Starfish Town.
Located on the backside of the Arbor, far from the bustling main harbor, Starfish Town always smelled of fish guts, cheap grog, and cheaper perfume.
Deep within the tangled alleys of this town sat the "Siren's Nest," a garish and thriving brothel that served as the nerve center for Euron Greyjoy's operation. It was a den of sailors, smugglers, and men looking for quick comfort—a perfect place to hide in plain sight.
The Madam, a woman named Pamela Fisher, was someone Euron had "liberated" from a slave market in Lys during his three years wandering the Narrow Sea. She was his key asset in the Arbor.
Pamela wasn't native to the Arbor. Her blood carried the heat of Lys. Her hair was a pale, misty violet—a rare, exotic shade in Westeros that made her look like twilight personified. Her face was a perfect oval, her skin smooth and meticulously cared for, glowing softly under the dim brothel lights.
But her most dangerous weapons were her eyes. They were large, misty, and seemed permanently glazed with a layer of unshed tears. When she looked at a man, she did it with a lazy, focused intensity that made him feel like he was the only person in the world. It was a look that could drown a man before he even knew he was underwater.
She didn't wear heavy makeup; she didn't need to. A touch of lip stain, a thin line of kohl to frame those storytelling eyes—she knew exactly how to weaponize her beauty. She wasn't a naive girl; she was a mature woman who understood her power and how to use it.
Yet, her greatest talent wasn't her looks, but her tongue. Pamela was the uncrowned queen of Starfish Town. She could charm a rough sailor, outwit a cunning tax collector, and disarm a suspicious patrolman without breaking a sweat. She spoke everyone's language, and she could spot a man's desires, vanity, and insecurities from a mile away.
She could talk to a homesick sailor about his mother's stew, or discuss poetry and dreams with a disillusioned minor noble. She could soothe a drunk's rage or pry secrets from a clam. In the Siren's Nest, men didn't just come for bodies; they came to dump their souls. They spilled their worries, the rumors they'd heard, and sometimes, the secrets they thought didn't matter, right into her sympathetic, "understanding" gaze.
It was this ability to read and manipulate people—combined with a complex loyalty to Euron born of fear and gratitude—that made her the perfect operative for this undercover mission. She played her role flawlessly, using laughter and perfume to mask the scent of cold steel lurking beneath the floorboards.
Euron's "mercy" in Lys and his subsequent financial backing were paying off massively. The brothel, with its cavernous wine cellars, had become an Ironborn spike driven deep into the Arbor's flank. Over a dozen Ironborn spies had been living here for months under Pamela's cover, gathering intel for Euron.
Once Euron and his twenty elites infiltrated the island, the brothel shifted into high gear. Thanks to Pamela's connections, over a hundred of the Ironborn's most loyal and lethal warriors were smuggled in over four consecutive nights. They trickled in like a slow poison.
The transfers happened in the dead of night. No torches, just silent passwords. Groups of twenty or thirty men, disguised as workers moving wine barrels or drunken sailors, were ushered through the brothel and down a hidden trapdoor. They disappeared into the second sub-basement—a massive, forgotten cellar originally used for aging wine and storing junk.
The air down there was stale, but it was safe.
In four days, one hundred and twelve elite Ironborn warriors were hidden right in the heart of the enemy. Crammed into the dark cellar, they sharpened their axes, oiled their crossbows, and chewed on dried meat in silence, waiting for the signal.
The music and debauchery from the brothel above provided the perfect cover.
Critical intel about this secret passage and assembly point was relayed via carrier pigeons and trusted runners to the massive Iron Fleet waiting outside the Whispering Sound.
Just as the deadline approached and the storm was about to break, a new piece of intelligence arrived—a pebble thrown into the dark current that sent ripples straight to Euron in the cellar.
The atmosphere in the sub-basement of the Siren's Nest was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and cold steel. The only light came from a few flickering oil lamps, casting twisted shadows against the rough stone walls.
Pamela Fisher slipped quietly down the trapdoor. Her elegant silk dress looked out of place in the grim cellar, and the scent of expensive powder clung to her. Her violet hair shimmered in the gloom. She walked straight to Euron, who was lounging against a wine barrel. Her large, watery eyes were no longer seductive; they were sharp and alert.
"My Lord," she said, her voice low but clear enough for the nearby captains to hear. It was the cool, professional tone of a spy reporting in. "Fresh news. Just came in, and it's hot."
The subtle sounds of sharpening stones and whispering stopped instantly. All eyes fixed on her.
"A convoy from King's Landing arrived today. They're moving slow, heading toward the main castle," she said, pacing her words carefully. "It doesn't look like much—maybe a few dozen guards. But the man leading them... he's significant."
She paused, ensuring she had everyone's full attention, especially Euron's.
"The leader is a White Cloak," she said softly, letting the weight of the words settle. "Ser Harlan Grandison of the Kingsguard."
A collective, sharp intake of breath hissed through the cellar. A Kingsguard escort? That meant the Iron Throne was directly involved. This was no ordinary supply run.
"What's more interesting is what's behind them," Pamela continued, a slight frown creasing her brow. "Over a dozen wagons, covered tight with heavy oilcloth. The wheel tracks are shallow—whatever is inside isn't heavy. But the horses are moving at a crawl, and the guards are terrified of jostling the cargo. They're treating it like glass. Whatever they're transporting is... unusual."
She painted a picture of mystery: High-level Royal attention and a secret, delicate cargo.
"Source?" Euron's voice rumbled from the shadows.
Pamela's red lips quirked into a small, triumphant smile, quickly replaced by seriousness. "One of the escort guards got too drunk upstairs. He started bragging. His tongue was loose, slurring his words. He said something like—'With the treasure on those wagons, the Redwynes can't lose a sea battle.'—and then he suddenly looked like he'd seen a ghost. His face went white, he shut his mouth, and no matter how much the girls teased him, he wouldn't say another word. He was terrified."
She looked at Euron, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "My Lord, I think... whatever is in those wagons isn't just 'important.' It's likely something extremely dangerous. I wanted to dig deeper, find out exactly what it is, but..."
Her voice quickened with urgency. "But there's no time. Just before I came down, I got confirmation. The convoy has already entered Starfish Harbor and been received by the Redwynes. My people can't get close anymore."
The silence in the cellar deepened.
A Kingsguard escort. A "dangerous thing" that guarantees victory at sea. And it arrives right as the Iron Fleet is at the gates. Every piece of information dropped like a heavy stone into a deep pool, tightening the nerves of every man in the room. They had planned a surprise attack from within, but now, it seemed the enemy had just been handed a secret weapon from the Capital.
Everyone looked to Euron Greyjoy. What was the "key to victory" hidden in those wagons? And how would it change the bloodbath that was about to begin?
"Heh." Euron let out a soft, almost inaudible chuckle. "It seems our Mad King doesn't just issue orders to steal grain. He's thinking ahead... or maybe he's sending a little gift to his 'loyal servant' Redwyne?"
The plan had suddenly shifted. This wasn't just a raid anymore; there was a wild card on the table. The phrase "With the treasure on those wagons, the Redwynes can't lose" gnawed at Euron.
He paused, his eyes narrowing with sharp, calculating light. "I don't care what's in those wagons... if they're serving it up on a silver platter right in front of us, it would be rude not to take a bite, wouldn't it?"
The air in the cellar instantly grew hotter, charged with bloodlust.
"Pamela," Euron grinned, "you did good."
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