Two more years of quiet life passed on Pyke. It was now 275 AC, and Euron Greyjoy was five years old.
Dawn was soaked in salty fog, the damp sea breeze rolling salt spray against the reefs. Euron walked barefoot over the slippery rocks. The icy seawater washed over his ankles and receded, leaving behind a layer of fine foam. In the distance, the black silhouette of the longship Drinker loomed in the mist. It had a shallow draft, a dragon's head carved on the prow, and six brass-rimmed oar ports on each side.
This was the third time he had snuck out to see this ship.
Ever since Dagmer Cleftjaw docked at Pyke for supplies last month, his brother Balon Greyjoy couldn't take his eyes off it. Balon spent nearly every day drinking, boasting, and sharpening axes with Dagmer and his crew. Balon had been itching to go reaving for a long time, and the Drinker was his ticket.
A wise man does not stand under a crumbling wall.
If he had a choice, Euron would rather stay in the safety of the castle. But three days ago, when he first stepped barefoot into the tide, he heard a sound that made his heart race—
[Ding! Host contact with seawater detected. Pirate King System activation: 1%]
Praise the Drowned God! Finally, my cheat code has arrived!
The tide rushed in, covering his ankles. The cold water felt strangely intimate. Euron suddenly "saw" an octopus shrinking into a rock crevice three inches below the surface—not with his eyes, but through the vibration of the currents.
He tentatively waded deeper, but the moment the water reached his knees, his guard yanked him back.
[Pirate King System activation: 1.01%. System will officially launch at 100% activation!]
One long voyage might be enough to fully activate the system!
Euron stared at the Drinker, his fingers unconsciously stirring the water. To change fate—his own, his father's, his brother's, his unborn nieces and nephews', and the entire Iron Islands'—he needed power. And the Drinker was his opportunity.
"The Young Master shouldn't be here. Once those sailors get drunk, they won't care if you're a lord's son or the King himself." Old Wick, a fisherman missing two fingers, blocked Euron's view with his hand. "If your father knew you snuck aboard last night..."
"You won't say, I won't say, and Father won't know." Five-year-old Euron was allowed outside the castle with guards, but only along a small stretch of coastline. Old Wick was loyal, brave, and a capable fighter, so Quellon trusted him as Euron's temporary guard.
A gust of wind tore a hole in the sea fog. Euron saw a tower of a man standing by the stern rudder—Dagmer Cleftjaw. His jaw was split in two (hence the nickname) and held together by iron rings. Dark red wine leaked through the cracks every time he drank. Legend had it he cut down seven Myrish sailors single-handedly in the Stepstones. The gold-thread sash he looted from them was currently wrapped around his greasy leather armor.
Euron pointed to a string of objects hanging from the mast. "What are those?"
Old Wick made a grumbling sound in his throat. "Ears! The fresh ones are from Lyseni merchants. The Drinker hit a cog a few days ago... Each ear is a successful raid." Envy leaked into his tone, as if the instinct to reave was burning in his blood.
Euron fished a Silver Stag from his pocket and tossed it to Old Wick. "Forgot to congratulate you. Your youngest is three months old, right? Spend more time with him. They grow up fast, and then they stop being cute."
Old Wick caught the coin, grinning. He understood Euron's meaning—forget about reaving. He nodded. "Young Master is right. At my age, I'm better off catching fish in Ironman's Bay."
" The little Prince has come to inspect his fleet?"
Dagmer's voice was rougher than the surf, but affectionate. He squatted by the reef, last night's mead still dripping from his split chin. He lifted Euron like a kitten, his hand missing three fingers surprisingly gentle.
"Your brother is about to do something stupid." Dagmer wiped Euron's wet hands with his leather armor. "But I bet the little kraken already figured that out?"
Wet planks creaked. Balon stepped out from behind a pile of cargo. At eighteen, he was burlier than most warriors, his leather vest stained with last night's ale and cheap perfume. A freshly sharpened axe hung at his waist, the edge gleaming blue-grey in the dawn mist.
"Little rat spying on me?" Balon grabbed Euron by the collar, breathing sea salt and aggression into his face. "Planning to run to our dear father?"
Euron's feet dangled in the air. He saw a fresh welt on Balon's neck—a lash from Lord Quellon's whip three days ago, when their father roared that the heir of Greyjoy shouldn't consort with common pirates.
Euron blinked. "The eastern reef will be covered by the high tide tonight." He pointed at the Drinker. "With the southwest wind, you can sail out of Father's sight before sunrise."
Balon's blue eyes narrowed into slits. A horn blew in the distance—crew muster. The Drinker was pulling up its gangplank.
"Brother." Balon's voice was tight as a bowstring. "If you tell Father..." His hand rested on his axe, but his eyes darted around like a guilty child's. "Smart boys know when to shut up." He tossed Euron onto the wet sand like a caught fish and strode toward the longship, calling back over his shoulder, "If Mother asks, tell her I went to Old Wyk to spar with the Stonetrees."
"Mother won't believe that." Euron stood up, dusting the sand off his butt. He snorted. "Even a three-year-old knows what you and Dagmer are up to!"
Balon spun around, eyes fierce. "You little bastard. Do you want me to tie you to a rock and give you another Drowning?"
Euron grinned. "I won't tell. Unless... you take me with you!"
Old Wick's jaw dropped. "Take... you?"
Balon laughed loudly. "Take you? You think we're going fishing?!"
"Not fishing. Reaving."
"You're five!"
"Five or not, I am Ironborn! I am Quellon Greyjoy's son, and a lord of the Iron Islands!"
Balon ground his teeth. "Swords have no eyes, boy. Blood flies everywhere. You think reaving is a game? The old Maester and his moldy parchments are waiting for you in the tower."
"Don't you always say reading is useless, and a true Ironborn learns to steer a ship and swing an axe?" Euron looked at him provocatively. "Or are you afraid you can't protect your five-year-old brother? Is the great Balon Greyjoy, 'First Sword of the Iron Islands,' that weak?"
Balon's face turned red. He grabbed Euron's collar again, his gap-toothed smile looking savage in the morning light. "Since you aren't afraid to die, I'll show you the true Old Way!"
Old Wick stepped in front of Balon, his thick hand gripping his axe handle, eyes sharp. "Put the Young Master down!"
Balon dropped Euron and grinned at Wick, drawing his longsword. "Old fool, you only see the little lord? I'm the future King of the Iron Islands! Want to test my steel, old man?!"
"This is my own idea, it has nothing to do with you!" Euron waved at Old Wick, laughing. "Wick, go back and tell my father. In half a month, maybe a month, I'll return with a ship full of loot!"
Seeing he couldn't stop them, Old Wick jumped onto the ship with a thud, his face pale. "I am your guard. If you go out to die, how can I face the Lord Reaper? Even if he doesn't kill me, I'd have no face left!"
The Drinker's sail rose. The black canvas bore the sigil of House Cleftjaw—a sea snake biting its own tail. But as the last rope was cast off, a small pennant ran up the mast tip: the Golden Kraken of House Greyjoy, writhing fiercely in the morning light.
The corners of Euron's mouth lifted slightly.
[System Activation: 1.5%]