Quellon Greyjoy had once fathered three sons with his first wife, Meryl of House Stone of Harlaw. Harlon Greyjoy, the eldest, died in infancy from greyscale. Quenton, the second, likewise perished as a babe. Donnel, the third, had returned to the drowned god's embrace with his mother in childbirth.
After these losses, Quellon's second wife bore him two sons, Balon and Euron. The memory of his dead children made him cherish these sons all the more. Each was hard-won and precious.
Balon was a force unto himself—strong, precise, and ruthless in the duels he fought. His swordsmanship could rival that of his uncle Balf, renowned across the Iron Islands for his skill in battle. Euron, already a figure of legend, carried the nickname Son of the Drowned God. His heterochromatic eyes, the miracle of his survival, and his keen intellect set him apart, even among the fiercest Ironborn.
One was steel incarnate; the other, a mind unmatched. Together, they were the Iron Islands' hope.
And now, both sons of Quellon were aboard the Silence, sailing toward the Stepstones on their first raid. Dagmer felt the weight of the venture pressing on him; raiding had lost some of its thrill, tempered by the responsibility of so precious a passenger.
But the sails were set. Retreat was impossible. They would return only laden with treasure—or in coffins.
Pyke's docks, hours before dawn, smelled of salt and wet timber. The black planks sagged underfoot, slick with seawater, as if the drowned god himself had licked the hull. Euron walked barefoot across ropes and scattered shells, feeling the coarse grit press into his soles. Each wave washed his ankles with icy sea spray and then receded, leaving a line of white foam.
The Silence loomed through the morning fog, its hull low and menacing, dragon-mouthed prow poised as though ready to devour distant prey.
"Remember, little kraken," Dagmer said, rubbing the boy's curly hair. The iron rings of his cleft jaw glinted in the dim light. "The waves speak. Gentle lapping is safe. A hiss warns of shoals. And a thump…" He chuckled darkly. "That's the reef gnawing at your keel, and the drowned god knocking on your coffin lid."
Euron's eyes, one the color of storm-dark water, the other pale as ice, swept the deck. He touched the rough, salt-stung planks, feeling the ocean in their grain.
A gust of wind rose, carrying a sharp, salty warning. Balon stood at the helm, rigid, muscles coiled beneath his leather, eyes fixed on the horizon. His neck bore dark red whip scars from Quellon's punishment, but his mind was a captain's now, focused entirely on the raid ahead.
Dagmer performed the departure ritual at the prow, smearing whale oil over the eyes of the carved sea monster. "Open your eyes, old friend," he shouted into the wind. "Lead us to rich prey!" Fifty-three men were in position. Balon's stance mirrored bronze: steady, unyielding.
"Hoist the sails!" Dagmer roared, and the black canvas swelled. The tail-biting sea snake of House Greyjoy flapped atop the mast. Euron gripped the gunwale rope as the longship's timbers shivered under him, the keel groaning, ropes humming, and waves thumping in rhythm—a symphony of salt and war. Salty spray stung his face, carrying a pulse of vitality.
[Pirate King System: Activation 2.5%]
On the third day, Euron studied the sun's angle from the forecastle. Dagmer, grinning, lifted him effortlessly.
"Ha! Our little kraken wants to learn navigation?" he said. "This is the Ironborn way."
The pirate relieved himself overboard. "If the stream curves, there's an undercurrent. Straight with the wind—good omen. Never mind, you'll learn that later."
Euron's sharp eyes fell on a wooden box. "There's an astrolabe in there," he said.
Dagmer laughed. "A maester's toy. Ironborn navigate by blood and salt, by dagger and instinct." He tapped the hilt of his blade.
But Euron understood that true navigation was more: it was charts, knowledge of reefs, whirlpools, and pirate lairs. Dagmer produced a whalebone, polished smooth, carved with symbols marking hazards.
"Here," he said, pointing. "The Weeping Widow whirlpool. It has swallowed twenty ships. Sprinkle salt when passing—respect the drowned god."
Euron noted it all. Tradition or not, it was knowledge worth more than gold.
The voyage pushed the Silence ever deeper into the Stepstones.
[Pirate King System: Activation 20.5%]
On the seventh day, the sea rose in fury.
The Silence was built for surprise—low gunwales, shallow draft, tarred black sails—but the storm was relentless.
"See the clouds?" Balon shouted, pointing. "Drowned God's Teeth. Brace yourself."
City-wall-high waves tossed the ship like a leaf. Euron was thrown from side to side, his fingers clawing the deck. Even prepared, the sea was a force beyond man.
"Furl the sails! Lash everything down!" Dagmer tied himself to the helm. "Balon! Below deck with your brother!"
Balon caught Euron and sprinted below, the cabin dim under whale-oil lamps. The soaked sea chart blurred into blue-black smudges. He pointed: "The Devil's Molars whirlpool. If the ship breaks, swim northeast. Reefs there will hold you."
Outside, a mast snapped. Dagmer's curses pierced the storm.
Euron broke free, grabbed a dagger, and cut his palm. Blood smeared on the doorframe—an offering to the drowned god.
[Pirate King System – Progress +5% from maritime activity. Activation: 65%]
A surge of warmth coursed through him.
Climbing back onto the deck, Euron moved like the ship was level ground, predicting the waves' fury. He threw a rope to a struggling oarsman and secured it to the deck, saving a life. The sea bent to his command—or so it seemed.
Dagmer lay flat on the deck, eyes wide. "By the Drowned God… Euron! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Go back to the cabin now!"