Oakwood pressed his flaying dagger against the captive's thumb webbing. Screams shredded the night, keener than a harpoon tearing flesh.
"Bones are the Drowned God's harp… finger bones the keys…" he muttered, voice hoarse. With a flick of his wrist, the blade danced like a silverfish in blood.
Skin peeled back from the fingertip, revealing trembling crimson tendons, while beads of blood slid along the dagger's spine, catching the moonlight like a fractured ruby necklace.
"The spice ship's route… the number of guards… speak!" Balon's roar cut through the deck's terror.
The captive stammered, producing only garbled syllables. Balon's axe fell—CRACK! The little finger snapped off at the base, rolling to Euron's salt-crusted boot.
"Lies!" Balon's teeth, yellowed with sea salt, gleamed. The axe rose and fell again. Another finger severed. Then, tapping the remaining little finger with the bloodied haft: "The Lysene jewels—what hold are they in?"
The captive's resistance broke. Bone fragments and blood foam splattered across Euron's boots as he screamed the location: "Port side! Second cargo hold, port side!"
Euron moved silently. His boot pointed to an old arrow wound on the captive's shoulder. "This… three-bladed arrowhead? You're a mercenary, aren't you?"
He pressed a handful of wet iron filings and salt into the wound, grinding mercilessly. "A mercenary's eyes measure life and death. How many armed men do you have?"
The man finally gasped the truth: "Nine… including two unarmed attendants!"
Another voice muttered, delirious: "Braavos… free trade port…"
Two hours later, after interrogating three broken men, the intelligence coalesced: two merchant ships, laden with rare Tyrosh spices, soft Myr silks, and glittering Lysene jewels, lightly guarded by only nine men.
Hork licked congealed blood from his dagger, eyes bloodshot and greedy. "They'll pass through Widow's Strait at moonset tomorrow night."
Euron crouched low, offering stale water to the barely conscious captives.
"Tomorrow night. Widow's Strait. Two ships. Nine men. Any misstep, and the Drowned God himself will watch your slow, bloody end. Flayed, carved, tied to the rocks, left for days to the tide…"
He paused, voice softening with a hint of calculated mercy: "Speak now, or you lose any chance at life. Think carefully. Have you forgotten anything?"
A tremulous voice escaped: "…wildfire…"
The word hit like lightning. Wildfire—a rare, highly flammable substance, secretly stored on merchant ships, capable of reducing even the sturdiest vessel to ashes. Its secrets were guarded by pyromancers, a craft strictly overseen by King Aerys II in King's Landing.
On the fourteenth day, night swallowed the sea. Clouds blotting the moon, the Silence slithered silently through jagged reefs, hull nearly invisible, figurehead faintly glinting.
Euron caught an exotic scent in the wind—the sweet warmth of nutmeg, mingling with sandalwood and faint iron tang of blood. His lips parted silently, like a predator sensing its prey.
The merchant fleet sailed obliviously into the trap. On the lead ship, two guards fussed over a deflated wineskin beneath the dim glow of lanterns. Their laughter was swallowed by the roar of the waves.
"Fire!" Dagmer's roar was drowned instantly by the ocean. Twelve longbows in the darkness loosed poisoned arrows, the guards cut down silently, their bodies collapsing like harvested wheat.
Balon's grappling hook bit into the enemy rail. Swinging across the void, scimitar arcing, he severed the crow's nest archer's windpipe before the man could react.
Oakwood and his team ghosted into the cargo hold, smothering barrels marked with danger symbols under seawater-soaked blankets. Inside: wildfire, hell's spark in a barrel.
A young attendant faltered with a torch. Oakwood's backhand ended the hesitation. The man's head rolled, expression frozen in terror.
Glenn's flaying knife found the helmsman's ankle, cutting tendons with a quiet snap. The ship's direction now uncontrolled, the crew panicked.
Dagmer's voice cut through the chaos: "The Drowned God claims only souls, not cargo! Throw the dead overboard, but touch not a barrel! Keep your eyes open, or I'll flay you myself!"
His words, rough as reef rock, carried the scent of blood and greed. Death ruled these waters, and the Ironborn were its most efficient ministers.