Euron Greyjoy stepped forward slowly, looking down with cold indifference at Lord Adrian Redwyne. The Lord of the Arbor was pinned firmly to the ground, yet he still strained to lift his head, defiant to the end.
Above them on the ramparts, the Golden Kraken of House Greyjoy—the symbol of conquest—snapped loudly in the wind, replacing the Redwyne grapes.
"Look at the situation, Lord Adrian," Euron's voice was unnervingly calm, yet carried an undeniable authority that cut through the sounds of slaughter and distant explosions. "Starfish Harbor is mine. Your fleet is headless and surrounded. We have won. Order your men to stand down and surrender. I swear by the name of Greyjoy: those who surrender will live."
Lord Adrian Redwyne's face was a mask of blood, sweat, and dirt. His magnificent armor was scuffed and filthy. He looked wretched.
Strategically, he might have been slow and arrogant. As a commander, he might have been incompetent. As a warrior, he was nothing special. But in this moment of utter despair, the stubborn pride of the Redwyne patriarch revealed itself like the hardest rock on the Arbor's coast.
Lord Adrian spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the stone. "Bah!" he roared hoarsely, every word dripping with resolve. "Ironborn scum! Surrender? Never! You can kill me right here! I, Adrian Redwyne, will never bow my head to pirates and locusts! House Redwyne has Earls who die in battle, but we have no cowards who kneel and beg! Death is nothing to fear!"
His roar echoed along the wall, tragic and heroic.
"Pirates? It seems you were the pirate this time, Lord Adrian," Euron smirked coldly, seemingly both appreciative and dismissive of the man's grit. "The battle is decided. Refusing to surrender just means dragging out the butchery."
He ignored the defeated lord's protests and turned sharply, firing off a string of icy commands.
"Open the main gates! Lower the drawbridge! Then smash the winches—destroy them completely! Let our people in!"
"Everyone rally to me! Hold the stairs to the wall! And him—" He pointed at Adrian. "Tie him up tight and put him right at the front! Let everyone see exactly what kind of wretched state their Lord is in!"
The Ironborn warriors moved like the wind. The massive city gates were pushed open from the inside. The heavy drawbridge crashed down, connecting the harbor to the city. Immediately, warhammers and axes smashed into the wooden gears and metal chains of the winch mechanism. Sparks flew as the machinery was destroyed, ensuring the enemy couldn't raise the bridge again.
Their task complete, the Ironborn rallied around Euron, forming a dense defensive phalanx with axes facing out and crossbows loaded. Lord Adrian Redwyne, hands bound behind his back and a blade at his throat, was roughly shoved to the very front of the line—a humiliating but incredibly effective human shield.
The Redwyne defenders who had managed to react to the fires and chaos inside the city rushed toward the wall to retake control. But the moment they got close, they froze in horror.
There was their noble Lord, looking like a lamb waiting for slaughter, pinned at the front of the enemy formation with a cold blade pressed against his jugular.
"Back off! Everyone back off! Or the Lord dies right now!" the Ironborn warriors roared viciously.
The walkway on the wall was narrow, only wide enough for two men abreast. Lord Adrian was forced to his knees, his body swaying as he was held down. The Redwyne soldiers, terrified of harming their liege, were paralyzed by panic and indecision. Their offensive stalled instantly.
They stood there gripping their weapons, anxious and helpless, unable to move forward for fear of killing their own Lord.
Meanwhile, out on the waters of the Whispering Sound, the Redwyne fleet finally noticed the shocking change atop the harbor castle. The familiar grape banner was gone. In its place flew the hideous Golden Kraken! Sharper eyes even spotted their supreme commander, Lord Adrian, being held hostage at swordpoint on the battlements.
This sight was the final straw that broke the camel's back.
Morale, already hanging by a thread under the suicidal Ironborn assault, collapsed completely.
"The castle has fallen!"
"They captured the Earl!"
"It's over! We're finished!"
Cries of despair spread through the fleet.
Many soldiers lost their will to fight. Some simply threw down their weapons and jumped into the sea like dumplings dropping into a pot, swimming desperately toward the shore or anywhere away from this doomed battle. Some of the more organized ships tried frantically to disengage, turning their prows to flee back to the harbor—unaware that the harbor had already changed hands and a worse fate awaited them there.
The defeat was total.
The Redwyne Fleet, once the third most powerful naval force in the Seven Kingdoms, was utterly crushed, dissolving into chaos and rout.
While the harbor burned and the defenders scattered, another drama was unfolding in the streets.
Paxter Redwyne, Adrian's only son and heir, was living through the most desperate moment of his young life.
Perhaps he hoped to save his father, or maybe he was trying to rally the routed troops for a final stand. Wearing fine silver-plated armor engraved with the Redwyne grapes, he stood out vividly among the panicked soldiers. He waved an ornate longsword, shouting himself hoarse, trying to stop the men running past him.
But his efforts were as futile as a sandcastle trying to stop a tsunami.
Suddenly, a savage war cry erupted from the other end of the street!
Balon Greyjoy, leading a squad of blood-mad Ironborn elites, charged down the harbor avenue like a pack of wolves tearing into a flock of sheep. They hacked down anyone holding a weapon, scanning for high-value targets and loot.
Balon spotted the finely dressed young noble immediately.
"Get him! I want him alive!" Balon roared, his face lit with the thrill of the hunt. He charged straight for Paxter.
Paxter Redwyne heard the shout and spun around. He saw a group of blood-soaked, demon-like Ironborn led by a fierce young captain wielding a dripping battle axe, charging straight at him! A few of his loyal guards tried to step in to protect him.
"For House Redwyne!" an old guard shouted, raising his shield.
Balon didn't even slow down. He delivered a massive, sweeping blow!
Crack!
The wooden shield shattered. The old guard screamed as he was sent flying, his arm twisted at a sickening angle.
Another guard lunged at Balon's flank with a sword, but an Ironborn warrior behind Balon slammed the flat of his axe into the man's helmet, knocking him out cold.
The fight was short and bloody. In seconds, Paxter's last line of defense was wiped out.
Paxter's face was pale, but he had inherited his father's grit. He didn't run. He gripped his longsword with both hands, assuming a standard defensive stance, and shouted at the charging Balon: "In the name of Redwyne, stand back!"
Balon Greyjoy let out a bark of laughter. He didn't stop; he accelerated. Just before they collided, Balon's left hand flashed to his belt, drawing a throwing axe and feinting a chop to draw a block.
Paxter took the bait. His sword instinctively moved to parry the feint.
In that split second, his center was wide open!
Balon's real killing move—the heavy battle axe in his right hand—swung upward in a vicious arc! It smashed precisely into the crossguard of Paxter's sword!
CLANG! A piercing ring of metal on metal!
Paxter felt a jolt of agony tear through his hands. His entire arm went numb. He couldn't hold onto the beautiful family sword any longer; it flew from his grip, spinning through the air to land in the mud.
Before he could react, Balon slammed into him like a raging bear!
Heavy shoulder armor crashed against Paxter's ornate breastplate with a dull thud. The wind was knocked out of him, and he stumbled backward, falling.
Before he hit the ground, two Ironborn warriors pounced on him like hounds. They pinned his arms, digging their knees into his back to keep him immobile. Another warrior expertly slipped a rough hemp rope around his neck, quickly binding his arms and torso tight.
Paxter struggled violently, roaring, "Let me go! You pirates! You savages!"
An Ironborn warrior, annoyed by the noise, smashed the pommel of his knife hard against Paxter's helmet.
Thud!
Paxter's vision went black. His struggles went limp as dizziness overwhelmed him, reducing his roars to pained groans.
Balon walked over and ripped the exquisite helmet with its vine decorations off Paxter's head, revealing a young, pale face filled with terror and defiance. Balon grabbed a fistful of Paxter's hair, forcing the young heir to look into his cold eyes.
"See that, Little Lord?" Balon's voice smelled of blood. " The good days for House Redwyne are over. You belong to us now."
He let go of the hair and barked at his men. "Tie him up tight! Watch him closely! This one is valuable cargo!"
Paxter Redwyne, the future of the Arbor, was captured alive by Balon Greyjoy on the burning streets of his own harbor.
Roughly dragged toward the castle—now Ironborn territory—he became the second heavy chip in the Iron Islands' hand. With both the Lord and the Heir captured, the Ironborn now held a bloody leverage that would make not just House Redwyne, but even Highgarden, hesitate to strike back.
The moment the father and son were taken, the war was decided. The victory belonged to the Iron Islands.
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