The Iron Islands, Pyke.
Inside the great hall of the main keep, every lord and captain of note from the Iron Islands had gathered, a dark mass filling the space.
Seated upon the Seastone Chair before them was a single man.
His skin was pale, his features handsome, yet he carried an unsettling, almost malevolent air. Most striking of all was his left eye, hidden beneath a glossy black leather eyepatch. His uncovered right eye, an unnaturally vivid blue, swept across the crowd with a look of amusement and confidence.
He was the newly crowned king of the Iron Islands, Euron Greyjoy.
A long cloak draped over his shoulders. One hand rested casually on his knee, while the other toyed with a silver goblet inlaid with black pearls, filled with wine mixed with Shade of the Evening.
"My captains, my lords!"
Euron's voice rang out. "We've sat at home for far too long, licking our wounds like women, reminiscing about past glories…"
A ripple of unrest passed through the hall. Some of the older captains frowned, displeased, but far more of them stared at their new king with burning, fanatic eyes.
"True Ironborn are born of the sea, die by the sea, and raid the world!"
Euron rose to his feet, a sinister smile curving his lips. "The western coast of Westeros holds rich lands, prosperous towns, soft women, and endless golden dragons waiting for us. That land is the hunting ground the Drowned God bestowed upon his people. So what do we need?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the entire hall.
"We need to take back what belongs to the Ironborn!"
His voice surged, sharp and explosive.
"Take back what is ours!"
The Ironborn were fully inflamed. They brandished axes and spears, unleashing a thunderous roar.
"King Euron! Crow's Eye! Euron!"
The crashing waves of sound nearly shook Pyke's towers apart.
Euron watched the scene with satisfaction, a cruel smile touching his lips. He lifted one hand, and the clamor gradually died down.
"Erik!" he called.
Erik of House Ironmaker stepped forward at once.
"My loyal Erik," Euron said. "I entrust the defense of the Iron Islands to you. Guard our home well. If anyone dares to take advantage of our absence, either split their skulls with your axe or drown them and feed them to the crabs."
"As you command, Your Grace!"
Erik replied in a deep voice, thumping his right fist against his chest.
"As for the rest of you…"
Euron looked across the assembled lords and captains. "Ready your longships. Sharpen your axes. Follow me. Follow your king, and we will make the entire Sunset Sea tremble once more beneath the wrath of the Iron Islands!"
The lords and captains soon dispersed, leaving only Euron and Victarion in Pyke's great hall.
Victarion stood below, his tightly clenched fists betraying the turmoil churning within him. He stared at his brother on the Seastone Chair, the gleam in that single eye filling him with unease.
He could never forget that this brother had once taken his salt-wife to bed.
That humiliation festered in his heart.
He should have split Euron's skull open with his axe.
But at the kingsmoot, Euron had used his silver tongue and the strange treasures he brought back from the East to win over most of the captains and claim the Seastone Chair.
The traditions of the Iron Islands left Victarion no choice but to swallow his hatred for now and bow his head in submission.
"I know what you're thinking, little brother."
Euron was the first to break the silence, taking a sip from his cup.
Victarion snorted coldly and said nothing.
"Relax, my dear brother."
Euron waved a hand, utterly unconcerned by the killing intent rolling off him. "Once I sit the Iron Throne, you can choose any noble lady in the Seven Kingdoms."
"The Iron Throne?"
Victarion frowned. It was the first time he had heard Euron speak of coveting it.
"Yes, the Iron Throne."
Euron stood and paced in front of him. "Do you really think I'm satisfied with nothing more than raiding the Westerlands and the Reach? No. That was only the beginning. Westeros is already a pot ready to boil over. Stark, Lannister, Baratheon… they're tearing at each other's throats, bleeding themselves dry. This is the perfect moment for the Ironborn to rise.
"We need ships. We need soldiers. We need gold. The Westerlands and the Reach can give us all of that."
"After that, we strike east, cut through the Reach, and go straight for the Crownlands."
"Whoever controls the fleet controls the Seven Kingdoms and gets to sit on that damned chair."
"Think about it. You'll command the navy of the Seven Kingdoms, the king's right hand. Compared to that, being saddled with a salt-wife, this is true glory. Isn't it?"
Victarion froze.
Euron's words were too tempting, enough to smother his hatred and suspicion for the moment.
He despised Euron, but he craved glory even more. He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to see the Greyjoy banner planted at the very peak of Westeros.
He stayed silent for a long time before finally giving a single nod.
...
The shipyards of the Iron Islands worked without pause, day and night.
Before long, two hundred longboats gathered on the waters outside Pyke, masts rising like a forest, a sight both vast and terrifying.
Ironborn longboats were narrow and low, with shallow drafts, driven by massive oars. Fast and nimble, they could slip into shoals and rivers that larger ships could never reach, making them the perfect tools for coastal raiding.
Euron's flagship, Silence, led the way. The ship was unnervingly quiet.
Under Euron's command, the great fleet set sail, surging toward the coast of the Westerlands.
Their first target was the town of Kayce, a wealthy port belonging to House Kenning of Kayce.
When the Iron Islands fleet appeared on the horizon like a bank of storm clouds, the bells of Kayce rang out in shrill alarm.
It was already too late.
The longships had no need of a deep harbor. They drove straight onto the beach.
Savage Ironborn howled as they leapt ashore, axes and spears flashing as they poured toward the town.
The soldiers of House Kenning tried to organize a defense, but they were too few and long unused to real battle. They stood no chance against the blood-mad Ironborn.
Knowing they could not hold, House Kenning had fled before the Ironborn even landed, taking their core family members and a portion of their guards west to Casterly Rock to seek aid.
Those left behind met utter ruin.
Smoke billowed into the sky, flames roared, and screams mingled with the Ironborn's wild laughter. Kayce was turned into a hell of fire and blood.
The news reached Casterly Rock quickly.
Lucien Lannister, son of Damion Lannister, was stationed in the mighty stone fortress at the time.
After finishing the cleanup of the roaming Dothraki, he had remained at Casterly Rock, watching warily for threats from the Reach, especially the fleets of House Hightower and House Redwyne.
When he heard of the Ironborn invasion and the fall of Kayce, Lucion was both shocked and furious.
He immediately mustered every man he could spare, ten thousand troops in all, and marched out from Casterly Rock in full force, swearing to drive those foolhardy Ironborn back into the sea to feed the fish.
The army advanced to a place known as the Gorge.
The road there narrowed sharply, steep cliffs rising on both sides, one of the key routes leading to Kayce.
The vanguard spotted nothing out of the ordinary, and the main force followed them into the gorge.
But every move they made was already being watched by a pair of inhuman eyes.
High above, a crow circled in silence, its eyes gleaming with an unnatural light.
Hidden among the dense woods and massive rocks on either side of the gorge, thousands of the Ironborn's finest warriors lay in ambush, holding their breath as they waited for their prey.
Euron Greyjoy stood atop a concealed outcrop of stone, a cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
Through the Skinchanger's gift, he had long since grasped Lucion's line of march through the crow's eyes.
When nearly half of the Westerlands army entered the narrowest stretch of the gorge, Euron raised his hand, then slashed it down.
"For the Drowned Gods! For the King!"
The Ironborn war cry erupted in unison.
In the next instant, arrows poured down from both sides of the gorge.
Huge rocks and rolling logs were shoved over the edge, crashing thunderously into the unsuspecting Westerlands troops.
The formation collapsed at once. Soldiers looked about in panic, shoving and trampling one another, utterly unable to organize any meaningful defense.
"Hold the line! No retreat! Spearmen forward!"
Shielded by his personal guard, Lucion shouted himself hoarse, desperately trying to steady the ranks.
But the chaos only deepened.
Moments later, the Ironborn charged down the slopes on both sides like an avalanche.
They wore simple leather armor, their battle-axes and blunt hammers hacking and smashing with wild ferocity.
The gorge was too cramped for numbers to matter, leaving the Westerlands army unable to exploit its advantage.
The Ironborn, individually powerful and holding the high ground, butchered their disordered enemies as easily as chopping vegetables.
Euron himself waded into the fight.
Encased in Valyrian steel armor and wielding a strangely shaped black long axe, every swing sent up a spray of blood along with severed limbs.
His single eye shone with exhilaration, as though he were savoring a feast of slaughter.
Wherever he went, Westerlands soldiers fell like stalks of wheat.
Lucion saw Euron, fury surging through him. He spurred his horse, leveled his lance, and led a group of knights in a charge toward Euron, intent on seizing the leader first.
But he had barely covered any distance when several heavy iron chains suddenly snapped out from the side, tangling his warhorse's legs.
Lucion cried out as he was thrown hard to the ground.
Before he could scramble up, several Ironborn lunged forward and pinned him fast.
Euron walked over at an unhurried pace, looking down at the lion pressed into the dirt.
"Lannister…"
There was a note of amusement in Euron's voice. "Give my regards to Great Lord Tywin, if you happen to meet in the seven hells."
Lucion struggled violently, glaring in rage, his curses still unspoken when Euron's black axe came down.
A cold flash of steel.
A head shot into the air.
With their commander slain, the Westerlands army collapsed completely.
...
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