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Chapter 612
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 18:00:26 +0000 UTCThe King of the Iron Islands plunged into the sea with a resounding splash, disappearing beneath the waves as inertia dragged him under. Cold, salty water seeped through every gap in his armor, soaking his clothes and biting into his skin like a thousand tiny needles. The shock of it stole his breath, but Euron Greyjoy felt the urge to laugh.
Unlike the cowards of the green lands, the Ironborn never went into naval battles lightly armored. Their culture decreed that those who drowned at sea would feast forever in the halls of the Drowned God. To them, the true dishonor wasn’t sinking in heavy armor—it was boarding an enemy ship only to be cut down before tasting victory.
And Euron wore Valyrian steel plate.
Valyrian steel was a third the density of iron, yet vastly superior in all aspects of craftsmanship. It provided the same protection at half the thickness, meaning that a suit of Valyrian steel armor weighed barely a quarter of its iron equivalent. No, it wasn’t light enough to make him float, but combined with the natural buoyancy of the human body and the air trapped in his clothing, it ensured he wouldn’t plummet to the depths like a man in full plate.
Holding his breath, Euron cast aside his battle-axe to reduce weight, then kicked and clawed his way upward like a frog struggling toward the surface.
His head barely broke the waves before the Invincible Ironborn exploded.
The battlefield had been battered by cannon fire for so long that every warrior had grown numb to the distant thunder of artillery. But this was different. If cannon fire was the ominous rumble of far-off storm clouds, then the explosion of the powder-packed warship was a hammer blow to the skull—one that landed right next to the ear.
Across the waters of Blackwater Bay, amidst thousands of clashing warships and men from the Seven Kingdoms—no, from all corners of the world—every soul, even those locked in life-or-death struggles miles away against Stannis Baratheon’s fleet, felt the impact. The deafening roar sent shockwaves through their bones, and sailors staggered as the force of the blast numbed their senses.
All eyes turned toward the heart of the Iron Fleet’s battle line.
Where once the Invincible Ironborn had stood defiant, now two massive fireballs clawed skyward, as if the ship’s very core had ruptured. The explosion tore through her thick wooden hull as easily as an egg smashed against the ground. The shockwave splintered her midsection, sundering the ship in two. The stern was hurled backward, flipping end over end before vanishing beneath the waves, while the bow—lodged against the ram of the Tranquility—dragged the enemy vessel forward, forcing the brunt of the explosion’s force into its blood-red hull. Wood screamed in protest as a gaping wound ripped through the Tranquility’s bow.
To distant onlookers, it was a spectacle—a deafening, blinding inferno that left them momentarily stunned, their ears ringing and their eyes watering. But for those near the detonation, it was chaos incarnate.
Euron felt as though he had been hurled into a tumbling barrel filled with freezing seawater. The explosion’s shockwave did not care for sea or flesh; it shredded through both, churning the water into a maelstrom of force and debris. The Ironborn king was flung through the water, salt and ice stabbing into his lungs as he fought not to drown.
For all his unnatural vitality, for all the power granted by his elixirs, he was nothing before the might of a ship's worth of powder igniting in an instant. He could only surrender to the current, trusting instinct and decades of sailing to guide him. Half a minute later, when the raging waters finally stilled, he broke the surface once more, coughing up seawater and gasping for breath.
Something solid struck his back—a shattered plank, torn free in the explosion. With the desperation of a drowning man, he clung to it, embracing the wood as if it were a lost lover. Eyes wide with disbelief, he turned to survey the wreckage.
This was no wildfire.
Had it been that cursed green flame, the entire sea would have been aflame, and the first breath he took upon surfacing would have turned his lungs to ash.
The Invincible Ironborn was gone. What remained of her stern had already slipped beneath the waves, while the bow—still embedded in the Tranquility—dragged the enemy ship’s prow downward, tipping her stern skyward. The angle alone wouldn’t have doomed her, but the explosion had already rent a hole in her hull. Now, as the weight of the Invincible’s wreckage pressed her downward, the breach dipped below the surface, allowing seawater to rush in.
Euron needed only a glance to know that the Tranquility was doomed.
Among the nearby Ironborn ships, the Nightstalker—smaller than most—had been capsized by the explosion’s shockwave, its attempt to close in for boarding proving its undoing. The Great Leviathan, larger and more distant, had been blasted backward but remained afloat, though she still rocked violently from the force.
Above the wreckage, a towering column of smoke spiraled into the heavens, a hundred feet high. A pale, towering monument marking the grave of Victarion Greyjoy and his flagship. The blast had shaken the battlefield, but now it would serve as a beacon, warning all: Here lies the King of the Iron Islands…
Fuck.
Euron's gut twisted. I’m not dead—but my fleet doesn’t know that.
All they would have seen was the Tranquility taking a catastrophic hit before vanishing into the depths. The Ironborn had never been a disciplined force; their fleet was a collection of independent reavers, barely held together under his rule. If they thought their king was slain, their scattered ranks would shatter into chaos.
He had to get back aboard. He had to rally them before the fleet disintegrated.
Bracing against the rolling waves, he struck out for the nearest ship—the Great Leviathan. He had barely swum ten yards when an unnatural ripple in the water caught his attention.
Euron turned, scanning the wreckage-strewn sea.
Someone was swimming toward him.
For an instant, he thought it might be a survivor—one of his own men. But then his mind snapped back into focus. The Tranquility’s crew had worn full plate; none of them would have survived in the water.
No, this was an assassin.
Cornered, surrounded by wreckage and blood, Euron felt his battle-lust ignite once more. His good eye burned with fury as he bared his teeth, a growl rising from his throat.
“You want to kill me? Come and try!”
The swimmer hesitated—perhaps startled, perhaps realizing they stood no chance in a direct fight. Then, without hesitation, they turned and swam in the opposite direction.
Euron grinned, the thrill of the hunt overtaking him, and surged forward in pursuit. The sea was littered with floating wreckage, a mess of splintered wood and bodies. He barely noticed when something brushed against his leg.
Then a grip seized his ankle.
For a moment, he thought he had struck a floating corpse. Then he felt the tug.
Someone was dragging him down.
No. Not someone.
Euron had spent enough time at sea to know the difference between a desperate swimmer and a predator.
Asha.
“Good!” he roared, twisting downward. If she had come for his life, he would take hers first.
Asha Greyjoy was a better swimmer, faster, more agile in the water. Without his armor, she would have had every advantage.
But she had made one mistake.
The moment Euron laid hands on her, he would snap her fragile neck like a twig.
He lunged for her arm.
And caught only rope.
The realization struck him like a hammer blow. It wasn’t her arm—it was a noose. A thick, knotted rope had been looped around his ankle.
The other end was weighted.
Even in the water, it dragged.
Downward.
That little bitch!
Euron roared in fury, but all that escaped were bubbles. His hands scrambled for the knot, but his gauntlets made untying it impossible. He reached for his boot—his last weapon, his Valyrian steel dagger.
Gone.
He remembered, now—the moment he had kicked something in the water while swimming.
Asha had stolen his knife.
And now she was sending him to the depths.
