Day 10 of the Voyage. After the storm.
The deck of the Drinker was piled high with bulging wooden barrels, each lashed tight with rough hemp rope to prevent them from rolling free. The most conspicuous were the barrels of salted cod. Salt frost seeped from the blackened seams of the wood, and when the lids were pried open, the stench of rotting kelp and dead fish hit you like a physical blow.
When Euron first saw the sailors open a barrel, he thought it was some kind of punishment ritual—a biological weapon, perhaps, designed to stink the enemy to death.
"Watch closely, little prince!" Red Oakwood grinned, spraying ale fumes through the gap in his teeth. He pried open a lid with his dagger. A layer of milky-white maggots floated on the surface of the brownish brine, wriggling over the salted fish corpses like living mold.
Old One-Eyed Wolf didn't bat an eye. His rough fingers pinched a piece of dried cod, shaking off the maggots. He wiped it carelessly on his filthy apron and shoved it into his mouth, yellow juice trickling from the corner of his lips. "The more you chew, the better it tastes," he mumbled, revealing jagged black teeth. "Sea salt puts hair on your chest."
Euron's stomach churned. But as he hesitated, Dagmer's iron hook stabbed a piece of fish and held it out to him. "Eat," the old pirate narrowed his single eye. "Unless you want to end up like Torric, starving until he gnawed on his own leather armor." Euron eventually shook his head gently in refusal.
Hardtack was another form of torture.
These black, round biscuits were locked in iron chests to keep out rats and dampness. When the cook, Old Lame Leg, hauled a chest out, the biscuits were already as hard as reef rock, their surfaces dotted with suspicious green spots.
"Heads up!" Oakwood swung his axe and brought it down hard. Crack! The biscuit split in two, crumbs flying. Euron picked up a piece and found the inside crawling with tiny weevils, panic-stricken as they scrambled through the honeycomb-like holes.
Balon grinned, grabbed a half-piece, and shoved it into his mouth. The crunch of teeth crushing beetles was audible. "Fresher than the fish."
He wasn't wrong. It did look marginally better than the fish. Euron mimicked them, taking a cracked piece of hardtack from the iron chest. He scraped the mold off with his dagger and dipped it in seawater to soften it. The first bite tasted of wood and grit—the bread was mixed with sawdust and ground shells to extend its shelf life.
Fresh water was even more precious than food. Tar-coated wineskins hung in the shadow of the mast, every drop strictly rationed. When Euron drank, he noticed tiny transparent creatures floating in the water, swimming like wisps of living fog. The worst was the water after the seventh day. The liquid in the skins turned green, tasting of rust and rotting seaweed.
"Don't stare at it, and never waste it! Every drop is gold!" Dagmer warned him, handing over a rusty iron strainer. "Just filter it. Drinking it won't kill you—your guts will be full of sea worms sooner or later anyway."
Euron ignored the old pirate's advice. He filtered the water, then boiled it over the brazier before drinking. This fastidiousness earned him a scornful look from his brother Balon.
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For the sailors of the Drinker, the true agony was that their ale was running out! They had packed enough for a month, but during the great storm a day ago, the Drowned God had claimed half the casks. What remained was strictly rationed. To a sailor, ale held the same status as the sword in their hand or the head on their shoulders.
After sunset, the cargo hold became the Ironborn's fighting pit. Twenty sailors crowded between the salt fish barrels and coils of rope, the stench of sweat and fish rising into a murky heat haze.
"Come on! Open the little prince's eyes!" Old Wick pushed Euron into the center of the circle.
His opponent was One-Eyed Grenn, his face still scabbing from the day's battle. He used no weapons, but his hands were greased with whale oil, glistening slickly under the dim whale-oil lamp. "First rule of Ironborn fighting," he lunged, his oily hands clawing for Euron's face, "make the enemy lose his footing!"
Euron side-stepped, but Grenn's boot hooked his ankle. As he fell, Euron grabbed a rope hanging overhead and swung up, his legs scissoring around Grenn's neck. Both crashed to the deck, shaking the barrels.
"Beautiful!" Dagmer swigged his rum. "But in a real fight, it goes like this!" He suddenly kicked over a keg, splashing amber liquid all over Euron. In the split second Euron's vision blurred, the old pirate's knee was in his back, a rough dagger pressed to his throat. "Dead men don't get to swing on ropes!"
The bloody lessons lasted deep into the night. Ironborn combat came down to two words: Utility. Biting through windpipes, gouging eyes, hiding sharpened fish bones in sleeves. "Grace is for dry-land fools! At sea, survival is the only truth!"
Besides eating, sleeping, bragging, fighting, drinking (what little there was), and staring at the ocean, there was one dangerous pastime—the Finger Dance.
The Finger Dance was a popular game among the Ironborn. It required at least two players. Participants threw hand axes at each other. The receiver had to catch or dodge the spinning axe without moving their feet. It was called the Finger Dance because the game usually ended only when someone lost a digit. Balon Greyjoy was an addict of the game, especially after hearing the legend of Haras Hoare, who won the Kingsmoot by defeating Rognar Greyiron II in the Finger Dance, despite losing two fingers—earning him the nickname "Haras the Lame." This legend turned Balon's hobby into fanaticism. Euron thought it wasn't a game, but idiotic self-mutilation.
But five-year-old Euron didn't have the power to change Ironborn culture yet, so he could only watch.
Sharkskin war drums thundered on the deck, every beat hitting the ribs.
"Let the Drowned God witness the brave!" Dagmer roared, slamming the drumstick down. The sailors drew a circle five paces wide with whale oil. Balon Greyjoy stood opposite "Split-Finger" Hawk, their throwing axes flowing with quicksilver light under the moon. On the third beat, the duel exploded!
Balon's right arm snapped back like a catapult. With a twist of his waist, the hand axe shot toward Hawk's heart in a flat silver arc! Euron clearly saw the air tearing around the spinning blade—this wasn't a game; it was a lethal shot aimed at vitals.
Hawk's one-armed body showed amazing agility. Pivoting on his left foot, he spun. The axe blade grazed his leather breastplate, sparking against the studs. Almost simultaneously, his remaining left hand drew a throwing axe from his belt and hurled it back with the momentum of his spin! The axe screamed like a banshee, straight for Balon's throat.
CLANG!
Balon blocked with his axe, sparks erupting from the collision. The impact forced him back half a step, his heel touching the edge of the oil circle.
"Stepped back! Seawater!" the Ironborn roared. Dagmer grinned and lifted a bucket of brine, splashing it over Balon's head. The salt water seeped into the unhealed whip wounds on his neck, causing a spasm of pain.
Balon wiped the salt from his face, eyes burning with ferocity. Both axes left his hands at once! One swept low at Hawk's ankle, the other spun high to cut off his retreat. A deadly pincer attack!
Hawk roared and jumped, the high axe slicing the sole of his boot. But as he landed, the low axe bit deep into his calf muscle! The sickening crack of bone made Euron's stomach turn. Yet Hawk, falling to his knees, bit down on his axe handle and hurled it back with a violent jerk of his head!
The bloody axe spun like a red wheel. Balon jerked his head sideways. The blade sheared off a lock of hair half an inch above his left ear and buried itself deep in the mast behind him. Amidst flying woodchips, Hawk dragged his leg, bone exposed, and actually tried to stand up again!
"Artery severed!" Euron rushed into the circle, pointing at Hawk's calf. Blood was spraying from the wound in a fan shape, reaching three meters away. "Femoral artery ruptured! He'll be dead in three minutes without pressure!"
Dagmer's drumstick froze in mid-air. Balon, panting, glared at his brother, his throwing axe humming in his hand. "You want to die for him?"
Old Wick stepped in front of Euron, remembering his duty even on the ship. "I want to save fighting strength for the Drinker!" Euron kicked the bloody axe away and slapped a sea chart down into the pool of blood. "Braavosi clipper spotted to the northeast! If we lose men now, tomorrow they hunt us!"
"Ironborn courage," Balon's voice was ice-cold, "is more important than life."
"Pointless mutilation isn't courage!" Euron stepped forward, his mismatched eyes eerie and commanding in the moonlight. "It's stupidity!" He suddenly drew a sword and slashed the rope holding the heavy iron anchor. BOOM! It smashed into the center of the circle. "You want to play? Tie your feet and dance on the tip of the anchor! The one who lives is the real warrior!"
Dead silence covered the deck. Suddenly, Dagmer burst into wild laughter, smashing a wine cask. "Hear that, you fools? Next time, that's how we play!" He didn't want the brothers fighting on his ship, so he defused the tension with a joke.
Play my ass! Euron cursed internally. By the moonlight, he saw the horrific wound on the outside of Hawk's calf—the axe had split the fibula, dark red muscle rolled back like a split pomegranate, and deep inside, the pulsing blue-purple vessel was visible.
"Press here!" Euron roared, grabbing Old Wick's hand and jamming the man's thumb hard into the groin crease at the top of Hawk's thigh. It was the pressure point for the femoral artery—modern first aid knowledge became a lifeline. The spurting blood flow instantly weakened to a trickle.
"Get me rum! Needle and thread! Canvas rope!" Euron's child voice carried undeniable authority. Dagmer paused for a second, then kicked open a crate and tossed over half a bottle of rum. Balon silently cut a length of canvas rope, the rough hemp fibers soaking up blood.
Euron bit the cork off the bottle and poured the amber liquid onto the wound. "Aaaargh!" Hawk woke from the pain, then passed out again. Under the wash of alcohol, Euron saw the damage clearly: the main branch of the artery was sliced a third of the way through, bubbling blood like a broken waterskin. Bone shards and wood splinters were embedded in the muscle, trembling with the pulse.
"Give me the shark teeth!" Euron held out his hand. Grenn hurriedly untied his necklace—an Ironborn charm of six shark teeth. Euron picked the thinnest, sharpest tooth, dipped it in rum, and threaded it with hemp twine. When he drove the shark tooth into the raw flesh, the watching Ironborn hissed in sympathy. The needle tip avoided nerve bundles, weaving through the sides of the torn vessel. With every stitch tightened, the rupture closed a little more.
Euron tore the canvas rope Balon handed him into strips. He padded the wound with rum-soaked rough cloth, then wrapped it spirally with the strips. On the third layer, he suddenly shoved Hawk's dagger between the man's teeth. "Bite down!" Then, grabbing both ends of the cloth, he pulled with all his strength—Crack!
The fractured bone ground together sickeningly. Hawk's eyes bulged, teeth sinking deep into the dagger handle. But more terrifying was the bright red blood instantly soaking the cloth. Euron didn't hesitate, adding a second, then a third layer of pressure dressing. By the seventh layer, the bleeding finally stopped.
Euron chopped two oars apart and whittled them into splints with his dagger. Grenn offered his last remaining footwraps as bandages. When the splint was secured, Euron elevated Hawk's injured leg on a rum cask. Under the moonlight, the grey, deathly pallor of the wounded man's face finally showed a trace of life.
Dagmer squatted in the pool of blood, his single eye staring at the neat splint. "Where did you learn that?"
"The Drowned God taught me in a dream." Euron wiped his face with a bloody hand, his mismatched eyes flashing strangely in the moonlight. He grinned. "Do you believe me?"
Dagmer looked skeptical. Beside them, Balon snorted coldly. "I believe you... my ass! Last month, Vincent Reyne fell off Blackwater Cliff and broke his leg. A female healer from the North sawed off the bad leg and used this exact method to stop the bleeding. This brat stood there watching the whole time. Just monkey see, monkey do."