Spring winds, carrying the briny scent of seawater, swept past the towering turrets and jagged reefs of Pyke.
As the weather warmed and the currents turned, the appointed day finally arrived.
Under a leaden gray sky, the priests of the Drowned God climbed the steepest cliff facing the sea. Their rough linen robes were torn at by the sea gale, snapping loudly. The leading High Priest held a sacred staff carved from driftwood, its body mottled by erosion from years and salt water.
He did not look immediately at the churning sea. Instead, he tilted his head back, using his gray-blue eyes that seemed capable of piercing through fog to gaze at the tracks of flowing clouds across the horizon and the circling arcs of seabirds. He was reading—reading the chapters written by wind and currents, listening to the ancient whispers from the deep sea that only those favored by the god could catch.
In the long silence, only the roar of waves crashing against the cliffs echoed. All the accompanying priests and Ironborn warriors held their breath, as if every inhalation would disturb this sacred communion.
Finally, the High Priest slowly raised his staff and dipped it into the churning white foam below the cliff. When he lifted it again, the drops falling from the end of the staff shimmered with a faint, metallic ghostly light.
"The God has spoken!" The High Priest turned. His voice was not loud, but it pierced through the wind like a conch horn, clearly entering everyone's ears. "The tide will turn to the southwest wind at dawn three days from now. When the first ray of sunlight pierces the dark clouds and illuminates the highest spire of Pyke—that is the starting point of the journey the Drowned God has chosen for us, the moment the tide will carry our longships!"
Three days later.
The moment for the expedition had arrived. Following the steps inherited for a thousand years on the Iron Islands, the priests of the Drowned God came among the reefs where the waves crashed to perform the solemn "Seawater Blessing."
The leading priest held a dark driftwood bowl, scooping up seawater churning with white foam.
All warriors lined up in neat formations by their ship crews. These bare-chested men with knotted muscles allowed the priests to pour the salty water, carrying the biting chill of early spring, over their heads. The water droplets hit their bronzed skin like cold arrows, winding down weathered scars and tight muscles.
The priest's old, hoarse voice rang out amidst the wind and waves, every word heavy as iron: "What is dead may never die—"
More priests entered the ranks, splashing seawater onto the torsos of the Ironborn warriors, onto their axe blades, spears, and shields.
Water glistened on cold iron, accompanied by a low roar in unison: "But rises again—"
The sound was low at first, then converged into a soul-shaking wave.
When the priest poured the final stream of seawater onto the sharp prow of a longship, symbolizing that the Drowned God would cleave the waves alongside this wooden vessel, thousands of voices finally broke the shackles of the storm, turning into a roar that tore through sea and sky:
"Harder and stronger!"
"What is dead may never die!"
The cheers rose wave upon wave, seemingly not from flesh and blood, but from the deep pulse of the ocean itself. It drowned out the whistling wind, scattered the flowing clouds in the sky, and even the earth beneath their feet trembled. In this moment, every Ironborn's eyes burned with the same fire—not attachment to life, but a thirst for conquest and glory, an unyielding will that even if they sank into the abyss, their souls would return with the next tide.
Amidst the solemn sacrificial ceremony, the priests began the final segment.
The leading priest held high a clay jar carved with ancient patterns, filled with deep red wine. He faced the roaring sea, his voice desolate and piercing through the wind and rain:
"O Drowned God! Please drink this cup and accept our offering—" The priest tilted the jar, and the crimson liquid gushed into the seawater like blood, instantly swallowed by the rolling waves. "—Grant your children strength, and guide our longships to victory!"
The priest retreated to the shore, stood behind Euron, and bowed slightly.
Euron Greyjoy, the commander of this expedition, stepped forward, walking toward his massive ship, the Zhiyuan.
Under everyone's gaze, he took out a piece of beast meat, carefully roasted with sea salt and still steaming—this was the most substantial and precious offering.
Euron did not throw the food into the sea. Instead, he bent down and solemnly placed it beneath the razor-sharp figurehead of the Zhiyuan. This was not an offering to a distant god, but an invitation for the god to walk with them.
"May you be with me!" Euron's low voice was clearly audible in the sea breeze, both a declaration and a covenant. "Witness together the glory we are about to win."
Euron Greyjoy turned around, the dark cloak snapping behind him in the wind. He stood by the sea, immovable as a reef, all Ironborn eyes fixed on him.
With a clear shing, he drew his longsword—Ame no Habakiri. He raised the blade high, pointing the tip straight at the sky churning with dark clouds. summoning all his strength, he let out the war cry passed down for a thousand years: "What is dead may never die!"
The voice was like thunder, cleaving through the noise of wind and waves.
In the next moment, thousands of warriors raised their axes and spears, responding to their commander with a sound that shook the earth:
"But rises again!"
Before the wave of sound could settle, even more fanatical shouts erupted like a landslide or tsunami.
This time, it was no longer a repetition of ancient proverbs, but the proudest declaration of their own bloodline and destiny:
"Ironborn! Ironborn! Ironborn!"
Every shout was accompanied by the heavy pounding of weapons. The entire coastline trembled to this primal, violent rhythm.
In this deafening fervor, Euron abruptly swung his longsword toward the vast, boundless ocean waiting to be conquered ahead.
"Set sail!!!"
No more words were needed.
Like a bursting dam, the Ironborn roared their common name, rushed to the beach, and leaped onto the countless longships that were ready to go.
Oars sliced neatly into the churning waves. The fleet, like lethal arrows released from bowstrings, braved the wind and waves, boldly heading for their battlefield.
Among the longships breaking the waves, two juggernauts stood proudly.
On the left wing was King Quellon's former flagship, the Wrath of the Grey King. Its towering forecastle was engraved with ancient runes, and its dark gray sails were weathered by storms. The old King had left it to Balon before heading to King's Landing—he knew that his son, holding the rear, needed it more than he did going to court.
On the right wing was Euron's Zhiyuan. Its figurehead was a twisted kraken, its tentacles spread as if to seize everything ahead. Dark red sails billowed in the wind, carrying an ominous and powerful beauty.
Like leading sea beasts, the two juggernauts sailed neck and neck, their heavy prows ruthlessly cleaving the dark green waves.
Surrounding them, three hundred newly built longships circled like a school of agile sharks, their gray sails nearly blotting out the horizon.
Dense rows of oars rose and fell, cutting the water, creating a rhythmic, soul-shaking roar.
This massive fleet rode the wind and waves, moving unswervingly south, toward the legendary rich and warm Summer Isles.
Nearly twenty thousand Ironborn warriors stood by the gunwales, their blades flashing with cold, hard light in the sun.
The sea breeze brought the scent of distant lands, and also a silent declaration—a grand expedition had begun.
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