Quellon Greyjoy once had three sons by his first wife, Lady Stonetree of Harlaw. Harlon died of greyscale as a child. Quenton died in infancy. Donel was stillborn.
Then Quellon took his second rock wife, Lady Sronsa of Saltcliffe, the mother of Balon and Euron. Having lost three sons, Quellon cherished the two he had now with a fierce protectiveness.
Eighteen-year-old Balon was a powerhouse. He had bested seasoned reavers in the finger dance and could match his uncle Victarion—hailed as the Iron Islands' finest warrior—blade for blade. Five-year-old Euron had been a legend since birth: the boy with mismatched eyes, the one who returned from death, the "Son of the Drowned God." His intelligence and resilience shocked everyone who met him.
One warrior, one scholar. They were the future of the Iron Islands.
But right now, both of the Lord Reaper's precious sons were aboard the Drinker, heading for the Stepstones to raid merchant ships. Dagmer Cleftjaw felt the pressure mounting. The joy of reaving suddenly felt a lot like babysitting.
But the sails were up. There was no turning back. They would return with holds full of plunder or as corpses.
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The Pyke docks were soaked in pre-dawn brine. The damp planks sagged underfoot, weeping black seawater as if the Drowned God were tasting the ship before it left. Euron walked barefoot over piles of rope, the grit and shells pressing into his soles. The cold tide washed over his ankles and retreated, leaving a fine foam. The black silhouette of the Drinker loomed in the mist, its low gunwales like a crouching beast, the dragonhead prow gaping as if ready to swallow prey.
"Remember, little kraken." Dagmer rubbed Euron's curly hair with a calloused hand, the iron rings in his split jaw glinting cold in the morning light. His voice was like rocks ground by the sea—rough, but rhythmic. "The waves speak. A soft swish is safety. A hiss is a shoal. But if you hear a thud..." The old pirate made a sinking gesture, laughing deep in his throat. "That's the reef chewing on your keel, and the Drowned God knocking on your coffin."
Euron nodded, his mismatched eyes sweeping the deck—the left eye a light-swallowing abyss, the right a storm-cold blue. Inside, he had the soul of a transmigrator, but right now, he had to learn like a true Ironborn. He touched the hull. The rough wood left tiny splinters in his palm, stinging with salt.
The wind picked up, carrying the metallic scent of a storm. Balon stood by the rudder, motionless as a bronze statue. His muscles were taut under his leather armor, his gaze locked on the whitening horizon. The welt on his neck from their father's whip was scabbing over like a twisted sea snake, but his mind was already on the plunder ahead.
At the prow, Dagmer performed the departure ritual, smearing whale oil on the dragonhead's eyes. His raspy voice mingled with the wind: "Open your eyes, old friend. Lead us to fat prey!"
Fifty-three sailors took their positions.
"Hoist the sail!" Dagmer's roar drowned out the gulls.
The black canvas unfurled with a snap. The flag of the sea snake biting its tail fluttered at the masthead. Euron gripped the gunwale, feeling the longship wake up—the groan of the keel, the hum of taut ropes, the thud of waves against the hull. It was a war song. Salty spray hit his face, carrying a strange vitality.
[Ding! Pirate King System activation: 2.5%...]
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On the third day, Dagmer caught Euron lying on the forecastle, measuring the sun's angle.
"Hah! Our little prince is studying navigation?" The old pirate lifted him by the collar like a kitten, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Watch close. This is a real Ironborn compass."
Dagmer unlaced his breeches and pissed into the sea. "If the stream splits against the wind, there's an undercurrent. If it goes straight with the wind, it's a good omen." He grinned at Euron. "Eh, save that lesson for when you're older."
Euron didn't laugh. He pointed to a wooden chest in the corner. "There's an astrolabe in there."
Dagmer raised an eyebrow. "Maester's toys. Ironborn don't need that junk." He patted the dagger at his waist. "We find our way with this—blood and salt instinct."
But Euron knew true navigation was more than instinct.
The charts of the Stepstones were an Ironborn secret. Dagmer pulled a piece of whalebone from his armor, carved with symbols marking whirlpools, reefs, and pirate dens. The bone was polished smooth from years of handling.
"We're coming up on this." He pointed a finger stump at a jagged mark. "The 'Weeping Widow' whirlpool. Swallowed twenty ships. Throw salt on the deck when we pass, or the Drowned God will take your helmsman."
Euron noted it down. As for the salt... whether it worked or not, respecting tradition cost nothing—and salt was cheap! Dagmer's experience was priceless. This practical knowledge of the sea couldn't be found in books, and for someone who wanted to rule the oceans, it was worth more than gold. As the Drinker pushed deeper into the ocean toward the Stepstones, the system activation climbed.
[Ding! Pirate King System activation: 20.5%...]
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On the seventh day, Euron witnessed the ocean's rage.
The Drinker was a classic longship: low sides for stealth, shallow draft for beaching. Its black sail was tarred, lighter and faster than a merchant cog's canvas. But in a headwind, the Ironborn dropped the sail and relied on oars—six per side, manned by the strongest reavers in shifts.
"Look at the clouds." Balon appeared behind Euron, pointing to fish-scale clouds curling on the horizon. "That's 'The Drowned God's Teeth.' Storm coming."
At first, it was just a smear of lead gray. Soon, black clouds smashed down like war hammers. Waves rose like castle walls. The Drinker was tossed like a leaf, thrown up to the peaks and slammed into the troughs. Euron was flung from port to starboard, digging his nails into the planks to keep from washing overboard.
Even with preparation, the sea's fury was beyond human resistance.
"Drop sail! Lash the cargo!" Dagmer tied himself to the rudder with a rope. Rain poured into his split jaw and sprayed out with his spit. "Balon! Get your brother below!"
Balon grabbed Euron like a sack of grain and bolted for the captain's cabin. Under the dim whale oil lamp, the sea chart was soaked, ink bleeding into a blue-black mess. Balon pointed to a spot with precision. "Remember this—'The Devil's Molars.' The most dangerous reefs in the Stepstones. If the ship breaks, swim northeast. There are rocks you can climb."
Euron stared at his brother's wet face. In this moment, Balon wasn't a brute; he was a captain.
A crack like thunder split the air—the mast snapped. Dagmer's curse pierced the wood: "Damn the Seven Hells! Old Wick's gone over!"
Euron suddenly broke free from Balon. He grabbed a dagger from the table, sliced his palm, and smeared blood on the doorframe—an ancient rite he'd heard from Old Wick, a blood sacrifice to the Drowned God. The blood ran down the wood, seeping into the cracks as if absorbed by an invisible force.
[Ding! Host actively participated in first maritime crisis. Activation increased by 5%. Current: 65%.]
A warm current flooded his limbs.
Balon stared, about to grab him, when a massive wave slammed him back into the cabin. He clawed at the doorframe, knuckles white, roaring, "Bastard! Get back here!" But his voice was drowned by the wind and waves.
Then, Balon saw something impossible.
When Euron crawled onto the deck, he walked on the tilting ship as if it were flat ground. He anticipated every roll, every pitch.
Euron grabbed a coil of rope and threw it toward the port side, where a figure struggled in the whitecaps. The rope moved as if alive, wrapping precisely around Old Wick's wrist as he tumbled in the foam. Once the grip was secure, Euron tied the other end to an iron cleat. No matter how the wind howled or the ship bucked, Euron remained steady, as if the ocean were part of his own body.
Dagmer, clinging to the deck, widened his eyes. "Drowned God above... is the little kraken grown from the wood itself?"
Son of the Drowned God!
The legend flashed through everyone's mind.