The tide had turned, the slaughter was done.
Black sails blotted the noon sun.
"Fill the rum! Stoke the bonfire high!"
The sailors sang with voices raw and jubilant, honoring the fallen.
"What is dead may never die,
But rises again beneath this sky, fiercer than before!"
Shattered planks, lowered banners, drowned lords—this was the sea's justice.
They seized wine, plundered food, and left their dreams beside their corpses.
Balon stood at the prow, guzzling wine, waving his arms like a conductor of chaos.
Euron watched, squatting atop an oak barrel, longing to drink—but Oakwood snatched the bottle from his hand.
The deck was piled high with spoils, gleaming under the sun.
Euron's eyes lingered on black cashmere from Qohor, its pearlescent luster rivaling the richest Pyke tapestries.
Sailors tore into crates like wolves, grabbing silk, spices, and gold.
Dagmer kicked open the captain's cabin, dragging out a pearl-inlaid iron chest. With a swing of his axe—CRASH!—locks shattered, and coins spilled like fish scales across the deck.
"Gods be good!" an old sailor with a missing front tooth muttered, biting a handful of gold. "Purer than Oakwood's mines!"
Red-haired Oakwood held aloft a ruby-studded goblet, rim stained with wine. "From a Braavos banker's private collection!"
Old one-eyed Wolf crouched by a pile of saffron, inhaling deeply. "My wife loved this scent before…" His voice choked, and he carefully wrapped the spice in cloth.
Dagmer laughed, a few drops of saliva escaping his cracked jaw. "Everyone grab your share! The rest—" He nodded at Balon. "—the captain claims thirty percent, warriors their share, remainder to House Greyjoy!"
The Ironborn cheered, tying silk scarves, draining goblets of strong liquor, donning captured armor.
The captives were brought onto the deck, chained and kneeling pale-faced. The three young women were presented to Balon.
According to Ironborn custom, men became slaves in the mines, women salt wives—or, if unclaimed, the playthings of all.
Dagmer pushed two older girls forward. The first, a fourteen-year-old Dornish girl, olive-skinned, green-eyed, wild and defiant despite seawater-soaked silk. The second, a sixteen-year-old Tyroshi girl, amber-eyed, tattooed with a purple lotus, wrist bells jingling.
Balon grinned. "Take them back, immerse them in saltwater—they will be Ironborn women."
Euron's gaze fell on the youngest.
She was no more than twelve, thin, golden hair tousled by the sea. Her eyes, blue-gray, held an unsettling clarity.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Lysa," she replied softly.
"Where are you from?"
"Pentos. My mother is Braavosi, my father a Lysene merchant. I speak seven languages."
Euron raised an eyebrow. She switched seamlessly between High Valyrian, Dothraki, and even ancient Ghiscari.
Dagmer whistled. "This one's sharper than a parrot!"
"I want her," Euron said.
Balon laughed. "She's too young for a salt wife. You'll answer to Father for this."
"Not a salt wife," Euron said. "A handmaiden. Knowledge and skill matter more than flesh."
The deck fell silent. Spoils glimmered: Braavosi glassware, Myr lace, barrels of Arbor wine, even secondary-quality Valyrian steel daggers—enough to excite every Ironborn.
Drunk sailors sang vulgar songs, tied stolen scarves to the mast like banners.
Balon stood at the prow with the Dornish girl at his side, the Tyroshi girl combing her hair at his feet, and Lysa quietly behind Euron, eyes reflecting the sunset's afterglow.
Dagmer swigged Arbor wine, laughing. "This voyage was worth it!"
Gold, silver, and jewels could not replace food or water. The merchant ship's stores were meager—wine for trade, no fresh provisions.
By the final days, thirst and hunger left lips cracked, gums swollen, and hardened stomachs accustomed to rot and salt.
Euron chewed moldy hardtack, maggots wriggling, unmoved. No Ironborn ever let discomfort or decay dull the hunger for the next voyage.
This was the Ironborn way.