The urgent wailing of war horns echoed across Greyshield's blood-soaked shores, their harsh voices cutting through the screams of the dying and the crash of collapsing buildings.
The Ironborn who had been reveling in their wanton destruction throughout the island's settlements froze mid-motion, turning toward the source of those commanding calls with expressions of growing unease.
"Look there!" one reaver shouted, pointing toward the western horizon.
"Drowned God preserve us," gasped another, his weathered face draining of color. "How can there be so many ships? Am I caught in some fever dream?" The man shook his head violently, as if the violent motion might dispel the impossible vision spreading across the sea.
"Golden banners?" Under the dying sun's amber light, countless masts bore gleaming standards that blazed like captured fire, whether painted in true gold or merely blessed by the sunset's touch.
"The Redwyne Fleet?!" The name emerged from several throats simultaneously.
Without warning, arriving at a time that defied all logic, yet this seemed the only explanation that made sense. Hundreds of ships stretched across the horizon like a wooden wall built upon the waves.
On the entire western coast of the continent, what other naval force could command such overwhelming strength?
"No! Those are Baratheon colors!" an Ironborn immediately contradicted, trusting his keen eyes despite the distance. Though blurred by leagues of water, those banners clearly bore black and crimson—the crowned stag and golden lion displayed side by side.
"King Joffrey?! The royal fleet?! How is such a thing possible?"
Disbelief rippled through the gathered reavers like wind across wheat.
"Don't forget where we stand!" one voice called above the growing murmur. "This is the Shield Islands!"
The royal fleet would need to sail around the entire continent of Westeros to reach these waters—a journey of months, not days.
Some Ironborn had already begun gathering their plunder with practiced efficiency. "Who cares where they sailed from! While there's still time, back to the ships! Run!"
"Cowards!" sneered the bolder warriors, casting disdainful glances at their faint-hearted companions. "Have you forgotten the kraken that swims beneath us?"
"You're the fool!" came an indignant retort from the ranks.
"So many great ships—can one kraken sink them all? Even if the beast possesses such strength, even if it survives the attempt, such work would take considerable time. By then..." The speaker's grim chuckle finished the thought more effectively than words.
Hearing this pragmatic assessment, many Ironborn found their confidence wavering. Eyes flickered with uncertainty, faces betrayed growing doubt, and thoughts turned inexorably toward retreat.
"To the ships, at least!" called one reaver, already moving toward the beach where their longships waited.
"Aye, that's right!" another agreed with desperate enthusiasm. "Didn't King Euron's horn command us back to the vessels? This is a direct order!" A small group abandoned their heaviest treasures and rushed toward their particular longship with undignified haste.
Others quickly followed their example, abandoning the systematic looting that had occupied them mere moments before.
Under the combined pressure of royal horns and approaching enemy fleet, hundreds of Ironborn began their evacuation in increasingly panicked waves. Fear spread like plague among their ranks, transforming what should have been an orderly withdrawal into chaotic flight.
The briefly quieted town erupted once more into noise and confusion.
"What in the drowned god's name is happening!" Within a stone house near the harbor, Balon Sunderly—a reaver still wearing gilded Lannister plate stripped from some unfortunate knight—impatiently yanked up his leather trousers.
The young island girl cowering beneath him quickly gathered her torn garments, retreating to the farthest corner with a mixture of relief and lingering terror etched across her bruised features.
Balon Sunderly sneered at her obvious distress. "What are you playing at, wench? I'm certainly not the first man to have you! What's the matter—do you find me ugly? Not as pleasing as those smooth-tongued pretty boys who whisper sweet lies?"
The girl hugged her knees to her chest and trembled, not daring to offer any response that might further provoke his volatile temper.
Bang!
The chamber's wooden door exploded inward as an Ironborn warrior kicked it from its hinges. "Captain Balon! Did you not hear the horns? Many great ships approach from the west—we're evacuating! Make haste!"
Balon Sunderly glanced down at the terrified girl and sighed with genuine regret.
"Consider yourself unfortunate, little dove. You'll never have the privilege of experiencing what I offer. Truth be told, no woman who's known my touch has ever complained—many even pay me for the pleasure!"
The messenger at the doorway pursed his lips slightly, wisely choosing silence over commentary.
The girl pressed her head lower, confusion and desperate hope warring in her dark eyes. Had she somehow survived this nightmare?
"Come then!" Balon Sunderly donned his remaining armor and hefted a pair of fine steel war axes, their edges gleaming with murderous intent.
The girl's ears pricked up, hope blossoming like a flower after rain.
Crack~
The girl's skull suddenly caved inward as the axe blade found its mark. Blood flowed down from the crack splitting her forehead, sliding past eyes that grew dim with approaching death, carrying away the last glimmer of hope they had contained.
"Excellent work, Captain Balon! Clean strike!" praised the messenger, genuinely appreciating his captain's deadly precision.
"Hmph!" Balon Sunderly wrenched his great axe free from the dead girl's skull with practiced ease. "No one takes what belongs to me! If I cannot carry something away, I'll destroy it rather than leave it for those pampered southern lordlings!"
The messenger had grown accustomed to such displays. "We truly must depart now—those ships will reach us within two or three hours at most."
"I heard you the first time!"
Balon Sunderly cast one final resentful look at his victim, then delivered a vicious kick that sent her corpse sprawling in an undignified heap. Only when he had arranged her remains in a sufficiently degrading posture did satisfaction finally cross his scarred features.
The war horns continued their urgent call as the reavers abandoned their stone house sanctuary...
The Ironborn boarded their longships with desperate haste, forming a defensive crescent near Greyshield's harbor with the Silence at its heart.
King Euron showed no inclination to flee despite the longships' superior speed. Was he setting some elaborate trap? Planning to use the kraken's overwhelming power to achieve victory against impossible odds?
The Ironborn discussed these possibilities in hushed tones. Though many felt distinctly uncomfortable serving as bait in their king's schemes, who among them would dare rebel against both Crow's Eye and the sea monster that followed his commands?
The longships had no choice but to obey whatever orders their mad king might issue.
Yet the golden fleet's behavior proved most peculiar.
After approaching for perhaps a quarter hour more, the enemy vessels suddenly halted their advance roughly a mile distant. Rather than closing for battle, they spread into an extended line that stretched across the horizon like a golden chain.
What manner of strategy is this?
The Ironborn felt equal parts surprise at this unexpected development and growing unease at facing the unknown.
At such distance, their lookouts could clearly identify the banners flying from those distant masts—King Joffrey's crowned stag and Lannister's golden lion displayed in perfect harmony!
The two forces should be mortal enemies.
Ever since following Crow's Eye from King's Landing, every Ironborn warrior understood the basic facts of what had transpired at Pyke.
King Joffrey's envoy had arrived with false friendship, conspirating to murder King Balon before manipulating the succession ceremony to transform House Greyjoy and the Iron Islands into willing puppets.
Crow's Eye had learned of this conspiracy and returned home hoping to prevent such disaster, yet despite his efforts, all had been in vain.
King Joffrey now controlled Pyke, having slaughtered hundreds of named captains while preparing to sail for King's Landing with every longship the Iron Islands possessed!
Naturally, not every Ironborn believed such claims completely.
Yet regardless of specific details, certain truths seemed undeniable: King Joffrey coveted the Iron Islands, Pyke had suffered some great catastrophe, and the captains faced mortal danger.
That knowledge proved sufficient.
Joffrey dreams of becoming master of the Iron Islands?
Never!
Any reaver who respected the Old Way—who valued the freedom and courage that defined true Ironborn—would never submit to such a creature!
Thus they had chosen to seize their longships and follow the legendary captain of the Silence, that truest of Iron-born reavers—Euron "Crow's Eye" Greyjoy.
Later had come an even greater revelation.
A real kraken! A hundred-foot leviathan capable of smashing warships with a single tentacle!
Drowned God be praised!
The Iron Islands stood but one step away from supreme glory!
But now...
Strange silence spread across the waters between the fleets, leaving the Ironborn to glance about in growing bewilderment. What should they do? How should they proceed?
All eyes turned toward the Silence, seeking guidance from King Euron.
Crow's Eye waited with apparent patience. Before making any decisive move, he needed to understand what powers Joffrey's fleet possessed—and whether those forces could truly compel even the kraken to retreat.
The great fleet's defensive line continued to extend, forming an unbroken chain that blocked the entire seaward horizon.
Surrounded? Every Ironborn understood the tactical situation immediately. Yet what purpose could such distant encirclement serve? So long as the enemy maintained their current range, the longships could simply avoid approaching those threatening vessels.
At that moment, the golden fleet finally revealed its true nature.
Bang!
Dozens of warships erupted in flame and fury, belching forth great clouds of white smoke while thunder rolled across the waves.
Pa~
Whirr~
Towering columns of water suddenly erupted around the longship formation, sending spray and surging waves high enough to nearly swamp the low-riding vessels.
Yet when the spray cleared, the Ironborn stared in horror at a sea filled with floating wooden planks and debris.
Where was Balon Sunderly's longship?!
Bang!
Another water spout erupted closer to the survivors!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
More and more Ironborn finally comprehended what they faced.
White smoke, orange flames, and flying steel brought by devices that defied all understanding...