The war-drums beat with the frantic rhythm of a sudden cloudburst, setting the pace for the slaughter.
The Invincible Ironborn's massive black mainsail billowed in the salt-heavy wind, her prow shearing through the surging green swells of the Sunset Sea. On the canvas, the golden kraken shimmered in the autumn sun, its long, muscular tentacles seemingly poised to leap from the sail and drag the fleeing world into the abyss.
Three single-masted galleys of the Reach were desperately making for the safety of Greyshield Island. Their banners, the silver-riveted grey shield of House Grimm on a green field snapped in the gale.
"BOOM!"
The Invincible Ironborn slammed into the side of the lead galley with the force of a falling mountain. The impact was so violent that half the Ironborn preparing to board were tossed like dice across the deck. The enemy's oars, caught in the churn, snapped and splintered with a sound like a forest breaking.
Victarion Greyjoy laughed, a deep, guttural sound that rose above the crashing waves. He leaped from the gunwale, his golden cloak-of-mail fluttering, and landed heavily on the enemy deck. Fully armored in plate and mail, wearing a kraken-crested helmet that made him look like a god of the deep, Victarion was a vision of terror.
The Reach sailors recoiled. They held spears and daggers with trembling hands, but none wore armor—they feared the sea more than they feared the axe, and the weight of steel was a death sentence if they fell overboard.
"Come!" Victarion roared, his voice booming within his helm. "Fight me and find your god!"
The sailors exchanged a single, terrified glance. With the decisiveness of the doomed, they threw down their weapons and leaped into the churning white foam, choosing the mercy of the Drowned God over the steel of the Iron Fleet. Within moments, the galley was a ghost ship, inhabited only by stunned Ironborn.
"Launch the boats!" Victarion commanded, his eyes bloodthirsty as he watched the bobbing heads in the water. "Let no one reach the shore!"
On the island ahead, the other two galleys had already docked. Smoke began to rise—not from hearths, but from the ships and the nearby villages. The Reachmen were burning their own homes and granaries, a desperate scorched-earth policy dictated by Highgarden.
Newt, nicknamed "The Barber," wiped salt from his eyes and looked at the black plumes. "Boss, why are these Rose-lovers burning their own grain?"
"They think hunger will drive us back to the rocks," Victarion grunted. "They don't know the Ironborn. We take what we need from the dead. Sound the horns! Land the men!"
Nearly a hundred warships dropped anchor in the shallows of Greyshield. Hundreds of black longboats, each bristling with twenty chain-mailed reavers, raced toward the shingle beach. Archers and axemen made short work of the sailors struggling in the surf. Faint streaks of crimson soon clouded the green waves.
The island was a ruin. The fruit trees had been stripped bare, the houses were charred skeletons, and the fields of barley had been put to the torch. In the distance, the town of Grimston sat atop a sheer cliff, its walls lined with soldiers and desperate fishermen wielding harpoons. A beacon fire roared on the watchtower, its smoke signaling the invasion to the rest of the Shield Islands.
Victarion watched the "wolf-smoke" rise. He knew the news would spread to Highgarden and Oldtown within the day. The reaction is too fast, he thought. The Reach was ready for us.
He looked at the sun dipping into the sea. "Let the brothers feast on what we brought. We attack the castle under the cover of the night."
By Euron's command, the Iron Fleet was to take Greyshield while the Silence and the rest of the host moved against Oakshield. Euron had sent Torwold Brown-Tooth up the Mander River to lure the defenders out, but the lords of the Shields had remained behind their stone walls.
Victarion felt a nagging unease. He had followed his brother Balon his entire life with a dog's loyalty. Now, he called Euron "King"—the man who had seduced his salt-wife and mocked his honor. He only obeyed because he feared the Drowned God's wrath more than his brother's madness.
Aeron "Damphair" had whispered to him of Euron's impiety, claiming the Crow's Eye was a godless man who would bring ruin to the islands. Victarion didn't care for politics, but he noticed that the "magic" Euron had used to summon the kraken at Sea Dragon Point had vanished. The Three-Eyed Raven that haunted Euron's dreams had gone silent. Euron was a king of men now, not monsters, and that made him vulnerable.
Night fell, cold and absolute. The moon was swallowed by dark clouds.
Victarion led a few hundred elites around the back of the island, where the cliffs rose sixty feet from the crashing surf. It was a suicidal path. Twenty percent of his men were swept away when their longboats were smashed against the rocks, their silent screams lost in the roar of the sea.
But the rest climbed. Using grappling hooks and spiked boots, they ascended the salt-slicked stone like spiders.
Victarion was the first over the battlements. He swung his battle-axe, severing the arm of a patrolling guard before the man could even gasp. He slammed his pine-wood shield into the face of a second, the force denting the man's helm and crushing his skull.
"The Barber" hurled his throwing axes with surgical precision, clearing the walk.
"To the gate!" Victarion roared. "Open the way!"
Lord Grimm, a man in the prime of his life, met them in the courtyard. He was clad in fine steel plate from Highgarden, his shield bearing the silver-studded iron crest of his house. He was a brave man; he ran "One-Ear" Worfe through with a single thrust and cleared a circle of space.
Victarion didn't waste words. He charged.
Grimm's longsword lunged for Victarion's calf, but the Iron Captain caught the blade on his shield. Victarion's axe came down like a falling star, striking the green-and-grey shield. Wood splintered. Metal groaned.
"Hmph!" Victarion grunted, throwing his full weight into a second blow.
Lord Grimm blocked again, but the shield shattered under the brute force of the kraken. The axe continued its arc, biting deep into the Lord's shoulder-plate. Grimm staggered, but his sword lashed out like a viper, piercing Victarion's thigh. Blood gushed into Victarion's boot, but the Ironborn didn't flinch. He didn't feel pain—only the cold clarity of the kill.
Victarion slammed his shield into Grimm's chest, knocking him to the stones. He raised his axe high and brought it down on the Lord's throat.
CRUNCH. The gorget shattered.
CRUNCH. The head rolled across the blood-slicked flagstones.
Victarion grabbed the severed head by its hair and held it aloft in the torchlight. "Your Lord is dead! Kneel and live, or stand and drown!"
The defense collapsed instantly. The Reachmen threw down their spears, their will broken by the sight of Grimm's headless corpse.
"Confiscate the weapons. Bandage the useful ones," Victarion commanded Newt. "Throw the dying into the sea. If they beg for mercy, slit their throats first. The Drowned God prefers a clean sacrifice."
Later, in the Lord's Hall, Victarion sat with a flagon of wine. He watched a dark-skinned woman—a mute gift from Euron—tend to the wound on his leg. She was beautiful, and she moved with a silent grace that momentarily soothed his rage.
He took her to the bedchambers, his blood staining the sheets as his wound reopened. As she cleaned him afterward, kneeling in the dim candlelight, Victarion stared at the ceiling. He wondered if the Drowned God would forgive a man for killing his own brother.
The Reach was burning, but the fire in Victarion's heart was hotter.
[System Notification: The Shield Islands Campaign: 25% Complete.]
[Strategic Resource: Greyshield (Captured).]
[Unit Status: Victarion Greyjoy (Injured/Restless).]
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