The Sunset Sea, south of the Iron Islands.
Euron's longship Silence slipped away from the Westerlands coast, heading farther west.
Silence carried a single mast and a black sail over a dark red hull. The ship was painted red to hide the blood soaked into the wood. At the prow stood a black iron maiden, one arm stretched out, waist narrow, breasts proud, legs long and shapely. Her long iron hair streamed behind her. Her eyes were mother-of-pearl. She had no mouth. That was how the ship got its name.
Silence was merciless, cruel, and fast. Euron's crew were mutes who never spoke.
Crow's Eye had raided the coastal towns of the Westerlands and come away rich. Most of the longships stayed with the Iron Fleet, but Euron did as he pleased. He was Balon's elder brother. Taking orders from Victarion would have looked bad. Besides, Euron had suggested the surprise attack on Lannisport, so Balon let him go his own way.
Aboard Silence, along with gold, silver, food, clothes, and fresh water, sat a captured knight. Euron had no interest in ransom. He wanted the man for sacrifice.
The knight was a distant Lannister cousin, fair-haired and blue-eyed, taken from a small coastal town. He was bound tight. Euron had already cut out his tongue. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth. The man could only weep.
Euron Greyjoy was pale, handsome, with black hair and a black beard—the most refined-looking of the four Greyjoy brothers. Balon and Victarion were born warriors and reavers. Aeron was still a drunken fool. Euron was something else: the smiling villain, the well-dressed monster.
His good looks were only skin deep. He was mad, cunning, and loved breaking people. His brothers hated him for it. Victarion had suffered his mockery for years. Aeron lived in fear of him.
"Join the Iron Fleet and take orders from Balon and my little brother?" Euron murmured to himself on deck. "Or sail farther west?"
The wind caught his long black hair. He spoke like a man talking to ghosts.
Euron had mismatched eyes. His right eye was a bright, laughing blue. His left, when the patch came off, was a black, malicious thing. He kept the patch on most of the time.
A raven landed on his shoulder. When it did, blood began to seep from beneath the patch. Pain like a skull splitting open hit him. Euron wiped the blood away with a silk handkerchief.
"Still blocked by something," he thought. "Ever since the dragons died, winters grow longer and magic fades. But the barrier feels weaker now."
Only Euron knew he was a true skinchanger, a shapeshifter of rare talent. Even he felt the weight of the low-magic age pressing down. He could not stretch his gift as far as he wanted without backlash and agony.
He would wait. Magic was rising again. His reach had already grown. One day he would slip into other men's minds and wear their bodies like clothes. The Drowned God had never punished him for kinslaying. What kind of god was that? Euron trusted only his own power.
A dragon egg would help. If dragons returned, magic would flood back like summer. Then these barren islands would mean nothing. The ironborn could become a true storm.
His brothers were blunt instruments. Only Euron had real cunning and vision. His heart was the blackest of all.
The raven left his shoulder and flew into the sky.
Euron stared at the blue water. Something vast and ancient called to him from the deep. He would take that power for himself.
"The battle will be in the islands and the straits," he said with a cold smile. "Poor Iron Fleet. Too late to warn them now. And why should I? My advice gave Balon the victory at Lannisport. That glory is mine. If the war fails, it's Balon's fault. He's already lost two sons. Losing two brothers won't matter."
He signaled his mute crew. They dragged the captured knight forward and lashed him to the prow.
Blood of gods. Blood of pregnant women. Blood of heroes. Blood of kings.
A distant Lannister cousin would have to do for hero's blood.
"Change course," Euron ordered. "We're going to the Stepstones. Keep raiding."
If the Fair Isle battle went badly, Balon was finished. Better to slip away, let the storm pass, then return when the time was right. Euron would come back covered in glory—the man who struck Lannisport and the only ironborn who never bent the knee to Robert.
Westerlands. The strait between Fair Isle and the mainland.
Victarion Greyjoy faced a choice. The Iron Fleet had finished its work. Now they had to cross back to the islands.
Sailing around Fair Isle would take longer but was safer. Cutting through the strait between the island and the mainland would be faster but far more dangerous.
"Too many black ravens have already flown from the islands," Victarion thought. "I need to get back to Balon fast. We'll use the islands as a base and keep fighting the Iron Throne. I'll kill the Dark Knight. I'll kill the Lord of Seagard. I'll avenge my nephews."
The deaths of Rodrik and Maron still burned. They were blood.
On the open sea the royal fleet and the Redwyne fleet would crush them with weight and numbers. Victarion needed surprise or a trap of his own.
He prayed to the Drowned God that the enemy fleets were still far away, still linking up near Oldtown.
"Any sign of Crow's Eye?" Victarion asked.
His men shook their heads. "No one's seen Silence. He's not coming."
Victarion's face darkened. "Let him go. I know he's jealous of my command. Signal the fleet. We're going through the strait."
He hated Euron, but part of him still wanted his brother's twisted mind close by. Euron was dangerous and clever. Right now Victarion needed that edge.
Balon and Euron were both gone. The decision was his.
The Iron Fleet turned into the narrow channel between Fair Isle and the Westerlands coast.
They were committed.
Then the trap closed.
Shark-like warships appeared on both sides of the strait—larger, heavier, and more numerous than anything the ironborn had.
Robert's royal fleet.
Victarion felt the blood drain from his face.
He had gambled and lost.