After the storm, the Silence had been at sea for ten days.
The deck was a chaotic forest of barrels, bound tightly with coarse ropes to prevent them from rolling during the voyage. Most prominent were the barrels of salted cod.
Salt crystals seeped from the crevices, and when the lids were pried open, the stench of rotten seaweed and fish hit the crew like a battering ram.
Euron's stomach twisted. He had never seen such sights. For a moment, he imagined punishment rituals, biological traps, or some ploy to suffocate enemies with the smell.
"Watch closely, little kraken!" Red-haired Oakwood grinned, missing half his teeth, and spewed the faint scent of alcohol. He pried open a barrel lid with a dagger.
Maggots writhed on the yellow brine like living white threads, crawling over salted fish carcasses.
Oakwood pinched a piece of dried cod with his gnarled fingers, flicked off the maggots casually, and stuffed it into his mouth. Yellow juice dribbled down his chin.
"The more you chew, the better it tastes," he said, revealing blackened teeth. "Sea salt nourishes."
Euron gagged but hesitated. Dagmer's iron hook speared a piece and extended it to him.
"Eat," the pirate said, one eye narrowing. "Unless you want to gnaw on your own leather, like Torrik."
Euron shook his head and refused.
Hardtack was another trial. Round, dark biscuits, as hard as reef rock, were stored in iron chests to keep out rats and moisture. When Old Lame Leg brought one out, it bore strange green spots. Oakwood split it with an axe; beetles scuttled from the cracks. Balon grinned, crunching down with audible satisfaction.
Euron mimicked him, scraping off mold, softening the biscuit with seawater. The first bite tasted of grit and sawdust; the bread had been extended with shells to last the voyage.
Water, however, was far more precious. Tarred wineskins hung in shadowed corners, rationed strictly. Tiny floating creatures swirled in the wine and freshwater alike, growing more abundant by the seventh day.
"Don't waste a drop," Dagmer warned. "Filter it if you must, boil it if you dare—drink every drop, or your gut will harbor sea worms eventually."
Euron carefully filtered and boiled his portion, while Balon scorned the caution. Wine, like a sword or a man's head, was sacred to an Ironborn, and now almost gone after the storm.
Evening brought the cargo hold arena.
Twenty men crowded among barrels, sweat and fish stench rising into a hot haze.
"Come! Let the little kraken fight!" Oakwood shoved Euron to the center.
His opponent, One-Eyed Glenn, had scabs from earlier fights. He smeared his hands with whale oil, the sheen reflecting the dim whale-oil lamps.
"First rule of Ironborn fighting," Glenn lunged, grabbing for Euron's face, "Make your enemy lose footing!"
Euron twisted, narrowly avoiding a fall, grabbed an overhead rope, and scissored his legs around Glenn's neck. They crashed to the deck, barrels humming under the impact.
"Beautiful!" Dagmer cheered, swigging rum. "But in a real fight—this is the truth!"
He kicked a wine barrel; amber liquid drenched Euron. In that instant, a dagger was pressed to his throat.
"Dead men don't swing on ropes!"
The lesson continued deep into the night. Ironborn combat was brutal, practical—no elegance. Teeth, fingernails, hidden fishbones: survival at sea was truth.
Beyond fighting and drinking, the Ironborn played the Finger Dance—throwing short-handled axes at opponents who could only dodge or catch, without moving their feet. Balon reveled in it, inspired by tales of Harlaw Harlaw, a legendary fighter whose skill with axes had become the stuff of island legend.
Euron watched, knowing it was self-mutilation masquerading as sport.
Dagmer beat the sharkskin war drums. Circles were drawn with whale oil; axes gleamed under moonlight. Balon and "Split-Finger" Hork faced off.
The duel erupted. Balon swung with precision, axes whistling through the air. Hork blocked and countered, axes clashing, sparks flying. Bone cracked. Blood gushed.
Euron's stomach churned. Yet he saw the tactical opportunity: Hork's femoral artery had been ruptured.
"Press here!" he barked, grabbing Oakwood's hand and applying pressure. The bleeding slowed.
"Spirits! Needle and thread! Canvas rope!" his small voice commanded authority. Dagmer froze, then handed rum; Balon provided hemp strips.
Euron padded the wound, threaded shark teeth as makeshift sutures, carefully piercing tissue, weaving to close the torn artery. He applied multiple layers of pressure bandage, propped the leg on a barrel, and finally brought the injured man back from the brink.
Dagmer squatted in awe. "Where… did you learn that?"
Euron wiped blood from his face, his heterochromatic eyes gleaming. "The drowned god taught me in a dream."
Balon snorted. "Or you watched a maester saw off a man's leg last month and just copied him. Either way… it worked."