Celestial Smith Chapter 61

Celestial Smith Chapter 61: The last Ironborn

The crimson sun hung low over the strange horizon, casting an unnatural glow across the black sand beach. Euron Greyjoy stood at the edge of the water, waves lapping at his salt-crusted boots as he surveyed what remained of the Silence. The once-proud vessel lay half-beached on the shore of this nameless island—somewhere between the Shadow Lands of Asshai and the mysterious continent of Ulthos—its hull scorched and splintered from Northern cannons.

"What do you think, Qarl?" Euron asked, turning to the emaciated figure sitting cross-legged on the sand. The man's lips were sewn shut with black thread, his eyes hollow. "Not quite the destiny the Drowned God promised us, is it?" Euron laughed, the sound echoing across the empty beach. "Then again, I never much cared for what gods promised. Their plans are too... restrictive."

Euron kicked at the sand, sending a spray of black granules into the air. They seemed to hang there longer than they should, defying gravity as they twisted in patterns that made the eye uncomfortable.

"My fool brother Balon," Euron spat. "Always the same—'we do not sow,' 'take what is yours with iron and salt.' Empty words from an empty man. Did he truly believe the North would remain weak forever? Did he not see what was happening?" He pulled a flask from his belt and took a long drink, his lips staining darker blue with each swallow. "And now the ironborn are gone. Our people—" he chuckled darkly, "—well, not my people anymore. Most of them feeding the crabs at the bottom of the sea. The survivors sent to freeze at the Wall, while our women are handed over to the Silent Sisters to pray for forgiveness from gods who don't listen."

Qarl made a guttural sound, blood seeping from the corners of his sewn mouth.

"Yes, yes, I know," Euron waved dismissively. "You think I should have warned them. But why? For what purpose? My brother exiled me. Would he have listened when I told him not to ally with those pathetic slavers from Volantis? Would he have believed me when I said the North had weapons that could shatter our ships from leagues away?" He laughed again. "No, some lessons must be learned in blood."

Euron walked to a small fire burning with unnatural green flames. Above it hung a pot containing some bubbling concoction that smelled of sulfur and copper. He stirred it with a dagger made from what appeared to be dragonglass.

"It's been a year since those slavers lost their pitiful war. I thought we had escaped, that they wouldn't bother to hunt one ship when they had conquered half of Essos." Euron's smile faded, his single blue eye growing cold. "I was wrong."

Pulling up his sleeve, Euron revealed intricate scars covering his forearm, forming patterns that seemed to shift when not looked at directly.

"Six ships," he hissed. "Six warships with the Longshore sigil. They found us near the Jade Gates. How? I still don't know. But they had those... cannons. Like the ones that destroyed Pyke. They fired balls of blue fire that could tear through hull and flesh alike." He traced one of the scars. "They were faster than the Silence. Stronger too. No matter how hard we rowed, no matter how favorable the winds, they gained on us."

Euron walked to a crude altar constructed from driftwood and what looked suspiciously like human bones. Atop it sat several items: a black leather-bound book, a glass candle that burned with black flame despite the lack of any visible wick, and a curved horn wrapped in Valyrian glyphs.

"We'd just barely escape, time and again. Into storms that would have drowned any normal ship. Through reefs that should have torn our hull to splinters. Past islands that don't appear on any map." Euron's voice dropped to a whisper. "And always, they followed. Their captains had no fear. When we sailed into storms, they pursued. When we navigated treacherous waters, they adjusted course. When we hid in mist, somehow they found us."

He picked up the black book, its cover seemingly made from some leathery hide that was neither animal nor human before ruining the altar and throwing away the book uncaringly.

"That's when I began to use what I'd learned in my travels. The blood rites. The sacrifices." Euron's smile returned, a blade of white in his dark beard. "We had captives in the hold—fishermen, merchants, women from a pleasure barge we'd taken near the Summer Isles. One by one, I used them. Their lives to purchase our freedom."

He glanced at Qarl, who had begun to rock back and forth.

"Don't look at me like that," Euron sneered. "It was them or us. And the things I learned..." His eye gleamed with excitement. "I opened their throats and spoke the words I'd learned in Asshai. I painted sigils with their blood on our sails. And the sea responded. The winds changed. The waves rose to swallow our pursuers."

Euron threw a rock into the waves with such force that it skipped six times before disappearing beneath the crimson waters. His face contorted with rage as he recalled their last encounter with the pursuing fleet.

"Even after I slit the throats of twelve men and bathed our sails in their blood, those fucking ships were untouched!" he snarled, pacing the black sand. "The spell should have conjured a storm that would have shattered their masts and drowned every last sailor. But no—they sailed through it like it was a summer breeze."

Qarl made a muffled sound, his sewn lips straining against the black thread.

"Yes, I saw them too," Euron replied, as if understanding the mute man perfectly. "Golden shields of light surrounding each vessel. The Longshore sigil blazing on their sails, burning through the mist I'd conjured." He kicked at the remains of a crab, sending its shell fragments scattering. "No sorcery I've learned could penetrate those protections. Not the blood magic of Asshai, not the shadow bindings from the corpse city of Stygai, not even the forbidden rites I stole from the warlocks of Qarth."

The sky darkened overhead, unnatural clouds gathering as if responding to Euron's mood. The waves grew choppier, their foam tinged with an oily iridescence.

"Do you know how far we've sailed, Qarl?" Euron asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "From the Iron Islands to Leng, where we hid in caves older than time itself. To the frozen shores beyond the Five Forts, where even the fucking Imperial army fear to tread. Through the jungle cities of Yi-Ti, where cultists with golden masks offered me sanctuary—until those six ships appeared on the horizon and reduced their temples to ash."

Euron walked to the crippled Silence, running his hand along its charred hull. The wood felt unnaturally cold beneath his fingers.

"And finally to Asshai-by-the-Shadow, where I traded the last of our plunder for secrets that should have made us untouchable." His blue lips curled into a bitter smile. "Yet still they followed, across seas no Westerosi captain should be able to navigate. Without pause. Without mercy. Without fucking reason."

Qarl limped over to Euron, pointing toward the horizon with a trembling finger. In the distance, six tiny shapes were visible, still too far to make out details, but unmistakable in their purpose. and no doubt closing in fast.

"Yes, I see them," Euron said flatly. "They've found us again. They always do." He turned to face his mute companion. "But what I don't understand is why. What grudge does Owen Longshore hold against me that he would send some of his finest ships to the edge of the known world?"

Euron pulled his knife and began carving symbols into the black sand, his movements precise despite his obvious agitation.

"I never attacked his lands," Euron continued, his voice rising. "I kept the Silence far from the North during the raids. I didn't ally with those Volantene fools like my brother did. I sailed east while Balon sailed to his doom." He laughed bitterly. "I even warned him—in my own way—that his rebellion would fail. I sent a Myrish eye to Pyke, to show him what was coming. He didn't listen."

With a tired growl, Euron turned to the remaining crew of the Silence, their shadows long and distorted in the crimson sunset. "Bring the slaves," he commanded, his voice carrying the rasp of a man who had inhaled too much smoke and ash. "All of them. It's time."

The mute sailors nodded, their sewn lips and severed tongues preventing any verbal acknowledgment as they shuffled toward the makeshift pens at the edge of the encampment. Euron watched them go, then reached into his salt-crusted coat, removing a sealed scroll. The parchment was discolored, stained with what appeared to be blood and covered in a fine layer of gray ash. Ancient Valyrian glyphs decorated its surface, seeming to shift and move when not directly observed.

"Do you know what this is, Qarl?" Euron asked, holding up the scroll. "The price of this was steep. Three of my best men, melted from the inside out by firewyrms." He laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "I can still hear their screams sometimes—the way they begged me to kill them as those creatures burrowed through their flesh."

Qarl made a guttural noise, rocking slightly where he sat.

"Yes, I left them behind," Euron admitted without a trace of remorse. "What good were they to me once infected? The blood worms would have used their bodies as breeding grounds, hatching by the thousands." He shuddered involuntarily at the memory. "Nasty little things. They enter through any opening—mouth, nose, ears... other places. Then they grow, feeding on your insides until they're ready to burst forth."

Euron unrolled the scroll carefully, his single blue eye scanning the ancient text. "Two years ago, my dreams changed, Qarl. For years, I'd been visited by visions—a blood-red eye watching me, ravens cawing with human voices, whispering secrets." He tapped his temple. "They showed me a future where I ascended, where I walked among gods with the world beneath my heel. All if i made my way north of the wall."

He paced along the shoreline, leaving bootprints in the black sand that seemed to fill themselves in unnaturally quickly. "Then suddenly—nothing. The visions vanished. The eye closed. The ravens fell silent." Euron's face contorted with rage. "I tried to reach them again. I drank more shade of the evening than any man should survive."

Qarl made a questioning sound, pointing to his own eye.

"What did I see instead?" Euron laughed darkly. "A white void. Endless. Empty. And screams, Qarl—screams that grew closer each time I drank, as if something was hunting me through that emptiness." He shook his head. "After the third time, I stopped. Even I know when to fear something."

The slaves were being herded onto the beach now, men and women of various ages and origins—sailors captured from merchant vessels, fishermen from coastal villages, even a few Summer Islanders with their distinctive feathered cloaks now reduced to tattered rags. Their hands and feet were bound, and many bore the signs of brutal treatment. Fear emanated from them like a physical presence.

"But before the dreams stopped," Euron continued, seeming invigorated by the sight of the captives, "they led me to Valyria and this." He held up the scroll, its edges crumbling slightly at his touch. "A ritual to speak with any god of my choosing. To summon them, to bind them to answer my questions."

A mute sailor approached, making a series of hand gestures that Euron seemed to understand perfectly.

"Yes, I see them too," Euron replied, glancing at the horizon where the six ships were growing larger. "All the more reason to begin immediately. Prepare the altar."

The crew arranged fifty slaves in a semi-circle around the makeshift altar of driftwood and bones. Euron carefully laid the scroll upon a flat stone, weighing its corners with small obsidian figurines carved in the likeness of strange, tentacled creatures.

"Today," Euron announced to his captives, his voice carrying across the beach, "you have the honor of helping me speak with a god." He drew a curved blade from his belt, its edge glinting with an unnatural blue light. "The Drowned God of the Iron Islands—that pathetic deity my brother and his ilk worshipped their entire miserable lives."

A woman at the front of the group, her face gaunt but her eyes still defiant, spat at Euron's feet. "May all your gods curse you, monster."

Euron's response was a smile that didn't reach his eye. He approached her slowly, the knife dancing between his fingers. "My sweet lady, I don't believe in curses. I believe in power—who has it and who doesn't." He reached out with his free hand, caressing her cheek almost tenderly. "And right now, that power is mine."

With a swift motion, he slashed the blade across her throat. Blood sprayed across the altar and onto the scroll, which seemed to absorb the liquid, the stains disappearing as if drunk by the parchment itself.

"What is dead may never die," Euron mockingly intoned the prayer of the Drowned God's followers, "but rises again, harder and stronger." He laughed as the woman's body crumpled to the sand. "Empty words. My brother rose from the sea with Robert's warhammer crushing his chest. He didn't look particularly hard or strong then."

One by one, Euron approached the slaves, continuing his morbid parody of ironborn prayers with each killing. The scroll on the altar grew darker with each sacrifice, the Valyrian symbols glowing with an inner fire that cast long shadows across the beach.

"You call yourself a god?" Euron shouted to the sea as he slit the throat of a tenth victim. "The ironborn have worshipped you for thousands of years, and what have you given them? Salt, stone, and suffering!" Blood flowed freely now, forming channels in the black sand that ran toward the water's edge.

A middle-aged man with the tattoos of a Tyroshi merchant struggled against his bonds. "You're mad," he gasped. "There's no god coming for you. Only death."

Euron paused, his blue-stained lips curving into a smile. "Death is just another god, my friend. One I've cheated many times." He drew his blade across the man's throat without ceremony. "And if the Drowned God won't answer me, perhaps I'll summon another. The Storm God. The Many-Faced God of Braavos. The Lord of Light." His eye glittered with menace. "Or perhaps I'll reach beyond this world entirely, to older powers that hunger for our realm."

As the ritual continued, the sky darkened unnaturally, clouds swirling overhead in patterns that seemed deliberate rather than shaped by wind. The water at the shore's edge began to recede, drawing back as if gathering itself for something momentous.

"I am Euron Greyjoy," he bellowed as he approached the final slave, a young boy no older than sixteen, "last true ironborn, captain of the Silence, traveler of forbidden seas, opener of sealed doors! I demand audience with the Drowned God of the Iron Islands!"

The boy trembled, tears streaming down his face. "Please," he whispered. "I want to go home."

Euron paused, tilting his head as if considering the request. For a moment, something almost like pity crossed his features. Then it was gone, replaced by the cold calculation that was his natural state.

"We all want things, boy," Euron said softly. "I want to know why that northern upstart hunts me across the known world. I want to understand why my visions abandoned me. I want power enough to crush my enemies and reshape the world to my liking." He raised the knife. "Unfortunately for you, my wants take precedence."

The knife hovered at the boy's throat, its edge catching the last crimson light of the dying day. Euron's hand trembled slightly—not from hesitation but from anticipation. The ritual was nearly complete.

"Wait," a woman's voice called from the back of the group.

Euron paused, curiosity momentarily overriding his bloodlust. The slaves parted, revealing a figure they had somehow hidden among them—a woman in flowing crimson robes that seemed to ripple like flames even in the still air. Her hair was the deep red of fresh blood, her skin pale as milk, and around her neck hung a ruby choker that pulsed with inner light.

"A red priestess," Euron remarked, lowering his knife slightly. "How delightful. Did the Volantenes capture you before I captured them? Or are you a willing passenger on this journey to godhood?"

The woman stepped forward, her chains falling away as if they had never been properly secured. The mute sailors moved to restrain her, but Euron waved them back, intrigued.

"R'hllor has sent me to deliver a warning, Euron Crow's Eye," she said, her voice carrying an accent Euron couldn't quite place. Unlike the other captives, her eyes showed no fear—only a serene certainty that Euron found both fascinating and irritating.

"A warning?" Euron's blue lips split into a grin. "How considerate of the Lord of Light. And what might this warning be? That I should abandon my quest? That fire will consume me if I continue?" He laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally across the beach. "I've heard such threats before, priestess. From warlocks and shadowbinders and corpse-whisperers in the furthest corners of the world."

The red woman moved closer, her hips swaying hypnotically beneath her robes. Even Euron, who had known women from Ib to Asshai, found himself momentarily captivated by her beauty.

"The gods were not meant to be spoken to directly, Crow's Eye. Not seen, not heard—especially not your Drowned God." Her eyes, the color of burnished copper, held his gaze without wavering. "Your mind will shatter like glass thrown against stone. You may return from this communion, but not all of you will come back."

Euron looked around at his crew, at the blood-soaked altar, at the approaching ships on the horizon, then back to the priestess. His expression was one of genuine confusion, almost childlike in its bewilderment. Then he began to laugh—softly at first, then building to a manic howl that sent his remaining crew backing away.

"It's always you holy types," he finally managed between bursts of laughter, "who are the last to understand." He tapped his temple with his bloodied knife. "I'm already mad, priestess. I simply hide it better than most." His single blue eye gleamed with malevolent amusement. "Or perhaps I don't hide it at all, and the world is too blind to see what stands before it."

The red woman's expression remained unchanged. "Even madmen can break further, Euron Greyjoy."

"Let's test that theory, shall we?" Euron grabbed her by the hair, yanking her toward the altar. To his surprise, she didn't resist or cry out. Instead, she moved willingly, her posture straight and dignified despite his rough handling.

"The flames have shown me my purpose," she said calmly as he positioned her over the altar. "I was born to die here, on this nameless shore, as the final key to unlock your damnation."

Euron pressed the knife to her throat, his face inches from hers. "Any last prayers to your burning god?"

"He is already watching," she whispered, her breath warm against his face. "As are others."

"Then let them watch this." Euron drew the blade across her throat in one practiced motion. Unlike the others, she made no sound—no gurgle, no gasp, not even a whimper. Her eyes remained fixed on his, unblinking, as her life's blood poured over the altar and the ancient scroll.

"Weak!" Euron shouted, suddenly turning toward the sea. "Coward! Is this how the mighty Drowned God answers his most faithful son? With silence?" He kicked at the altar, sending droplets of blood flying. "I've sailed further than any ironborn in history. I've braved the smoking ruins of Valyria. I've looked upon wonders and horrors that would turn ordinary men to gibbering fools. And still, you hide beneath the waves!"

The scroll on the altar began to smoke, the ancient Valyrian glyphs glowing with an eldritch light that cast no shadows. The blood that had soaked into the parchment seemed to be boiling, creating a hissing sound like a thousand whispers.

"Come forth!" Euron commanded, raising his bloodied hands to the darkening sky. "I am Euron Greyjoy, and I demand audience!"

The horizon suddenly went black—not the darkness of night falling, but something more absolute. A perfect line of nothingness that began consuming the sky, advancing toward the shore like an unstoppable tide. The remaining crew of the Silence fell to their knees, some clawing at their eyes in terror.

Euron stood his ground, a mad grin splitting his face as the darkness engulfed him. Then he was alone—truly alone, suspended in a void so complete it seemed to devour light itself. There was no sound, no sensation, not even the beating of his own heart to orient him.

"Is this your answer?" he called into the nothingness. "Emptiness? I've seen better tricks from street conjurers in Qarth!"

The void shifted. Euron felt himself falling, tumbling through space without reference or direction. Then came the sensation of cold water closing over his head, the pressure increasing until it threatened to crush his skull. He was deep beneath the sea, deeper than any man could survive, yet somehow still conscious, still breathing.

Before him, a massive vertical slit appeared in the darkness—a pupil within an eye the size of the sun, glowing with a pale blue-green light that illuminated nothing yet revealed everything. Euron felt his mind straining at the mere sight of it, reality bending around its edges like fabric stretched to tearing.

"Yes," Euron whispered, his voice somehow carrying through the depths. "This is more like it. Show me your true face, Drowned God."

The eye regarded him with ancient, inhuman intelligence. Then, without warning, Euron's mind flooded with visions—not gentle revelations but a violent torrent of knowledge never meant for mortal comprehension.

He saw civilizations rise and fall like waves upon a shore—men and women in furs and hides hunting mammoth-like beasts across endless tundra with spears of flint and bone. He witnessed ancient rituals performed around structures of oily black stone that predated humanity itself, the participants chanting in languages that hurt his ears and twisted his thoughts.

A woman screamed in childbirth, her belly distended beyond all natural proportion. Those attending her were not midwives but priests in scaled robes, their faces hidden behind masks of jade and obsidian. As the woman's flesh tore open, what emerged was not a human child but a writhing mass of tentacles and eyes, glistening with amniotic fluid. The priests bowed in reverence, their chants reaching a fevered pitch.

More images assaulted him—cities beneath the waves where fish-pale humanoids swam through crystal corridors; massive leviathans with bodies that stretched for leagues, their flesh housing entire ecosystems of parasitic creatures; stars falling from the sky, bringing strange metals and stranger life forms to a primitive Earth.

"Stop!" Euron screamed, his mind beginning to fracture under the weight of cosmic knowledge. "Enough of these visions! I didn't come for a history lesson, you useless god!"

The eye blinked—a momentary respite from the torrent of images. Euron gathered what remained of his sanity, forcing his thoughts into coherence.

"I want power," he demanded. "A ship to replace the Silence—something that can outrun those northern vessels hunting me. And I want to know how to defeat Owen Longshore. Give me that, and you can keep your damned visions of the past!"

The massive eye regarded him silently. Then, slowly, it began to close. As the slit narrowed, Euron felt himself being pulled back toward the surface, the pressure easing from his body but not from his mind. The visions continued, but different now—focused on a single thread of knowledge that wound its way through his consciousness like a serpent.

"Yes," he whispered, understanding blooming through the pain. "Yes, I see it now."

The eye closed completely, and Euron was cast back into the void. For a moment, there was nothing—no light, no sensation, no thought. Then, with a violent surge, he was thrown back into his body on the black sand beach, gasping and convulsing as blood poured from his nose, ears, and eye.

The blood from Euron's eyes, ears, and mouth ran freely down his face, staining his already-blue lips a deeper crimson as he staggered to his feet. Every few moments, his body would seize, his single eye rolling back as fresh visions assaulted his mind—glimpses of vast underwater cities where no human was meant to tread, of writhing masses of tentacles large enough to encircle islands, of ceremonies performed in the crushing depths where sacrifices were made to entities beyond comprehension. Any normal man would have been reduced to a gibbering wreck, his sanity shattered beyond repair, but Euron merely wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand and grinned.

"Do you see it, Qarl?" he rasped, pointing a trembling finger toward the shoreline where the water had begun to churn and bubble unnaturally. "Our salvation rises from the depths." His crew of mutes backed away from the shore in superstitious terror, some falling to their knees in prayer to gods they had long since abandoned. From beneath the crimson waves, a massive shape was emerging—first the tip of a mast, then sails black as midnight, and finally the hull of an enormous warship that seemed to be constructed from wood that had never seen sunlight. Intricate carvings of krakens adorned every inch of the vessel, their tentacles wrapping around the hull as if the creatures were pulling the ship upward from the abyss. The figurehead was a monstrous kraken with eyes of gleaming obsidian, its tentacles reaching back along the sides of the ship as if embracing it.

"The Drowned Hell," Euron whispered, another spasm wracking his body as a vision flashed through his mind—himself standing atop a mountain of corpses, surrounded by squid-like beings with too many eyes, all watching him with an eerie, patient hunger. He shook his head violently, dispelling the image. "A gift from beneath the waves. Our new home." He turned to his crew, his voice suddenly strong despite the blood still trickling from his nose. "What are you waiting for? Board her! Load our supplies! Move!"

Qarl approached cautiously, making a series of gestures with his hands that Euron seemed to understand perfectly. The mute sailor's eyes were wide with fear, darting between his captain and the impossible ship that had materialized from the depths. "You're afraid?" Euron laughed, clapping Qarl on the shoulder with a hand that trembled slightly. "Good. Fear sharpens the mind, keeps us alive. But remember this—we've sailed through storms that would have drowned any other crew, we've seen horrors that would turn most men's hair white, and we've survived when all others perished. This?" He gestured toward the Drowned Hell. "This is merely the next chapter in our journey."

As the crew reluctantly began to move toward the ship, loading what meager supplies they had salvaged from the Silence, Euron staggered slightly, bracing himself against a piece of driftwood. Another vision gripped him—this time he saw himself seated on a throne made of twisted black metal, wearing a crown of tentacles that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat.

Figures knelt before him, offering sacrifices of blood and flesh, while behind him loomed something vast and ancient, its presence so overwhelming that even in this vision, Euron couldn't bring himself to turn and look upon it directly. "Yes," he muttered to himself, unaware of the madness gleaming in his eye. "Yes, I understand the price. And I will pay it gladly."

Euron was the last to board the Drowned Hell, his steps uneven as he crossed the gangplank. The deck beneath his feet seemed to pulse like something alive, the wood warm and almost flesh-like to the touch. As he took his place at the helm, running his fingers over the carvings that decorated the wheel, he failed to notice how the shadows cast by the sails seemed to move independently of the light, or how the water around the ship darkened to an impossible black. Deep below the surface, ancient eyes watched his every move—patient, calculating, hungry. The Drowned God had answered Euron's summons, had granted his wish for a vessel that could outrun his pursuers. But gods—especially the old ones, the true ones—never gave without taking something in return. And as the Drowned Hell began to move of its own accord, cutting through the waves with unnatural speed, Euron Greyjoy sailed toward what he believed was his destiny, his divinity, unaware that he had become nothing more than a pawn in a game that had been played since before humans first crawled from the primordial seas.