While King Quellon was on his grand naval tour, showing off the might of his new flagship around the islands, Balf's fleet, dragging the fatigue of a long voyage, finally sailed back into the harbor of Pyke.
Before the ships had even steadied, high-pitched and anxious neighing erupted from the holds, mixing with the salty sea breeze and a strange, wild scent that belonged to the grasslands.
Balf brought back 295 Dothraki steeds from across the Narrow Sea. These horses had thick bones, fluid muscle lines, high necks, and eyes burning with an untamable fire. Of the original three hundred, five had failed to survive the long, bumpy sea journey, collapsing on the decks with mournful cries due to seasickness and stress. This loss had vexed Balf for days—each horse could sell for at least 200 Gold Dragons, and with a good buyer, maybe even 1,000.
Five horses... Balf felt like he had just lost an entire longship.
The sudden influx of nearly three hundred horses was a sweet but tricky problem for the Iron Islands, a place accustomed to longships and reefs.
Soon, an uninhabited islet previously used only for grazing scrawny goats was cleared. It was renamed Iron Horse Island and became the new home for these spirits of the grassland. As news spread, any Ironborn curious about mastering these four-legged beasts was allowed to visit the island and try their hand.
However, the one who came most often and trained the hardest was undoubtedly Euron Greyjoy himself.
Every day, whenever his administrative duties allowed, people would see Euron riding his magnificent pure white warhorse, Falulu, on the white sand training grounds.
On Iron Horse Island, the sea breeze still carried the taste of salt, but now it was mixed with the smell of fresh earth, horse sweat, and the dust of the training field.
Euron temporarily transferred the Dothraki instructor, Vittorio Grey, from Pyke to this island, entrusting him with an unprecedented mission: to turn Ironborn, masters of naval warfare, into elites capable of killing on horseback.
Vittorio Grey stood on the sidelines, whip in hand. His deep gaze swept over the Ironborn attempting to tame the Dothraki steeds, his expression complex.
These islanders, with salt water running in their veins, were clumsily trying to understand how to communicate with their mounts using knee pressure and subtle rein guidance, how to maintain balance while swinging a saber at full gallop, and even how to twist in the saddle to fire a bow.
Watching these spirits from his homeland being ridden by strange riders, Vittorio felt a thousand emotions turn in his heart—an indescribable mix of nostalgia and bitterness. especially when he realized that his old injuries prevented him from ever riding freely again. That sense of powerlessness turned into burning liquor at night, leaving him drunk and senseless time and again.
However, when daylight came and the numbness of alcohol faded, the strict instructor took over once more.
When Vittorio saw the Ironborn swaying precariously in their saddles, some nearly thrown off by the spirited horses only to laugh it off as a joke, veins would bulge on his forehead. He would forget the broken Common Tongue he had just learned and roar curses in the most authentic, ferocious Dothraki, sounding like a lion on the plains, enough to make even the stubbornest warhorse flinch.
But it was under this almost cruel supervision that the Ironborn's horsemanship improved at an astonishing speed. Their innate toughness and aggression were ignited; soon, they went from wretched clumsiness to looking somewhat capable.
Returning with the ship this time were Vittorio's son, Brooke, his wife Monica, and several hundred Dothraki children no taller than a wagon wheel. The Khal they traded with had just defeated another tribe and taken many captives. He intended to sell them as slaves, but pleased with the quality of Balf's blades, he gave them as a bonus reward.
These children were undoubtedly the most skilled riders. The blood of the grasslands coursed through them, and Brooke was exceptionally talented. But Vittorio was even stricter with them, his whip falling more often and harder.
Euron himself was inseparable from his beloved horse, Falulu. Their coordination grew more refined by the day, seemingly reaching a state where man and horse were one. He even whimsically introduced training methods far ahead of this era's cavalry concepts—setting up obstacles for precision jumping, rattan rings for weaving through, and even demanding Falulu perform rhythmic, dance-like dressage steps on uneven ground.
These fancy, precise requirements finally infuriated Vittorio Grey, who adhered to the wild, practical combat style of the grasslands. He exploded at Euron, roaring in a mix of Dothraki and broken Common Tongue: This is turning warhorses into monkeys for a show!
Euron sought far more than just teaching Ironborn to charge. Obstacles and rings improved agility and obedience in complex terrain, while "dressage" movements, though lacking direct lethality, could enhance battlefield presence and control.
Euron understood Vittorio's anger, so he listened calmly and accepted the criticism with humility, intending to experiment continuously later.
In the end, Euron realized he had been somewhat idealistic. Those fancy drills were indeed more suited for equestrian competitions. They had some use, but were too time-consuming, and their utility in the brutal chaos of a battlefield was limited. Euron shook his head and laughed, calling it flashy "battlefield ballet." He abandoned the impractical dressage training and switched to accepting Vittorio Grey's orthodox battlefield killing techniques.
For the Ironborn, the most critical training was precision archery on horseback, stealthy maneuvering, mass charges, and coordinated cavalry tactics—these were the essentials of war.
Beyond horsemanship and mounted combat, Euron specifically ordered a vast flat area on the island to be cleared. Fine white sand was shipped from afar and carefully laid to create a standard jousting field, identical to those used by the knights of the mainland.
The blazing sun poured onto the white sand arena of Iron Horse Island, baking every grain until it was scorching hot. The air distorted in the heat waves; the only clear image was the figure of a man and a horse repeating the cycle of charge and destruction in the center of the field.
Euron's entire weight pressed into the saddle, his body leaning forward, perfectly synchronized with Falulu's galloping rhythm. The heavy lance, over four meters long, was held steady under his armpit, its tip aimed straight ahead—Static Target Training.
It was a thick, human-shaped wooden target wrapped in iron sheets, with a fist-sized red circle painted over the heart. Euron's gaze locked onto that point like a hawk. The world around him blurred and faded, leaving only that red target. Falulu gathered speed, hooves pounding the ground heavily like war drums.
Ten yards! Five yards! Contact!
"Thwack!"
A short, dull, explosive sound rang out. The steel tip of the lance chiseled into the exact center of the red heart without a hair's breadth of error!
The massive impact instantly dented and tore the iron sheet, sending wood chips blasting out from the back of the target. The entire dummy rocked violently backward, nearly ripped from its mount.
Euron's arm and entire shoulder blade perfectly transmitted and absorbed the ferocious recoil. At the moment of impact, using the horse's forward momentum, he leaned back slightly and released his grip, letting the shattered wooden lance fly behind him—a standard and perfect technique for dissipating force.
A squire quickly ran up, handing him a fresh lance.
Next came Dynamic Target Training.
On one side of the field, an iron-clad wooden target was carried by three Ironborn on horseback, moving rapidly across the field in a crisscross pattern, simulating an enemy passing by in battle.
Euron tapped the horse's belly lightly, and Falulu accelerated again. He had to calculate his own speed, the target's trajectory, and the optimal moment of impact simultaneously. His core muscles tightened to maintain absolute balance, the lance adjusting its angle minutely with the target's movement.
In the split second of crossing paths!
"BOOM!"
Another tooth-aching collision!
The tip didn't hit the dead center but struck slightly forward, perfectly anticipating the target's movement. It pierced deep, spinning the moving target halfway around in mid-air, eliciting a groan of pain from the carriers. This ability to predict and hit a target in motion was the key differentiator between an ordinary rider and a top-tier knight.
Sweat had long soaked his linen shirt, clinging to every muscle that ached and burned from extreme exertion. The sea breeze brought a brief chill, but it couldn't extinguish the cold fire in his eyes focused on ultimate mastery. He seemed tireless, driving Falulu to charge again and again. Broken lance shafts lay scattered behind him like bleached bones he had cut down.
He was using this cruelest, most focused method to forcibly hammer the art of killing, which the mainland knights took such pride in, into the blood of the Ironborn.
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