The door shut, cutting off the last of the light and sound.
The vast black stone hall fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by the crackling of burning logs in the fireplace, which echoed in the emptiness, sounding particularly harsh.
Lord Quellon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke, still had his back to the door, like an ancient, unmoving reef, enduring a silent storm within him.
The fire cast flickering shadows on his broad back, constantly shifting between light and dark.
Not far in front of him, the spoils of war—gold coins, silk, jeweled goblets—glittered enticingly in the firelight, yet at this moment, they exuded a cold, ironic aura, mocking this "victory."
All he had gained for his son's adventure and the safety of the entire archipelago were these cold, inanimate objects, and a future that demanded even stronger defenses.
His deep voice, heavy with the weight of iron and blood, slowly rose, as if speaking to himself, or perhaps to the black stone hall that had borne countless generations of House Greyjoy's glory and sin:
"Plunder… it is an instinct etched into the bones of the Ironborn, a way of life granted to us by the Drowned God…"
His voice grew heavier in the silence. "But folly! Arrogant folly! It gnaws at our ship's timbers from within, like a worm, and eventually… it will sink all our strength at sea!'"
He paused, firelight reflecting on his tightly pressed lips and deep nasolabial folds, finally dissolving into an almost inaudible sigh, filled with complex expectations and stern admonition for his eldest son:
"Balon, my son… I hope the waves of Howling Head can truly… wash away the arrogance in your mind."
"Dagmer," Quellon's voice returned to its usual cold, hard command.
He still didn't turn around. "Sit down!"
Dagmer, the pirate who had struck fear into the hearts of his enemies at sea, now seemed unusually constrained.
He nervously rubbed his calloused and scarred hands, swallowed, and carefully pulled out the heavy wooden chair opposite Lord Quellon.
The chair legs scraped across the stone floor, making a harsh sound that echoed in the deathly silent hall.
He sat stiffly, back straight, hands on his knees, like a prisoner awaiting judgment, showing none of the ferocity he displayed during sea raids.
He secretly glanced at the Lord's mountain-like back, then quickly lowered his gaze.
"Now," Quellon finally turned slowly, his weathered, hawk-like eyes glinting with a cold, oppressive light in the firelight, fixed firmly on Dagmer, "Pour out every drop of seawater, every breath of sea breeze, every piece of reef… that you've hidden in your belly about this 'voyage'! From beginning to end! Don't miss a single word!"
"Yes, My Lord!"
Dagmer took a deep breath, trying to suppress his nervousness, and his rough voice echoed in the empty hall as he began his long and detailed report.
"It all… started when Balon got that merchant ship's route map at the 'Saltblood' tavern.
It marked the route and time of a fat sheep, spices, silks, jewels… Balon's eyes turned red then, like a shark smelling blood.
Of course, I was the same, even hungrier and thirstier."
He licked his dry lips. "So I gathered the crew, prepared fresh water and food, and the silence waited for high tide to set sail.
As for Euron, he was only brought on board before the silence departed, after he threatened Balon with exposure."
Dagmer paused, choosing his words carefully.
"Euron… after boarding the ship, he just held his tattered book and read, seemingly indifferent to everything.
When Balon decided to go ahead, he didn't object, he just… asked, 'The map doesn't mark escort ships, nor does it mark water depth or hidden reefs. Plunder relies on axes and brains.'"
Quellon had his back to him, unmoving, but the flickering firelight seemed to freeze for a moment on his broad shoulders.
"How could Balon listen? He cursed, 'What does that brat know?' and finalized the plan," Dagmer continued. "Before the actual operation, Euron… he did a few peculiar things."
"Speak!" Quellon's voice was like cold reef.
Dagmer described the interrogation scene, his tone unconsciously carrying a hint of admiration for that "efficiency," though the method instinctively sent a shiver down his spine:
"He was like… gutting a fish, My Lord.
He wasn't in a hurry to chop off fingers; instead, he circled the three captives, looking at their hands, their clothes, even their old scars!
The scar from a three-barbed arrow on the mercenary captive's shoulder was discovered by him.
Then… he used this!"
Dagmer instinctively touched his own waist. "Not a knife, but rust!
He scraped a handful of rust flakes from the ship's plank and stuffed them into the mercenary's old wound scar!
Gods, you didn't hear that scream!
It was worse than having fingers chopped off! The mercenary immediately broke down, spilling everything about the number and positions of the guards, even saying the attendants were unarmed!"
Quellon still had his back to him, but Dagmer felt the silent gaze grow heavier.
"The most critical thing was that he interrogated them separately!
Euron was on his first voyage, his first raid, and definitely his first interrogation, yet he was more skilled and thorough than us old pirates."
Dagmer emphasized, "Balon interrogated one, I interrogated another, and he interrogated the third.
He asked the same questions: number of ships, cargo, guards, heading… then, like fitting ship planks together, he compared the testimonies of all three!
My Lord, you know, when interrogated separately, conflicting testimonies mean lies! We… we never did it that way before."
Dagmer paused, seemingly recalling that brutally efficient raid.
"His attitude towards those captives…" He remembered what Euron had said to them at the end, "He offered water to those half-dead wretches, squatted in front of them, his voice as cold as ice, and told them how they would be flayed and butchered to feed sea worms if their information was false… and then said if all went well, he could guarantee their lives…
That tone wasn't a threat; it was… a statement of an inescapable fact.
As a result, one of them, scared out of his wits, screamed out 'wildfire'!
This information, he essentially squeezed out of them!"
"If we hadn't known beforehand, and the silence had charged in, that attendant boy's single spark would have turned us all into roasted fish!"
Dagmer's voice held both lingering fear and a hint of relief.
"After confirming the route and the time of attack, we arrived at the ambush point early, and Euron sent a few Ironborn in small boats to thoroughly explore the narrowest part of the 'Widow's Strait' underwater."
A flicker of memory crossed Dagmer's single eye. "Not to check reef positions—we knew that place well—but to observe the currents!
To see which reefs would be exposed at low tide, allowing people to stand on them, and which channels would be submerged at high tide, becoming dead ends!
He even had Glenn mark the positions of the strongest whirlpools… At the time, we all thought the boy was being overly cautious; in a sea battle, who cares about currents?"
"What about during the boarding?" Quellon finally spoke, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Balon was incredibly brave, the first to jump onto the merchant ship, dispatching the lookout with a single blow," Dagmer quickly said. "Oakwood led his men to the cargo hold to deal with the wildfire, and they did a splendid job.
But… some details were arranged by Euron."
He swallowed. "He had those who had scouted the currents beforehand, armed with arrows smeared with owl droppings, lie in wait on the reefs exposed at low tide!
The positions were tricky, the current was swift, and the merchant ship would never have expected people to be hidden there!
The arrows were fired silently and were remarkably effective!
Also, he had Glenn lead his men to block not the main deck, but the exits of the channels that would be submerged at high tide!
As a result, two guards trying to jump overboard and escape crashed right into them, drowning in the dead ends…"
"And that little girl…" Dagmer hesitated, then spoke, "Lysa.
Balon chose a salt wife according to custom, but Euron asked for the smallest one, the girl from Pentos, as thin as a reed.
He said she wouldn't be a salt wife, but a handmaiden.
We all laughed at him then, saying he was trying to command a handmaiden before he even grew hair in the right places… But later, on the ship, I heard that little girl babbling something to him in a language we didn't understand, and Euron was actually learning it too!
The accent… it was very strange, like a snake hissing, or a growling… He said it was High Valyrian or something."
Dagmer's voice gradually faded; he felt he had already said too much about that "cunning" boy.
He secretly looked up; Lord Quellon still had his back to him, like an ancient black reef, with only the firelight casting dancing shadows on him.
The hall was deathly silent, with only Dagmer's own heavy breathing and the crackling of burning wood.
After a long time, so long that Dagmer almost suffocated, Quellon's deep voice slowly rose, carrying the weight of deep contemplation:
"Acting like gutting a fish… interrogating the enemy like reading patterns… using their weaknesses, not flaunting one's strengths… observing separately, verifying together… even currents, old scars, and the human desire for survival can all be weapons…"
He seemed to be summarizing, yet also chewing on these unfamiliar traits. "…and he even knows to learn High Valyrian."
Quellon finally turned slowly, his hawk-like eyes sharp as knives in the firelight, piercing Dagmer.
"Tell me—what does an Ironborn, a Greyjoy, need with these… things?"
Dagmer trembled.
"You seem to think highly of him."
"M-my lord… he is your son."
"Only that?"
Dagmer was speechless.
He opened his mouth, but in the end, he just lowered his head in fear, not daring to meet the Lord's gaze that seemed to penetrate everything.
---
📚 Author's Note:
Huge thanks to Ringkohli_Thongs for the 3 Power Stones!
🐧