The sea wind of the Iron Islands always carried the grit of salt and the chill of the deep ocean. But when Euron's fleet returned laden with the wealth of the Arbor, even the wind seemed laced with a strange, sweet fragrance—the scent of southern wine and heavy gold.
Longships docked one after another at the main port of Pyke, their keels grinding against the pebble beach with weary, satisfied sighs.
Though the crewmen's faces were etched with fatigue, their eyes burned with a fierce fire. News spread like wildfire across the islands: The fleet has returned, carrying loot unlike anything we have ever seen.
On the pebble beach of Pyke, the salty wind moaned, curling the gray mist and the lingering scent of smoke.
Priests of the Drowned God, draped in robes woven of gray-green seaweed, stood knee-deep in the freezing surf. Their deep, resonant chanting wove together with the roar of the waves, blessing the warriors who had returned victorious.
The bodies of the fallen were placed on several old, battered longships. For those who had lost limbs in battle, the priests sewed on substitutes of wood or stone, ensuring they could go to the God's feast "whole." Around the bodies, dry driftwood and kindling were piled high, along with flasks of wine, round shields, and the leather armor and weapons the warriors had used in life.
The priests poured seawater over the heads of the dead, chanting: "What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger!"
All the Ironborn roared in unison!
"In the name of the Drowned God—"
"Bless him with salt!"
"Bless him with stone!"
"Bless him with steel!"
The funeral ships drifted slowly out into the deep water. With a long, mournful blast from the high priest's driftwood horn, a flaming arrow cut through the gloomy sky, landing precisely in the kindling. Fire erupted, greedily devouring wood and flesh, crackling loudly. Thick smoke billowed upward, forming an invisible staircase to the Drowned God's watery halls.
The Ironborn stood solemnly on the shore, beating their chests with their fists, creating a low, rhythmic thudding sound to send their companions back to the God's embrace.
As the burning ships sank beneath the waves, the Ironborn sang the funeral dirge together:
"We are born of the sea, we are buried in the sea, to meet in the watery halls!
Carrying iron and fire, carrying blood and shame, the steel taken away!
In the end, we shall meet again."
When the embers of the sea burial cooled, the war drums of distribution began to thunder before the Seastone Chair of Pyke.
According to ancient tradition and harsh law, the distribution was presided over by King Quellon himself.
A massive bonfire was lit in the square, its dancing flames tearing through the night and illuminating faces roughened by sea wind and twisted with hunger.
The spoils were carried onto the high platform one by one, piling up into glittering hills. Chests of heavy gold dragons were poured out, forming a flowing river of gold under the firelight, drawing low gasps from the crowd. Barrels of wine stamped with the golden grape of the Arbor were rolled up, the oak casks thudding dully against each other. This was the nectar famous across the Seven Kingdoms, worth more than its weight in silver.
Exquisite silverware, tapestries, and jewelry looted from noble halls and secret rooms glittered with a refined light that looked out of place under the gloomy sky. Then there were the chained artisans—winemakers, coopers, goldsmiths—their faces pale, eyes filled with terror.
King Quellon sat on the Seastone Chair, his face calm as a steel-gray sea. Balon stood at his side, jaw tight, his sharp gaze sweeping over every piece of loot, assessing its value and the glory it represented. Euron leaned casually to the side, a faint smile on his lips, as if the massive wealth before him was just an amusing game.
The distribution began.
The scribes of House Harlaw held heavy ledgers. First, following ancient tradition, they solemnly handed the shares due to the fallen warriors—heavy purses or precious items—into the trembling hands of their blood kin. Every handover was accompanied by a stifled sob or a word of gratitude to the Drowned God. Death and wealth were coldly intertwined in this moment.
Then, the rewards for the living began.
The captains with the highest acclaim and the warriors who fought most bravely were called by name, stepping forward to receive the King's bounty.
"Euron Greyjoy!" The shout was exceptionally loud. Euron stepped out from the crowd, the firelight reflecting in his mismatched eyes, his smile placid.
For his unparalleled merit in infiltrating the enemy den, destroying the wildfire, opening the gates, and capturing the enemy leader, King Quellon granted him the most unique spoils: not dazzling gold or silver, but all the captured winemakers, their delicate tools, a learned Maester named Qyburn with vast medical knowledge, and the heavy tomes recording centuries of the Arbor's winemaking secrets. This was what Euron had asked for from the start, so he accepted it gladly. These silent riches were far more powerful than gold coins, and only in Euron's hands could their true potential be unleashed.
"Balon Greyjoy!" Balon strode forward, posture straight as a steel spear. For his fierce command in the naval battle and the capture of the Redwyne heir, he chose the prize he desired most: a towering warship captured from the Redwyne fleet, along with enough shining swords and fresh plate armor to equip a full crew of elite warriors. His choice drew envious roars from the fighters.
House Drumm of Old Wyk, for leading the beach assault, was granted first pick. They chose massive amounts of gold and silver, and enough wine to flood their castle cellars.
Beron Blacktyde of Blacktyde, who fought ferociously and slew two enemy captains in single combat, received a correspondingly heavy reward for his house.
Based on merit and status, King Quellon personally bestowed the shares.
Heavy purses were claimed, wine barrels were rolled down the platform amidst envious shouts and slaps on the back, and artisans were assigned to families that needed their skills.
Every reward was accompanied by cheers and drinking. The air was thick with the smell of ale, wine, and desire. The ancient ritual, performed to the accompaniment of bonfires and crashing waves, was not just a distribution of loot, but a reaffirmation and consolidation of power.
The Ironborn shared the fruits of victory in the most direct way possible. Every gold dragon dropping into a palm, every swallow of fine wine, spoke of the sweetness of plunder and the law of the Iron Islands—in the deep sea, the strong eat.
Before the Seastone Chair, the dancing firelight cast King Quellon's shadow high and long, like an avatar of the Drowned God himself.
King Quellon stood up slowly. In his massive drinking horn, the dark gold Arbor wine looked like molten metal. His gaze, heavy as an iron anchor, swept over every rough face below—faces eroded by sea wind, now flushed red with excitement and alcohol.
"Ironborn!" His voice rolled like the surf beneath his feet, drowning out the crackle of the fire and the howl of the wind, entering every ear clearly. "Look at the wealth piled around you! Smell the scent of gold and the fragrance of wine in the air! Remember this day!"
He raised the great horn high, the wine sloshing inside.
"In the Battle of the Arbor, our longships smashed their pride! Our battle axes harvested their fear! From this day forward, the history books of Westeros will write our names in blood and fire! And we, the great Ironborn, are the victors of this legend!"
His voice was like thunder, every word striking the hearts of the Ironborn, igniting the most primal fire in their veins.
"Cheer! This is the right you won with iron and blood! Drink their most precious wine! Eat the meat they provided! Use their wealth to celebrate our supreme victory!"
"ROAAAAR—!"
The King's shout was like a spark thrown into gunpowder, instantly detonating the long-suppressed wild passion of the crowd.
The entire square boiled over.
Warriors frantically beat their chests and shields, creating a thunderous roar like war drums. Ale and wine flowed freely from the corners of their mouths, soaking beards and tunics. Fat from roasting meat dripped into the fires, sending up flames and savory smoke. Maniacal laughter, screaming, the clinking of cups, and unbridled singing wove into a deafening cacophony that threatened to lift the roof of Pyke.
In this boiling wave of sound, the Ironborn's fanaticism transformed into a rough, majestic war song. Every shout was accompanied by the dull thud of fists hitting chests or shields, the rhythm primal and shaking the earth:
"Take back our glory!"
"Drink their golden grapes!"
"Steel axes split the waves!"
"Longships break the dawn!"
This unified roar, wild as the sea wind, rose wave upon wave, finally converging into two inseparable cores representing power and faith, like waves returning to the reef and the abyss:
"GREYJOY!"
"DROWNED GOD!"
Fire danced madly in every pair of fanatical eyes. The roar tore through the damp sea air, rushing straight into the star-filled night sky. This was no longer a simple celebration; it was a declaration. The children of the cold sea were washing their throats with enemy wine, igniting their ambition with plundered wealth, bathing in the supreme glory of spoils bought with fire and blood.
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