The Song of Iron Coins

The tide has turned, the slaughter is over, Our Black Sails blot out the sun at noon.

What we hold in our hands remains unpaid, What's paid is the ancient, brave count of Iron Coins!

So pour the Rum, and light the bonfire high!

Sing loudly, for the desires of every fallen soul!

The dead do not die, They will rise again beneath this sky, more rampant still!

Their ship planks splintered, their flags lowered, Sending their lords to a watery paradise.

We seize their fine wine, we steal their provisions, And cast their dreams aside with the corpses.

So pour the Rum, and light the bonfire high!

The sea will swallow the weak and the strong, The Drowned God knows we have no place to shelter.

To till the land or kneel for grace?

We are the storms that end the day!

Iron Coins… are our only creed…

Iron Coins… before we sink…

The sailors sang the "Song of Iron Coins" at the top of their lungs. Baron stood at the bow, drinking heavily while waving his hands like a conductor. It was Yulon's first time hearing this wild pirate song. He wanted to drink deeply like the other Ironborn, but Old Wick snatched the wine bottle from his hand as soon as it was passed to him.

The deck of the Hao Yin was piled high with spoils, glittering enticingly under the midday sun. Yulon squatted on an oak barrel, watching the sailors sort and arrange the loot. His gaze was drawn to bolts of eastern silk—the Black goat cashmere from Qohor shimmered with a pearlescent sheen in the sun, more exquisite than any tapestry in the homes of Pike's wealthiest merchants.

The sailors descended upon the pried-open crates like starving wolves, their rough fingers raking through silk, spices, and gleaming gold and silver ware. "Cracked Jaw" Daggmo kicked open the oak door of the captain's cabin and dragged out a pearl-inlaid iron chest, splitting the lock with an axe—Clang! Piles of Myrish gold coins rolled onto the deck, glittering like fish scales in the sun.

"By the Gods!" an old sailor missing teeth grabbed a handful of gold coins and stuffed them into his mouth, biting them with his teeth to leave indentations. "Real gold! Purer than what they dig from the mines on Old Wick Island!"

"Look at this!" Red-haired Oakhart held aloft a goblet encrusted with rubies, its rim still stained with deep red wine. "A Braavosi banker's private collection!" His smile, missing two front teeth, looked particularly ferocious in the sunlight, and fresh blood beaded from a new scar on his forehead.

Old One-Eye Wolf knelt before a pile of spices, his trembling fingers picking up a pinch of saffron and inhaling deeply. "By the Gods," his hoarse voice choked with emotion, "this was my wife's favorite scent before she was paralyzed..." He carefully wrapped the spice in a piece of cloth torn from his own clothes and hid it in his inner leather pouch. This old pirate didn't love his paralyzed, ugly wife; he knew this spice was worth as much as gold.

Daggmo laughed heartily, his cracked jaw revealing a few drops of saliva: "Everyone grab a handful first! The rest—" he glanced at Baron, "—according to Iron Islands custom, the captain takes thirty percent, warriors get more, and the rest goes to House Greyjoy!"

The sailors cheered and rushed towards the spoils. Some wrapped Braavosi silk scarves around their necks, while others filled silver wine goblets with strong liquor and drank them down in one gulp. A burly man with a face full of scars even put on a captured gilded breastplate on the spot, though it was as small as a dinner plate on him.

The captives from the ship's hold were driven onto the deck.

Braavosi merchants and sailors, bound together by chains, knelt on the blood-stained deck with pale faces. The women—three trembling girls—were brought before Baron separately. According to ancient custom, the men would become slaves, digging iron ore on the Iron Islands until they died. The women, if any Ironborn desired them, would become salt wives. If no Ironborn wanted them, they would be toys for all Ironborn.

"These two are yours, Baron." Daggmo grinned, pushing two of the older girls towards him.

The first was a Dornish girl, about fourteen years old. Her olive skin was still dusted with sand, and her green silk dress, soaked by the sea, clung to her. Her dark eyes burned with anger, but her lips were stubbornly pursed, like a wild cat cornered.

The second was from Tyrosh, slightly older, about sixteen. Her amber right eye was covered by a white film, like a burst fish bladder. A purple lotus was tattooed on her ankle—the mark of a Tyroshi brothel—and she wore jingling gold bells on her wrists.

Baron was pleased, his lecherous gaze sweeping over them, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Take them back, soak them in saltwater, and they'll be Ironborn women."

But Yulon's gaze fell on the third girl.

She was younger than the other two, at most twelve years old, as thin as a reed, her light golden hair tousled by the sea breeze. She didn't cry, nor did she glare at them like the Dornish girl. She just stood quietly, her blue eyes seeming to see through people.

"What's your name?" Yulon asked.

The girl looked up, her voice as light as the sea breeze. "Lysa."

"Where are you from?"

"Pentos." Her Common Tongue had a soft, foreign accent. "But my mother was Braavosi, and my father a merchant from Rhys. I can speak seven languages."

Yulon raised an eyebrow. "Seven?"

She nodded, suddenly switching to High Valyrian: "Valar dohaeris." Then to Dothraki: "Anha vaderakoe vitihirat." Finally, she uttered a few difficult phrases in Old Ghiscari.

Daggmo whistled. "This little brat's mouth is faster than a parrot's!"

Yulon looked at Baron. "I want her."

Baron grunted. "How old are you? How old is she? She hasn't even started her moon cycle yet, too young for a salt wife."

"Not as a salt wife," Yulon said. "As my handmaiden. I like young girls to serve me."

Baron stared at his younger brother for a moment, then suddenly grinned. "As you wish. If Father asks, you can explain it yourself." He winked playfully. "You damn brat, when you find a woman later, find one like these," he gestured to the two buxom, curvy foreign girls he held in his arms, their faces full of exotic charm, "juicy!"

Yulon shrugged dismissively. Compared to physical attributes, the ability to speak seven languages was far more valuable. Her simple clothes and messy hair seemed like a disguise. Her hands and face were covered in mud, but her skin was incredibly smooth, clearly never having done any dirty work. Her demeanor was more like that of a pampered noble lady.

The Hao Yin returned laden with spoils, her hull drawing half a foot more water than when she set out.

The deck was piled high with loot: Braavosi glassware, Myrish lace, barrels of wine from the Summer Isles, and even a few exquisitely crafted Valyrian steel daggers—though they were of inferior quality, they were enough to make any Ironborn's eyes water.

The sailors sang vulgar pirate shanties drunkenly. Someone tied a stolen silk scarf to the mast, letting it flutter in the wind like a boastful banner.

Baron stood at the ship's prow, one arm around the Dornish girl's waist—she no longer struggled, merely gazing coldly at the sea. The Tyroshi one-eyed girl sat at his feet, using a captured golden comb to groom her wet hair.

And Yulon's "maid," Lysa, stood quietly behind him, her grey-blue eyes reflecting the sunset's afterglow.

Daggmo took a swig of golden wine from the Summer Isles and laughed heartily, "This trip was worth it!"

They had plundered much gold and jewels, but they couldn't replace fresh water and bread.

The merchant ship, according to its schedule, would reach port in another day, so it didn't carry much stored food or fresh water, only wine meant for trade.

Hao Yin, of course, couldn't dock at the enemy's port immediately after plundering the merchant ship. There was only one choice—a swift return voyage. Thus, in the final days of the journey, the shortage of food and fresh water caused everyone's lips to crack and bleed, their gums to swell and fester.

Yulon, in a corner of the deck, chewed on a piece of moldy hardtack, maggots wriggling on his tongue. He no longer vomited, no longer hesitated—like all Ironborn, his stomach had grown accustomed to rot and brine.

The sea never gave the Ironborn romantic adventures, but a life of maggots, thirst, and decay, yet they still yearned for the next voyage. This was the Ironborn!