The Sunset Sea lay to the west of the continent of Westeros, a vast and ancient body of water that bordered The Reach, the Westerlands, the North, the Iron Islands, the Riverlands, and even the frozen lands beyond the Wall. It stretched alongside the entire continent, a silent witness to countless voyages, wars, and legends.
On most days, the Sunset Sea was calm and unassuming.
But today was different.
A fleet of nearly sixty warships and longships cut steadily through the blue waters, their sails taut in the wind as they advanced toward the western coast. The rhythm of oars striking the sea echoed like a war drum, steady and relentless.
At the head of the fleet sailed a massive longship. Mounted upon its prow was a huge iron ram shaped like a kraken, forged in dark grey metal that seemed almost black under the sun. Its presence alone radiated menace.
Painted upon the sails above were enormous golden krakens set against a black background.
These banners announced their identity clearly and without shame.
House Greyjoy of Pyke.
The name of the flagship matched its fearsome appearance: Great Kraken.
Unlike the smaller longships favored for swift raids, the Great Kraken was a vessel built for dominance at sea. Its hull was broad and powerful, designed not merely to strike coastal villages but to seize and hold control of the waters themselves.
Standing at its rail was the Lord of the Iron Islands.
Balon Greyjoy was lean and hard, his face sharply defined as if carved from stone by relentless waves. His black eyes were cold and piercing, and his long, streaked hair fell down his narrow back, fluttering faintly in the sea breeze. Time had not softened him; if anything, it had honed him into something more severe.
His gaze was fixed upon the distant outline of Casterly Rock.
From this distance, the legendary fortress appeared small and indistinct, little more than a dark shape against the coastline. The land itself was barely visible, blurred by sea mist and distance.
Yet Balon saw it clearly.
"Brother—"
The voice came from behind him.
Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, approached with heavy steps. Streaks of grey ran through his hair, but age had done nothing to diminish his towering, broad-shouldered frame. Compared to Balon's gaunt severity, Victarion looked like a living weapon.
He wore heavy black armor etched with simple, brutal lines. A massive battle axe hung across his back, its blade darkened with old blood that had long since dried into a brown-black stain. In his hand he carried a helmet carved into the likeness of a kraken.
"Victarion," Balon replied without turning. "Are the preparations complete?"
He paused briefly before adding, his tone sharp with meaning, "This is a rare opportunity—and a legitimate one."
Victarion's lips curled into a cold smile. He reached back and unhooked the great axe from his back, resting it casually against the deck.
"The Kenning of Kayce and the Prester of Feastfires have already served as examples," Victarion said grimly. "Casterly Rock will be no different. The blood of Rodrik and Maron will be answered today."
At the mention of his dead sons, Balon's eyes hardened further. His stare toward Casterly Rock grew colder still.
"Yes," Balon said quietly. "Today is the day."
When Robert Baratheon had called the banners of the Seven Kingdoms against House Lannister, he had conspicuously omitted the Iron Islands. No raven had flown to Pyke bearing the king's seal.
But Balon Greyjoy did not need an invitation.
After nine long years of enforced silence and submission, the Lord of the Iron Islands had been watching carefully. He followed every scrap of news from the mainland, every rumor of troop movements and battles. When it became clear that Tywin Lannister had chosen not to defend the Westerlands but instead to march east and take the offensive, Balon knew the moment had come.
This time, unlike before, he could claim justification.
He summoned Victarion and ordered the Iron Fleet to assemble. Longships were readied, crews gathered, and axes sharpened. Whatever the king's intentions, Balon would follow the Old Way.
The true reason for the Ironborn's southern voyage was simple and personal: vengeance.
Rodrik and Maron Greyjoy were dead.
Blood demanded blood.
"They say Casterly Rock has never been breached," Balon said after a moment, a thin smile touching his lips.
Victarion understood him at once. He raised his helmet and placed it over his head, his voice emerging muffled and cold from within.
"From today onward," he said, "it will be."
With that, Victarion turned and strode away. As Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, he had a battle to command.
He had barely taken a dozen steps when a sudden, urgent horn blast sounded from the crow's nest above.
Long.
Sharp.
Repeated.
Unknown sails.
And many of them.
Balon's brows rose slightly. "What is it?" he demanded. "Lannister ships?"
He frowned. "No… the signal is wrong. They're coming from the south. Lannisport?"
Victarion turned back immediately. "The numbers don't match," he said quickly. "That horn means at least a hundred warships. Signal them. Find out whose banners they fly."
An Ironborn sailor rushed to obey.
As the distance between the two fleets closed, the truth became clear.
Red sails.
Wine-dark hulls.
The banners of House Redwyne of the Arbor.
The Redwyne fleet—one of the three greatest fleets in the Seven Kingdoms. Only the Iron Fleet itself and the Royal Fleet under Stannis Baratheon rivaled it.
Victarion's jaw tightened beneath his helmet. "What should we do? We've already detached ships to garrison Faircastle, Kayce, and Feastfires."
Balon understood the unspoken concern. Their current force was outnumbered three to one.
For a brief moment, the thought lingered.
Then Balon decided.
"Signal the fleet," he ordered calmly. "Turn to face them. Prepare for defense."
His eyes burned with defiance.
"If this is war," Balon Greyjoy declared, "the Ironborn will never fear enemies from the sea."
Victarion did not hesitate. He turned and made for his flagship, the Lord Vickon, to prepare for battle.
---
Aboard the Redwyne flagship Queen Alysanne, Lord Paxter Redwyne stood within his cabin, holding a finely crafted brass spyglass from Myr. The three-decked galley cut through the waves with regal grace, its burgundy sails full and proud, its oars painted in gold and white.
More than a hundred warships followed in its wake, making the fleet resemble a queen traveling with her court.
Lord Paxter lowered the spyglass and handed it to his eldest son, Ser Horas Redwyne.
"It's the Iron Fleet," Horas said moments later, teeth clenched. "Those damned pirates."
Paxter's expression did not change.
"If it were you," he asked calmly, "how would you handle this?"
"We outnumber them," Horas replied eagerly. "We crush them."
Paxter tapped the sea chart on his desk. "With whose blood?"
Horas fell silent.
After a moment, he asked more carefully, "Then what should we do, Father?"
Paxter smiled faintly. "What do you think Balon Greyjoy intends to do to Casterly Rock?"
Horas scowled. "They've already plundered Faircastle, Kayce, and Feastfires. They massacre and raid like animals."
"They seek vengeance," Paxter corrected gently. "And they issue a warning—to all who covet Lannister gold."
He turned his gaze toward the distant sea.
"But we need not dirty our hands for this."
Horas looked confused. "Then what?"
"We wait," Paxter said. "Lady Olenna understands."
---
Along the Ocean Road, eight thousand cavalry thundered toward Casterly Rock.
At their head rode Ser Garlan Tyrell, the Gallant.
The Tyrell host moved swiftly and in good order, banners snapping in the wind. As the second-wealthiest house in the realm, the Tyrells possessed immense reserves of men and resources, and their mobilization reflected it.
Lady Olenna had chosen carefully.
Randyll Tarly marched south to contain Dorne. The Redwyne fleet sailed west. The Tyrell host advanced by land.
"Ser Garlan," a squire called, "Casterly Rock lies ahead. What are your orders?"
Garlan turned his gaze toward the Sunset Sea, where two great fleets edged closer to confrontation.
"Surround Casterly Rock," he said after a moment. "But do not attack."
"We will speak first."
As the army closed in, Casterly Rock loomed above them—silent, imposing, and strangely still.
Garlan frowned.
"Why is there no response?" he murmured.
The Rock did not answer.
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