Lord Adrian Redwyne had absolutely no idea that this wasn't an "accident." It was a classic diversion, meticulously planned by the enemy.
The towering flames and thick smoke were not the aftermath of a disaster, but the prelude to a slaughter. The Ironborn had used the shock and mental vacuum created by that massive explosion to perfectly mask their real arson attacks. They successfully lured the defenders away, splitting their forces and fatally weakening the critical defenses on the city walls.
As the soldiers rushed toward the wrong battlefield, more Ironborn poured through the gap Euron had opened. Like sharks scenting blood, they launched the true, lethal strike against a city that had suddenly become chaotic and fragile. Lord Adrian's "logical" misjudgment was pushing the Arbor into an abyss from which it would never return.
A squad of men, moving like shadows melded with the walls, crept up to the inside of the heavily guarded main gate.
The guards stationed there were distracted, their nerves shattered by the terrifying green explosion and the roaring flames in the distance. They were craning their necks to watch the spectacle, completely exposing their backs to their "allies."
There was no unnecessary sound. The Ironborn warriors, disguised as friendly troops, approached intimately, like lovers. One hand clamped over the target's mouth and nose, wrenching the head back to expose the unprotected throat. In the other hand, a razor-sharp, non-reflective dagger struck like a viper. It sliced cleanly across the jugular or stabbed upward through the third and fourth ribs, straight into the heart. The movements were clean and efficient. The only sounds were the faint hiss of blades parting flesh, cartilage, and windpipes, and the desperate, choked gurgles of dying men. Blood sprayed like warm wine onto the arms and stolen uniforms of the assassins. The bodies were gently lowered and dragged into the shadows. The whole process took only a few breaths. Control of the gate had changed hands.
Another squad, with identical cold efficiency, eliminated the guards controlling the winch mechanism for the massive drawbridge. One Ironborn even deliberately shouted in fake panic, "Look over there! By the Gods!", successfully drawing the attention of the remaining guards. In the instant they turned their heads, death came silently from behind.
The task of securing the retreat and the path for reinforcements was completed without a sound.
Other squads moved like lethal undercurrents, flowing upward along pre-planned routes. They cleared the stairs and corridors leading to the upper fortifications and the command center. When they encountered scattered patrols or runners, they didn't hide. Instead, they approached with feigned panic, shouting confusing orders like, "Hurry! They need support up top!" As they passed each other, the blunt end of a hand axe smashed into a temple, a poisoned dagger pierced a kidney, or a wire garrote slipped over a neck and tightened violently. Their teamwork was professional and brutal. Often, the victims fell into eternal darkness before they even realized what was happening. The path was cleared swiftly and silently.
There was almost no organized resistance. everyone's attention was locked on the earth-shaking green explosion and the life-or-death struggle at sea. Fear and chaos had strangled their judgment. They never imagined that their deadliest enemies were already among them, disguised and driving straight for the heart like a virus.
Finally, Euron personally led the core team up this "clean" path paved with blood and bodies. Like a whirlwind of death rising from the ground, they stormed onto the platform atop the castle wall.
This was the nerve center of the port's defense. It housed the ballistae and trebuchets, and it was where Lord Adrian Redwyne was personally overseeing the battle.
At that moment, Lord Adrian was still staring dumbfounded at the devastating green fire in the distance. His mind was blank, unable to comprehend what had happened, completely unaware of the danger looming behind him. It wasn't until the cold, blood-slicked edge of a sword rested gently against the bare skin of his neck—like the tongue of a venomous snake—that the bone-chilling cold snapped him awake. He whipped his head around in horror.
What met his eyes was the pale, cruel face of Euron Greyjoy, and those terrifying, mismatched eyes—one a freezing blue like a stormy sea, the other a pure, abyssal black that seemed to swallow everything. Euron held a longsword in each hand. The blades danced in his grip as if they were alive, light and lethal, tracing dazzling silver arcs in the air.
The last few loyal guards around the Earl saw this and, with shouts of alarm, drew their swords and rushed to save their lord. But to Euron, their movements were laughably slow.
A flash of steel!
The left-hand sword whipped out like a scorpion's tail, parrying a thrusting spear and slicing downwards in one fluid motion. The guard's four fingers were severed at the root. Before his scream could escape his throat, the tip of Euron's right-hand sword darted forward like lightning, piercing his throat.
Another guard raised a battle axe for a downward chop. Euron sidestepped like a phantom. The axe whistled through the air where he had been, striking sparks off the stone floor. Simultaneously, Euron's left sword slashed upward in a reverse grip, slicing precisely through the exposed leather and arteries under the man's armpit. Blood sprayed. The right sword followed instantly, thrusting like a chisel, the point driving hard through the eye slit of the guard's helmet!
Crack!
A sickening crunch, followed by a short, stifled groan. The guard collapsed as if his bones had been removed.
The last guard, his courage shattered, turned to run. An Ironborn warrior rushing from the side buried an axe in the back of his skull. He dropped without a sound.
The entire fight happened in a heartbeat. Lord Adrian hadn't even blinked a few times before his final line of defense was reduced to twitching, bleeding corpses on the ground.
Euron flicked the warm blood from his blades. His mismatched pupils locked onto the pale, bloodless face of Adrian Redwyne. A cold, cruel smile curled the corner of his lips.
"You—" Lord Adrian started to speak, but an Ironborn warrior smashed the pommel of a knife into his temple, knocking him to the ground. He was swiftly bound and gagged.
Euron didn't even look at the captured Lord. He strode to the highest point of the wall, grabbed the halyard of the flying banner—the deep purple grapes of House Redwyne—and ripped it down. He threw it onto the stone floor, letting the boots of countless Ironborn trample over it.
Immediately after, a massive, terrifying banner was raised.
The golden kraken of House Greyjoy rose rapidly into the sky above Starfish Harbor. Against the backdrop of the still-burning green hellfire and the thunderous war drums, it snapped arrogantly in the wind!
It had all happened so fast, so suddenly. When the garrison and civilians in the port finally recovered slightly from the shock of the explosion, they looked up in horror to find their reality shattered.
The core defense of the port had fallen. Their Lord had been captured alive. And the Golden Kraken—the symbol of conquest and ruin—was waving proudly over their own castle.
Panic, like wildfire, instantly engulfed all of Starfish Harbor. The morale of the fleet fighting at sea collapsed instantly.
The Ironborn victory was sealed.
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