, but a sharpened, three-edged armor-piercing spike. On the spike, the old smith used lost techniques to engrave ancient Valyrian runes for "Bone Breaker." A skeptical smith had once tested it against a thick plate of high steel; with just one strike, the spike plowed a terrifying groove half a foot deep into the shield, the broken steel edges curling up as if boiled in water.
In the center of the hammerhead, the profile of the crowned stag of House Baratheon was embossed in relief, the lines hard and full of tension. The stag's eyes were set with two dark red agates, gleaming with a bloody light in the fire; each branch of the bronze-forged antlers was sharp as a real blade. Where the head met the haft, it was wrapped in a carefully distressed bronze sleeve, showing obvious signs of wear to add an air of ancient, battle-hardened ruggedness.
When this warhammer was swung with great force, it didn't whistle through the air but emitted a low hum like distant thunder, like the roar of an ancient beast waking from slumber. Any knight's armor struck by it would instantly turn to dust, shards embedding three inches deep into stone walls. If it struck the ground, the shockwave alone was enough to overturn a brazier ten paces away.
Deep within Iron Smoke Island, the scorching furnace illuminated Euron's focused profile. The roar of the forge hammer became the only sound in his world. Sweat slid down his tense muscles, sizzling into tiny clouds of steam on the hot metal. He was fully absorbed in adjusting the angle of the hammer's haft, his fingertips feeling for that unique balance.
Just then, a hurried set of footsteps broke the monotonous rhythm of the workshop. An Ironborn warrior covered in dust cut through the rising heat waves, respectfully handing over a secret letter tied with seaweed rope.
"My Lord, urgent message from Pyke."
Euron's brow twitched. He put down his tools and unfurled the paper. Lysa's familiar, concise, and efficient handwriting came into view:
Someone from Lonely Light is here. They ask to see you specifically. Return to Pyke immediately.
Lonely Light—that ancient fortress located at the westernmost edge of the Iron Islands, shrouded year-round in mist and legend. Its people were reclusive, rarely interacting with other houses.
For them to send an envoy now, and ask for him so explicitly...
Euron looked up from the letter to the gloomy sky outside the window. Without hesitation, he solemnly entrusted the warhammer, which still needed careful polishing, to the master smith beside him.
"I leave this to you. Mind every detail." He ordered in a deep voice that cut through the noise of the hammers. "I return to Pyke at once."
---
Lonely Light stood at the westernmost boundary of the known world, the last outpost civilization could reach. To arrive at that land wrapped in mist and legend, travelers had to depart from Great Wyk and sail northwest into that endless, gloomy grey ocean.
The voyage took eight days, accompanied only by herds of seals and roaring sea lions whose dens were scattered on the desolate rocks along the way. When a ship finally crossed this seemingly eternal, lonely expanse, the solitary fortress would slowly emerge from the horizon—belonging to the ancient and secretive House Farwynd.
Most striking was the ever-burning lighthouse atop the castle. The massive beacon pierced the mist of eternal night and the curtain of storms, guiding ships beyond the edge of the world and earning the land the name "Lonely Light."
That light was both a symbol of hope and a silent declaration: Here is the end of the world.
Although Lonely Light nominally belonged to the Iron Islands and flew the Greyjoy kraken banner, it existed more like an independent entity drifting outside the world.
They did not participate in the affairs of the Iron Islands, sent no longships to join in reaving, and were indifferent to the dynastic changes of Westeros or the conflicts across the Narrow Sea. House Farwynd was few in number. Like hermits guarding the lighthouse at the world's end, they had long upheld a principle of almost complete isolation, like legendary ascetics untouched by the dust of the mortal world.
They did not worship the Drowned God, nor indeed any god. This custom, so at odds with the Ironborn, made the rest of the Iron Islands deliberately distance themselves from them.
Because of this, the fact that they had actively sent an envoy now, explicitly demanding to see him, was truly extraordinary.
Euron stood at the prow of the ship returning to Pyke, the salty wind hitting his face. A rare confusion lingered in his heart. Why had these "hermits," almost forgotten by time, suddenly stepped out of their mist-shrouded domain?
What on earth did they want?
This sudden visit was like a stone dropped into the calm deep sea, sending ripples of curiosity spreading through Euron's mind.