Possessing the power of the Door-Door Fruit meant that the horizon was effectively just a step away.
Journeys that would typically demand days of sailing or grueling marches overland could now be crossed in a heartbeat. All it took was a thought and a slash through the air to bridge the space.
To Euron, this seemingly unassuming Devil Fruit was a strategic asset of immeasurable value—a spatial artifact woefully underestimated by the world. He often thought that if he had to rank the myriad strange and unpredictable Devil Fruits, he would unhesitatingly place this one at the very pinnacle. It allowed him to ignore geographical barriers and appear anywhere he pleased, at any time.
Deep in the night, freshly returned to his quarters at Harrenhal, Euron's intent spanned a thousand miles.
The ring on the ring finger of his left-hand shimmered with a faint light. Euron raised his hand and slashed casually at the air. A fissure opened silently, its edges flowing with a spectral glow. He took one step forward. When he emerged, the salty, familiar gale of the sea slapped against his face.
He had quietly returned to Iron Wind Isle.
This god-like feat was witnessed by Ashara, who had not yet retired for the night.
Her violet eyes went wide with shock. Only now did she truly comprehend the nature of this reality-bending spatial magic her husband had acquired.
During the days Euron had been away, the three sisters—Rachelna, Nitier, and Zoia—had been Ashara's constant shadows. True to their word, they were intent on protecting her in Euron's absence.
Seeing Euron materialize out of thin air, they immediately swarmed around him. Three pairs of identical, clear eyes scanned him with intense curiosity, as if examining a miraculous treasure that had just fallen from the sky. They tilted their heads in perfect synchronization, radiating a pure, innocent wonder.
The sisters spoke in a seamless relay, their eyes sparkling with a mix of surprise and hunger:
"That door just now—"
"—what kind of wondrous spatial magic is that?"
"—Can you teach us?"
Euron couldn't help but laugh loudly. "It is magic, true enough, and it's not that I'm stingy." He spread his hands, his tone feigning helplessness. "But this? There is simply no way to teach it to you."
The three sisters pouted in unison, their faces clearly saying I don't believe you.
"Won't teach us, just say so—"
"—making up excuses—"
"—Hmph, hmph, hmph—"
Then, in perfect harmony: "And here we are, wanting to bear your children!"
The sisters' utter lack of filter left Euron momentarily speechless.
Euron's primary reason for returning was his concern for his pregnant wife, Ashara, and the child of their blood growing within her. Ignoring the sisters' antics, he walked straight to Ashara. He reached out, his fingers gently grazing her cheek—a face that looked slightly weary but glowed with maternal warmth. His gaze was tender.
The three sisters stood rooted to the spot like three nails, showing absolutely no intention of leaving. Euron sighed internally; it seemed the concept of "giving a couple privacy" was lost on them.
With a helpless smile, and under the scrutiny of three pairs of clear, stubborn eyes, he pulled Ashara into his arms. He began to recount his trip to King's Landing—the grand and exhausting coronation, the wedding with its undercurrents of treachery, and everything in between.
Naturally, he skipped the part about what happened in the Dragonpit.
---
Late at night, after Ashara had drifted off to sleep.
Euron's silhouette moved through the familiar corridors, heading straight for Lisa.
Lisa was already asleep, unprepared for Euron's sudden return. It wasn't until he lay down beside her and pulled her soft body into his arms that she jolted awake in a fright.
"You scared the hells out of me! You bastard!" Lisa hammered her fists against Euron's chest, but she was quickly subdued and pulled into a tight embrace.
Though she was happy for this intimate moment, a shadow of worry crossed her face. "Lady Ashara has been vomiting constantly because of the pregnancy. She hasn't been well these past two days. Since you're back, you should spend more time with her."
"You always think of others first. Do you not want me here with you?" Euron whispered into her ear. "Relax. I've already seen Ashara. I came to find you because I missed you, but also because there are things I need you to handle immediately."
"First," Euron began, his tone shifting to business. "The two exiled 'Hands' currently wandering across the Narrow Sea—Owen Merryweather and Jon Connington. 'Invite' them to Harrenhal. An invitation, not a kidnapping, but make sure they accept. If Harrenhal doesn't get an administrator soon, I'll never have a moment's peace. If they truly refuse... well, then tie them up and drag them here."
"Second, send word to Iron Smoke Isle immediately. Transfer all the stonemasons and craftsmen stationed there to Harrenhal. Prepare a budget of one million Gold Dragons. As long as it's reasonable, let them spend it however they need. I want this ruin restored to its former glory at maximum speed."
"Third, recruit experienced bankers from the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea—Pentos, Braavos, Volantis, Tyrosh. Promise them heavy profits. I need experts to build the skeleton of our bank. Of course, if they are unwilling at first, use the Ironborn method."
A cold smile played on Euron's lips. "Finally, locate Tycho Nestoris of the Iron Bank. Find him and bring him back. If he knows what's good for him and serves me, treat him as an honored guest. If not..." He paused, his voice calm but reeking of blood. "Hand him over to the torturer, Lloyd Hutchinson. I want everything inside his head."
Lisa nodded gently. "Understood."
Then, someone began to wiggle their hips restlessly.
Euron feigned curiosity. "Huh... I thought you didn't want me to keep you company? Why are you so wet then?"
Lisa blushed crimson. "Pah!"
---
Across the Narrow Sea, on the continent of Essos.
Ser Willem Darry led young Viserys and the babe Daenerys like rootless duckweed, drifting from one Free City to another.
Nominally, they were guests of powerful figures, but in reality, they were surviving in the cracks of power, relying on meager handouts.
Trailing this small band of exiles was a mercenary captain from Lys—Salladhor Saan. His weathered face always wore a shrewd smile, looking as if he were interested in everything, yet cared about nothing.
Ser Willem Darry was grateful to Salladhor for saving their lives, but he never truly trusted the pirate captain.
Salladhor Saan didn't care. He wasn't here out of boredom, nor was he attracted by Viserys's hollow title of "The Beggar King." The only reason he was willing to spend his manpower, resources, and precious time patiently guarding these precarious siblings was a single order from Euron Greyjoy.
Back in the Stepstones, Salladhor and Davos had answered Euron's "Call for Talent," drawn by the allure of opportunity, and pledged their loyalty. His first and most secretive long-term mission was to secure Viserys and Daenerys during the chaos of Dragonstone's fall and safely escort them to Essos.
Euron's orders were simple and clear: Do not interfere with their freedom. Let Ser Willem drag them through their exile. But, like a shadow, ensure their physical safety. Salladhor Saan, the cunning Lysene mercenary, had become Euron's most unassuming yet critical piece on the board, placed right beside the last Targaryens.
Rhaegar was dead. King's Landing had fallen. The Mad King was dead.
Upon hearing the news on Dragonstone, Queen Rhaella used her last shreds of dignity to hold a coronation for her son, clinging to ancient rituals.
She placed a crown cobbled together from crude wire and cheap gems upon his head, proclaiming him Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
From that moment on, Viserys carved that long string of titles into his heart. Every time he opened his mouth, he made sure to announce them.
When they first arrived in the Free Cities, the Magisters, Archons, and merchant princes received these "descendants of the dragon" with curiosity and perhaps a touch of pity.
But as the years passed, news kept flowing from across the Narrow Sea—the Usurper Robert Baratheon's hold on the Iron Throne grew firmer by the day. The Seven Kingdoms knelt; the seas were calm. Consequently, the ornate doors that had once opened for them slammed shut in their faces, one by one.
Their life slid rapidly from a dignified exile to embarrassing poverty, forced to survive by selling off Queen Rhaella's remaining jewelry and accepting scant charity.
Viserys constantly painted grand pictures of the restoration for Salladhor Saan, the only man still sticking by his side. He promised the position of Master of Ships, Master of Coin, Hand of the King—titles and riches galore.
Salladhor Saan would just grin, revealing teeth stained by wine, and laugh in a way that meant nothing. He didn't give a damn about these castles in the sky. What kept him there was the heavy bag of Gold Dragons Euron Greyjoy paid him regularly. As for whether Viserys could scrape together a single copper? He couldn't care less.
Regarding the Targaryen orphans, Euron's instructions were simple but odd: Keep them alive, but give them no substantial support. Just watch.
To Salladhor Saan, this defied logic. If you feared them, you killed them to end the threat. If they had value, you controlled them tight, invested in them, or squeezed them dry. But Euron's approach was that of a detached observer, patiently waiting for some shift or opportunity known only to him.
Though Salladhor couldn't fathom the deeper meaning, he followed Euron's orders to the letter.
He knew that a man like Euron Greyjoy—a man with ambition that could swallow the sky—did nothing without reason.
This cold observation was surely a setup for a much larger play in the future.
Euron was indeed waiting. Waiting for a specific moment in destiny, waiting for the beautiful dragon to grow old enough to ride... after all, who doesn't dream of being a "Dragonrider" in every sense of the word?
Euron didn't know if altering their current lives would trigger unknown variables, so letting them grow along their original trajectory was perhaps the best method.
So far, everything was normal, but the future remained a fog...
---