In Iron Islands law, spoils distribution followed ancient, brutal custom.
First-blood eternally belonged to warriors who severed enemy heads. Each skull was a blood-soaked bargaining chip—value measured not merely in quantity but in the original owner's station. A pirate-leader's skull weighed far differently than common rabble's upon the scales.
These trophies were meticulously counted, assessed, ultimately converted into corresponding gold, goods, or other treasures.
Yet blood-reward favored not only forward-charging blades. Captains managing outer-encirclement, cutting retreat-routes; craftsmen forging arms in rear-areas; even maesters treating wounded aboard medical-ships—all claimed portions at the feast.
Yet their shares could never match those mad-warriors who first stormed through shattered gates into enemy ranks. Spoils forever most heavily filled the sacks of those whose blades still dripped enemy-blood.
This was Iron law—risk and glory must equivalently balance through blood and treasure.
Whenever war-drums beat across Iron Islands, the most horrifying yet spectacular sight appeared: Iron folk like blood-scenting sharks, competing desperately for most-dangerous front-lines. This courage carved into bone-marrow stemmed from their unique faith and survival-law.
"The dead do not die—" this ancient maxim flowing through archipelago-whispers was far more than saying. Every Iron child from earliest youth carried this belief.
They steadfastly believed warrior-spirits dying gloriously wouldn't be devoured by death, but rather receive the Drowned God's invitation, sinking beneath deep-seas into that eternal "Watery Palace." There: endless war-songs, inexhaustible wine, and every sacrificed brave soul would receive beautiful mermaids' tender service, fulfilling every unfulfilled wish.
Thus when blades unsheathed, you'd struggle finding fear-of-death on Iron faces. Their eyes burned with living-toward-death fervor, direct longing for glory and spoils. Facing such enemies even the bravest felt spine-chills—they battled not merely an army, but desperate brigands viewing sacrifice as the shortcut to godly kingdoms.
Following Euron's banner into campaign meant for Iron folk two genuinely practical things: battle never ended; victory always fed them well.
Beneath that golden kraken flag, barren rocks yielded gold; enemy fortresses became stepping-stones. Each blade-draw brought not merely glory but ship-hull-filling tangible spoils. When other lords bargained over taxes, Euron's subordinates fretted over transporting mountain-high treasures.
So whenever war approached, you'd witness strangest sights—warriors didn't pray for safety but raced red-eyed for vanguard positions. Everyone knew following this Beast-Lord typically meant acquiring richest rewards.
When blood-stained warships slowly returned, that ship's draft-depth, that deck's cargo-quantity itself composed most-moving victory-song. Nothing thrilled Iron folk more than watching laden cargo compress their gunwales.
Before Fly Island's gunsmoke fully dispersed, Iron soldiers methodically began cleanup.
The Citadel's most secretive treasure-chamber was brutally pried open. Accumulated silver-vessels, world-spanning oddities were systematically removed, piled into gleaming mountains upon the square.
From that foul-stinking marsh-depths, soldiers discovered miracles—thick waterproof-cloth-wrapped, mud-buried treasure-chests dragged successively out. Water seeped through box-seams, as if gold-silver themselves wept for sunlight.
When all spoils finished counting, the Harrenhal Island lord approached Euron with parchment filled in numbers. His expression remained calm, voice clear echoing silent squares: "This battle: twenty-six of our fallen."
He paused slightly, scanning paper's numbers insufficiently matching sacrifice: "This island holds merely hundred-thousand-plus gold dragons, plus items awaiting valuation."
Several lords' mouths twitched.
Yet for pirates, utterly normal—they lived lives uncertain as tomorrow's dawn, believing seize-today's-wine-today. None knew whether tomorrow's waves would become their graves. Accumulated gold-dragons mostly already transformed into fierce spirits, feasts, and wild debauchery in brothels.
In "Poison Bait" Lila's quarters:
Herb-and-blood peculiar scent perpetually permeated. Obsidian-sealed scrolls on tables and wooden shelves; glass-bottles lining walls—containing variously-colored poisoned plants and strange herbs.
Red-robed priestess Gwendolyn's fingertips traced a human-skin-bound tome, dark-red spine-patterns seemingly still pulsing. Shadow-bound Evelyn gently inhaled pearl-lustrous powder from a vial, subtle shadow-smile gracing her lips.
"These corrupted things—yours to dispose." Euron stood within doorway-shadows, voice placid. "Consider them your share from this campaign."
Both women nodded, exchanging knowing smiles—compared ordinary gold, these dark-knowledge-tainted legacies were truly heart-moving trophies.
Slaves rescued from dungeon depths finally saw daylight again.
Among them, those Nas Island islanders were personally arranged by Warrior-Queen Alicia onto sturdy longships.
She summoned several Iron sailors, commanding they escort people homeward. These typically untamable Iron folk raised no objection, responding efficiently, expressions carrying unmistakable, near-solicitous understanding.
Alicia-Euron relationship-rumors already swept through Iron's entire fleet like sea-wind. Everyone clearly understood—this island-queen would bear their esteemed Beast-Lord's offspring. Therefore obeying her orders seemed perfectly natural to Iron folk.
As for Braavos sailors, Summer Islands merchants and other slaves, they were temporarily properly settled. Recently two Ice-Fire Trading Company merchant-ships would traverse Summer Sea; they'd follow these vessels homeward.
Bone Citadel silently stood amid salty wind. This fortress grown from marsh-depths now radiated combined stench of rotting-wood and death. Several lords stood along muddy edges, pinching noses, faces twisted in disgust.
"Burn it completely!" the Stonehelm lord kicked skull-fragments half-buried in mud. "This cursed filthy place—even moment longer makes skin itch unbearably."
"Let flame purify this corruption." Another lord agreed. Everyone nodded.
All eyes fixed upon Euron.
"Should we build future camps here, naturally we'd choose seaside, keeping warships within reach," Euron finally spoke, voice placid yet carrying irrefutable weight. "But this... Bone Citadel remains temporarily."
Euron raised hand, gesturing toward marsh-waters swallowing countless lives and complex terrain:
"Presently unnecessary—hopefully forever unnecessary. Yet these natural barriers, maze-like pathways, can serve as future garrison's... final survival-bastion."
Several lords exchanged glances, speaking no more—again realizing this Beast-Lord's vision looked further than common men's, yet more cruelly.
Euron's gaze swept the square's spoils, smiling: "All combat-merits tallied? Those heads must pack carefully, preserve well." His fingertips lightly tapped waist-sword, producing metal-striking sounds. "Materials for Bone Crown construction remain perpetually scarce and precious."
Lords burst into rough laughter, sounds startling roosting crows. Lord Barron wiped laughing-tears, roaring: "This time's foundation could build half a tower!"
The Bone Crown—now Iron Islands' signature architecture, known universally across known-world.
In Narrow Sea's far-shore taverns, sailors frightened crying children with "Bone Crown" tales. In Free Cities' courts, envoys measured Iron Islands' threat by skull-tower proportions.