Kolen Greyjoy had had three sons by his first wife, Meryl, of the Stonestreet Family on Harlaw. His first son, Halon Greyjoy, had died of Greyscale as a child. His second son, Quenton Greyjoy, had died in infancy. His third son, Donal Greyjoy, had returned to the Drowned God's embrace along with his wife on the day he was born.
Afterward, Kolen took a second rock wife, who was the mother of Balon and Euron. Having lost his first three children, Kolen cherished the two sons he had finally been blessed with all the more.
Eighteen-year-old Balon was incredibly strong. He had beaten many seasoned, bloodthirsty pirates in the Finger Dance, and his swordsmanship was a match for that of his uncle, Balv Greyjoy, now hailed as the finest knight in the Iron Islands. Five-year-old Euron had drawn attention from the moment he was born. With his mismatched eyes and his return from the dead, the title of Son of the Drowned God had spread throughout the Iron Islands. His intelligence and resilience had also astonished everyone who had met him.
One was a warrior, the other a scholar. Together, they represented the future and hope of the Iron Islands.
Yet now both of the Iron King's beloved sons were aboard his own Hao Yin, joining him on a raid against merchant ships near the Stepstones. Daggmo "Cracked Jaw" felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. The thrill of raiding had suddenly lost much of its appeal.
But the sails were raised, and there was only one way forward. They would not turn back until the ship was full of plunder—or corpses!
Before dawn, Pyke's harbor was steeped in a briny mist. The damp planks dipped beneath their feet, oozing black seawater as if the Drowned God were licking the ships about to depart. Euron Greyjoy padded barefoot past coils of rope. Grit and shells dug into his soles; icy seawater washed over his ankles, then receded, leaving a trail of foam. The black silhouette of the Hao Yin loomed in the morning fog, its low gunwales like those of a lurking sea beast. The dragon's maw carved into its prow gaped wide, as if ready to devour prey in the distance.
"Remember, little kraken." Daggmo rubbed Euron's curls with a callused hand. The iron rings on his split jaw gleamed coldly in the dawn light. His voice was like a reef worn rough by the sea wind, coarse yet strangely rhythmic. "The waves speak. A gentle swishing means you're safe; a hiss means shallow water. If you hear a thump-thump..." The old pirate mimed sinking, then chuckled deep in his throat. "That's the reef gnawing at your keel, and the Drowned God knocking on your coffin lid."
Euron nodded, his mismatched eyes sweeping over the deck—his left eye swallowed the light like an abyss, while his right was as cold as the sea before a storm. A transmigrator's soul dwelled in his five-year-old body, but for now, he had to learn to be a true Ironborn. He reached out and touched the hull. The rough planks left tiny splinters in his palm, salty from the sea.
The sea wind suddenly picked up, carrying a briny warning. Balon Greyjoy stood beside the steering oar, as still as a bronze statue. His eighteen-year-old muscles tensed beneath his leather armor, his eyes fixed on the brightening horizon. The scar left by his father, Kolen, still marked his neck. Its dark red scab resembled a twisted sea snake, but now his thoughts were fixed on the raid ahead.
Daggmo was performing the departure rite before the figurehead. The old pirate smeared whale oil over the wooden sea monster's eyes, his hoarse voice mixing with the wind. "Open your eyes, old friend, and lead us to fat prey!" The fifty-three sailors took their places, while Balon stood beside the steering oar like a bronze statue.
"Raise the sail!" Daggmo's shout drowned out the gulls' cries.
The black sails unfurled with a snap, and the flag bearing a biting sea snake whipped atop the mast. Euron gripped the railing rope, feeling the longship shudder awake—the keel creaked, the ropes hummed taut, and the waves thudded against the hull. The sounds intertwined in his ears, forming an Ironborn war song. Briny spray spattered his face, carrying a strange vitality—[Ding! Pirate King System activation: 2.5%...]
On the third day of the voyage, Daggmo caught Euron leaning over the forecastle, studying the sun's angle.
"Ha! Is our little prince studying navigation?" The old pirate lifted him like a kitten and carried him over to the steering oar, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Watch closely. This is a true Ironborn compass."
Daggmo undid his breeches and pissed into the sea. "When the wind's against you, a split stream means there's an undertow. When it's at your back, a straight stream is a good omen." He glanced at Euron and grinned. "Never mind. You can learn that when you're older."
Euron didn't laugh. He pointed to a wooden chest 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 belt. "We find our way with this—instinct born of blood and salt."
But Euron knew there was far more to sailing than that.
The sea charts around the Stepstones were a secret of the Ironborn. Daggmo pulled a piece of whale bone, covered in markings, from beneath his leather armor. It showed whirlpools, reefs, and pirate lairs. The bone was polished smooth from handling, its edges rounded—clearly, it had been studied countless times.
"We'll reach this place soon." With his finger missing, he pointed to a jagged mark on the bone. "The Weeping Widow whirlpool. It's swallowed twenty ships. Sprinkle salt over the deck when we pass, or the Drowned God will take your helmsman."
Euron silently committed it to memory. As for sprinkling salt over the deck, whether the ritual worked or not, there was no harm in respecting tradition—and salt was cheap! Daggmo was experienced in both sailing and raiding. He taught Euron things no book could, knowledge more precious than gold to anyone who wanted to command the sea. As the voyage went on, the Hao Yin sailed farther into the ocean, heading for the Stepstones, and the Pirate King System's activation level gradually rose—[Ding! Pirate King System activation: 20.5%...]
On the seventh day, Euron saw the sea's fury firsthand.
The Hao Yin was a typical Ironborn longship, with low gunwales suited to surprise attacks and a shallow draft that let it run aground on beaches. Its sails were black and tarred, lighter and faster than those of Summer Isles merchant ships. But when the wind turned against them, the Ironborn lowered the sails and relied entirely on oars—six stations on each side, manned in shifts by the strongest pirates.
"Look at the clouds." Balon suddenly appeared behind Euron and pointed to the curled, scale-like clouds on the horizon. "Those are the Drowned God's teeth. A storm's coming."
At first, there was only a patch of leaden gray in the distance. But soon the storm clouds smashed down on the sea like warhammers. Tower-high walls of water surged over them, tossing the Hao Yin like a leaf onto the crests before slamming it into the troughs. Euron was thrown against the port side, then rolled to starboard. He dug his fingernails into the gaps between the planks to keep from being swept overboard.
Even with every precaution taken, the raging sea was beyond anyone's power to resist.
"Lower the sails! Lash down the cargo!" Daggmo tied himself to the steering oar with a rope. Rainwater ran into his split jaw, then sprayed out mixed with spittle. "Balon! Get your brother below deck!"
Balon grabbed Euron like a sack and rushed into the captain's cabin, taking the steps two at a time. Beneath the dim whale-oil lamp, seawater had soaked the charts, blurring the ink into shapeless blue-black stains. Yet Balon pointed accurately to one spot. "Remember this location—the Devil's Molar, the most dangerous whirlpool in the Stepstones. If the ship breaks apart, swim northeast. There's a reef where you can climb out."
Euron stared at his brother's rain-soaked face. At that moment, Balon seemed less like a hothead and more like a true captain.
A loud crack came from outside as the mast snapped. Daggmo's curses pierced the planks. "Damn the Seven! Old Wick's gone overboard!"
Euron suddenly broke free of Balon, grabbed a dagger from the table, and slashed his palm. He smeared his blood on the doorframe—the ancient rite of blood sacrifice to the Drowned God that he'd heard from the old fisherman Wick. Blood ran down the frame and seeped into the gaps in the planks, as if some invisible force were absorbing it.
[Ding! Host has actively taken part in a sailing crisis for the first time. Pirate King System activation increased by 5%. Current activation: 65%.] A warm current surged through his limbs.
Balon stared at his brother, about to grab him and pull him back, when a massive wave slammed him into the captain's cabin. His fingers turned white as he clutched the doorframe and roared, "Bastard, get your ass back here..." But his voice was drowned out by the howling wind and roaring waves. Then he saw something incredible.
When Euron climbed back onto the deck, he moved as easily across the slanting ship as if he were on level ground. He could even predict the direction of each oncoming wave.
Euron picked up a rope from the deck and threw it toward the port-side oarsman struggling in the huge waves. The rope seemed alive, wrapping itself precisely around Old Wick's wrist as he tumbled in the water. Once he was sure the oarsman had hold of it, Euron tied the other end to an iron spike on deck. No matter how high the waves rose or how fiercely the wind howled, Euron remained completely unaffected, as if the sea were part of his own body.
Daggmo lay sprawled on the deck, eyes wide. "By the Drowned God... is this little kraken part of the ship?"
Son of the Drowned God! Everyone found themselves thinking of the tale connected to Euron.
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