The great oak door slammed shut, cutting off the last ray of light and the muffled sounds from outside. The vast hall of black stone plunged into a suffocating silence, broken only by the sharp pop and hiss of burning logs in the fireplace echoing in the emptiness.
Lord Reaper Quellon Greyjoy remained with his back to the door, a statue of ancient stone weathering a silent, internal storm. The firelight cast dancing shadows across his broad back. Not far in front of him lay the spoils of war—gold coins, silk, jeweled goblets—gleaming temptingly in the firelight. Yet, they now radiated a cold, ironic aura, a sharp mockery of this "victory." What he had gained in exchange for his sons' reckless gamble and the security of the archipelago was nothing but cold, dead objects and a future requiring even stronger defenses.
His voice, low and heavy with the weight of iron and blood, spoke slowly. It sounded like a soliloquy, or perhaps a confession to this hall that had witnessed generations of Greyjoy glory and sin.
"Reaving... is an instinct carved into the bones of the Ironborn. It is the livelihood granted by the Drowned God..." His words hung heavy in the silence. "But stupidity! Arrogant stupidity! It will rot our keel from the inside like shipworms, and eventually... bury the entire Iron Islands!"
He paused for a long time. The firelight illuminated his tightly pressed lips and the deep lines etched into his face. Finally, it resolved into a barely audible sigh, filled with complex expectations and harsh discipline for his eldest son. "Balon, my son... I hope the waves of 'Wailing Point' can truly... wash the arrogance from your mind."
"Dagmer." Quellon's voice returned to its usual cold command. He still didn't turn. "Sit."
Dagmer Cleftjaw, the old pirate who made enemies tremble on the seas, looked unusually cramped. He rubbed his calloused, scarred hands nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing as he carefully pulled out the heavy wooden chair opposite Quellon. The chair legs scraped against the stone floor—a harsh, screeching sound that seemed deafening in the dead silent hall. He sat stiffly, back straight, hands on his knees like a prisoner awaiting judgment, showing none of the ferocity of a reaver. He stole a glance at the Lord Reaper's mountain-like back, then quickly lowered his eyes.
"Now." Quellon finally turned slowly. His weathered, falcon-sharp eyes, glinting with cold, oppressive light in the fire's glow, locked onto Dagmer. "Pour out everything you're hiding in your gut about this 'voyage.' Every drop of seawater, every breath of wind, every reef... from start to finish! Do not leave out a single word!"
"Yes, my lord!" Dagmer took a deep breath, trying to suppress the tension in his chest. His raspy voice began his long, detailed report in the empty hall.
"It started... when Young Lord Balon got hold of that merchant route map in the 'Salty Blood' tavern. It marked the fat sheep's route and time—spices, silk, gems... Balon's eyes went red, like a shark smelling blood. Of course, I was the same, maybe even hungrier." He licked his cracked lips. "So I gathered the crew, prepped water and food. The Drinker waited for high tide. As for Young Lord Euron... he forced his way on board by threatening to tell you about Balon's plan right before we launched."
Dagmer paused, choosing his words carefully. "Once Euron got on board... he just sat there reading that tattered book of his, acting like he didn't care about anything. When Balon decided to act, he didn't object. He just asked... 'The map doesn't mark escort ships or reefs. Father taught us reaving relies on axes, but also on brains.'"
Quellon stood motionless, back to Dagmer, but the dancing shadows on his shoulders seemed to freeze for an instant.
"Balon wouldn't listen. He cursed, calling him a 'know-nothing brat,' and set the plan." Dagmer continued, "But before the real action started, Euron... he did a few... strange things."
"Speak!" Quellon's voice was like cold reef rock.
Dagmer lowered his voice, tinged with a confusion he couldn't quite place. "After we grabbed the tongues—the captives—Balon and the rest of us were in a rush to use tools to pry their mouths open. Axes, skinning knives, whatever was quickest! But Euron... he was different."
Dagmer described the interrogation, his tone unconsciously holding a note of awe at the "efficiency," even as the method gave him a chill.
"He was like... like he was gutting a fish, my lord. He didn't rush to chop fingers. He circled the three captives first. Looked at their hands, their clothes, even their old scars! He found that old bodkin arrow scar on the mercenary's shoulder. And then... he used that!" Dagmer touched his own waist instinctively. "Not a knife. Rust! He scraped a handful of rust flakes off the deck and just... pressed it right into that mercenary's old wound! Gods, you didn't hear the scream! Worse than chopping fingers! That mercenary broke instantly. Spilled the guard count, positions, everything. Even told us the squires were unarmed!"
Quellon remained turned away, but Dagmer felt the silent scrutiny grow heavier.
"The deadliest part was that he separated them! It was Euron's first voyage, first raid, definitely his first interrogation. But he was more skilled than us old salts, more thorough." Dagmer emphasized, "Balon took one, I took one, he took the third. Asked the same questions: ship count, cargo, guards, course... then matched the answers like fitting planks! My lord, you know, separate interrogations expose lies if the stories don't match! We... never did that before."
Dagmer paused, recalling the ruthlessly efficient raid. "His attitude toward the captives..." He remembered Euron's final words to them. "He gave those half-dead wretches water, squatted in front of them, voice cold as ice. Told them how they'd be skinned and fed to sea maggots if they lied... then said if things went well, he could keep them alive. That tone... it wasn't a threat. It was... stating a fact they couldn't escape. And it worked. One of them broke down completely and screamed 'Wildfire'! That was extra intel he squeezed out!"
"If we hadn't known... if the Drinker had just charged in... that squire would have lit the fire and we'd all be roasted fish!" Fear and relief mingled in Dagmer's voice.
"Once the course and time were set, we arrived at the ambush early. Euron made some Ironborn row a skiff to the narrowest part of 'Widow's Gorge' to scout the bottom." A flicker of memory passed through Dagmer's single eye. "Not checking for rocks—we know that place—but checking the currents! Checking which reefs are exposed at low tide for men to stand on, and which channels become dead ends at high tide! He even made Grenn map the strongest whirlpools... We all thought the kid was wasting time. In a sea fight, who cares about currents?"
"And during the raid?" Quellon finally spoke, his voice void of emotion.
"Balon was fierce, the first onto the merchant ship, cut down the lookout in one swing." Dagmer said quickly. "Old Wick led the rush on the hold to secure the Wildfire, did a great job. But... some details were Euron's arrangement." He swallowed. "He put the men who scouted the currents on those exposed reefs with poison arrows! The angle was tricky, the current fast, the merchant ship never expected ambush from there! Silent arrows, perfect effect! And he had Grenn block not the main deck, but the exits of the channels that flood at high tide! Two guards tried to jump and swim for it... swam right into a dead end and drowned..."
"And that little girl..." Dagmer hesitated, but continued. "Lysa. Balon picked his salt wives by the rules. Euron took the smallest one, the girl from Pentos, thin as a reed. Said not a salt wife, but a handmaid. We laughed at him... but later, on the ship, I heard that girl speaking gibberish to him, and Euron was actually learning it! The tone... weird. Hissing like a snake, growling like a dragon... They called it High Valyrian."
"High Valyrian!"
Dagmer's voice faded. He felt he had said too much about the "crafty" boy. He stole a glance up. Quellon still had his back to him, an ancient black reef, only the firelight moving on him. The hall was dead silent, save for Dagmer's heavy breathing and the crackling wood.
After a long time, long enough for Dagmer to feel suffocated, Quellon's low voice sounded slowly, heavy with deep contemplation:
"Acting like gutting a fish... reading enemies like reading grain... using weakness, not just strength... divide and verify... even currents, old scars, the human will to live, all can be blades..." He seemed to be summarizing, or perhaps chewing on these strange qualities. "...And he knows to learn High Valyrian."
Lord Quellon finally turned slowly. His falcon eyes were sharp as knives in the firelight, piercing Dagmer directly. "Dagmer, tell me. What does an Ironborn, a Greyjoy, want with all this?"
He smiled, a smile that wasn't quite a smile. "You seem... to favor Euron?"
"Of course, Euron is the Lord's son."
"Is that all?"
Dagmer was struck dumb. A chill shot up from his feet. He opened his mouth, but in the end, only lowered his head in fear, daring not to meet the Lord's all-seeing gaze.
"In the storm... Euron seemed possessed by the Drowned God, controlling the sea. I saw him... wearing the Grey King's crown..."
In the hall, only the spoils of war flickered silently with cold, eerie light, amidst a silence as deep as the ocean.