The voyage was not just monotonous waves and wind.
When the sea was calm, young Greyjoy warriors would practice their swordplay on the deck. The sound of steel cutting the air drew Ashara's attention.
Under the gaze of several Ironborn—half curious, half laced with their inherent prejudice against "soft greenlanders"—this seemingly delicate lady from Dorne walked over calmly. She asked to borrow a practice sword from one of the warriors.
At first, the Ironborn watched with good-natured amusement, ready to see a show. But the moment Ashara flicked her wrist, sending the sword tip blooming into a sharp, lethal flower of steel, all relaxed expressions vanished.
Her stance wasn't the heavy, chopping style familiar to the Ironborn. It was a fusion of Dornish fluidity and the lethal precision inherited from House Dayne.
Her footsteps remained steady on the pitching deck, as if she were dancing on sand. The sword flashed—sometimes swift as a scorpion's sting, sometimes dense and enveloping as a sandstorm. The ordinary longsword seemed to come alive in her hands, tracing arcs that were both beautiful and deadly. She wasn't just showing technique; she was displaying an art of combat that was bred into her bone and blood.
The deck grew eerily quiet. There was only the hiss of the blade slicing the air and the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull.
The Ironborn men, whose eyes had held a hint of scorn moments before, now held their breath. Disbelief gave way to genuine, grudging respect.
Euron had appeared by the gunwale at some point. Arms crossed, a knowing and proud smile playing on his lips, he watched quietly as his wife won her first real measure of respect on this sea of men in the most direct way possible.
Euron wasn't surprised. He had long known Ashara could use a sword, and use it well.
But the other Ironborn were accustomed to viewing women as weak. They had forgotten that Ashara Dayne's brother was the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, whose name shook the Seven Kingdoms.
Under the sunlight of Starfall, that legendary brother had personally laid a solid foundation for her swordplay, engraving the Dayne family's understanding of the blade and elegance into her instincts.
After meeting Euron, he had observed her movements and talent with a critical eye. He concluded that the rigid, heavy style of knightly swordplay wasn't the path that best utilized her strengths. He saw the dormant Dornish agility and speed within her.
"You are more like water than iron," he had once told her. "The style of the Water Dancers might suit you better."
So, in the courtyards of Sunspear and during the voyage to the Iron Islands, Euron had painstakingly taught her the essence of the "Water Dance"—a style originating from Braavos that emphasized speed, balance, and precision.
Ashara melded those unpredictable steps, surprise thrusts, and fluid parries with the foundational Dayne swordplay she already possessed, forging a style uniquely her own.
And indeed, this light, lethal style fit her like a glove.
Ashara displayed astonishing aptitude. Her skill advanced by leaps and bounds in a short time, as if she had broken free of invisible shackles. Her attacks, already sharp, now possessed a mercury-like fluidity that made them impossible to pin down.
Ordinary warriors were no longer her match. In spars on the deck, she defeated several seasoned Ironborn fighters with her slender blade, drawing cheers from the crew.
Deep down, however, Euron had taught her the sword so she would have the ability to protect herself, to stand with him and see the wider world. But his truest wish remained that his own twin blades would always be her strongest fortress.
"Training is to give you freedom," he had once whispered, stroking her hair like he was swearing an oath. "But protecting you will always be my first duty. I would rather the seas of the Seven Kingdoms run dry than see the moment you are forced to stain your own hands with blood."
Ashara cherished Euron's protective intent deeply, yet she applied herself even more fiercely to her training. She wasn't rejecting his protection; on the contrary, she wanted to prove with her sword that she wasn't a vine that needed a strong tree to climb, but a tree capable of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him against the wind. She chose to accept his protection out of love and trust, not out of weakness and need.
This independence and resilience quickly won her first significant follower—Asha Greyjoy.
Asha, fiery in nature and a worshipper of strength, saw in Ashara the philosophy she herself lived by: true power comes from within. She almost immediately became Ashara's staunchest supporter and friend. The sight of the two women sparring on the deck became a striking highlight of the fleet's journey north.
Even Lord Quellon, usually stern and stoic, showed a rare flicker of approval for his daughter-in-law. Though he offered no public praise, the corners of his usually tight lips would relax imperceptibly when he saw Ashara sheathe her sword cleanly. His old lieutenants, who knew his temperament well, understood this was the highest form of satisfaction the Lord of the Iron Islands could express.
In the span of a short voyage, Ashara completely won over the initially skeptical Ironborn. It was her swift sword, her stunning beauty that rivaled the Dornish sun and stars, her graceful and confident demeanor, and the profound knowledge of history, navigation, and governance she casually revealed in conversation. She didn't try to curry favor; she simply showed herself. Like water wearing down stone, she quietly earned the heartfelt respect and genuine affection of the entire Greyjoy household.
---
On the third day of the voyage.
On the wide deck, facing the biting, salty wind of the northern seas, Euron held a simple but momentous ceremony.
He faced all the members of House Greyjoy and the crew. His voice was steady and clear, rising above the noise of the waves.
"Dagmer," his gaze landed on the old captain, whose hair was grizzled and whose face was carved by the wind. "You followed my father to conquer the seas, and you supported me from my youth. Your loyalty and sweat have long since soaked into every plank of the Greyjoy fleet. Your courage and wisdom are the wealth of the Iron Islands. For everything you have given over these years, I, Euron Greyjoy, have never forgotten."
He paused, turning his eyes to his stern father beside him. Lord Quellon's face was calm. Meeting his son's gaze, he gave a slow, solemn nod—a silent but powerful authorization.
Euron looked back at Dagmer and declared loudly, his voice striking like a hammer.
"Here, in the name of the Drowned God, witnessed by the blood of House Greyjoy, and with the consent of the Lord of the Iron Islands—my father Quellon—I grant you a name! From this day forth, you and your descendants shall bear the name 'Greyjoy.' You shall be a member of the nobility of the Iron Islands, sharing in the glory and responsibility of the Seastone Chair!"
For a moment, the deck was silent. Then, a tsunami of cheers erupted, accompanied by the thunderous banging of swords against shields.
For an Ironborn who viewed family and glory as life itself, this was the supreme honor.
Even Dagmer—an old captain who had weathered storms and blades all his life, who had seen life and death countless times—trembled violently the moment he heard the declaration. His hawk-like eyes, which had pierced through innumerable storms and enemy formations, blurred with sudden, hot tears.
He opened his mouth, but his throat felt blocked by a stone. The emotion was beyond words. In the end, he simply bowed deeply, so low his forehead almost touched the deck. In this most Ironborn of ways, he expressed his bone-deep loyalty and endless gratitude.