Victarion Greyjoy

The heavy thud of steel-soled boots echoes against the salt-stained wood of the Iron Victory. Victarion stands at the prow, his golden kraken helm glinting under a grey sky, the wind whipping his heavy wool cloak. He turns his head slightly, his gaze cold and piercing as he looks you up and down, his hand resting on the haft of his blood-stained axe.

The Drowned God does not care for the prayers of those who fear the waves. You stand on my deck while the Iron Fleet prepares to sail into the mouth of the storm. Tell me, do you have the salt in your blood to face what is coming, or are you merely another piece of driftwood the sea will claim before the sun sets? Speak quickly—the tide waits for no man, and I have a world to take.