The Long Voyage and the Plunder

Kolen Greyjoy had once had three sons by his first wife, Meryl of the Stonestreet family from Harlaw. Halon Greyjoy, his firstborn, died in childhood from greyscale. Quenton Greyjoy, the second son, perished as an infant. Donal Greyjoy, the third son, returned to the Drowned God's embrace at birth alongside his mother.

Afterward, Kolen took his second rock wife, who became the mother of Balon and Euron. Having lost three children before, Kolen treasured and cherished these two sons he had finally managed to keep.

Eighteen-year-old Balon was immensely strong, having bested many battle-hardened, blood-soaked pirates in Finger Dance duels, and his longsword skills could rival those of his uncle Balv Greyjoy, now hailed as the Iron Islands' finest knight. Five-year-old Euron had drawn attention since birth—his mismatched eyes, his return from death, and the title of Son of the Drowned God had spread across all the Iron Islands, while his intelligence and resilience stunned everyone who met him.

One a warrior, one a scholar—they represented the future and hope of the Iron Islands.

But now, both of the Iron Islands king's precious sons were aboard his Hao Yin, heading to the Stepstones to raid merchant ships. "Cracked Jaw" Daggmo felt the weight of pressure crushing him; the thrill of plunder had suddenly dimmed.

Yet the sails were raised, and there was no turning back—only when the ship was laden with spoils or their corpses would they return!

Before dawn, the docks of Pyke were steeped in salty, fishy fog. The damp planks sagged slightly underfoot, oozing black seawater, as if the Drowned God were licking the vessels about to depart. Euron Greyjoy walked barefoot over coils of rope; fine grit and shells bit into his soles, and cold seawater washed over his ankles before receding, leaving a thin layer of froth. The black silhouette of the Hao Yin loomed faintly in the morning mist, its low gunwale like a lurking sea beast, the dragon's maw carved at the prow wide open, as if ready to devour prey in the distance.

"Remember, little kraken." Daggmo rubbed Euron's curly hair with his calloused hand, the iron rings in his cleft chin glinting coldly in the dawn light. His voice was like rock worn by sea wind—rough yet carrying a strange rhythm. "The sound of the waves speaks. A gentle swish means safety, a hiss means shallows, and if you hear a thumping..." The old pirate made a sinking gesture, a gurgling laugh in his throat. "That's reefs gnawing your hull, and the Drowned God knocking on your coffin lid."

Euron nodded, his mismatched eyes sweeping the deck—the left like an abyss swallowing light, the right as cold as the sea before a storm. Inside his five-year-old body was a reincarnated soul, but for now, he had to learn like a true Ironborn. He reached out and touched the hull; rough planks left tiny splinters in his palm, carrying the salty sting of seawater.

The sea wind suddenly quickened, bearing a salty omen. Balon Greyjoy stood by the helm, motionless as a bronze statue, his eighteen-year-old muscles taut beneath his leather armor, his gaze locked on the gradually lightening horizon. The scars from his father Kolen's whip still marked his neck, dark red scabs like twisted sea serpents, but now his mind was entirely on the raid ahead.

Daggmo was performing the departure ritual before the figurehead. The old pirate smeared whale oil over the carved sea monster's eyes, his hoarse voice mingling with the wind: "Open your eyes, old friend, and lead us to fat prey!" Fifty-three sailors took their positions, Balon standing by the helm like a bronze statue.

"Raise the sails!" Daggmo's roar drowned out the gulls' cries.

Black sails unfurled with a whoosh, the banner of a biting sea serpent snapping atop the mast. Euron gripped the rigging, feeling the longship awaken—the creak of the keel, the hum of taut ropes, the dull thud of waves against the hull—these sounds wove into a war song of the Ironborn in his ears. Salty spray splashed his face, carrying a strange vitality—[Ding! Pirate King System activation 2.5%...]

On the third day of sailing, Euron was caught by Daggmo while lying on the forecastle measuring the sun's angle.

"Ha! Our little prince studying navigation?" The old pirate hoisted him like a kitten and set him by the helm, a glint of mockery in his eyes. "Watch closely—this is a real Ironborn compass."

Daggmo undid his belt and pissed over the side. "When the wind's against you, a split stream means undercurrents; with the wind, a straight stream is a good omen." He glanced at Euron and grinned. "Never mind, learn that when you're older."

Euron didn't laugh. He pointed to a wooden crate in the corner of the deck. "There's an astrolabe in there."

Daggmo raised an eyebrow. "A maester's toy. Ironborn don't need that." He patted the dagger at his waist. "We navigate by this—the instinct of blood and salt."

But Euron knew true seamanship went far beyond that.

The charts near the Stepstones were an Ironborn secret. Daggmo pulled a whalebone carved with symbols from his leather armor, marking whirlpools, reefs, and pirate dens. The bone was polished shiny, its edges worn smooth from countless readings.

"We'll reach this spot soon." He pointed a missing finger at a jagged notch on the bone. "The 'Weeping Widow' whirlpool—swallowed twenty ships. Scatter salt on the deck when passing, or the Drowned God will take your helmsman."

Euron silently memorized it. As for scattering salt on the deck, whether it actually worked or not, respecting tradition cost nothing—salt was cheap! Daggmo was experienced, both in sailing and raiding, and the knowledge he passed on wasn't found in books, but for someone who wanted to master the sea, it was more precious than gold. As the voyage continued, the Hao Yin pushed deeper into the ocean toward the Stepstones, and the Pirate King System's activation steadily rose—[Ding! Pirate King System activation 20.5%...]

On the seventh day of sailing, Euron witnessed the ocean's fury.

The Hao Yin was a typical Ironborn longship—low gunwales for raiding, shallow draft to beach on sand. Its sails were black, coated in tar, lighter and faster than Summer Isles merchant sails, but when facing headwinds, the Ironborn would furl them and rely entirely on oars—six rowing stations per side, manned by the strongest pirates in rotation.

"Look at the clouds." Balon suddenly appeared behind Euron, pointing at the curling, fish-scale clouds on the horizon. "Those are the 'Drowned God's Teeth.' A storm's coming."

At first, it was just a smear of lead-gray on the horizon, but soon, dark clouds smashed into the sea like war hammers. Giant waves rose like city walls of water; the Hao Yin was tossed like a leaf, hurled to the crest and slammed into the trough. Euron was flung to port, then rolled to starboard, digging his nails into the gaps between planks to avoid being washed overboard.

Even with all preparations, the raging sea was beyond human resistance.

"Furl the sails! Lash down the cargo!" Daggmo tied himself to the helm with rope, rainwater leaking through his cleft chin and spraying out with his spit. "Balon! Get your brother below!"

Balon grabbed Euron like a sack and charged into the captain's cabin in three strides. Under the dim whale-oil lamp, the sea chart was soaked, ink bleeding into blurry blue-black smears. But Balon pointed precisely to a spot. "Remember this place—'Devil's Molar,' the most dangerous whirlpool zone in the Stepstones. If the ship breaks apart, swim northeast—there's a reef cluster you can climb onto."

Euron stared at his brother's rain-soaked face. In that moment, Balon didn't seem like a brute, but a true captain.

From outside came the crack of a breaking mast. Daggmo's curses pierced the wood: "Damn the Seven! Old Wick's gone overboard!"

Euron suddenly broke free from Balon, grabbed a dagger from the table, slashed his palm, and smeared blood on the doorframe—an ancient rite he'd heard from the old fisherman Wick, a blood sacrifice to the Drowned God. The blood flowed along the frame, seeping into the wood's cracks, as if absorbed by some unseen force.

[Ding! Host's first active participation in a nautical crisis. Pirate King System activation increased by 5%. Current activation: 65%.] A surge of warmth flooded his limbs.

Balon stared hard at his brother, about to grab him back, but was himself knocked into the cabin by a massive wave. His fingers white-knuckled on the doorframe, he roared wildly: "Bastard, get back here now!" But his voice was swallowed by the howling wind and roaring waves. Then he witnessed something miraculous.

When Euron climbed back onto the deck, he moved across the tilting hull as if on flat ground, even predicting the direction of each wave before it struck.

Euron grabbed a rope from the deck and threw it toward the port-side oarsman struggling in the towering waves. The rope moved as if alive, wrapping precisely around Old Wick's wrist as he thrashed in the sea. Once sure the oarsman had hold of it, Euron tied the other end to an iron cleat on the deck. No matter how the waves surged or the wind howled, Euron remained unaffected, as if the sea itself were part of his body.

Daggmo lay flat on the deck, eyes wide. "Drowned God above... is this little kraken born on a ship?"

Son of the Drowned God! Everyone involuntarily recalled the legend tied to Euron.