The afternoon sun cast everything in burnished gold, transforming the scene of carnage into something almost beautiful from a distance.
Longships and their savage crews had claimed every coastal dock and watchtower along Greyshield's shore. The port town lay in ruins, its streets littered with the detritus of hasty flight as the island's guards and civilians fled deeper inland, seeking whatever meager safety the interior might provide.
The worst of the slaughter had subsided for the moment, though signal fires still blazed defiantly from every tower and hilltop, their orange flames reaching toward the sky like desperate prayers for deliverance.
The Silence and two other captured warships—prizes taken during the brutal sack of Fair Isle—held position in deeper waters, their crews watching the unfolding chaos with predatory patience.
Their bows pointed eastward, toward the horizon where salvation or doom would soon appear.
Euron "Crow's Eye" Greyjoy stood at his flagship's rail, his mismatched gaze fixed upon the distant line where sea met sky. The wide expanse remained frustratingly empty, showing no sign of approaching sails despite the hours that had passed since those first beacon fires began their desperate dance.
The Shield Islands' fleet proved disappointingly slow to respond—though perhaps that delay would serve his purposes even better.
If the confrontation stretched into darkness, fighting beneath the stars would offer distinct advantages to those who hunted in shadow. The black waters of night provided perfect hunting grounds for creatures that dwelt in the deep places of the world.
The dark sea—what could be more suitable for sea monster hunting?
Moreover, larger forces were at work that made this delay insignificant. Joffrey Baratheon lay buried beneath Storm's End's ancient stones, his reign ended before it could truly begin. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms had turned upon each other like wolves in winter, spilling rivers of blood in their endless struggle for a crown that would never again rest easily upon any head. This weakened Westeros had become a feast prepared for those bold enough to claim their portion.
The sea monster would herald a new age of Iron dominion.
The prophecy had made everything crystal clear.
Divine visions granted through the Shade of the Evening had never proven false—not once in all the years Euron had partaken of that bitter draught. The gods spoke truth, however terrible that truth might prove.
Joffrey was dead. Had to be dead.
Crow's Eye had witnessed the boy king's end with his own eyes, seen it unfold in dreams more vivid than waking life. The pretender had been betrayed by those closest to him, struck down by the very priestess who claimed to serve him. A blow wreathed in shadow and flame had shattered both body and soul, scattering the pieces like ash upon the wind.
Yes. He is dead.
The Shade of the Evening had enhanced every detail of that prophetic vision, allowing Euron to see the future with perfect clarity. The Red God himself had decreed Joffrey's doom, and no mortal power could stand against such divine will.
There could be no doubt.
Crow's Eye believed in no gods—but he believed in their power more fervently than any septon or red priest. The supernatural forces that shaped the world cared nothing for mortal logic or understanding. Their servants could accomplish miracles that defied all reason, achieving ends that yielded no apparent benefit to any earthly cause.
Joffrey was certainly dead because he had to die.
Only through his death would chaos consume the Seven Kingdoms entirely. Only then would the Reach fragment into squabbling factions rather than standing as a unified threat. Only under such circumstances could longships break through their defenses one by one, selecting prey at will while conquering fertile lands piece by piece.
Only then could the sea monster dwelling in oceanic depths become his ultimate weapon—a force capable of subjugating the entire continent of Westeros and deterring any foreign enemies who might think to challenge Iron dominion.
What other explanation could there be for this assault upon the Shield Islands with such laughably small numbers?
A handful of longships. A few hundred Ironborn reavers.
Such paltry forces could never hope to capture or hold even a single ordinary stone castle through conventional means! Without supernatural aid, this entire expedition would prove nothing more than an elaborate form of suicide.
In the end, everything depended upon the sea monster.
The enormous, unparalleled creature that dwelt beneath the waves—intelligent beyond human understanding, cold as winter's heart, tyrannical in its ancient hunger. A living weapon forged by gods themselves for purposes beyond mortal comprehension.
Once revealed, who could ignore the Iron Islands' claims? Who could cling to illusions of resistance? Who could do anything but kneel in terrified submission?
The Shield Islands were merely the beginning.
Highgarden, Oldtown, the Arbor—the entire Reach with all its wealth and fertility would bow before the sea's inexorable tide.
And then the Seven Kingdoms would follow.
And then...
Euron's gaze returned to the eastern horizon, searching for movement that still refused to materialize.
They are taking their time, he told himself, forcing confidence he did not entirely feel. I must trust in the prophecy.
During their voyage from Fair Isle, Euron had cast his sight forward once more, seeking visions of what awaited them among the Shield Islands. The future had shown him victory and submission, though the path between present and triumph remained frustratingly unclear.
Intelligence gathered from captured prisoners proved maddeningly incomplete.
Therefore, the longship fleet had prepared for the worst possible scenario—a fully manned Shield Islands fleet at peak readiness. They had made thorough plans and approached their target with utmost caution, ready to face whatever defenses might await them.
Instead, they had found Greyshield woefully unprepared.
Not only had the island's fortifications remained unchanged from peacetime standards, but even basic watch-keeping had been neglected to a shocking degree. The Ironborn had landed virtually unopposed, meeting only token resistance from guards who fled at the first sight of black sails.
Only through interrogation of prisoners had they learned that the lords, knights, and fleets of all four Shield Islands had gathered at Oakenshield for some great assembly.
But why?
The captured fishermen and dock workers could provide no satisfactory answers. Their stammered explanations contradicted each other wildly, creating a tapestry of confusion that made less sense than deliberate lies.
Even after applying various forms of creative persuasion, the Ironborn had concluded that these wretches truly knew nothing of importance. Their ignorance was complete and genuine.
Such limitation was only reasonable, of course. If truly significant secrets were being discussed, common folk who spent their days mending nets and loading cargo would hardly be privy to such knowledge.
The inhabitants of Greyshield's castle might possess better information, but for Ironborn raiders armed only with sword and axe, solid stone fortifications represented problems that could not be solved without revealing trump cards best kept hidden.
King Euron had no intention of showing his hand prematurely. The Ironborn would have to content themselves with incomplete intelligence.
Truth be told, if not for their king's specific interest in such matters, most reavers would consider the whole investigation a waste of valuable raiding time. Why puzzle over mysteries when they could be seizing treasure and claiming salt wives?
Yet from these scattered fragments, Crow's Eye had managed to piece together a rough understanding of current events.
Something momentous was indeed occurring among the Shield Islands—that much seemed certain.
The exact nature of this gathering remained frustratingly unclear. Some prisoners spoke of Highgarden conscripting the island fleets for war. Others claimed Oakenshield had invited the other families to strengthen marriage alliances. Still others insisted the assembly concerned fleet reorganization and renewed oaths of loyalty to both Highgarden and the Iron Throne.
Highgarden's involvement appeared to be fact rather than rumor.
But were the references to royal authority true or false? And if true, which king commanded such loyalty—Renly or Joffrey?
Given Renly's recent activities, he would hardly waste effort on the Shield Islands without first securing the Redwyne fleet from the Arbor. Even if he somehow claimed every ship among these islands, the Arbor's naval power would remain an insurmountable obstacle to any riverine campaign.
Besides, Renly had already taken other measures to address his maritime disadvantage.
The Seven Kingdoms were not the only realms that maintained substantial fleets. Mercenary squadrons from the Free Cities offered both proximity and reliability—their loyalty remained uncompromised by Westerosi politics so long as contracts were honored and payments made promptly.
Renly, backed by Highgarden's legendary wealth, could certainly afford such services.
Euron had witnessed the signing of agreements for no fewer than two hundred warships from Tyrosh alone, vessels that would depart for Westerosi waters within days.
With such reinforcements secured, Renly would have little need for the Shield Islands' modest contribution.
Therefore, this gathering must represent Highgarden acting independently rather than at any king's direction.
Euron found himself forced to reach this conclusion by process of elimination. After all, Joffrey was dead—the prophecy had made that abundantly clear.
Though admittedly, a slight possibility remained that Joffrey's death had occurred too recently for word to reach his scattered supporters. Perhaps some remnant of his faction continued operating in ignorance of their cause's collapse.
Such persistence would not be entirely surprising, given the unnatural powers that boy had supposedly wielded.
Euron could not forget the heat and swelling pain he had felt emanating from his sea monster's massive form—evidence of fire-born magic that might encompass abilities beyond imagination.
How could the natural order tolerate such a creature's existence?
Joffrey, you died well and truly. The world is safer with you gone.
"Your Grace! Look toward the stern!" A familiar voice cut through Crow's Eye's brooding thoughts, its usually controlled tone cracking with surprise and something approaching alarm.
Euron turned to see Aeron "Skinchanger" Farwind pointing toward the setting sun in the west, his weathered face pale beneath its coating of salt spray.
Crow's Eye squinted against the golden glare, searching the distant waters for whatever had captured his lieutenant's attention.
One mast. Two. Then dozens more, their slender forms creating an orderly line across the horizon. The diamond-shaped shadows beneath those masts grew steadily larger and more distinct—the approaching hulls of a substantial fleet cutting through the waves with purposeful intent.
They were advancing directly toward Greyshield at considerable speed!
Woo ~ ~ ~
The sea monster dwelling beneath the waves voiced its own response—a sound that might have expressed excitement or fear, perhaps both emotions warring within its ancient consciousness.
Joffrey?!
Crow's Eye strained his vision to its limits, seeking details among those distant vessels.
Suddenly, as if responding to his scrutiny, a figure aboard the leading ship seemed to turn in his direction. Their gazes met across impossible distance, and the blood-red eye hidden beneath Euron's patch throbbed with sharp, familiar pain.
Crow's Eye jerked his head downward, staring fixedly at the crimson-stained deck planks beneath his feet.
Joffrey! He lives!!
How is such a thing possible?! The prophecy came from the gods themselves!
How could divine vision prove false?!
Crow's Eye's heart hammered against his ribs like a caged bird seeking escape. His remaining eye grew wide with dawning panic as years of absolute faith began to crumble and collapse, forcing him to question everything he had accepted as immutable truth.
Far to the west, standing upon the deck of his flagship as it cut through gentle swells, Joffrey Baratheon allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
"The hunt begins."