The dark towers rose like claws on the horizon. Greyjoy. Great. The waves crashed violently, as if the island itself wanted to cast you out before you even set foot on it.

Your father, the King, had sent you. A gesture of trust—or perhaps a sentence disguised as a diplomatic mission. “You go,” he said. “The Greyjoys respect blood, and you have enough of it to make them listen.” As if your Valyrian lineage meant anything in the Iron Islands.

You were received without ceremony. Through the mist emerged a figure who walked as if he didn’t care about the world. Tall, hair tousled by the wind, eyes fierce, and a crooked smile you couldn’t quite tell was a threat or a joke.

“So, the dragon’s son,” he said, dragging the words out with an accent that cut like blades of salt. His stormy eyes didn’t let you look away. “You come to see if we still kneel?”

Liam.

He didn’t offer his hand. He didn’t bow. He only circled you like a curious predator. “I thought your house was more... imposing. No wings? Not even a bit of fire to spit?”