Chapter 607

The sea breeze stirred endless waves, the sunlight cast its golden touch upon the waters.

Beneath a rare, cloudless sky, Blackwater Bay shimmered like a vast sheet of deep blue silk, flecked with countless sparkling glimmers. The ocean stretched to infinity, its surface smooth, pure, and serene.

The sails billowed perfectly, taut against the wind. The bow cut through the waves, leaving behind a trail of white foam. Sailors moved leisurely across the deck, manning their posts with practiced ease while singing a bawdy song about women, their voices carrying over the waves.

If one only listened, it might have seemed like a fleet of honest fishermen setting sail under fine weather.

But the sleek hulls, the massive black sails, the golden kraken sigil emblazoned upon them—along with the hundreds of ships following in its wake—left no room for such illusions.

Silence, flagship of the Iron Fleet.

The fleet that had pillaged the Four Seas, raided the Seven Kingdoms, and carved its name into infamy across the known world.

Yet under the warmth of the early spring sun, with the wind at his back, Euron Greyjoy's expression remained dark and cold.
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He was not pleased.

No, he was furious.

Even the greatest villains have their own troubles.

Aegor West, that filthy foreigner, that wretched Night’s Watch bastard, continued to ruin his plans.

King’s Landing’s so-called "king" was nothing more than a dead man walking, yet still, the fool refused to bend.

These irritations were expected.

A bitter enemy was meant to be a thorn in his side.

But now, even within his own fleet, trouble was brewing.

And that was what truly enraged him.
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Euron’s problems stemmed from three sources.First—Discontent over Roderik Harlaw’s execution.

He had meticulously planned Asha Greyjoy’s return, turning it into a perfect trap to eliminate the strongest opposition within the Iron Islands.

His plan had worked flawlessly.

The crew of Seasong had been slaughtered to the last man.

The men aboard Silence—his own deafened sailors—would never speak of it.

Roderik Harlaw, that damned bookworm, had died a traitor.

And yet—people still dared to complain.

Not that they questioned his guilt. No, no one challenged that.

But some believed that a lord as prominent as Roderik should have been captured alive, brought back to the Iron Islands, tried publicly, and executed as an example.

Others argued that Seasong should have been seized as a prize and handed to one of Euron’s loyal captains, rather than being sunk outright.

Fools.

Weaklings.

Did they not understand that such leniency only invited defiance?

Euron had no patience for such bleating sheep.
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Second—The growing frustration within the Iron Fleet.

When Euron had declared the return of the Old Way, when he had boldly proclaimed his ambition to conquer Westeros, the Ironborn had flocked to his banner.

They had pillaged.

They had burned.

They had feasted on the spoils of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Euron had become a god in their eyes.

But now, after months of battle—after losing ships without gaining treasure—dissatisfaction had begun to fester.

Their luck had turned when they clashed with the North.

Or rather—when Aegor West entered the war.

What should have been a simple campaign of raiding had spiraled into prolonged attrition.

The Ironborn had fought hard battles but gained no plunder.

They had lost men but gained no gold.

They had spilled blood but claimed no women.

And now, voices whispered of retreat.

Some muttered that Euron’s vendetta against the North was mere vanity.

That he should turn away from these barren, frozen shores and **return to the Old Way—**to raiding, to reaving, to glory.

They did not understand.

Euron scoffed at their short-sightedness.

Did they think this was merely about pride? About proving a point?

No.

If the North was left unchecked, they would march south.

If the North joined forces with the Riverlands, then Stannis’ army would become unstoppable.

And if Stannis crushed the Reach, then Westeros would be unified.

And when Westeros was unified, there would be no place left for the Ironborn.

They would be hunted like rats—driven into the sea and exterminated.

Did these fools think he was fighting for nothing?

No—he was fighting for the very survival of their way of life.

Yet these dull-minded brutes cared for nothing beyond wine, gold, and women.

They didn’t see the future.

They didn’t deserve to rule the seas.
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Third—The absence of dreams.

This—this was what truly disturbed him.

For years, Euron had been plagued by dreams.

Not normal dreams—but visions.

Mad, chaotic, incomprehensible whispers.

But the whispers always led him somewhere.

They told him where to sail.

They told him who to kill.

They told him where to find power.

It was the whispers that had guided him to the ruins of Valyria.

The whispers that had led him to dark magics.

The whispers that had shaped him into a king.

And now—they were gone.
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It had begun months ago.

Shortly after he burned the North’s fleet in Icebreaker Bay, the dreams had vanished.

The whispers had faded into silence.

The power that had guided him all his life had abandoned him.

Why?

Had he been cast aside?

Had his destiny been stolen?

Or was it a sign—a signal that he was on the verge of something greater?

Euron did not know.

And the uncertainty enraged him.

His frustration, his growing unease, could only be eased in one way.

He needed victory.

He needed blood.

He needed to drown the sea in death.
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CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The shrill ringing of metal snapped him from his thoughts.

The alarm bell.

A warning from the crow’s nest.

The lookouts had spotted enemy ships.

Euron’s cold lips curled into a grin.

Finally.

Something to kill.
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He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the first black sails appeared.

His blue lips parted, and his single eye gleamed with anticipation.

"Come, then," he murmured.

"Let’s see who bleeds first."