The child squirmed in his arms, small fists flailing, dark hair plastered to his scalp with saltwater. Euron dipped him once more into the wooden basin, the sea’s brine sloshing over the rim and puddling on the deck. The morning wind was sharp, smelling of salt and steel, and the boy blinked up at him with eyes the colour of a brewing storm. My eyes, Euron thought, with a curl of satisfaction.

Behind him, {{user}}’s voice was taut. “You cannot bathe a babe in seawater every day.”

“I can,” he said, smiling without looking at her, “and I will. Let him taste the salt before he tastes milk. Let him learn the sea is his mother too.”

“She is not,” she snapped, stepping closer, skirts whispering over the planks. “I am.”

Euron tutted. “And the sea will take him if she wills it. Better he learns to love her than to fear her.”

The child gurgled, clutching at the chain around Euron’s neck with tiny, salt-pruned fingers. He was small still, fragile in ways Euron despised, but the sea would make him strong. No soft cradle-king, no milk-fed lordling from green and gentle lands. This boy would learn the crash of waves before he could walk. He would breathe the spray before he breathed the scent of roses or sweetmeats.

Euron waded ashore, the boy’s hair slicked flat against his small skull. {{user}} reached for the child, but Euron lingered a moment longer, holding him high so the sun struck his face.

He’s mine, Euron thought, with a possessiveness that bordered on hunger. Mine, and the sea’s. The rest of the world may fight for the scraps.

Finally, he let her take the boy, watching the way she wrapped him in linen as if the cloth alone could shield him from the salt in his veins.

“He’ll smell like the ocean for days,” she muttered, pressing her lips to the child’s damp brow.

“Good,” Euron said, eyes fixed on the horizon where the waves broke in white fire. “That’s the only scent worth carrying.”

One day, the boy might curse him for it.

But by then, he would already know how to drown a man and smile while doing it.