The Iron Fleet set sail once more, moving like a school of iron sharks that had caught the scent of blood, heading unwaveringly toward the northeast.
Their next prey was an island that appeared tiny on the map but was large enough to choke the throat of world trade—Lesser Moraq.
The island's strategic position was a gift from the gods. It guarded the western entrance of the "Jade Gates." Any ship wishing to pass from the rich, warm Summer Sea into the legendary Jade Sea—a place flowing with gold and spice—had to pass through here. There was no way around it. It was a natural maritime gate.
The great artery of maritime trade connecting Westeros and the vastness of Essos—carrying smooth silks, intoxicating spices, and heavy precious metals—was like an invisible river of gold forced to narrow here, flowing right under the nose of Lesser Moraq.
In past eras of peace, this place had been a gathering point for the colorful swan ships of the Summer Isles and the massive spice galleons of the Qartheen, which looked like floating palaces. Languages and currencies from all over the world mingled here, and the very air smelled of wealth.
But wealth never travels alone; it always attracts war and plunder.
Throughout history, the modest coastline of Lesser Moraq had witnessed the war elephant banners of the Old Empire of Ghis and the shadow of dragons from the Freehold of Valyria. It was a prize these massive empires had fought over. In the gaps between imperial powers, it became an eternal "hunting ground" for pirates and privateers, who circled like vultures, waiting to tear flesh from fat merchant convoys.
Now, Euron Greyjoy's fleet was carving a path of unification toward these waters soaked in history, wealth, and blood.
After dozens of days and nights of sailing, crushing countless turbulent waves beneath their keels, the fleet sighted the desolate, jagged coastline of Gorosh.
Gorosh, built during the era of the Ghiscari Empire as a penal colony, had once been a city but was now a ruin. Today, it served as a temporary pivot point for the Iron Fleet.
From Gorosh, across the Cinnamon Straits, Lesser Moraq was only a day's sail away.
---
The Iron Fleet would rest here for three days, awaiting the supply convoy from the Ice and Fire Trading Company.
The supply ships were en route, ferrying vital fresh water, preserved food, and fresh fruit from the nearest friendly ports—the lifeblood for the fleet's continued eastern campaign.
This brief pause was not spent in idleness. At the same moment the fleet began its refit, a messenger was dispatched further east—straight toward the island guarding the passage of wealth.
A letter sealed with the Kraken wax stamp of House Greyjoy was delivered to Lesser Moraq with the utmost speed.
The wording was concise, tough, and direct, carrying the unique Ironborn blend of sea salt and the scent of steel. It offered no negotiation, no promises of reward. It simply presented the rulers and residents of the island with the same two choices that had echoed through the Basilisk Isles:
Death, or Submission.
There was no third option.
The wealth of Lesser Moraq came from its soil, which produced the spices that drove the known world mad.
Pungent black pepper, fragrant cinnamon, and rich, intoxicating cloves... These golden grains and brown barks were sold through the vast trade network of the Qartheen merchants to every corner of the world, from King's Landing in Westeros to Pentos in Essos, bringing a ceaseless stream of immense wealth to the guilds of Qarth, thousands of miles away.
This island, flowing with golden spice, did not have a ruler in the traditional sense.
It was controlled indirectly but firmly by the massive merchant guilds of Qarth through exquisite capital and influence. The "Thirteen," representing different capital factions; the mysterious and wealthy "Tourmaline Brotherhood"; and the "Ancient Guild of Spicers," the oldest of them all—all had established opulent outposts here. They managed their respective spheres of influence, turning this place into a miniature kingdom ruled by ledgers, contracts, and spice scales.
When Euron Greyjoy's ultimatum, reeking of rust and blood, crossed the waves and landed in the hands of these guild leaders, it did not trigger an angry declaration of war. Instead, it sparked a highly realistic and cold assessment. They weighed the cost of resistance against the destructive power of the Iron Fleet and the fierce reputation of the "Lord of Sea Monsters."
The choice made by the Qartheen merchant guilds was not confrontation, but evacuation.
There were no tragic farewells, no senseless sacrifices. With precise efficiency, critical ledgers, core personnel, and the most precious stocks of spice were quickly packed and loaded onto the fastest ships. within the short window before the Iron Fleet arrived, these shrewd masters of wealth chose to completely abandon Lesser Moraq.
They left behind a fully functional spice production center, but they also left a clear signal: they were unwilling to face the nightmare of the deep head-on. Wealth could be found elsewhere, but lives and precious merchant ships could not be replaced.
---
While the Iron Fleet rested in the harbor of Gorosh, Euron mounted the back of Halcyon, the Millennium Dragon.
With a shriek, Halcyon carried Euron into the sky, flying southeast toward a land shrouded in thick green and heavy mist—Wyvern Point on the continent of Sothoryos.
This peninsula, known as "Wyvern Point," faced Lesser Moraq across the sea. But from high above, the two presented starkly different scenes.
If Lesser Moraq was an island of wealth crowded with merchants, Wyvern Point was a primordial world forgotten by time, composed of deep jungles, towering trees, and miasma-filled swamps. Massive vines wrapped like monster tentacles around trees taller than castle towers. The dense canopy formed a boiling green ocean, broken only by occasional patches of black water that hid countless ancient secrets and dangers.
The true masters of this primitive land were the wyverns—creatures almost extinct in the outside world.
They were not the true dragons of Valyria; they could not breathe fire. But they were the undisputed lords of the Sothoryos skies. Halcyon's arrival instantly stirred this domain.
From the canopy below, massive shadows of various forms were startled into the air: the Brindled Wyverns with their massive bodies and mottled wings; the Swamp Wyverns, dull in color and accustomed to low-altitude hunting in the marshes; the Brownbellies, distinguished by their unique underbellies and piercing screeches; and the most secretive of all, the Shadow Wings, which seemed to blend into the darkness itself.
They circled the Millennium Dragon, this sudden invader, screeching with a mix of caution and raw, primitive hostility.
Euron stood on the dragon's back, the powerful wind whipping his long hair. His eye burned bright with the desire for exploration and conquest as he took in these ancient creatures he had only heard of in legends. He wasn't just observing; he was assessing, measuring, evaluating... a potential aerial legion to be brought under his banner.
The scent of human flesh in the air stimulated the dragons circling in this primordial sky.
A particularly aggressive Brindled Wyvern let out a piercing shriek. Its massive membrane wings folded tight against its body, transforming it into a living, giant javelin as it dived straight for the small but conspicuous figure on the dragon's back—Euron!
Faced with a dive that would shatter the courage of any ordinary warrior, Euron didn't retreat. Instead, he grinned, revealing a smile that mixed madness with delight. He leaped from the safety of Halcyon's back, diving toward the hideous beast as if committing suicide!
In mid-air, the two figures closed rapidly.
Twin blades flashed from their sheaths, cold light cutting through the air like lightning in the night.
In the instant they crossed paths, Euron's blades sliced with impossible precision across the wyvern's massive wing membrane, the very thing keeping it aloft!
Riiip—!
The tough membrane tore open with a sickening sound.
Scalding dragon blood sprayed into the air, painting a hot, bloody rain. Drops of it splattered onto Euron's face.
His momentum was not spent. The air beneath Euron's feet seemed to pop with a barely audible explosion as his body shifted strangely in mid-air—Moonwalk!
Using this supernatural technique, his falling trajectory changed abruptly, smashing toward the ground like a meteor.
The moment he landed, his knees bent slightly to absorb the impact. Without pause, he launched himself up again like a phantom, meeting the Brindled Wyvern as it crashed down, spiraling out of control from its torn wing.
The blades flashed again. This time, it was a vertical chop filled with absolute power!
One strike!
The Brindled Wyvern's head was severed from its body. The massive head flew off, rolling with an expression of disbelief, while the colossal body slammed into the ground with a dull, heavy thud.
The blood and death of their kin enraged the remaining wyverns. From the jungle and the sky in all directions, they closed in.
Surrounded by a swarm of dragons, Euron showed no fear. Standing atop the dragon corpse, he looked around at the screeching beasts and revealed an expression bordering on euphoria. He flicked the dragon blood from his blades, the battle lust in his eye burning like a physical flame.
"Hahaha..." A low laugh spilled from his throat. "It's been a long time since I met opponents that actually made me want to fight..."
Euron gripped his twin blades, crouching low like a cheetah ready to pounce. He bared his teeth at the increasing number of dragon shadows around him. "Come on! You're perfect for sharpening my blades!"
---
Three days later, at dusk.
When the setting sun dyed the desolate coastline of Gorosh blood-red, a heart-stopping figure appeared on the horizon.
Euron Greyjoy was completely soaked in dragon blood that had long since dried black. Coagulated scabs covered his leather armor, his hair, and even his cheeks, making him look less like a human and more like a statue sculpted from slaughter that had crawled out of the abyss. The intense smell of blood and a deeper, heavier pressure belonging to an apex predator washed over the port. He looked like a god of killing returned from hell, causing everyone who saw him to involuntarily hold their breath.
Euron did not return alone. In the low sky behind him, a massive shadow circled like a ghost. The edges of its wings blended almost perfectly with the twilight, leaving only its cold, vertical pupils flashing with a spectral light—a Shadow Wing wyvern that had submitted to him.
It showed no aggression, circling Euron with a tame yet vigilant posture, guarding its king.
Euron casually tossed a crude net woven from tough vines onto the beach. Inside rolled dozens of Brindled Wyvern eggs, each the size of an adult human head. The shells were covered in mottled patterns that blended with the environment, gleaming with a metallic and gem-like luster under the sunset. A future aerial legion.
The port fell into a dead silence.
Even the most unruly Ironborn, those accustomed to following Euron as he performed miracle after miracle, stared slack-jawed at this scene.
Euron had gone alone into the most dangerous wilds of Sothoryos, bathed in blood, subdued the shadow lord of the skies, and brought back a clutch of dragon eggs... This act shocked the Ironborn to their core, making them almost suspect they were witnessing a living god walking among men.