Pyke Castle, the Iron Islands.
The Iron Fleet won another great victory on the Sunset Sea today!! The Iron Fleet is invincible!! The Drowned God blesses us!!High within the towering Bloodkeep hall, jubilation filled the air. Coins looted from the Westerlands were flung about like a rain of silver, clattering down as the wild Ironborn warriors fought shamelessly over them—far more fun than finger dancing or throwing axes. Casks of wine from Lannisport were smashed open one after another, drunk freely. Every so often, empty glass bottles were hurled out the windows, shattering into pieces at the base of the Saltspire tower—and with a sharp, piercing scream, a woman who had refused to pour wine, a so-called salt wife, was also thrown down alive. She died without question at the foot of the tower, her face ruined, limbs broken apart. Only her pale yellow hair spread out and fluttered in the sea wind, like a drifting, fallen flower.
"Anyone else want to keep her company?" Euron licked the mouth of his bottle smugly.
The remaining women seized from the Westerlands trembled in terror, forced to put on eager smiles and continue serving the bravest warriors. The men roared with laughter—this was everything the Old Way promised!!
Balon and his brothers were in high spirits. The king had sent a young prince of Summerhall to serve as Lord Commander of the punitive fleet—just a child who hadn't even grown all his hair yet. So what if he could swing a Valyrian steel sword? What was that worth on the open sea? Defeat after defeat! The sea was the Ironborn's fortress!!
Rodrik immediately declared he would capture the prince alive and extort a ransom from the Iron Throne!!
The hall erupted in laughter. Euron took a great gulp of ale. "As long as we find where Viserys's main camp is, we can launch a sudden strike! Once we have him, we can even force the king to acknowledge the Iron Islands' independence."
"And if the king refuses?" someone asked.
"Then he'll receive his son's hands, feet, eyeballs—and his silver-haired scalp along with them." Balon chuckled from the Seastone Chair. "Whether the prince's a coward or not—let's hope he is. At least then we'll have a good show."
The Greyjoy brothers, sons, and nephews burst into hearty laughter once more. At that moment, a trusted man from Blacktyde arrived with news. Ironborn longships had ambushed a small detachment of Riverlands naval vessels foolish enough to patrol today. On one ship, they found a dead noble, likely hacked down by an axe in the melee. While looting his body, the Ironborn unexpectedly discovered a letter bearing the sigil of the three-headed dragon.
Euron took the thin piece of parchment, broke the wax seal, and read an order from Prince Viserys: continual defeats at sea could not go on. The day after tomorrow, the royal fleet would land simultaneously on Old Wyk and Pyke!
Those wandering ships had been scouting the islands.
Prince Viserys was eager to end this wretched war as soon as possible, because he—"Damn it, the castles on this island are crude beyond belief! All I can see are the high mountains across the sea! And nothing but dull stones everywhere—not a single one looks like the legendary beauties! I can't stand it! I want this over with quickly! I want to go back to Summerhall, full of wine and lovely women!"
"An arrogant idiot," Balon's son said disdainfully.
Euron chuckled. Deeply familiar with these waters and islands, the seasoned sailor quickly grasped the crucial detail: the place the prince complained about—where his royal field headquarters was stationed—could only be Fair Isle off the western coast of the Westerlands! The location of the Targaryen commander! The main camp!!
Balon laughed loudly. "Tomorrow! We'll show that brat his colors!!"
The next day, a hundred Iron Fleet warships put to sea in a mighty, awe-inspiring procession. Sweeping across the Sunset Sea, they neared Fair Isle before night had even fallen. Beneath the slanting sun, more than a hundred royal allied warships finally appeared head-on. Seeing the mixed banners of the Reach and House Targaryen flying together, Balon and the others became even more certain that they were closing in on the very heart of the enemy's command.
"Destroy them! Ram them!!" shouted Victarion, the vanguard commander in his horned helm, drawing his axe as he gave the order.
An encounter battle. The Ironborn ships were massive, iron plates sheathing their wooden hulls. With ferocious momentum, they accelerated straight toward the enemy. The so-called royal navy panicked, managing only a hurried volley of arrows and bolts in defense. The Ironborn were well prepared—round iron shields rose everywhere, and they laughed as iron arrowheads clanged crisply against them and fell away.
"Oh, Roy, you idiot, you got an arrow in the ass!"
The burly Ironborn yanked it out and spat. "Mainland arrowheads aren't even as nasty as a sea snake's bite!"
The attack was no more than a drizzle. The Ironborn grew even more provocative, smashing their greatswords and axes against their shields again and again."Crush them! Crush them!!"
After firing a few volleys, the royal fleet saw the Iron Fleet cutting through the waves and drawing ever closer. One by one, they turned their ships and fled toward Fair Isle. Balon decided to pursue—his Iron Fleet was invincible! His Ironborn would storm the island and capture the Targaryen alive!!
On Fair Isle, atop the keep of House Farman, a striking black banner with a red three-headed dragon flapped in the wind. The sea breeze howled without end, tangling Prince Viserys's silver hair. He took out a dragonbone hairpin and fixed it in place, then calmly lifted a goblet of red wine and took a sip.
Euron and Balon's judgment had been correct. Not only Viserys, but his Hand Tyrion, the father and three sons of the North, and the Robert brothers of the Stormlands—this group of high-ranking allied commanders—were all indeed here. And clearly, most of them were far from calm.
"Hey! My men haven't even landed! There aren't enough troops to defend this place!" Robert was the first to shout at the silver-haired youth. "What exactly are you planning? Waiting to be captured by the Ironborn?"
Viserys glanced at him and replied evenly, "Even if you want to leave now, it's too late. If you go down from the castle, I guarantee you'll die very ugly."
"Bloody hell!!" Fully armored, Robert gripped his warhammer in fury. "You'll cry later!! Even if the royal fleet turns back to strike the Iron Fleet, they'll still land here!!"
In truth, that was exactly what Duke Rickard Stark and his three sons were thinking. Rickard couldn't help feeling tense and wanted to persuade Viserys—
Brandon, on the other hand, showed no fear at all. The second son, Ned, didn't understand why Viserys insisted on keeping them all here, but as a knight, he refused to flee. To stand with his father and brother, to be loyal to the king and fight to the end—this was his creed.
"Your Highness," Duke Rickard began.
Viserys waved him off. "I intend to show you a sight rarely seen in a thousand years." The prince smiled faintly. "Just wait."
"You're mad," Robert said, already hearing the shrill cries coming from the sea—the Iron Fleet! They were here!!!
Holding his wine goblet, Viserys walked toward the highest terrace of the castle. The sun had set, torches lit his silver hair in a blinding glow, making him the perfect target.
"The Ironborn's first arrow will kill you for sure!" Robert cursed.
Viserys ignored him completely. Tyrion followed close behind, silent.
Viserys raised his goblet, gazing calmly through a blood-red sheen at everything spread before him. The sea channel between Fair Isle and the Westerlands mainland grew darker as night fell. Torches flared to life across the black Iron Fleet, advancing menacingly from the horizon, ever closer—madly chasing the royal fleet. Ships flying Targaryen banners fled north like homeless dogs. Darkness fell, the sea deepened in color, and large, spreading masses of black substance began leaking and blooming from the sterns of the royal ships.
The nearest Iron longship had already closed in on the castle; even the farthest had entered the strait.
Viserys nodded to Tyrion.
The little devil snapped his fingers. Moments later, a pillar of fire and thick smoke rose into the sky from the island—
"Hahaha, they're sending a distress signal!!" the Greyjoy commander mocked from the Iron Fleet. "He's calling the royal ships back! Wants someone to save him!! Those ships are running as fast as they can! Hahaha! Whoever captures the Targaryen brat first gets a hundred gold dragons!!"
The Ironborn howled, rowing even more fiercely as they lunged toward Fair Isle. Vanguard commander Victarion drew ever closer! He could already see clearly the small figure standing atop the castle!!
His ship's keel passed over unknown black floating matter.
At that moment, a large ship moored beneath the castle—unarmed with bows or ballistae and not even looking like a warship, its hull long wrapped in wet animal hides—also began leaking. The same wet, black, viscous liquid spread across the water, drifting wider and wider with the waves. The same thing happened at the far end of the strait, where a ghostlike, abandoned little boat lay unnoticed, its bottom leaking as well.
Under cover of night, no Ironborn noticed anything amiss. Several currents of black liquid converged. From the direction the royal fleet had fled, another tide of the same dark substance drifted in—so much, so much—spreading with the waves, staining the bay nearly as black as cuttlefish ink.
Victarion was ecstatic! He brandished his great shield and axe. His ship was the first to reach the beach below the castle!! The Ironborn were about to land!! The defenses here were weaker than Lannisport!
Cursing, Robert turned to rally every man he could, rushing toward the castle gate to defend it. Brandon and Ned followed at once, sharing his intent.
Viserys slowly picked up a bow, fastening a burning strip of firecloth to the arrowhead. His partner Tyrion scrambled up onto the battlements, clutching a wine bottle stuffed with rags. Grimacing, he lit it."Hey!!"
The dwarf heaved it toward the sea with all his strength.
At the same instant, Viserys loosed his arrow, the flash of flame guiding it true as it struck the moored ship—
BOOM!!!
In that instant, the world Robert and the others were prepared to fight for was never the same again.
A rolling wave of heat. Fire!! Fire everywhere!! Flames roared up from beneath the castle, engulfing the scene!! Everything inside the keep turned gold and red!! Everyone recoiled instinctively in shock—Robert felt his face burning, his mouth dry. Stunned, he surged forward against the heat to the terrace."What?! What is this?!"
Viserys was gripping Tyrion tightly, who had nearly fallen in his excitement after throwing the bottle. Turning back, a cruel, cold smile hung on the prince's face as he answered,"Fire. The fire of House Targaryen."
Wildfire—able to burn upon water, even more fiercely when touched by it. The ultimate weapon of naval warfare, impossible to extinguish until everything it clung to was consumed. Now it had turned the waters below into a living hell.
The Ironborn screamed. Their pride and joy—the massive ironclad warships—had become terrifying iron coffins! Heat transferred too quickly; iron decks glowed red-hot, armor became searing. Victarion didn't even have time to tear his off before he was half-cooked, flesh charred, a nauseating stench rising. Thick smoke and foul odors billowed upward. More Ironborn shrieked and leapt into the sea—only to find that even the water offered no escape from the flames!!
On the surface of the sea, human-shaped fireballs thrashed and writhed.
At the rear, King Balon roared for retreat! Retreat!! But in the narrow channel, how could several iron ships turn at once? As they crowded and collided, a mass of flame rolled across the water with the current, instantly engulfing his ship!! Balon's voice was swallowed in a sea of screams—
A hundred Iron Fleet warships, in mere moments, all became blazing iron griddles.
Covering the rear, Euron's black eyes reflected crimson firelight. Grinding his teeth, he ordered ships to ram others aside and force a turn, but the flames surged and roared even faster!!
…
Far away beyond the bay, the Reach lord assigned to hang back stared slack-jawed at the crimson sky above Fair Isle. What had happened? Could a giant dragon be breathing fire?
Viserys, the architect of it all, now had silver hair turned molten gold by the glow. From on high, he surveyed the hell below. Even if a few ships escaped, it didn't matter—his brother's thirty warships at Dragonstone were waiting along their route home. He smiled cruelly. He had said the Targaryen army would land on Pyke and Old Wyk tomorrow, and indeed, they would land right on schedule.
Beside him stood the Northmen and the usurper, faces scorched by heat, expressions frozen in shock. Viserys had deliberately kept them here to witness this—to show these lords that even without dragons, House Targaryen still commanded fire. Rebellion? That was courting death.
Then—
After leaning over the battlements to watch the inferno for a long time, the usurper Robert suddenly tore off his fine stag-helmed iron armor, panting."So hot!" he shouted.
Just how terrifying was the heat below? Robert had someone rush over a huge mug of ale. He gulped it down, then turned to look at Viserys, who wore only a shirt. He sized up the silver-haired prince as if seeing him for the first time, his eyes filled—astonishingly—with admiration.
...
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"Game of Thrones: Dragon Prince"
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"Game of Thrones The Glory of a Knight"
(End Chapter)