The waters of the Whispering Sound were no longer their usual azure blue. They resembled a boiling, filthy cauldron of blood soup.
Wreckage of ships, torn sails, floating corpses, and scattered debris covered the vast expanse of the sea. The air was thick with the pungent, stinging mixture of blood, gunpowder smoke, and salty brine.
The roar of battle had faded, leaving only the groans of the wounded, the crackle of burning timber, and the eerie lapping of waves against dead bodies.
Suddenly, the rhythmic, powerful stroke of oars broke the mournful silence. Euron Greyjoy, personally leading dozens of Ironborn longships, rowed into this ravaged battlefield.
Their mission wasn't to finish off the survivors. Instead, they displayed a kind of bizarre "mercy." Ironborn warriors stood at the gunwales, extending oars and grappling hooks to the exhausted, dying men in the water—both Redwyne sailors and the few Ironborn who had fallen overboard.
"Grab on! Hurry!"
"Over here! Pull him up!"
"He's still breathing! Haul him in!"
Shouts rang out across the water, starkly different from the crazed war cries of earlier. They worked diligently, fishing out every living soul they could find. Soaking wet, shivering, and traumatized survivors were dragged onto the decks, given rough blankets and fresh water. This scene of humanitarian aid felt jarringly out of place in a bay that had just witnessed a massacre—almost unsettlingly ironic.
Euron called it humanitarianism—the war was over, and there was no need for senseless killing.
However, beneath this veneer of "humane" rescue, Euron had a hidden agenda. He stood at the prow, his black cloak billowing in the wind, his eyes slowly closing. Unseen by anyone else, deep within his consciousness, a forbidden power from another world—the Soul-Soul Fruit—was quietly stirring.
As his will expanded, an invisible but insatiably greedy suction radiated from him, silently enveloping the massive maritime graveyard. The fragments of souls from the freshly dead—those energies charged with fear, pain, reluctance, and despair—were being drawn out from the countless floating and sinking bodies. Like wisps of smoke caught in an invisible vortex, they formed cold streams of energy that only Euron could perceive, flowing endlessly into his body.
He was harvesting souls.
Each absorbed soul was like cold fuel tossed into the dark flame burning deep in his heart, nourishing his already unfathomable power and perhaps quietly changing him in ways unseen. This superficial rescue operation was, in reality, a bountiful feast for him. The gratitude of the living and the wails of the dead together formed the staircase for his ascending power.
[Soul Points: 3280]
Souls were fuel. The elemental lifeforms created by the Soul-Soul Fruit needed Euron to inject souls into them to become stronger and gain intelligence.
Soul points weren't calculated by headcount, but by soul intensity. Sometimes a dead man yielded 15 points; other times, only 3. Souls were strange things—muscle mass didn't equal high points, nor did intelligence. Euron didn't know the logic the system used to judge soul strength, and he didn't care.
Euron sighed inwardly: War is truly the best fertilizer for the Soul-Soul Fruit. His only concern now was when the next war would begin.
Meanwhile, inside the captured Starfish Harbor, the Ironborn warriors were displaying another side of themselves besides savagery: efficient, ruthless occupation and control.
Before the ashes of battle had even cooled, the Iron Islands' systematic takeover of Starfish Town began. Squads of elite Ironborn moved like precision scalpels, securing all vital points.
Gates and Drawbridges: Damaged mechanisms were assessed, and temporary reinforcements were immediately implemented. Heavy guards were stationed at all exits; anyone attempting to enter or leave without permission faced ruthless execution. The first rule of occupation was total control of movement.
Walls and Battlements: The Redwyne banners were torn down and replaced with more grim Golden Kraken flags. Ironborn archers and ballista crews took over all strategic firing positions, aiming cold arrows and massive bolts at the city and the bay, declaring absolute dominance.
Watchtowers: Warriors with the keenest eyesight were sent to the high points. Like hawks, they monitored every movement in the streets, every suspicious sail in the bay, and the distant horizon, ensuring no surprise could escape their gaze.
Storehouses and Granaries: These were immediately secured under heavy guard. Inventory counts began at once—this was critical for feeding the army, controlling the populace, and serving as leverage for future negotiations. Looting or sabotage was punishable by death on the spot.
Wine Cellars: These were also strictly guarded. Revelry was the reward for victory, but it had to be controlled to prevent drunken chaos or mutiny.
The Vaults and Treasury: This was the priority. The most trusted and cold-blooded warriors were sent to guard the gold. The wealth accumulated by House Redwyne over generations would fall intact into Greyjoy hands, fueling their future ambitions.
The entire Starfish Harbor—from sea to land, from the sky (watchtowers) to the underground (vaults)—was rapidly integrated into the Ironborn war machine like a precision gear. Efficient violence and cold order together built the absolute rule of the Iron Islands over this newly conquered land. Rescue and plunder happened simultaneously on this ravaged soil.
The Lord's Hall of Starfish Town.
Once a place filled with the sweet scent of Arbor wine and the polite conversation of maritime lords, the hall was now utterly possessed by the roughness, barbarism, and victorious frenzy of the Ironborn.
Answering King Quellon's summons, the lords of the various islands—fresh from their bloody purges, brutal suppression, and greedy looting—arrived in high spirits from their "posts." They strode into the hall, heavy boots stomping on exquisite carpets, leaving trails of mud and blood.
The hall had been "cleared" by Ironborn warriors. The gold and silver plate of House Redwyne was piled carelessly in corners, replaced by massive barrels of dark ale and spirits of varying quality hauled from the cellars. The air was a thick, pungent mix of alcohol, sweat, and the lingering metallic scent of blood—the unique smell of "victory."
The noise threatened to lift the roof!
"Hahaha! glorious! Fucking glorious!" Dunstan "The Bone Hand" Drumm of Old Wyk raised a massive, gold-encrusted goblet (obviously loot) with his good hand. Beer foam dripped from his tangled beard as he roared, "I personally chopped three of those shiny Arbor knights into the sea! All that pretty plate armor didn't do shit!"
"Three? That's nothing!" the Lord of House Sunderly of Saltcliffe shouted, face flushed and neck bulging. One of his eyes was swollen shut, but he didn't care. "I led the boys onto a big warship! The deck was full of cowards pissing themselves! I barely swung my axe and they were on their knees begging! Soft! They're all soft!"
Singing broke out in pockets. Drunken lords draped arms around each other, bellowing ancient, bloody Ironborn war songs in off-key, gravelly voices. The lyrics were full of praise for the Drowned God, lust for plunder, and contempt for death. Some banged sword hilts against tables and shields, creating a chaotic, rousing rhythm.
Laughter rose and fell in waves, filled with unbridled arrogance and conqueror's pride.
"Did you see them run? Like seagulls chased by a hound! Hahahaha!"
"Strongest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms? Psh! I chased two of their big ships with one longship!"
"Their castle is pretty, shame the defenders were soft as pudding! I barely pushed and the door opened!"
They bragged incessantly, spit flying, focusing on three things: how many they killed and how brave they were (numbers inflated, battles described as one-man massacres); how weak and cowardly the Redwynes were (attributing victory to the enemy's incompetence to boost their own vanity); and, most excitedly, the loot.
Especially the shining gold dragons. "My men found their vault! Gods, the gold was blinding!" "We're rich! Think of the new ships we can build!" "I'm going to pave my hall with gold dragons!" Their greedy eyes made no attempt to hide their lust, as if they could already see mountains of wealth piling up.
The entire hall had become a vortex of noise, chaos, barbaric vitality, and victory fever. These Ironborn lords and nobles celebrated in the most primal way, immersing themselves in the supreme pleasure brought by violence, alcohol, and greed. In this moment, they were the undisputed conquerors of the sea, and they displayed their dominance with reckless, uninhibited abandon.
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