The tide has turned, the slaughter ends,
Our black sails shade the noon.
What we hold, we did not buy,
We paid the Iron Price, old and brave!
So pour the rum, stoke the fire high!
Sing loud for every dead man's desire!
What is dead may never die,
But rises again beneath this sky, harder and stronger!
Their planks are split, their banners low,
Send their lords to the watery show.
We take their wine, we seize their grain,
Leave their dreams beside the slain.
So pour the rum, stoke the fire high!
The sea swallows the weak and the strong,
The Drowned God knows we don't belong.
To sow the land or kneel in prayer?
We are the storm that ends the day!
The Iron Price... is our only creed...
The Iron Price... before we bleed...
---
The sailors roared out the Song of the Iron Price. Balon stood at the prow, chugging fine wine with one hand and conducting this chaotic orchestra with the other. It was the first time Euron had heard this savage pirate anthem. He wanted to drink and sing like the others, but the bottle was snatched from his hand by Old Wick before he could take a sip.
The deck of the Drinker was piled high with loot, glittering seductively in the noon sun. Euron perched on an oak barrel, watching the sailors sort the plunder. His eyes were drawn to bolts of Eastern silk—Qohorik goat hair that shimmered like pearl, finer than any tapestry in the richest merchant's home on Pyke.
The sailors threw themselves at the opened crates like starving wolves, their rough fingers clawing at silk, spices, and gleaming silverware. Dagmer "Cleftjaw" kicked open the oak door of the captain's cabin and dragged out an iron chest inlaid with pearls. With a single swing of his axe, he shattered the lock—Clatter! A pile of Myrish gold coins spilled onto the deck, shining like fish scales in the sun.
"Gods above!" A toothless old sailor grabbed a handful of coins and shoved them into his mouth, biting down to leave dents. "Real gold! Purer than what comes out of the mines on Old Wyk!"
"Look at this!" Red Oakwood held up a ruby-encrusted goblet, deep red wine stains still clinging to the rim. "A Braavosi banker's private collection!" His gap-toothed grin looked particularly savage in the sunlight, fresh blood still oozing from a cut on his forehead.
Old One-Eyed Wolf knelt before a pile of spices, trembling fingers pinching a pinch of saffron to sniff deeply. "Gods above," his raspy voice choked with emotion, "my wife loved this smell before she was paralyzed..." He carefully wrapped the spice in a scrap of cloth torn from his tunic and tucked it into his leather pouch. The old pirate didn't love his paralyzed, ugly wife; he just knew this spice was worth its weight in gold.
Dagmer laughed, spittle flying from his split chin. "Everyone grab a handful first! The rest—" he glanced at Balon, "goes by Iron Islands custom: three shares for the captain, extra for the warriors, the rest to House Greyjoy!"
The sailors cheered and dived back into the loot. Some wrapped Braavosi silk scarves around their necks, others filled silver goblets with strong spirits and downed them in one gulp. A scarred giant even put on a captured gilded breastplate right then and there, even though it looked like a dinner plate on his massive chest.
The captives from the hold were herded onto the deck.
Braavosi merchants and sailors, chained together, knelt pale-faced on the blood-stained planks. The women—three shivering girls—were brought separately before Balon. By the Old Way, the men would become thralls, mining iron ore until they died. The women, if an Ironborn wanted them, would become salt wives. If not, they became toys for the crew.
"These two are yours, Balon." Dagmer grinned, pushing forward the two older girls.
The first was a Dornish girl, about fourteen. Her olive skin was gritty with sand, her green silk dress soaked and clinging to her body. Anger burned in her dark eyes, and her mouth was set in a stubborn line, like a wildcat cornered.
The second was from Tyrosh, slightly older, perhaps sixteen. Her amber right eye was clouded with a white film, like a punctured fish bladder. A purple lotus was tattooed on her ankle—the mark of a Tyroshi brothel—and golden bells jingled on her wrist.
Balon was satisfied. His lecherous gaze swept over them, corners of his mouth lifting. "Take them back. Once they've tasted salt water, they'll be Ironborn women."
But Euron's gaze fell on the third girl.
She was younger than the others, twelve at most. Thin as a reed, her pale blonde hair a tangled mess in the wind. She didn't cry, nor did she glare like the Dornish girl. She just stood quietly, her blue eyes seeming to look right through people.
"What's your name?" Euron 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 lilt. "But my mother was Braavosi, and my father a Lyseni merchant. I speak seven languages."
Euron raised an eyebrow. "Seven?"
She nodded, then suddenly switched to High Valyrian: "Valar dohaeris." (All men must serve.) Then Dothraki: "Anha vaderakoe vitihirat." (I have seen the sunset on the grassland.) Finally, she spoke a few harsh phrases of ancient Ghiscari.
Dagmer whistled. "Little girl's got a tongue sharper than a parrot!"
Euron looked at Balon. "I want her."
Balon snorted. "How old are you? How old is she? She hasn't even bled yet. Too early for a salt wife."
"Not a salt wife," Euron said. "My handmaid. I like being served by little girls."
Balon stared at his brother for a moment, then grinned. "Suit yourself. If Father asks, you explain it." He winked, teasing, "You little bastard. When you look for women later, find ones like these," he gestured to the two curvaceous, exotic girls in his arms, "Juicy!"
Euron shrugged, unimpressed. Compared to flesh, the ability to speak seven languages was far more rare. Her plain clothes and messy hair looked more like a disguise. Her hands and face were smeared with grime, but her skin underneath was smooth and tender—she had clearly never done hard labor. Her bearing was more like a pampered noble lady.
The Drinker returned fully laden, sitting half a foot deeper in the water than when she left.
The deck was piled high with spoils: Braavosi glassware, Myrish lace, casks of Arbor Gold, and even a few exquisitely crafted Valyrian steel daggers—secondary quality, perhaps, but enough to make any Ironborn drool.
Drunken sailors sang crude shanties. Some tied stolen silk scarves to the mast, letting them snap in the wind like banners of vanity.
Balon stood at the prow, one arm around the Dornish girl's waist—she had stopped struggling, staring coldly at the sea. The one-eyed Tyroshi girl sat at his feet, combing her wet hair with a captured golden comb.
And Euron's "handmaid," Lysa, stood quietly behind him, the sunset reflected in her grey-blue eyes.
Dagmer took a swig of golden Arbor wine and laughed with satisfaction. "Worth it!"
---
They had harvested gold and jewels, but you can't eat gold or drink diamonds.
According to the log, the merchant ship was only a day out from port when attacked, so it carried little food or water, only trade goods like wine.
The Drinker certainly couldn't dock at the enemy's port after raiding their ship, so there was only one choice—a fast return home. By the last few days of the voyage, the shortage of food and fresh water left everyone's lips cracked and bleeding, their gums swollen and oozing.
In a corner of the deck, Euron chewed on a piece of moldy hardtack, maggots wriggling on his tongue. He didn't vomit. He didn't hesitate. Like every Ironborn, his stomach had grown accustomed to rot and brine.
The sea never gave the Ironborn romantic adventures. It gave them maggots, thirst, and a rotting existence. Yet, they still yearned for the next voyage.
This was the Ironborn!