The afternoon sun cast its golden rays from the southwest, illuminating the starboard flanks of the dreaded Iron Fleet as it cut through tranquil waters toward its unsuspecting prey.
Beneath that deceptively peaceful light sailed a vessel that had earned its fearsome reputation through countless acts of savagery—the red-hulled, black-sailed Silence, flagship of the man who called himself Euron King.
The ship had acquired a new ornament since departing Fair Isle, one that adorned her bow in grotesque mockery of traditional figureheads.
Lashed to a spar beside the iron maiden that had long graced the Silence's prow was a living girl, her naked form exposed to salt spray and cruel winds. She possessed the long limbs and high breasts of youth, with arms stretched wide in unwilling embrace of the sea's harsh kiss. The wind whipped her hair about a face frozen in silent despair.
Those who had known her in life might still recognize Mia Hetherspoon, bastard daughter of Fair Isle—though death would have been a mercy compared to her current torment.
Save for the color of living flesh and the dark stains of dried blood that painted her pale skin, she resembled nothing so much as the black iron maiden figurehead she had been positioned to mirror.
Nor was she alone in her suffering.
King Euron had decreed that this particular amusement should be shared throughout his fleet, and so the bows of his longships displayed a grotesque gallery of the war's spoils. Lord Farman hung in chains of iron, while his daughter Jeyne had been granted a place of honor beside him. Septons and knights completed the collection—all those who had dared oppose the Crow's Eye's advance now served as decorations for his victory.
"Let them taste the sea spray at our bows," Euron had proclaimed with that mad gleam in his mismatched eyes. "It is the Drowned God's kiss, wet and salty, as all such kisses should be."
The Ironborn knew these words for truth, as surely as they knew the taste of salt water and the bite of steel.
The sea was indeed salty, and this was indeed their god's blessing made manifest in suffering.
What is dead may never die!
The raging waters belonged to the Ironborn by ancient right! The Iron Islands would claim dominion over all Seven Kingdoms, as their ancestors had dreamed in ages past!
The invincible sea monster would shatter the pathetic shields that Highgarden had raised against them!
To that glorious end, the mighty longship fleet had sailed straight from Fair Isle toward the Shield Islands, keeping well clear of any coastline for days on end. Even when they had passed beyond sight of land entirely, venturing into the deep waters where leviathans dwelt and strange currents flowed, the surface remained calm as a millpond while favorable winds filled their black sails.
The fleet suffered not so much as a broken oar or torn sail, as if the very elements conspired to aid their passage.
Surely this could mean only one thing—the Drowned God himself had blessed this expedition!
The confidence of Euron's reavers swelled beyond all previous measure, each man believing that sweet victory already lay within his grasping fingers.
And truly, they possessed every reason for such certainty.
The longship fleet had approached its target in complete silence, like sharks rising from the depths. Warriors had honed their blades to razor sharpness while contemplating the slaughter to come. Most importantly, the invincible sea monster—that creature of legend made flesh—escorted them from beneath the waves, its presence felt rather than seen.
What force in all the world could stand against such power?
There it lay before them now—the first of their targets!
Greyshield Island spread across the horizon, its harbor clearly visible to keen Ironborn eyes. As Euron had predicted, the island appeared completely unprepared for assault, its defenses so pathetically weak as to be virtually nonexistent.
The fleet abandoned all pretense of stealth, war horns blaring their harsh music while drums thundered out the rhythm of approaching doom!
"Smash the shields!" came the battle cry that echoed across the water.
Every reaver aboard those longships harbored burning hatred for these detestable islands and their presumptuous lords.
"The Mander shall be ours once more!"
The great river that flowed deep into the heart of the Reach beckoned like a highway paved with gold. Its waters ran gentle and wide, filled with treacherous reefs and shifting sandbars that would trap larger vessels but posed no threat to shallow-drafted longships. While most seagoing ships dared not venture past Highgarden's watchful towers, the Iron Fleet could sail upstream all the way to Bitterbridge if they chose.
It was practically a raiding route crafted by the gods themselves for Ironborn use.
"Take Highgarden!" The ultimate prize lay at the end of that watery road.
The Iron Islands would not overlook such a divine gift.
In ancient times, their ancestors had sailed those very waters with impunity, plundering the fertile banks of the Mander and its countless tributaries while the weak farmers of the Reach could only cower in their hovels. Terror had ruled wherever longship oars touched water, and the sight of black sails had sent entire villages fleeing inland like startled rabbits.
Until some forgotten king of the Reach had armed the fishermen dwelling on four small islands at the river's mouth, commanding them to serve as his shields against Ironborn raiders.
Cursed shields!
Two thousand years had passed since that day, yet still the gray-bearded old men maintained their ancient vigil from crumbling watchtowers, following traditions older than memory itself.
The moment they glimpsed a longship upon the horizon, signal fires would blaze to life, carrying their warning from hilltop to hilltop, from island to island. Alarm! Enemy! Raiders approach!
Those burning beacons gave the fishermen courage they had never rightfully possessed.
Nets and plows would be abandoned for swords and axes. Their lords would emerge from stone halls, leading whatever knights and men-at-arms they could muster. From Greenshield to Greyshield, from Oakenshield to Southshield, war horns would echo across the waters while hidden ships emerged from moss-covered caves along treacherous coastlines, oars flashing like the wings of seabirds as they poured into the straits to block the Mander's mouth and drive any raiders who had penetrated that far back into the waiting embrace of steel and flame.
For centuries, the longships had been denied their ancient hunting grounds.
But this time would prove different.
The Iron Fleet attacked Greyshield with brazen confidence, even as beacon fires blazed from every watchtower and warning flames leaped from peak to peak toward the other islands lying eastward.
The Shield Islands were alerted to their peril, as Euron had known they would be.
Yet for the moment, Greyshield possessed only a handful of fragile merchant vessels and patrol boats—gnats before the hurricane of Euron's fleet.
And when the Shield Islands' dozens of warships finally arrived? When they sailed forth in all their vaunted strength?
Let the shields come!
The sea monster would shatter them like glass upon stone! The waters off Greyshield would become a graveyard for cowardly Reachmen, their bones bleaching on the seabed while crabs feasted on their flesh!
Hundreds of reavers stormed ashore without a backward glance, hacking down any soul brave or foolish enough to stand in their path as they advanced toward the island's scattered villages. Not one worried about being cut off from their ships—indeed, they hoped desperately for such an outcome.
Who, after all, was truly the prey in this hunt?
The slaughter and chaos consuming the island grew more terrible with each passing moment.
Men died with wails of despair or roars of futile defiance, while women struggled in agony, their screams of terror echoing across blood-soaked ground. Young children sobbed or wailed in confusion and misery, unable to comprehend the nightmare that had descended upon their peaceful home.
Yet the beacon fires could only burn helplessly in their towers, and the guards within the island's small castle dared not venture forth to face such overwhelming numbers.
All prayed desperately for the arrival of the Shield Fleet.
Come quickly and protect the innocent!
Come swiftly and destroy these longships! Kill every last one of these vile Ironborn!
Even if the entire fleet had gathered at Oakenshield, it was at most half a day's sail distant—less, if favorable winds aided their passage!
Come now, before it grows too late!
Euron "Crow's Eye" Greyjoy remained aboard the Silence, standing at her bow to admire his handiwork with the satisfaction of an artist contemplating a masterpiece.
The two maidens adorning his ship's prow could not help but witness the tragic scenes unfolding upon Greyshield's shores.
Yet both remained locked in silence.
The black iron figurehead possessed neither thoughts nor voice with which to protest.
Mia Hetherspoon no longer possessed a tongue.
The torments she had endured these past days made the loss of that small piece of flesh seem almost insignificant, and she often wondered why the Stranger had not yet claimed her. Death would have been a mercy beyond price.
Even if her heart held a thousand words of rage, sorrow, and regret, they would all die unspoken in her throat. The complex emotions churning within her soul transcended any simple term like "regret"—they encompassed a universe of pain that no mortal language could adequately express.
Hope had abandoned her as surely as the tide abandons the shore.
The sea wind howled with renewed fury, scattering her hair across eyes that could still see the world's cruelty and ears that could still hear the sounds of suffering. She closed those eyes at last, finding that sight no longer mattered.
What could possibly be worse than what she had already endured? What remained worth hoping for? Nothing but pain and darkness stretched before her.
Perhaps this was simply the fate that awaited all bastard daughters—to be used and discarded by those with power over life and death.
Yet another bastard daughter felt entirely different emotions as events unfolded around her.
Every warship belonging to Oakenshield had weighed anchor and now sailed at full speed toward beleaguered Greyshield, their crews driven by desperate urgency.
The situation demanded swift adaptation. Traditional fleet structures and the new royal reforms would need to accommodate each other as quickly as possible, with the Shield Islands clearly making the greater concessions to expediency.
Thus it was that Falia Flowers, bearing the newly minted title of "liaison officer," found herself standing upon the deck of her family's flagship as a true officer of the fleet.
All of it had transpired in the space of mere hours.
The bastard daughter whose circumstances had changed so dramatically struggled to maintain appropriate gravity, yet her eyes sparkled with barely contained joy and wonder at her transformed situation.
So this is what it feels like to give commands. This is how the world appears from a warship's deck.
Reality surpassed even her most ambitious dreams.
She had also solved the mysteries that had puzzled her during the banquet's strange conversations.
"Divine grace" referred to the magnificent light screens that now provided her with information and capabilities beyond mortal understanding.
The "First Fleet" was simply her father's original naval force, though transformed beyond recognition by royal improvements.
Each vessel had grown to match the flagship's impressive size, while their decks bristled with the fearsome weapons called "cannons"—devices whose destructive power she had witnessed firsthand during their demonstration.
Having seen what those iron tubes could accomplish, Falia Flowers felt no concern about the coming naval battle.
Mere sea monsters. Mere Ironborn.
Such primitive threats would crumble before the king's technological marvels like sand castles before the tide.
Moreover, the most reassuring factor of all remained yet to be revealed.
His Grace himself approaches...