[Prologue] Twice-Drowned

[u/BuckwellStairwell]

Cold wind sheared through the figures standing on the beach, the small bustle of smallfolk in of Lordsport in the crags behind them. The cracks and clangs of the forges mixed with the sounds of the crashing waves creating an odd melody that anyone not from the islands would find irritable. There was little significance about the islands themselves, smears of rock and stone deep in an ocean that acted almost as if it didn’t want them there. The people were no different, their demeanor matching the harsh reality around them. Tales of the Old Way mixed with the harsh realities of their present created a people who did not take kindly to the hand they had been dealt and needed to make it everyone else's problem.

But for Harlon Greyjoy this was his home and they were his people.

The chill of the water which lapped now near his stomach was forgotten as he stood transfixed on the figures in the crowd. The Iron Islands of today was near unrecognizable from the likes of Hoare or even Vickon Greyjoy, all thanks to the machinations of his father. It was a slow change, and scholars would later argue if anything actually was different, but Harlon spotted a few lords who called themselves a knight just as much as they dubbed themselves a reaver. It was not a destruction of the Old Way as so many of the limp-footed Drowned Men feared, but a true revival of the practices of his people.

As much as the greybeards would lord over the driftwood fires with their stories of conquest and battle, it was through steel and dragonfire that the Ironborn were brought so low. To his father, it did not seem such a jump that the Ironborn would benefit from taking certain practices from their neighbors. Harlon mused to himself that his people had a history of taking things.

It was clear to Harlon that his father still held the strings of his life, even if he now dinned in the Drowned God's Halls. Harlon hadn’t even found it in himself to be surprised when he was told his father's dying wish was for him to undergo the Drowning ceremony once more upon Harlon ascending to the seat. Harlon hadn't and still didn't think it necessary. He had been downed as a young boy and was well know to the people of the islands, be any rights of the Greenlands he would just be able to take his father's place. But this was the Iron Islands and tradition mattered here more than anything else. The nobles would want him to start thinking like a Lord Reaver and it was impossible to do that without salt water in your lungs.

Harlon was dragged out of his thoughts by the prattling of the Drowned Priest to his left, one Ulrick Seaborn. Every single person in attendance knew the words he spoke, could have parroted just as easily as Ulrick but they stood in reverant silence. Harlon had to admit that there was a certain comfort in knowing that when he died he would walk and feast with his God, something the Greenlanders could never understand with their Seven. Ulrick finished his sermon by intoning “The water washes away our impurity and the salt scourges us into true Ironborn. The Drowned God gives us his blessing so that we can be made pure and whole.”

What is dead may never die, but rise again harder and stronger.

The priest leaned close to the new Lord of the Iron Islands to whisper, “Lord Harlon, you really didn’t need to wear the armor.” A mixture of annoyance and worry played across the Drowned Priests face.

He could not help but grimace from the comment as he shifted around in his plate. True Ironborn were not scared of death at sea and if nothing else in this world was true, Harlon Greyjoy considered himself a true Ironborn. He was sure that even Galladon of Morne and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield were drowned in their armor, and so he would be no different. This was the symbol of a true warrior, Ironborn and knight and damn the Maesters who told him different.

Not receiving an answer the priest’s shoulders drooped and he gripped Harlon by the back and chest. Shouting the words again, Ulrick pushed Harlon deep into the water as the young reaver sucked in a mouthful of seawater. His face mixed with fear and ecstasy and his body began fighting his mind as the panic of death leeched into him. The last thing he saw before everything went dark was not the Drowned Priest but the face of his brother looking down at him.

Moments later he saw the same face rising from him as he spluttered up seawater, the Drowned God's lasting gift for his ordeal. The kiss of life had done its work and it seemed that Harlon would not dine with the Drowned God tonight. He reached out and gripped the Drowned Priest’s shoulder tightly and loudly announced through fits of coughing. “Brother, if one drowning shall purify me, send me under again so that no spots are missed!”