Clang!
A dull, resonant thud echoed through the Great Hall of Pyke.
Hundreds of startled eyes turned toward the source. The heavy oaken door that had stood as their only exit had vanished, replaced by a solid wall of gray-black stone as though it had always been thus.
The door was gone!
The windows were shrinking before their very eyes!
The enclosed hall erupted into chaos, a cacophony of shouts and cries rising to the vaulted ceiling.
"SILENCE!!!"
Osha raised the dragon crystal scepter high above her head, her voice cutting through the tumult like Valyrian steel through flesh, reverberating throughout the now-sealed chamber.
The captains turned as one, fear and fury mingling in their eyes.
Osha and her twenty warriors stood guard before the Seastone Chair. Those ironborn who had charged closest to the throne already lay lifeless upon the cold stone floor, their blood pooling beneath them.
Three figures—Asha, Victarion, and Aeron—had been cast from the high platform like discarded toys, only now managing to struggle to their feet.
Euron and his silent crew had retreated to the far wall, keeping a prudent distance from the Seastone Chair and the golden-haired youth who now claimed it.
Aeron "Damphair" pointed a trembling finger toward the high platform, his face contorted with righteous fury.
"Those who disrespect the Drowned God now sit upon the Seastone Chair!" he cried. "Ironborn, have you forgotten the salt in your blood? Kill these blasphemers!"
"Bold words!" Osha retorted, her voice ringing with stern authority.
"What is your Drowned God but a mere servant of the True God? His Grace the King, as an emissary of the divine, honors you by sitting upon your paltry throne! How dare you spew such insolence?!"
Her words only stoked the ironborn's resentment to greater heights.
The Damphair continued his fervent prayers to the Drowned God, issuing vile curses and urging his people to attack with ever-increasing desperation.
By now, nearly two hundred Pyke guards and captains had gathered before the high platform. At last, they cast aside all hesitation, all fear of death, and charged as one.
"Tear them apart!" bellowed a voice from the crowd.
"Kill!" cried another.
"Long live the Iron Islands! Long live the reavers!!"
The ferocious ironborn surged forward like a tide breaking upon a shore, brandishing swords and axes. Others, unable to reach the front lines, hurled their throwing axes from various points within the throng.
Osha took half a step back and made a subtle gesture with her hand.
Eight Holy Shield warriors moved to the forefront, their movements precise and coordinated. They intercepted the flying axes with practiced ease, deflecting them aside while engaging the nearest attackers.
Behind them, eight Holy Fire warriors formed a precise line. Each drew twin nozzles from the steam injectors strapped to their backs, one in each hand, and aimed these strange devices at the advancing horde.
Immediately thereafter, they channeled fire mana through their palms!
The clear water contained within the injector tanks instantly boiled, transforming into steam of several hundred degrees under the combined action of extreme heat and pressure before being expelled with terrible force.
Hiss~~ Hiss~~
The invisible superheated vapor struck exposed skin and unprotected eyes, then cooled and condensed into white mist, transferring its scalding heat to human flesh.
A baptism of steam.
"Ah~~~ My eyes! My eyes!!"
"No~~ Ah~~"
Many could only howl and scream incoherently, unable to articulate even a single word through their agony.
In mere heartbeats, the area beneath the high platform had been transformed into a steaming hell.
The clean scent of water vapor, mingled with the unmistakable aroma of roasting meat, spread throughout the Great Hall like some grotesque feast.
Many captains could not help but swallow reflexively, their hearts filled with dread, their advance halting involuntarily until they stopped or began a shameful retreat.
"Halt!" Osha commanded.
The sixteen steam nozzles ceased their terrible work simultaneously. The thick white vapor at their muzzles gradually dissipated, revealing ironborn warriors writhing upon the ground, their skin blistering and peeling as they howled in blind agony.
Those closest to this grim spectacle bore witness to the horrific suffering of their fallen comrades.
Lobster-red skin and stiff, white-wrinkled flesh marked the fortunate ones; translucent blisters covering the body were considered a mercy, while hardened brown or completely charred skin left no hope at all—only the certainty of an agonizing death.
Was this fire?
Yet why did it appear white? Water? Steam?
Magic?!
The ironborn retreated in confusion and mounting terror.
In the aftermath, a deathly silence descended upon the Great Hall, broken only by the piteous cries of the wounded and dying.
"Quiet," Joffrey said, the single word carrying the weight of absolute command.
Osha descended from the high platform and, together with her Holy Shield warriors, delivered mercy strokes to the wounded one by one, ensuring their peaceful passage to whatever afterlife awaited them—be it the seven heavens or the Drowned God's watery halls.
The remaining ironborn merely turned their heads aside, unable to watch but equally unable to intervene.
The situation could not have been more stark. Though King Joffrey's forces numbered merely a score, they were more than a match for every soul present in the hall.
The life and death of all now hung upon King Joffrey's slightest whim.
Many eyes turned toward the Crow's Eye, who stood silent in his corner. Could the ancient power of Valyria, embodied in his strange armor, resist King Joffrey's sorcery and save the ironborn from this nightmare?
Euron's face remained a mask, betraying nothing.
Asha forced herself to smile, though it never reached her eyes. "Your Grace, your power stands beyond question. The Iron Islands are prepared to submit to your authority. Please, what are your commands?"
Victarion shifted his massive frame but ultimately held his tongue.
Aeron's face had turned ashen, all color leeched from it as though he had already drowned.
Joffrey, however, seemed not to have heard Asha's words at all. He calmly extended his finger, pointing to one ironborn after another in seemingly random fashion.
"You, stand on this side," he ordered. "You, stand on that side..."
The meaning of this division was not immediately apparent.
The first ironborn captain to be singled out hesitated for half a heartbeat—and the nearest Holy Shield warrior rushed to his side and struck with a single, fluid motion. His sword flashed like silver lightning, separating the man's head from his shoulders in one clean stroke!
The assembled crowd froze in collective shock. Thereafter, not one dared delay even for the span of a breath, nor did any voice question the king's purpose.
Why this division?
Would one group be executed? Which would die? Which would live?
Or was it something else entirely?
The ironborn's minds churned with doubt and fear, yet none dared resist the sorting.
Hope provides motivation; fear instills courage. But when hope and fear mingle, they create lambs for slaughter.
In that moment, only one voice filled the Great Hall.
Joffrey's commands fell like judgment from the gods themselves—majestic and terrifying, sacred and solemn.
The longer his voice continued, the more awe the ironborn felt, the more keenly they sensed their own insignificance. They were as shrimp and crabs in the vast ocean, their lives and deaths entirely at the mercy of the sea's capricious will.
Finally, the voice ceased.
After a moment's silence, the ironborn began to exchange furtive glances, seeking some hope of survival in their companions' eyes.
None of the four Greyjoys had been called upon to move.
Joffrey pointed once more, and all eyes followed his finger with nervous anticipation. He indicated a nondescript slave from Pyke who stood among the crowd.
"Faceless Man," the king said, his voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the hall, "will you not confess your true nature?"
The slave shook his head in apparent confusion. "King, what is this 'Faceless Man' you speak of? I know nothing of such things."
Joffrey offered no further words.
Two Holy Shield warriors approached the slave with measured steps. Even as they escorted him to the high platform and bound him with heavy chains of castle-forged steel, the slave maintained his simple façade.
Let us see how long you can sustain this pretense.
Joffrey remained utterly certain. He could sense the faint magical aura emanating from this supposed thrall.
A slave? Ha.
"Asha," Joffrey said, turning his gaze to the young woman who stood respectfully among the divided crowd.
"Your father was murdered by this Faceless Man, hired by Euron for the deed. I must confess, this development took even me by surprise."
The king sighed, as though genuinely regretful.
"And now your ambition to seize control of the Iron Islands has necessitated the spilling of so much blood."
Asha opened her mouth to protest, but no words emerged.
The warriors with their steam weapons had already descended from the high platform, approaching one side of the divided crowd with terrible purpose.
Panicked cries erupted almost immediately.
After identifying the faces among that doomed group, Asha felt both relief and a strange heaviness settle over her heart. Her uncle Victarion was not among them, but most of the oldest and most traditional captains had been sorted into this group.
Joffrey turned to address the ironborn who stood upon the spared side of the hall.
"Should any from that side escape death and seek refuge among you," he warned, his voice cold as the depths of winter, "you shall not live either."
Hiss~~
The deadly steam descended once more.
"Long live the Iron Islands! Long live House Drumm! Fight them!"
The suffering ironborn cursed loudly even as their flesh began to blister and peel.
"Cowards!" they cried to their compatriots across the divide. "Will you stand idle while your brothers are slaughtered?!"
The faces of the spared ironborn twisted with complex emotions—horror, relief, shame, and fear all warring for dominance.
In the areas not yet engulfed by the killing steam, some of the condemned ironborn charged toward the high platform or toward their former allies on the opposite side.
King Joffrey's declaration still rang in every ear.
Baelor Blacktyde, Lord of Blacktyde, drew his sword with trembling hands and thrust it through the heart of a rushing captain—a man he had known since childhood.
Ironborn must never shed the blood of ironborn.
Yet in that moment of desperate survival, ancient taboos held no power.
Aeron "Damphair" covered his face in anguish, unable to bear witness to the slaughter of his people.
Drowned God, he prayed silently, fervently.
Punish these faithless cowards and that evil, monstrous king!
Turn them all into worms beneath the waves!!
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