"Preserve the Silence—she still has uses," Joffrey commanded with casual authority, his voice carrying easily over the thunder of distant cannon fire.
"Yes, Your Grace." Throughout this voyage, Theon Greyjoy had been granted the honor of relaying the king's orders to the fleet—a responsibility that might have seemed servile to some, yet one he embraced without complaint.
In truth, this represented a rare opportunity for advancement, a chance to prove his worth in the crucible of real warfare.
Theon's consciousness dove into the shimmering interface of his light screen, fingers dancing across the tactical display as he selected dozens of warships currently under firing orders. With practiced efficiency, he transmitted King Joffrey's instructions to every vessel simultaneously.
The designated ships acknowledged their new orders almost instantly, their responses appearing as brief flashes across his screen.
In the next heartbeat, the firing angles of hundreds of cannons shifted with mechanical precision.
The Silence thus became the eye of a hurricane—stable at its center while surrounded by a violent vortex that tore anything caught in its embrace to splinters and sent the remains plunging into the depths.
Without question, this battle held no suspense or dramatic reversals. The outcome had been decided the moment those first cannon spoke their thunder.
Theon's attention returned to the tactical map displayed before him, where a single glance at the colors and symbols revealed the entire scope of the engagement.
Against a deep blue background representing the open sea, dozens of green islands and rocky outcroppings marked the shallow waters between the Shield Islands. In the narrow strait between Greenshield and Greyshield, Uncle Euron's Silence appeared as a bright red arrow—bold, defiant, and utterly alone.
The other Ironborn vessels had been marked as black arrows, though these symbols flickered weakly before dimming and vanishing entirely, absorbed back into the deep blue void of the map.
Longships were dying like gnats swatted by giants—small, humble erasures from the great board of war.
Even the king's own warships appeared as merely inconspicuous white arrows upon the display, their true significance hidden by the map's necessarily simplified representation.
Yet Theon understood perfectly that each of those arrows represented a powerful, epoch-defining vessel capable of capturing and defending entire islands through firepower alone.
Hundreds of white arrows, if properly dispersed, could conquer every sea in the known world!
Unfortunately, none of this vast power belonged to him.
Three hundred royal warships plus the additional vessels of the Shield Islands—not one bore Theon's personal command. Yet to participate in this naval engagement, even in a coordinating role, represented invaluable opportunity and training for future endeavors.
Theon studied the tactical display with a mixture of regret and growing excitement.
One hundred and twenty white arrows held formation in the waters south of Southshield, occupying the fleet's southernmost position.
Further north, sixty vessels positioned themselves in the channel between Southshield and Greyshield.
The waters between Greyshield and Greenshield, as well as the area north of Greenshield itself, hosted another full-strength squadron of sixty ships.
Meanwhile, the Shield Islands' own fleet approached rapidly from the east, sailing through the central waters between all four islands to join the encirclement.
Theon could access detailed information about each component of this massive force.
The one hundred and twenty ships at the southern edge comprised the Arbor Fleet under royal command—three complete squadrons operating in perfect coordination.
The First Squadron fell under command of Horas Redwyne, eldest son and heir to Lord Paxter Redwyne. He directed sixty cannon-armed warships manned by warriors blessed with divine grace, responsible for blockading all approaches south of Southshield.
The Second Squadron answered to Hobber Redwyne, Horas's twin brother. His fleet matched his sibling's in both composition and mission, creating an impenetrable barrier across the southern waters.
The Third Squadron proved far more unusual in its leadership. Command had been granted to that hulking woman, Brienne of Tarth!
Theon struggled to accept such an appointment on the deepest level.
How could it be her?
True, her father ruled as Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall—noble blood flowed in her veins.
True, she had grown to womanhood on Tarth and spent considerable time at Storm's End, making her no stranger to maritime matters.
True, she wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard, qualifying her to serve as the king's direct representative.
Yet in the end, she remained merely a woman—and such an ugly woman at that! How could any female stand upon a warship's deck and command hardened sailors in battle?
His opinion obviously carried no weight with the king, however, and Theon kept such thoughts carefully contained within his own mind.
Yet he felt certain he was not alone in such sentiments. The Redwyne twins undoubtedly harbored even greater resentment toward "Brienne the Beauty," given that she now commanded vessels that had once belonged exclusively to their family's service.
Though the entire Redwyne fleet had been incorporated into the Royal Navy and renamed the "Arbor Fleet," the imprint of past loyalties would not vanish overnight.
People remembered that this force represented the precious foundation the Redwyne family had built and maintained across generations. Many sailors had served the Arbor for their entire lives, as had their fathers before them.
The king had not proven entirely unsympathetic to such concerns, however.
Beyond the three squadrons sailing north for battle, an incomplete Fourth Squadron remained at the Arbor, responsible for defending their ancestral home.
Its commanders, captains, and lesser officers were largely nominated by the Redwyne family itself, with the king gladly confirming their appointments.
Observing these arrangements, Theon could not help but wonder about the Iron Islands' eventual fate. Would they be granted similar consideration, allowed to maintain some measure of autonomy like the Arbor? Would they surrender peacefully like the Shield Islands? Or would their ending prove more similar to what had befallen Cape Wrath?
"Tighten the encirclement," the king commanded.
Theon snapped back to attention, quickly relaying His Grace's instructions to all fleet commanders through his light screen.
Only then did he realize that the bright red arrow of the Silence now stood alone within the contracting circle of white vessels—every other longship had been erased from the tactical display!
The brief battle was drawing to its inevitable conclusion.
Theon raised his head to peer toward the actual engagement area, but the distance and gathering dusk rendered everything a dim blur. He could make out nothing of the specific carnage unfolding beyond the reach of his vision.
Broken planks riding the swells? Corpses bobbing like grotesque corks? Desperate Ironborn struggling against the tide's inexorable pull?
Probably all of these things and worse.
The thought filled Theon with emotions too complex for easy description.
The Iron Islands he had not seen for nearly a decade, those cold and tenacious people who shared his blood, the swift longships he had dreamed of commanding like birds upon the wind—all were being smashed to kindling mere leagues from where he stood.
And his notorious uncle, Euron "Crow's Eye" Greyjoy. Once, young Theon of the Iron Islands had admired such a mighty reaver beyond all measure.
Yet this very reaver had proclaimed himself Iron King and now faced imminent termination.
Theon could observe every detail through his tactical display. The white arrows moved with coordinated precision, contracting toward the center step by methodical step. The Shield Islands fleet rushing from the east filled the loosest gap in the net, completing the encirclement.
It resembled nothing so much as a fisherman drawing in his nets after a successful cast.
The prey might be fierce, but this particular net possessed strength beyond any creature's ability to break.
The four islands themselves formed natural barriers, channeling any escape attempt into predetermined killing fields.
Three squadrons of the Arbor Fleet blocked the southwestern approaches completely.
To the northwest, the Third and Fourth Squadrons of the King's Landing Fleet held position under Earl Monford Velaryon and Earl Gunther Sunglass respectively.
The Shield Islands' own forces approaching from the east appeared comparatively weak—barely comprising a single full-strength squadron, divided into four smaller commands led by each of the islands' major houses.
Breaking through toward the east might seem the most promising option for any desperate escape attempt.
Yet the east offered only the wide, dry continent of Westeros itself. Sea monsters drawing their power from salt water would find no aid upon dry land.
The net continued tightening, moment by inexorable moment.
Searchlights from the vanguard vessels had begun illuminating their target with harsh white radiance.
The hull appeared dark red, as if painted repeatedly with blood—each layer allowed to dry and harden before the next coat of crimson was applied.
Two figures were lashed to the bow, one pale as winter snow, the other dark as a moonless night.
The golden kraken tattooed upon the black sails made Theon Greyjoy's heart skip with involuntary recognition.
The net had finally touched its prey.
The blood-stained Silence remained motionless upon the gentle swells, her mute crew simply watching in eerie silence, as if they had abandoned all thought of struggle or escape.
Theon studied the tactical map and could not suppress a deep sense of mourning for his uncle Crow's Eye, despite everything the man had done.
Joffrey moved to the port rail of his flagship, white-gloved hands gripping the iron barrier as he gazed down into the dark, surging waters below.
"Crow's Eye..." he murmured, though whether in greeting or farewell, none could say.