The departure of Lysa and the two sorceresses was a secret kept tighter than a clam shell. For their safety and the success of the operations to come, the circle of trust was small. Only King Balon and a few of the core Island Lords whom Euron trusted implicitly were informed the next morning, and they were sworn to absolute silence.
The Iron Fleet rested in the harbor for the night. When the dawn of the second day broke, low commands from the captains and the snapping of signal flags set the fleet in motion. Oars cut into the water in unison, and massive sails rose one by one. The fleet weighed anchor, leaving Vahar with steady determination, cutting through the waves toward the next stop on their eastern conquest—Great Moraq.
Donnel Drumm stood on the sandy beach, his hand gripping the sigil of his new governorship. He tried to keep his face composed, projecting the stability and resolve of a ruler, but his heart was split in two. Half of it beat with excitement for the land before him; the other half drifted out to the endless sea, chasing the fading sails of the fleet.
---
The fleet sailed north, hugging the jagged coastline of Great Moraq, until the silhouette of a city nestled at a river mouth began to emerge.
Faros.
The northern jewel of Great Moraq lay quietly before the conquerors.
Situated on the northwest coast where a wide river kissed the sea, its geography was a gift from the gods, making it a natural deep-water harbor. As the undisputed northern hub of the island, it relied on the gentle terrain of the estuary and the dense web of trade routes radiating across the surrounding seas. It had long evolved into a critical hinge connecting Qarth to the distant, mysterious lands of Yi Ti in the far east.
The pulse of Faros was driven entirely by trade.
This was a vital node controlled by the "Thirteen," the most powerful faction within the merchant guilds of Qarth. Every inch of the docks seemed soaked in the scent of gold.
Luxurious goods from Qarth—silk smooth as water, spices that made the head spin, and blindingly bright gemstones—were offloaded here before being re-shipped north to the legendary cities of Yi Ti, like Asabhad and Yin. Conversely, the precious exports of the Golden Empire—heavy gold ingots, warm jade, and thick furs—flowed through the gateway of Faros, merging into Qarth's massive trade network that spanned the known world.
When the Iron Fleet appeared on the horizon of Faros, rolling into the waters outside the port like gathering storm clouds, the expected defensive panic didn't happen. There was no mustering of soldiers, no blockade of the harbor.
The port continued to operate, but with an eerie, unnatural calm.
No defending fleet sailed out to meet them. No ballistae were manned on the walls. There wasn't even a symbolic protest. The determined resistance Euron had anticipated had vanished like morning mist in a gale.
The reason soon became clear. The "Thirteen"—those calculating titans of commerce—had made the same choice as their counterparts on Lesser Moraq. They had quietly withdrawn their core personnel and their most liquid assets. They had abandoned Faros, this crucial trade node, tossing it aside like a chess piece that had lost its value, leaving it for the new players at the table.
Euron stood at the prow, staring at this undefended gate of wealth, and sneered.
"Such a massive city, such a vital throat for trade... and those 'Milk Men' of Qarth abandon it without a whimper."
He emphasized the term "Milk Men"—the Dothraki slur for the Qartheen, mocking their pale skin and soft lives. The word dripped with disdain. "I overestimated their 'courage.' Or perhaps I underestimated their cowardice."
Lord Harlaw stroked his chin, musing, "My Lord, perhaps the recent wars in the Summer Isles and the Basilisk Isles have taught them a harsh lesson. The Qartheen may have realized they cannot stand against the Iron Fleet in open battle. They're cutting off these peripheral limbs to save the body."
Lord Tawney of Orkmont offered a different view. "Or maybe they hope that by offering up these ports as a tribute, they can buy us off? A plea for the Iron Islands to stop our eastward march and spare Qarth itself?"
Euron listened to his captains, letting out a low, ambiguous chuckle.
"Whether they're shrinking back in fear or calculating that they can buy peace with land," Euron said with a cold grin, "it doesn't matter. This is a fat chunk of meat delivered right to our mouths. A port that strangles the trade routes... there is no reason to spit it out. Send the order: take the city!"
---
When the flagship's heavy boarding ramp crashed down onto the stone, the scene that greeted them was fast becoming a "custom."
On the shore, a black mass of people was kneeling, stretching from the docks all the way to the mouths of the city streets.
Without exception, they held their hands high. In their palms rested rusty scimitars or dull hatchets. They stretched their arms to the limit, holding the weapons above their heads while burying their faces in the dirt, daring not to look the landing Ironborn in the eye.
This uniform, symbolic gesture of submission made King Balon roar with laughter as he stepped onto the dock. He waved a thick arm at the spectacle, his booming voice filled with undisguised triumph.
"Look at that! This pose... it should become the standard for anyone who wants to kneel to the Iron Islands! The 'Submission Salute'!"
His words were jesting, but they accurately described the new order brought by Ironborn steel. The surrounding Island Lords grinned and nodded in agreement.
"King Balon speaks the truth!"
"Aye! Let them all learn it! It suits them!"
They echoed his sentiment. This pathetic display was the best proof of their martial glory. The silent kneeling and the raised weapons were no longer just surrender; they were a new ritual for the conquered, a symbol of the Iron Islands' dominion, much like the Crown of Skulls.
Euron simply smiled faintly at the sight.
However, amidst the sea of prostrate bodies and raised rusty blades, one figure in fine clothing remained standing. Like a stubborn reef in a rushing stream, he did not kneel.
He stood tall, offering only a slight, reserved bow—a simple, almost dignified courtesy that looked jarringly out of place against the backdrop of total submission.
He was dressed in a gown of exquisitely woven samite, a deep, rich purple that screamed nobility. The robe was adorned with countless tiny seed pearls and finely cut gemstones that flowed with a warm luster in the sunlight. The cuffs and collar were embroidered with heavy gold thread in complex patterns; every stitch whispered of extreme wealth.
It was the typical attire of the Qartheen aristocracy—a merchant prince or a high-ranking noble.
He was a world apart from the terrified commoners and pirates in their roughspun hemp, his presence announcing clearly that he was someone of significance.