The Seventh Day.
It was the final day of the Iron Islands' ultimatum. It was the deadline for the Arbor to account for the hijacking of the three "Fire and Ice Trading Company" ships. When House Redwyne failed to provide any answer that satisfied the Ironborn, the war arrived exactly as promised.
As the first pale rays of sunlight struggled through the clouds, illuminating the suffocating mass of black ships on the sea, King Quellon Greyjoy appeared on the high bridge of the Iron Victory.
He looked like an ancient sea god risen from the deep, wearing his crown of driftwood and sea-stone. His cold eyes swept over the Redwyne fleet ahead—freshly painted, brilliantly arranged, and waiting in formation.
There was no call for surrender. No final negotiation. No parley between commanders. It was as casual and routine as sitting down for dinner when the bell rings.
King Quellon slowly raised his massive battle axe—the symbol of his authority—and brought it down in a sharp, chopping motion.
DOOM! DOOM! DOOM!
Heavy, savage war drums, sounding like they were beating against the hearts of every living soul, exploded from the high masts of the Iron Victory. The beat wasn't a complex melody; it was the simplest, most primal rhythm of war, filled with an undeniable lust for destruction.
Ignited by the drums, a deafening war cry erupted from the first Ironborn longship, then spread like wildfire across the entire fleet in seconds!
"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"
"BUT RISES AGAIN!"
"HARDER AND STRONGER!"
Thousands of rough throats roared in unison, creating a terrifying wave of sound that momentarily drowned out the roar of the ocean itself. There was no fear in that sound, no hesitation—only fanatical devotion to the Drowned God, a hunger for plunder, and the pure madness of battle.
With that roar, the entire Iron Fleet—a dense, moving forest of masts—surged forward.
Like sharks scenting blood, oars churned the water in unison. They cut through the waves with suicidal determination, launching a full-scale charge straight at the glittering, disciplined formation of the Redwyne fleet defending Starfish Harbor.
On the other side, Lord Adrian Redwyne's fleet was ready. They commanded the largest navy in the Seven Kingdoms—the Redwyne Fleet. Yet, whenever people ranked naval powers, the top spot was always a toss-up between the Iron Fleet and the Royal Fleet; the Redwyne Fleet was perpetually stuck in third place. Today, Lord Adrian intended to change that. He wanted to crush the Ironborn fair and square on the open sea and prove his fleet's supremacy.
The Redwyne ships were larger, sturdier, and hulled with superior copper plating. Their sailors were well-trained, their officers' orders crisp and clear. Their formation was orderly, designed to crush the enemy through discipline and superior equipment.
The battle exploded in an instant!
The Whispering Sound turned into a boiling cauldron of slaughter.
Ballistae thundered. Giant bolts and crushed stones tore through the sky with shrieking whistles, smashing into hulls and sending wood splinters flying or crashing into the sea, sending up massive geysers of water. Archers on swaying decks exchanged fire, the arrows weaving through the air like swarms of locusts.
But the real song of this battle was the boarding action.
While the main warships drew fire, the Ironborn longships used their speed and agility to close the distance, ignoring casualties as they recklessly slammed into the larger Redwyne vessels. Countless grappling hooks and boarding ramps were thrown, iron claws biting deep into the ornate railings of the Arbor's ships.
"For Greyjoy!"
"For Old Wyk!"
"For the Drowned God!"
"For the Iron Islands!"
Ironborn warriors howled like beasts. With hand axes in their teeth and round shields on their arms, they surged over the ramps like a tidal wave of violence. They fought without fear of death, trading their lives for kills with brutal efficiency. They would take a spear to the gut just to bury an axe in an enemy's neck; some even tackled their foes and dragged them into the freezing sea to drown together. They didn't fight like soldiers; they fought like men attending a feast thrown by the Drowned God.
In contrast, the Redwyne fleet, despite its fine armor and discipline, found its advantages melting away in the chaos of close-quarters combat.
Crucially, nearly seventy percent of the Redwyne forces were green recruits. They had drilled in sailing and formation, but they had never experienced this kind of savage, suicidal onslaught.
Many young sailors and soldiers went pale and weak-kneed at the sight of the Ironborn—twisted faces, insane screaming, and reckless abandon. They were trained for organized warfare: maintain formation, fire volleys, block with a shield, strike, retreat. They were not trained to wrestle with roaring barbarians on a heaving deck slick with blood and guts, where rules didn't exist and death came from a rusty axe smashing through a polished breastplate.
Often, the Redwyne rookies broke before the enemy even reached them. Their movements became clumsy, their minds went blank with terror, and they forgot how to fight.
Superior equipment looked pathetic in the face of absolute madness.
On the water, ships crashed and tangled. Every Redwyne warship seemed to be gnawed on by several Ironborn longships at once.
The roar of men, the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, the splintering of wood, and the crackle of fire... together they played a symphony of death.
The azure waters turned a murky red, clogged with shattered planks, torn sails, and countless mangled bodies. The Whispering Sound, once a sea of vineyards and beauty, had become a massive, churning graveyard.
From the start, the battle became a bloody war of attrition. The Redwyne fleet held on through discipline and armor, while the Ironborn tore at them with fanaticism and blood. The scales of victory tipped violently on every single ship.
At the height of the carnage, when the two fleets were locked in a deadly embrace—a chaotic vortex of crashing hulls and killing crowds—
DOOM! DOOM! DOOM! DOOM!
The heavy, primal war drums from the Iron Victory thundered again!
This time, it wasn't an opening beat—it was a killing rhythm. It was wilder, relentless, sounding like the heartbeat of a giant or the footsteps of a sea monster. The sound rolled over the noisy battlefield and washed clearly over Starfish Harbor.
For the Ironborn on the front lines, this oppressive drumbeat was adrenaline. It was a catalyst for bloodlust, fueling their already burning will to fight.
But for everyone inside Starfish Harbor—the civilians shivering by their windows, the pale-faced logistics soldiers running between warehouses—the relentless drumming from the demon flagship was pure psychological torture.
It was a merciless reminder that the enemy was at the gates. Every beat hammered on their nerves, spreading panic through the city. Rumors spread like wildfire: The line has broken! The Ironborn have landed! The supply lines began to falter as soldiers panicked at every shadow, fumbling with crates of arrows and medicine.
Under the assault of the drums, the rear guard of Starfish Harbor was crumbling into paranoia and fear.
And that earth-shaking drumbeat was the signal for something else.
Deep in the damp, dark sub-basement of the "Siren's Nest," Euron Greyjoy slowly opened his eyes. He had been waiting, like a viper coiled to strike. The vibration of the drums, felt even down here in the dark, told him one thing:
It was time.
---