The Third Day.
A shadow fell over the glittering waters of the Whispering Sound.
More than ten longships, flying the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, appeared on the horizon like a school of sharks that had scented blood. They moved silently, without the fanfare of war drums or battle standards. They simply drifted into view, dropping anchor just far enough out to be seen from the lush coastlines and busy harbors of the Arbor, but close enough to be a threat.
Leading the pack was a massive, terrifying warship. Its prow was carved into the shape of a twisted, roaring sea monster. This was the Great Kraken, flagship of Balon Greyjoy.
Young Balon stood at the prow, the sea wind whipping his black cloak around him. His face still held traces of youth, but it was already stamped with that signature Greyjoy ruthlessness. He wore a sneer of impatience. His orders were simple: intimidation and provocation. His job was to pin the Arbor's attention firmly on this open bay.
News traveled fast to the Redwyne castle. Lord Adrian Redwyne rushed to the highest tower. Looking out at the small but fierce fleet—and specifically at the conspicuous Great Kraken—he let out a dismissive snort.
"Just the Greyjoy whelp with a dozen ships?" he scoffed to his knights, trying to reassure them as much as himself. "The spies were right. The rest of the Iron Islands are still dragging their feet, slowly gathering their longships. Looks like old Quellon sent his boy ahead to scare us. What a joke."
He felt confident. The harbor defenses were reinforced, patrol shifts had been doubled, and soldiers were on high alert day and night. He ordered his fleet to hold their positions—defense only. He wasn't going to take the bait and sail out into a trap. His eyes were fixed on the Whispering Sound, fixed on Balon, convinced that as long as he held the front door, the savages from the Iron Islands couldn't touch him.
He was wrong. Dead wrong.
While his eyes were locked on the front gate, he didn't notice the viper slithering into his garden through the back door.
While Balon's fleet demanded the world's attention, three nondescript, unmarked little cogs slipped into the docks of Oldtown under the cover of twilight and heavy merchant traffic. They looked like nothing, blending perfectly into the background.
The men on board moved like ghosts. The moment they hit the docks, they scattered, disappearing into the labyrinthine alleys of the city.
Their leader—Euron Greyjoy—was nowhere near the main battle line. He had handpicked twenty of his most lethal men, experts in stealth and wet work. Instead of taking the open sea, they had chosen a secret, dangerous route. They bypassed the main roads and the guarded Three Towers, moving only at night along the rugged coastline.
On a moonless, starless night, they moved like scavengers. Using small, stolen fishing boats with muffled oars, they silently crossed the narrow channel known as the "Redwyne Straits."
They were incredibly close to the heart of the Arbor, but because they were directly opposite the heavily fortified main harbor, they were in a psychological blind spot.
It's what they call "darkness under the lamp."
The cold water licked silently against the hulls. In the dark, Euron's eyes gleamed with a predator's hunger. He knew the layout of the smaller islands surrounding the Arbor—Stonecrab Cay, the Isle of Pigs, Mermaid's Palace, Horseshoe Rock, and Bastard's Cove. He chose his landing spot with surgical precision: a steep, unguarded pebble beach near Mermaid's Palace. It was on the backside of the Arbor, far from the towns and ports, surrounded only by endless vineyards and the occasional vintner's shack.
Twenty-one black figures spilled onto the shore like ink dropping into sand. They dragged the boats into the dense brush, hiding them completely. They carried hand axes, daggers, throwing axes, and crossbows—well-equipped, but silent.
Euron took a deep breath, savoring the strange mix of sweet grapes and salty sea air. A smile curled on his lips.
The breach was open.
The killing blow wouldn't come from the fleet in the bay. It would come from the soft, unprotected rear. These twenty-one men were the spark that would burn the Arbor to the ground. More Ironborn longships would follow this secret path, pouring through the gap like a virus injecting itself straight into the heart of the enemy.
The Fourth Day.
As the morning mist cleared over the Whispering Sound, new shapes emerged. Twenty warships flying the white skeletal hand on a red field joined Balon's line. House Drumm of Old Wyk had arrived. Their leader, Dunstan Drumm—known as "The Bone Hand"—had brought his fiercest reavers, along with Andrik the Unsmiling, a man feared as the greatest warrior on Old Wyk. The silent blockade grew larger and more menacing.
By late afternoon, forty more sails appeared on the horizon, bearing the silver scythe on black. House Harlaw of Harlaw had arrived. They were Balon's in-laws, led by Ser Harras Harlaw. The massive fleet took its place in the formation with the cold resolve of family bound by blood and iron.
The Fifth Day.
The Whispering Sound began to look like a second Iron Islands. Vassal after vassal, loyal to King Quellon, swarmed in.
House Volmark with their black leviathan on grey; House Stonetree with their barren stone tree on black; House Goodbrother of Hammerhorn; House Sunderly of Saltcliffe. The sea was crowded with grim figureheads and a riot of banners.
In a single day, the beautiful bay of the Arbor was choked with nearly a hundred Ironborn warships. The masts stood like a forest of dead trees, a suffocating wall of wood and iron.
The Sixth Day.
The main event arrived.
Quellon Greyjoy—King of the Iron Islands, Lord Reaper of Pyke, and Captain of the Iron Fleet—sailed into the Whispering Sound. Behind his terrifying flagship, the Iron Victory, came the banners of every minor lord and landed knight in the Iron Islands.
It was a total mobilization. The full might of the Ironborn was on display.
Lord Adrian Redwyne stood on his tower, his face no longer sneering. It was the color of old ash. The bay beneath him was a jungle of sails and steel. The killing intent in the air was heavy enough to choke a man.
The Ironborn ships still didn't attack. They just sat there, silent and waiting. It was the breathless, terrifying calm before the hurricane.
He knew exactly what they were waiting for.
Every raven sent to the Seven Kingdoms had carried the same message:
Seven Days.
Tomorrow was the deadline.
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