Dont forget to Vote and Review, its makes me happy ...
your comment make me motivate posting here
read full story in patreon : CaveLeather
The fires of war had died down, though the smoke still lingered. A new order had descended upon the Isle of Tears.
The soldiers cleaned the battlefield in grim silence. They moved among the dead, severing the heads of the pirates—whether they had been charred by wildfire or butchered by steel. Faces that had once been twisted in ferocity or arrogance were now frozen in the final rictus of death. They were tossed indiscriminately into massive wicker baskets, landing with dull, wet thuds.
Eventually, all the heads were hauled to the center of the island. There, beside the ancient, weathering ruins of Gorgossos, a new "structure" began to rise. The Ironborn worked like cold-blooded masons, using the heads of their enemies as bricks. They stacked them around the base of the crumbling tower, building a massive, circular foundation.
Layer upon layer, the heads were piled high, their empty sockets turned uniformly toward the sea, locked in an eternal, hollow vigil. The process itself was a silent, terrifying liturgy.
When the final head was placed at the apex, the "Crown of Skulls" was complete. It clung to the ancient ruins, radiating a grim aura of iron and blood that belonged entirely to this new era.
The sea breeze whistled through the gaps in the thousands of skulls, creating a low, moaning sound—a dirge for the lost souls, or perhaps a twisted hymn of praise for their new masters.
This crown, forged of fear and death, cast a long, jagged shadow in the dying light of the sunset. It was more than just a victory monument; it was a brutal declaration to the remaining powers of the Basilisk Isles. It was the Ironborn's way of planting their flag—a bloody, undeniable sign that they were here to stay.
It reminded everyone who looked upon it: the only fate for those who resisted was to become another silent stone in this crown of bone.
---
In this single campaign, the Iron Fleet had stripped the accumulated wealth of the Basilisk Isles bare. Chests overflowing with Gold Dragons, pearls, gemstones, and rare spices were hauled onto the decks, weighing the longships down until they rode inches lower in the water.
But this rich harvest had been watered with an ocean of blood.
Over thirteen thousand pirates lay dead on the land they once ruled, their heads now part of the mortar of the Skull Crown. But victory had its price: two thousand Ironborn warriors had also fallen. They would not see the celebration; they had already returned to the Watery Halls of the Drowned God.
Yet, on the faces of the survivors, there was no gloom, no mourning. They gathered around roaring bonfires, slamming their fists against blood-stained breastplates and clashing wooden bowls brimming with mead until the foam spilled over. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, strong rum, and the salty tang of sweat. Rugged war songs and coarse laughter were the only music tonight.
When someone mentioned a fallen comrade, eyes would drift briefly to the dark sea, but the sorrow was quickly drowned out by a louder, fiercer chant:
"What is dead may never die!" A bearded veteran raised his cup to the sky, his voice raspy with exhaustion but full of fervor.
"But rises again, harder and stronger!" The crowd roared back, shaking the very ground.
In their hard faith, death was not an end, but a departure for a feast in the Watery Halls that would never end. Today's parting was just a prelude to a reunion in the god's domain. So, mourning was replaced by revelry, and tears were dissolved in strong spirits. The best way to send off a brother was to take his share of the glory and live twice as hard in his name.
This wasn't coldness. It was the romance of the Iron Islands—fierce, pragmatic, and living on the edge of the grave.
---
The feast was in full swing. The rich aroma of honeyed wine and the fever of victory filled the great hall of the Weeping Keep.
Just as the noise was about to reach its peak, Euron Greyjoy's voice cut through the din. It wasn't loud, but it was like dropping a block of ice into a vat of boiling oil. The clamor died instantly.
"It is not over."
Euron stood at the head of the table, idly toying with a silver goblet. His single eye swept over the hall, taking in the faces flushed with alcohol and adrenaline.
"Easy on the wine," he said. His tone was flat, but it brooked no argument. "Tomorrow, we sail for the Isle of Toads."
King Balon, who was just about to pour a third bowl of wine down his throat, froze. A flicker of annoyance crossed his rugged face—he hated a buzzkill—but he slammed the bowl down on the table hard enough to splash the dregs.
He glared around the room, his voice booming like thunder. "You heard him! Are you deaf?! We've got a hard fight tomorrow. I didn't drag you lot here to die drunk on this rock! Three bowls max per man, and I'm counting!"
He waved a thick, tree-trunk arm. "Fill your bellies, then go bandage your cuts and sleep! Anyone who misses the tide tomorrow, I'll feed them to the sharks myself!"
With both supreme commanders speaking—Euron's icy warning and Balon's brutal enforcement—the feverish atmosphere in the hall cooled rapidly. There were a few grumbles of discontent, but the noise level dropped significantly. Warriors started shoving each other toward the healers to stitch up their wounds, while others quietly began inspecting their weapons and armor.
The hall was soon left with only the crackle of the hearth fire and the heavy, charged silence of an army resting between storms.
---
Euron returned to the room in the Weeping Keep that had been commandeered as his quarters. The metallic scent of blood and slaughter still seemed to cling to him, but he simply unbuckled his weapons in silence, sank into a rough wooden chair, and closed his eye to rest.
The door creaked open softly.
Alicia, the Warrior Queen, stepped inside. She didn't speak. She stood quietly at the edge of the shadows, her gaze resting on Euron's profile, which showed a rare hint of fatigue.
Euron didn't open his eye, but he knew she was there. "Not used to this kind of war?"
Alicia took a few steps forward, letting the firelight illuminate her face. It was young, but hard as flint.
"The pirates who died today... slavers, rapers, murderers. None of them were innocent," she said calmly, her voice carrying a rational, judicial weight. Then, her tone dipped lower. "But a siege of this scale... this level of brutality. I admit, it is my first time seeing it up close."
"And how does it feel?" Euron finally opened his eye, looking at her indifferently.
Alicia's lips slowly curled into a smile. It wasn't a cruel smile, but one of pure, adrenaline-fueled battle lust, ignited by her bloodline. She tilted her chin up, the firelight dancing in her eyes.
"Exciting," she admitted frankly, her voice ringing with undeniable high spirits. "Do not forget, I am a Warrior Queen. The blood of Nymeria flows in my veins."
The candle flame cast flickering shadows on the stone walls.
Alicia leaned in, her fingertips tracing the edge of Euron's blood-stained armor. Her voice dropped to a whisper, soft as sea mist. "Are you hurt?"
Euron shook his head slightly. The post-battle silence filled the room, thick with tension.
Suddenly, Alicia reached up and pulled the pearl hairpin from the back of her neck. Her silver hair cascaded down like a waterfall.
Her leather bodice hit the floor with a thud, followed by a tunic soaked in the smell of smoke, until the moonlight outlined the smooth curve of her spine and the toned muscle of a warrior. Her movements had the decisiveness of a soldier unarming, yet hid a demanding, irresistible softness.
Euron's silence turned into a barely audible sigh as she closed the distance. Her warm palm pressed against him, and a kiss tasting of wine and sweet danger sealed his lips.
"I told you I wanted to get pregnant," she whispered between heavy breaths, her boot accidentally kicking his sword belt, sending a sharp metallic clink through the quiet room. "The promise of a Warrior Queen... is never a joke."
"Then," Euron murmured, "we'll have to try more than once."