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Boom—
Balon's vision flashed white. He slammed into the river, every nerve screaming in agony as scalding water closed over him. His body felt like lead, dragging him straight to the bottom.
His mind went blank. He couldn't remember how he'd fallen.
Through the burning glare on the surface, he saw the rest of the Ironborn—his Ironborn—plunging in after him. Some thrashed, some floated motionless. All of them drowning.
Balon didn't understand.
He knew why the dragon had come.
But these were Ironborn. Every last one of them could swim like seals. How the hell were they dying in water?
No time to think. He was choking, lungs burning, sinking fast.
In the haze he thought he saw the Drowned God staring down at him.
No—!!
Terror blasted the fog from his brain. Balon kicked and clawed like a madman, fighting upward with everything he had.
That was when he realized the river above him had turned into boiling soup.
The Ironborn who'd hit the surface first were already cooking alive, skin peeling off like over-boiled crab.
I don't want to die!
One thought only: up. Keep swimming up.
He ignored the blisters rising on his arms, ignored the hair searing off his scalp, clawed through the scalding water like a demon climbing out of hell.
Splash!
Balon broke the surface, gasping so hard it sounded like a scream. Cool air hit his lungs. His head cleared.
He spun around.
The river was an inferno.
His flagship's mast had snapped and crashed across the stern, flipping the ship like a toy. Ironborn spilled off the deck like beans from a sack. The hull blazed, thick black smoke rolling upward, carrying the sickening stench of roasted flesh.
Balon stared, frozen in horror.
---
Above the Mander
Daeron circled on Caraxes, torching ship after ship, turning the crowded river into a valley of fire.
He glanced down and raised an eyebrow.
"Huh. One actually survived?"
It was the lead longship—the one flying the golden kraken of House Greyjoy.
Below him, Balon—skin blistered raw, hair burned to patchy stubble—paddled desperately for the bank, searching for any place to crawl ashore.
"Burn him," Daeron ordered, eyes cold.
Caraxes gave an eager screech and dove, loosing another torrent of dragonflame across the struggling figures in the water.
A dragon's nature is cold, cruel, and merciless.
Its rider's bloodlust only made it hungrier.
"Dracarys!"
The death sentence rang out in High Valyrian. Balon dove again just in time. The flame missed—but the shockwave still slammed him senseless.
"Hold the banks!" Lord Randyll Tarly barked. "Not one Ironborn reaches shore!"
Any raider who managed to drag himself onto land was immediately met by a wall of spears. The longbowmen on both sides kept firing, turning the riverbanks into a killing field.
Screams echoed across the water—raw, hopeless, dying.
This was what happened when you charged in blind.
The Reach host had marched north. The Redwyne fleet and half the Shield Islands fleet had sailed out.
But it was all bait.
Daeron had leaked the news on purpose—made the Reach look defenseless.
He knew the Ironborn couldn't resist the Old Way when the prize looked easy.
Half the Shield fleet had pulled back to the islands, abandoning the sea lanes and letting the Ironborn sail straight up the Mander.
Randyll Tarly had taken a thousand men and sealed the river mouth from both banks.
And then Daeron had arrived on Caraxes to finish the trap.
In minutes the river was littered with burning wrecks. Almost no longships remained afloat.
Then fresh sails appeared at the mouth—another Ironborn fleet racing in fast.
Daeron narrowed his eyes. The lead ship flew the golden kraken again, but this one was bigger, heavier, built to punch through storms. Only Greyjoys and the greatest captains could afford ships like that.
"This way, Caraxes!"
The red dragon wheeled upstream.
---
On the "One-Eyed Crow," Euron Greyjoy stood high on the rigging, blade dripping, laughing like a madman as he gazed at the green lands ahead.
The Shield Islands fleet had been pathetic—driven back to their rocks without a real fight.
His older brother Balon had told him to hang back while the main fleet reaped the glory. Typical.
He would pay the iron price too.
"Lads!" he roared. "What is dead may never die!"
"What is dead may never die!!"
His crew howled like wolves—until the howling stopped dead.
Ahead of them the river was on fire. Thirty longships burned in a tangled mass, men screaming as they roasted alive.
"What the—?" Euron froze.
Then the real surprise arrived.
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes shattered the sky, serpent body arrowing straight at them, jaws already glowing white-hot.
"Dragon!!"
The cry went up. The Ironborn who'd just been swaggering after smashing the Shield fleet turned to water.
Weren't the dragon and the prince supposed to be marching north with the army? Who the fuck fed us that intel?!
"Euron—what do we do?!" a panicked lord shouted.
Splash.
A single figure dove from the rigging—lithe as a sea-kraken—and vanished beneath the waves.
The Ironborn lord's eyes bulged.
That bastard Crow's Eye just ran!
Euron had given them his answer.
"Dracarys!"
Crimson flame slammed down like the hammer of the gods. The "One-Eyed Crow" disintegrated in seconds, men and timber both turned to ash.
One hundred and fifty years after the last dragon died, the world remembered why men once feared the sky.
The Ironborn lords had the honor of learning it firsthand.
"No—no—no—!!"
The lord who'd called for orders never got an answer. Dragonfire swallowed him whole.
---
"Damn, he's fast," Daeron muttered, watching the blur vanish toward the sea.
But there were still hundreds of Ironborn below. He couldn't chase one fish and let the school escape.
Caraxes kept burning.
---
Victarion Greyjoy was roaring with fury.
"Euron—you coward!"
He'd seen his second brother arrive with the second wave—then immediately dive overboard the second the dragon appeared, abandoning everyone.
"Third brother—pull me up!"
Balon had somehow reached the last intact longship. Arrows stuck out of his chest and back like pins in a cushion, but the water had slowed them enough that none had punched through his lungs.
"Father's hurt," Victarion growled.
Quellon Greyjoy had taken an arrow to the chest. He was conscious, but he wasn't fighting anymore.
"Too many on the banks," Balon rasped, face half-burned, looking like something dragged out of hell. "We can't break through."
Victarion scanned the chaos, spotted a small skiff, and shoved his father and brother into it.
"I'll hold them off," he said.
"Third brother!"
Balon shouted the words, but he was already in the boat.
Victarion didn't waste breath arguing. He gathered every Ironborn still able to swing steel, turned the skiff toward the river mouth, and charged.
Only way out was the way they'd come in.
"Run!"
"Get to the ships—any ship!"
The surviving Ironborn scrambled aboard whatever was still floating, even ramming and stealing vessels from their own comrades to draw the dragon's fire.
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes wheeled overhead again and again, dragonflame pouring down without end.
"Enough, Caraxes," Daeron finally said. "We're done here."
He turned the dragon away, satisfied.
Some men were worth more alive than dead.
---
Evening
Lord Randyll Tarly oversaw the cleanup. Soldiers dragged weapons from the river, finished off any Ironborn still breathing.
"My lord," Davos called, jogging up. "Message from Lord Paxter Redwyne."
Randyll scanned the parchment and gave a short nod.
The Redwyne fleet and the rest of the Shield Islands ships were already turning back from the Summer Sea. They'd regroup at the islands, then sail straight for the Iron Islands.
Randyll climbed the hill where Daeron waited.
"Prince," he said. "We're ready to move."
Caraxes was still restless, torching a sheep he'd snatched and leaving a wide circle of ash.
Daeron finished reading the letter and gave a small, dangerous smile.
"We only caught one Greyjoy today. There's a whole nest of them on Pyke. Wouldn't be right to leave the rest out."
The original plan had been simple: leak word that the Reach was undefended, lure the Ironborn out, then crush them.
He hadn't expected old Quellon to be so cautious—only fifty longships had come raiding while the bulk of their strength stayed home.
So Daeron had changed the plan on the fly and deliberately let the flagship escape.
Never corner a dog that still has teeth.
Killing Quellon outright would just enrage the Iron Islands. Better to leave the old man alive, wounded and humiliated.
Now Daeron had the perfect excuse—and the perfect justification—to sail west and finish the job properly.
"Prince," Jaime called, silver armor gleaming. "We've got the Greyjoy."
Two soldiers dragged forward a hulking figure in heavy plate.
"Greyjoy?" Daeron asked, curious.
Jaime grinned like a cat with a mouse. "I questioned the others. This one's Victarion Greyjoy—third son of Quellon the Great."
He yanked the big man's black hair, forcing his head up.
"Speak, Greyjoy."
Victarion was battered, bleeding, wrists bound with rope thick as a man's wrist. He knelt like a spent bull, eyes dull.
They said he'd fought a dozen soldiers at once before exhaustion finally dropped him.
Daeron crouched so they were eye to eye and smiled like they were old friends.
"Want to bend the knee and serve me instead?"
The question carried no mockery—just a calm, almost friendly offer.
Victarion's dead gray eyes slowly focused. For the first time that day, something besides pain and rage flickered across his blunt, brutal face.