243 A.L. - The Seaside Base of Nagga's Hill, Old Wyk, Iron Islands
Deep within the dank, cavernous seaside caves on the northern coast of Old Wyk, below the hill on which the great Nagga's bones rest, Zaern, a revered drowned priest known as 'The Zealot', resided with no comforts outside what has been given by the sea. He was seen as an anomaly among the Ironborn, for he has seen in excess a hundred name days, but even fact, his rigidly stout physical stature still remained seamlessly intact—an obscure resilience to the weathering conditions he has always endured, indifferently embracing it, apparent to all and well known. Having never spent a single night affront a hearth, nor a feathered bed laced with silks and pelts, his was that of cold stone, and salt that had coated his skin, grating it, embedding within his wrinkled skin. His word was considered as close to divinity as if the orders spouted were from the depths, themselves. He was trusted most of all by the age-old Lords of Old Wyk; the Drumms of Stone Hall Castle, Keepers of the Hill, hosts of countless Kingsmoots. He was far older than any Islander alive today; his unnatural longevity spurred the continual rise of his near-mythic status.
Zaern was the perfect Ironborn. He embodied every aspect of the Drowned God, as if he had been incarnated into that of a man's body. He had the highest success rate for drownings of all priests in recent memory. Having been born and raised on Old Wyk, he had spent his last seventy-five name days residing in these unrelenting caves, bonding with the salt-withered stones, only straying from the hill a handful of times to convene directly with the given lord of House Drumm.
Nagga's Hill and its immediate area was the holiest place to the Ironborn. At all times, a drowned priest attends this holy site, as an unofficial caretaker. Few if any Ironborn alive were conceived when last a different priest before Zaern attended this holy site. Half blind, half deaf, and living off the bare necessities all his life. His garbs were raggedy and torn—a purified form of seaweed and assorted debris—clasped together by fish bones and seashells. His staff was a long piece of driftwood, carved in a zigzagged form, with a slightly curved top. Colourful barnacles adorned the staff, embedded in it, from top to bottom. and walking with the assistance of a worn-down, driftwood cane, Zaern exited the cave he knew as his crude, unforgiving temple and place of eternal worship, and he trudged his feet through the deep sands of the shoreside, his gaze deep into the endless sea before him. He could hear a voice calling to him. His hands shaking, he knelt down on one knee, placing his hand into the rushing waves, he picked up a large seashell, and he held it to his ear. His jaw dropped, and so too did the seashell, when he turned and began to walk down the coast. Movement was no easy task at this point in his life, but despite the pains he felt with each step, he continued more than a mile down shore, to a cluster of seaside stones. He blindly climbed through the jagged rock face—the hard, leathery soles of his feet scraping against the rocks, slicing them slowly—the bunion's on both his feet opened, giving off as if he had little to no feeling from the wounds he sustained.
He heard the feint sound of a babe's cries, forcing him to a sudden stop, looking down several feet below him, a small a babe laid upon its back, wailing heavily in a sandy patch between the rocks. The infant was unscathed and undeformed. Zaern was taken aghast by the discovery. It seemed as if the babe was placed there only moments before his arrival, but even atop the rocks, he had seen nobody around, in the great distance he could see, upon the unrelenting rocky flats of the island's seaside.
Reaching in, he picked up the babe hastily, shielding it in the looseness of his robe, pulling it close to his chest, and returning back down the rocks at a quicker pace, picking up his staff along the way, and speedily returned down the shoreline. With the castle in distant view, his bare feet took the brunt of the torture, as assuming sharp pains shot through his feet, the bloody openings being molested by sand. So weathered were his feet, they had patches; hardened and callused.
Upon reaching the castle, in what seemed a blur, he had been in a subconscious trance the entire way there. Stopping short of his climb to the top, he had heard the chatter of men, in an adjacent cavern. Entering, he was confronted by Lord Dunstan Drumm and his son and heir, Goddard, as they were preparing their lines for a fishing session.
"Move aside, worm!" shouted Zaern, commandingly, raising the back of his hand at a thrall who was standing in the small walkway. The thrall quickly moved aside, shielding himself from a potential strike.
"Apologies, Your D-dampness," uttered the thrall, his words struck with fear.
"Lord Dunstan!" shouted Zaern, as if he was on the other side of the castle. The words echoed deeply through the cavern.
The lord winced, looking upon Zaern, as Goddard smiled at the old priest.
"This!" continued Zaern, holding the babe out, face revealed. "An omen from the depths!"
"What are you talking about, Zaern?" demanded a confused Dunstan.
"A vision came to my dreams and led me miles down shore to discover this babe in the rocks, carried ashore by the tides," explained Zaern, noticeably confident.
Known not to be a liar, Goddard was skeptical still, as he placed his fishing pole down. "Has the Drowned God finally taken the mind of Zaern the Zealot?"
"I am a man of duty and service to the one below, Lord Goddard. My words do not utter a shred of exaggeration or fib! I curse the thought of tainted words of my will-"
"—alright, Zaern," interrupted Lord Dunstan, apologetically, scolding his son.
"This babe is unlike another," ranted Zaern, as he placed it on top of the long table.
"He looks about the same as any other," replied Dunstan, as he gazed up over at it, moving across the rocks to Zaern, to inspect it more closely.
"No—the vision. It was well established before I was suddenly awaken with the pains," said Zaern, attempting to explain. "I saw a fleet burning. The bow a lion's head. The locals slew before the feet of iron reavers," he continued, licking his harshly cracked lips, "villages and towns burned. In the north, and the south!"
"Villages and towns of whom, Zaern?"
"The Lords of the Seven Greens," replied Zaern, referring to the lords of Westeros as the Ironborn commonly referred to them; greenlanders.
"Who led these assaults?" asked Dunstan, taken in by the man's divine premonition, though hesitant at the likely absurdity in which one might believe such uttered words would breed, as the last time the Ironborn were at all out war with the mainland was nearly three centuries prior, and had been swiftly put down by Aegon the Conquerer, when he arrived on the islands atop his castle-sized dragon, Balerion the Black Dread, just two years after his crowning in Oldtown. Aegon had taken oaths of fealty from the last Iron Kings, putting those down who refused to bend the knee. It was here that Vickon Greyjoy, the Lord of Pyke, and a descendent of the Grey King himself, was chosen by the Ironborn to rule them as Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands, in the name of Aegon Targaryen and his descendants henceforth.
"This boy will lead the ironborn into war," he proclaimed, holding the boy upside down, by his two legs, as the boy remained solemnly calm and curious.
"When do you foresee this war, Zaern?"
"When the tides rage in our favour, in the wake of an immense storm, the Drowned God will send his armies swiftly to the shores of the nonbelievers and the result will be blood and salt water for all in their path."
Goddard was awed at the premonition. He looked to his father, then back to Zaern. He could not believe the words being uttered. He didn't know whether it was the priest's age catching up to him, or whether the words spoken were in fact divinely carried from the depths, as claimed.
"What once came from the sea, so to judgement shall come!" bellowed the old priest, as he laid the boy on a cold stone table, the crying having ceased. "The prophecy of a great warrior borne of the sea has been whispered amongst the tides since his revered Grace, the Grey King himself, ruled these islands. It was said, when the time to throw off the shackles of repression would be near, a warrior would come from the depths to reignite the fires of our souls, and bring the mainlands to heel." The boy just looked up to Zaern, as if he was captivated by the old man.
Lord Dunstan snapped his fingers, catching the attention of a thrall, waving him to the inner staircase of the cavern. "Go retrieve Murla," barked Dunstan, speaking of one of his salt wives.
The thrall quickly exited the room, and with what seemed only moments, Lord Dunstan's salt wife, Murla, came in, accompanied by another of his salt wives, Ida. The two women swarmed the babe, as Zaern—eyes widened—took his last looks upon the boy, before it would enter the care of the lordship of Old Wyk.
Just as quickly as he was brought in, the boy was quickly removed from the bleak, dank caves, and into the safe care of Lord Dunstan's ancient stronghold.
Conflicted, Lord Dunstan once again reiterated the need for clarification of the facts presented to him. "Are you certain of your visions, Zaern? That his boy is the prophet who will change our fates?"
"As certain as the survival of those whom I have drowned!" ascertained the old priest, who had the greatest record of drownings in living memory—some say history.
"I will inform Dagon-"
"—no," interrupted Zaern. "Dagon, nor his ilk, including his Greenland sympathizing son, Quellan, needn't know this, despite their dragon-deemed authority over these islands. Where once the sea dragon was slew, so to the son of the sea dragon and God below shall grow, without the need of gawking eyes."
Dunstan took on a queer facial expression, conflicted of what exactly he should do, as he felt it was his obligation to report this to the Greyjoys of Pyke, though, those of Old Wyk had a larger sense of dedication and closeness to their deity—more than any others could similarly claim—as Old Wyk had the richest history of their people, as the foundation grounds of their religion.
"Silence it is," replied Dunstan, despite the admonishment of his son. Goddard slowly opened his mouth, looking up at him, unsure what to make of the dangerous decision of concealment.
"When the time comes, the world shall know what once was bore upon Old Wyk. The age of heroes is long past, but soon shall it return, as the greatest of heroes has come," ranted the priest, to what seemed relatively deaf ears, as the two others present were more concerned of their decision to keep the words of the priest silent, and away from the prying ears of those who would give up word of him.
"What shall be our next move?" asked Dunstan, inquiringly.
"Your house must raise him, Lord Dunstan. It is essential that these words be buried with you, for those who may use his abilities for greed will attempt to stake him as a champion of their own. Your mind must be clear and unbiased, and you must be willing to do what is necessary to ensure he is raised in the ways of your own sons."
"It shall be done, Priest."
"What once came from the sea, so too justice shall come!" announced Zaern, once more, as Lord Dunstan and his retinue lower their heads in respect to the revered priest.