Starfish Town, Central Square.
The town's central square, once a place for bustling markets and festive celebrations, was now suffocated by a grim, deadly silence. It had been transformed into a stage for raw power and conquest.
In the center of the square, tied firmly to rough wooden stakes like livestock waiting for auction, were Lord Adrian Redwyne and his young son, Paxter Redwyne.
Their magnificent armor had been stripped away, leaving them in dirty, torn under-tunics. Their bodies bore the bruises and cuts of the struggle; their hair was a mess. They looked exhausted and humiliated. Yet, Lord Adrian strained to keep his head high, clinging to the last shreds of his dignity, while young Paxter's face was ashen, his eyes filled with fear and indignation.
The mere sight of the father and son—bound and helpless—was a silent, screaming declaration of House Redwyne's total defeat.
Surrounding them was a dense wall of Ironborn warriors, weapons drawn, eyes fierce. Beyond that wall of steel were the civilians of Starfish Town, driven from their homes and herded here like sheep. Panic, confusion, and deep anxiety were etched on their faces. Men clenched their fists only to loosen them in helplessness; women clutched their children tight, sobbing quietly, terrified of what fate awaited them and their town.
Euron Greyjoy stood on a raised platform, his black cloak rippling gently in the salty breeze. He scanned the crowd calmly, taking in every reaction. His voice, crisp and clear, cut through the silence of the square.
"Soldiers, knights, and officers of House Redwyne!" His voice scraped over them like a cold iron blade. "Look at your Lord! Look at your fate! Starfish Harbor has fallen. Your fleet is broken. Resistance is meaningless!"
He paused, letting the hopeless reality sink into the bones of every defeated soldier. Simultaneously, he unleashed a wave of Conqueror's Haki. An invisible, crushing pressure swept across the square, forcing everyone to feel his dominance instinctively.
"Now, I, Euron Greyjoy, in the name of House Greyjoy and King Quellon of the Iron Islands, give you one final choice: Drop your weapons immediately! Take off your armor! Kneel and surrender!"
The command was clear and merciless.
Scattered remnants of the garrison, who had been hiding in the shadows debating their next move, saw the wretched state of their Lords and the murderous intent of the Ironborn surrounding the square. Their last spark of fighting spirit was snuffed out.
With a clatter of metal on stone, swords, spears, and crossbows were reluctantly thrown to the ground. Helmets and breastplates followed, discarded at their feet. The soldiers, faces gray with defeat, slowly sank to their knees, bowing heads that had once been proud. A surrender, however bitter, was still a surrender.
Once the last weapon hit the dirt, Euron turned his gaze to the shivering civilians. His tone softened slightly, but the cold authority remained untouched.
"People of Starfish Town, raise your heads."
They looked up at him, fearful and hesitant.
"Understand why this war happened!" Euron raised his voice, painting the conflict with a deliberate stroke of 'justice', pointing a finger at the bound Lord Adrian. "This bloodshed and destruction did not come from Ironborn greed. It came from the piracy of your Lord! He, Adrian Redwyne, ignored law and dignity. He publicly hijacked three legal merchant ships of the Iron Islands! And afterward, he arrogantly refused our reasonable request for an explanation and compensation!"
He positioned himself as the victim seeking justice, despite the brutal methods.
"The warriors of the Iron Islands are here today to wash away that insult! We are here to defend our inviolable dignity and honor! Our attack is against the armed forces of House Redwyne—against those who took up arms against us!"
Then, he pivoted, offering reassurance to the civilians—a move that was both a practical necessity and a calculated political strategy.
"But all of this... has nothing to do with you." His gaze swept over the fearful faces of fishermen, craftsmen, and farm wives. "You are just people trying to survive on this land. War was not your choice. I, Euron Greyjoy, on the honor of House Greyjoy and the blood of the Grey King, promise you this: As long as you do not take up arms against us, the warriors of the Iron Islands will not harm a single civilian of the Arbor. Your lives, your property—as long as it does not belong to House Redwyne—will be respected and protected."
These words were a lifeline. A faint glimmer of hope returned to the eyes of the desperate civilians. They might not fully trust him, but under the threat of absolute violence, this "guarantee" offered a chance of survival. The sobbing in the square quieted, though the heavy fear and uncertainty still hung thick in the air.
Through a display of force, psychological intimidation, and limited promises, Euron had successfully seized control of the narrative. He had packaged a bloody conquest as "righteous punishment" and "mercy" for the common folk.
However, the cold light deep within his mismatched eyes reminded everyone that Ironborn rule had nothing to do with true kindness.
Euron watched the crowd—their hunger and fear tangible like a fog. He knew that while terror ensured obedience, a touch of calculated "charity" broke the will to resist more effectively than any whip. It gave the brutal conquest a veneer of legitimacy.
He turned slightly and pointed to one side of the square. There, Ironborn warriors had piled up food seized from the Redwyne warehouses—sacks of wheat, beans, dried fruit, salted fish, and local produce. In the chaotic aftermath of battle, this mountain of food was precious.
"Citizens of Starfish Town," his voice rang out again, relayed by criers. It sounded less murderous now, almost pragmatic. "I know war has disrupted your lives. I know many of your hearths have gone cold."
He paused, letting the words resonate.
"Look there," he pointed to the pile. "There is food. If your family is facing hunger, step forward now. Take a share for your daily needs, based on the number of mouths you have to feed. Ironborn rule begins with fairness."
This order caused a stir in the deathly silent square. Many civilians looked up in disbelief, glancing between the food and Euron on the high platform. Their eyes held a mix of suspicion, hunger, and fear. Finally, the boldest among them—or those with absolutely nothing left to eat—stepped out under the gaze of the crowd. Hesitantly, carefully, they approached the pile and, under the indifferent watch of the Ironborn guards, took their life-saving rations.
This act was like a stone thrown into a frozen lake. It didn't melt the fear instantly, but it cracked the solid ice of pure hostility.
As the people retreated with their food, Euron spoke again. His tone snapped back to absolute, unquestionable ice.
"Now, everyone, return to your homes immediately. Lock your doors and windows."
He spoke slowly, ensuring every word was branded into their minds.
"For the next few days, without specific orders, no one is to leave their house! Staying inside is your greatest safety. I pledge on the honor of House Greyjoy: as long as you remain orderly and abide by the law, no Ironborn warrior will enter your home without cause or disturb your peace."
It sounded like protection, a promise of safety. Many people exhaled in relief, grateful that their families might survive the night.
But then, Euron's voice shifted sharply. The warmth vanished, replaced by an iron curtain. The temperature in the square dropped to absolute zero.
"However—!"
His eyes, sharp as knives, swept across the crowd. Every word was a dagger plunged into their hearts.
"If we see anyone daring to wander the streets without permission—"
"If we discover anyone attempting to send messages to the outside world—"
"If we find anyone secretly harboring or hiding soldiers who still wish to fight—"
He paused after each sentence, letting the terrible implications hang in the silence.
"Then," he declared with finality, "do not blame the Ironborn blades for showing no mercy! What awaits you will be only death and ruin! Do not say I didn't warn you!"
The carrot and the stick. The promise of food and safety was a brief taste of sweetness; the brutal curfew and the threat of execution were the iron laws of his rule.
The speech paralyzed the civilians. The faint gratitude from the food was instantly buried under a deeper, darker fear of violence. They lowered their heads, daring not to look at the conqueror in black. Like a frightened flock, under the watchful eyes of the Ironborn, they silently and quickly dispersed, hurrying toward their homes. Doors slammed shut, bolts slid into place, locking the people inside with their fear.
The streets of Starfish Town emptied rapidly. Soon, the only sounds were the heavy boots of Ironborn patrols and the snapping of the Golden Kraken flag in the wind, announcing the change of masters.
An oppressive, suffocating calm settled over the fallen town.
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