The Song of Iron Coins

The tide had turned, and the fighting was over,

Our Black Sails had blotted out the sun.

We'd paid not a penny for the things in our hands,

But with ancient, brave iron coins!

So fill the rum and stoke the fire!

Sing loud for every soul's desire!

The dead do not die,

They'll rise again beneath these skies, more savage than before!

Their planks were smashed, their flags brought down,

We sent their lords to paradise beneath the waves.

We seized their wine and stole their grain,

And left their dreams beside their corpses.

So fill the rum and stoke the fire!

The sea devours the weak and strong,

The Drowned God knows we have nowhere to belong.

Till the land, or kneel and beg for grace?

We are the storms that bring the daylight to an end!

Iron coins... are our only creed...

Iron coins... until we sink...

The sailors sang The Song of Iron Coins at the top of their lungs. Baron stood at the bow, guzzling wine as he waved both hands like a band conductor. It was the first time Yulon had heard this wild pirate song. He wanted to drink as greedily as the other Ironborn, but as soon as the bottle reached his hands, Old Wick snatched it away.

The deck of the Hao Yin was piled with plunder, glittering temptingly in the midday sun. Yulon crouched on an oak barrel, watching the sailors sort the spoils into piles. His gaze was drawn to bolts of Eastern silk—Black goat cashmere from Qohor shimmered like pearls in the sunlight, finer than the tapestries in the home of Pyke's richest merchant.

The sailors descended on the pried-open crates like hungry wolves, their rough fingers pawing at silk, spices, and gleaming gold and silverware. Daggmo "Cracked Jaw" kicked open the oak door to the captain's cabin and dragged out an iron chest inlaid with pearls. He split the lock with his axe—clatter! Myrish gold coins spilled across the deck, glittering like fish scales in the sun.

"Gods above!" An old sailor with a missing front tooth grabbed a handful of coins and stuffed them into his mouth, biting dents into them. "Real gold! Purer than what they dig out of the mines on Old Wick Island!"

"Look at this!" Red-haired Oakhart held aloft a goblet encrusted with rubies, a trace of dark red wine still clinging to its rim. "A Braavosi banker's private collection!" His grin, with two missing front teeth, looked especially gruesome in the sunlight, and fresh blood beaded along the new scar on his forehead.

Old One-Eye Wolf knelt before a pile of spices, his trembling fingers pinching up some saffron to inhale deeply. "Gods above," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "My wife loved this smell before she was paralyzed..." He carefully wrapped the spice in a scrap torn from his own clothes and tucked it into the leather pouch against his skin. The old pirate didn't love his paralyzed, ugly wife; he knew this spice was worth its weight in gold.

Daggmo laughed heartily, a few drops of spit escaping through his split jaw. "Everyone gets a handful first! The rest—" He glanced at Baron. "By the laws of the Iron Islands, the captain gets three shares, the warriors get extra, and the rest goes to House Greyjoy!"

The sailors cheered and lunged for the spoils. Some draped Braavosi silk scarves around their necks; others filled silver goblets with strong liquor and drained them in one gulp. One scarred brute even put on a captured gilded breastplate right there, though it was so small on him it looked like a serving platter.

The captives were driven from the hold onto the deck.

The Braavosi merchants and sailors were chained together in a line, their faces pallid as they knelt on the bloodstained deck. The women—three trembling girls—were brought separately before Baron. Under the Old Way, the men would be made slaves, doomed to mine iron in the Iron Islands until they died. As for the women, if an Ironborn wanted one, she would become a Salt wife; if none did, she would be the plaything of all the Ironborn.

"These two are yours, Baron." Daggmo grinned and nudged forward the two older girls.

The first was a Dornish girl, about fourteen, with sand still clinging to her olive skin. Her green silk dress was soaked through with seawater and clung to her body. Anger burned in her black eyes, but her lips were set in stubborn defiance, like a wildcat cornered.

The second was from Tyrosh, a little older, about sixteen. A milky film clouded her amber right eye, like a punctured fish bladder. A purple lotus, the mark of a Tyroshi brothel, was tattooed on her ankle, and jingling golden bells adorned her wrists.

Baron was pleased. His lecherous gaze swept over them, and the corners of his mouth lifted. "Take them back. Once they've been steeped in salt water, they'll be Ironborn women."

But Yulon's gaze fell on the third girl.

She was younger than the other two, no more than twelve, and thin as a reed. Her pale golden hair was tousled by the sea wind. She didn't cry or glare at them like the Dornish girl. She simply stood quietly, her blue eyes seeming to see right through people.

"What's your name?" Yulon asked.

The girl raised her head. Her voice was as soft as the sea breeze. "Lysa."

"Where are you from?"

"Pentos." Her Common Tongue carried a soft foreign lilt. "But my mother was Braavosi, and my father was a merchant from Lys. I speak seven languages."

Yulon raised an eyebrow. "Seven?"

She nodded, then abruptly switched to High Valyrian: "Valar dohaeris (All mortals must serve)." Then she switched to Dothraki: "Anha vaderakoe vitihirat (I have seen the sunset over the grass sea)." Finally, she even recited a few lines in the difficult Old Ghiscari tongue.

Daggmo whistled. "That little brat's got a quicker tongue than a parrot!"

Yulon looked at Baron. "I want her."

Baron snorted. "How old are you? How old is she? She hasn't even had her first moon's blood. It's too soon for her to be a Salt wife."

"Not as a Salt wife," Yulon said. "As my maid. I like little girls to wait on me."

Baron stared at his brother for a while, then suddenly grinned. "Suit yourself. If Father asks, you can explain it to him." He winked and teased, "You little bastard, when you get yourself a woman, find one like these." He pointed at the two voluptuous foreign girls he had pulled into his arms, their faces full of exotic allure. "Soft!"

Yulon shrugged, unconcerned. Compared to a body, the ability to speak seven languages was far rarer. Her plain clothes and disheveled hair seemed more like a disguise. Her hands and face were smeared with dirt, but her skin was astonishingly smooth. She had surely never done dirty, hard labor, and her bearing was more like that of a pampered noblewoman.

The Hao Yin returned laden to the brim, its hull sitting half a foot deeper in the water than before.

The deck was piled high with spoils: Braavosi glassware, Myrish lace, casks of Summer Isles wine, and even a few finely made Valyrian steel daggers. They were second-rate, but still enough to make the Ironborn green with envy.

The sailors sang bawdy pirate songs, drunk as lords. Some tied the stolen silk scarves to the mast, where they snapped in the wind like boastful banners.

Baron stood at the bow with an arm around the Dornish girl's waist. She had stopped struggling and only stared coldly at the sea. The Tyroshi one-eyed girl sat at his feet, combing her wet hair with a looted gold comb.

And Yulon's "maid," Lysa, stood quietly behind him, her gray-blue eyes reflecting the glow of the setting sun.

Daggmo took a swig of golden Summer Isles wine and laughed with satisfaction. "This trip was worth it!"

They'd gathered plenty of gold, silver, and jewels, but none of it could replace fresh water and bread.

According to its schedule, the merchant ship would reach port in another day, so it hadn't carried much food or fresh water—only wine intended for trade.

The Hao Yin could hardly put in at its victim's port right after raiding a merchant ship. It had only one choice: make a swift return voyage. So during the final few days at sea, the shortage of food and fresh water left everyone's lips cracked and bleeding, their gums swollen and festering.

Yulon sat in a corner of the deck, chewing on a moldy hardtack biscuit. Maggots writhed on his tongue. He no longer retched or hesitated—like all Ironborn, his stomach had grown used to rot and brine.

The sea had never given the Ironborn romantic adventures, only maggots, thirst, and the struggle to survive amid decay. And still, they yearned for their next voyage. That was what it meant to be Ironborn!