Interlude I
It is a cold clear morning, and the sky is icy blue. A few wisps of cloud are twirling in the heavens. To the east the golden summer sun has risen, nigh to noon. To the west beckons the neverending swell of deep, open sea. To the north, the summer sunlight dances on the rocks of the Shield Islands, gleaming off sharp edges that cast shards of brilliance into the spray.
To the south, men are at battle. Warships great and small ride the waves, all of them of Westerosi making. All are vessels of the royal fleet, hoisting royal black-and-golden banners in honour of the king. The question yet remains: which king?
The ships of the first fleet are big and bristling with men. They carry strong complements of mailed men-at-arms and longbowmen to ward off unwanted encroachment. Some even have scorpions mounted on their mighty decks. It is a day of weak wind, but that is little hindrance; the great vessels of the royal fleet, 'galleys' though the king may call them, are equally well readied to move by sails as by oarsmen. It is the oarsmen who are at work today, groaning with the commands of their taskmasters and the lashes of whips on their backs—thugs and lawbreakers, or at least men whom the goldcloaks of King's Landing have lately declared are such. Those weary arms push their ships forth along surging trails of spray. They are the royal fleet of King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name… the latest such fleet he has sent. Few of them have much respect for their glorious monarch, nowadays.
The second fleet has a thousand ships, twice the first fleet's numbers. Their ships, though, are sleek and smooth-bottomed and lean—well-made to carve through the water and turn with alacrity that far surpasses King Robert's cumbersome galleys. Yet it also can be said that Robert's galleys much surpass them in size. The second fleet has many such galleys amongst it: a hundred big mainlander ships that have been seized in prior victories. They are the royal fleet of King Balon Greyjoy, the Ninth of His Name… an old man who sits on Pyke and does not lead them. Few of them have much respect for their glorious monarch, nowadays.
"Dispatch Ser Wylis's squadron forward to port," their high captain orders calmly, crisply. "I want them flanked; we'll have no escape to the Sunset Sea."
"Yes, my lord."
The white ships with the mermaid banners veer to cut off the escape path of the outnumbered Ironborn.
"Instruct Ser Tygett to advance to replace them."
It is done. Ships with red-golden lion banners move forth to fill the gap the Manderlys left behind, forming an unbroken chain of royal galleys.
"And the Hightowers, my lord?" volunteers one of his lieutenants, a Northman named Ser Mathis. He looks a little abashed. "Not me—they've signalled to ask their part in the advance."
"To remain in place," the high captain replies sharply. "I need them guarding the stonethrowers. The ironmen scum will try their very best to get our stonethrowers undefended; I do not mean to let them have a sporting chance." Glory-hunting Reachmen, he thinks with scorn, but does not say it. "Lord Hightower's ships are to stay where they are, come hell or high water. Am I understood?"
"I'll have that message sent, my lord," Ser Mathis says, and scrambles to bark orders at the man on the mast with the signal-flags.
The Lannister and Manderly ships continue boldly forward, leaving a trail of spray. The common-born sailors' arms and whipped backs ache as they row as fast as they can on this cold windless day. From the deck of his command-ship, the high captain watches as chain of ships extends forth on the left flank of the Baratheon royal fleet—long, but compact and deadly, several ships deep, to prevent a breakthrough and breakout.
The ironman longships do not evade, which surprises him. If he were the ironman commander, at this point he would flee. But then again, whatever their flaws, they have always been a bold people.
"We're getting them!" one of his crewmen whispers to another, bright-faced.
The men are excited. The high captain does not allow himself to show signs of such. He remains cold, crisp, in command. Yet he too thinks, At last. They have played a merry game thus far, and inflicted losses on the Seven Kingdoms, but those losses were not grievous. The Greyjoy rebels may have destroyed one of King Robert's fleets, and then another; but the Stormlands and the North have many more trees than they do, and this third fleet is vaster than the first. Now the ironmen are surrounded, outnumbered and out-armed.
And now, perhaps, House Grafton can remove the stain on its honour of backing the wrong side in the Rebellion by winning the decisive victory over the ironmen that Jason Mallister and Wyman Manderly could not. And maybe that will stop the men muttering about how they wish they had Ser Eldon Estermont—the king's uncle and the victorious commander of the Battle of Dragonstone, dismissed by King Robert after that selfsame battle in a fit of capricious spite—instead of him.
The ships of the port flank continue moving forward and around. The rocks of the Shield Islands to the north, the rocks of the mainland to the east, the extended flank to the west and the main royal fleet to the south… The Iron Fleet is pinned in. There is nowhere they can flee to.
"Convey my compliments to all the captains," Lord Gerold says crisply, "and issue them, if you will, with this command: Close in."
They do so.
"Oh, and send one further order," Gerold says lightly, as if making merely some remark. "To the heavy galleys at the rear, with the stonethrowers. Loose."
"This is madness!"
A huge round rock crashes into an Ironborn ship with a hideous brunch of wood and human bone. The oaken mainmast snaps like a twig. Two sailors are crushed into a grisly paste, red smears on the deck. More are slain by flying splinters. The deck is pierced in several places, and the moans of the wounded mingle with the terrified cries of their watching comrades as the water-level begins to rise: "Bail! Bail! Bail!"
The sinking ship rocks violently back and forth. The calm windless waters have been stirred to rocking by the frantic motions of ships, both sinking ones and those still floating and trying to avoid that fate.
Struggling to stand up straight, a huge broad man in full plate armour shoves his way to the starboard side of his ship's deck. "This is madness!" he repeats, yelling at a man standing by the mast of the neighbouring ship, slenderer and shorter and less imposing. His ship rocks in a wave that is sent as another ship crashes into the water; despite his bulk, the impact flings him aside like a child's toy. He stands, spitting blood, grey hair struggling to escape his helmet. "They're butchering us!"
The man at the mast turns. He is slim, well-dressed, and breathtakingly lovely. Sunlight lingers as if longingly upon him: a curtain of lush black hair framing a face pale as moonbeams, with an eye the same shade as the open sea.
An eye. The other is concealed by a patch, you see.
"Why, hello there, Victarion," he says with a radiant smile.
"What are you doing, Crow's Eye?" Victarion Greyjoy roars.
"You will see." Euron turns back to gaze upon the Baratheon galleys closing in towards them.
"When?"
"When it is time," says Euron Crow's Eye. His voice is mild, unperturbed. His ship the Silence is nearly struck by a scorpion-bolt; under its impact the sea trembles, and the Silence rocks side-to-side. Several crewmen are knocked over. Euron loses his footing and crashes onto the up-angled side of the deck.
"It must be time!" cries Victarion, flinging out a hand to gesture to the oncoming fleet. "Our longships aren't built to fight like this! Those heavy ships are too close; we can't evade them without hitting the rocks; we have nowhere to run. Whatever cunning scheme you've got up your arse, use it now!"
"Have faith, little brother," Euron says, rising to his feet, sounding more amused than offended. "I have not led you false before. This is not the first fleet they have sent against us, I am sure that you recall. There was another, and another. Where now lies the Lord of Seagard, tall and proud? Where is the Lord of White Harbour? Where now fly the bright banners they carried into battle against us?"
"At the bottom of the sea," admits Victarion.
Euron's smile slips; it is no longer quite so handsome. It is somewhat like a shark's smile—almost perfect, but a tiny bit too wide. "Oh yes. We have achieved so much together, you and I; your prowess in battle, and my skill in command. Be not afraid! For I am with you; and that matters more than anything."
A shriek rings out as a man on the Silence is struck with a scorpion-bolt. The bolt is ten feet long and wickedly sharp; it impales the unlucky Ironborn sailor and makes shredded ruin of a sail before it plunges into the sea. Both of the Greyjoy brothers stumble; Victarion keeps his feet, and the lighter Euron does not.
"We cannot fight like this!" Victarion howls.
Euron struggles to his feet. "We will wait," he says through teeth bared. "We must." Then suddenly he smiles—angelic, dazzling. "Believe me. Trust me. Do you not love me, after all this time?"
Victarion, looming and gigantic as he is, actually flinches. The Crow's Eye laughs at him.
Slowly, surely, the Baratheon fleet close in. The Ironborn are fighting. The Ironborn are dying. Guarded by great Hightower galleys, the heavier ships at the rear with mounted stonethrowers and scorpions are sending a hail of rocks and bolts upon the Ironborn, while the further-ahead galleys attack the longships with arrows and boarding parties. The Ironborn are trapped in the narrow strait between the Shield Islands and the mainland, surrounded by rocks and greenlander ships on all sides. There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide.
The Silence itself is nearly sunk by a stone that splashes into the nearby water. The grazing blow sends violent waves that hurl the ship from side to side so fiercely it is almost upturned. Many of Euron's mutes hit the deck. So does Euron. No-one is immune to the ship's woes.
Euron gets up, bloody and bruising. "Message to all ships," he spits through broken teeth.
"At last," murmurs Victarion, watching with panic and fear as his people are dismantled before his eyes.
"Get the captives," Euron calls, as his mute tongueless crewmen frantically move their signal-flags. "Kill them."
"What?!" Victarion cannot hide his horror. "I thought you had a plan!"
"Be silent, brother," Euron snarls. He looks back to the man with his signal-flags. "Instruct them: this is of the highest importance. I do not expect you to understand. I insist. Cut the necks of the greenlander captives on the prows, or you will not live to see the morrow's dawn."
"You're leading all these men to die!" Victarion is incredulous. He is not afraid for himself, but— "How could you? You, even you of all men, how could you? How could you lead us into this? Your pride has brought doom to our people."
Euron ignores him. Striding forward, as if to show how it is done, he walks to the captive; he leans over the aft of the quaking ship; he undoes the gag.
Words spill out. Brown eyes are wide with terror. "No, don't! My lord cousin will reward you, I'm a Tyrell, you hear me, a Tyrell of Highgarden, he'll pay ransom, whatever you like, you don't dare, I'm your captive, you mustn't, you don't need to, you don't—"
Euron flicks his wrist, dagger in hand. With all the dignity he would give a pig, he slits the Tyrell's throat.
Blood gushes out like the words before, thick and red and pulsing. All across the Ironborn fleet, at the prow of every ship, trembling Ironborn sailors do likewise. Euron's smiling eye stares straight at the Baratheon fleet, and his blue lips hiss:
"Ás táf tàth."
The ocean shudders. Ships bob up and down like corks in a bath being splashed by a child. Great greenlander galleys are thrown about as easily as the Ironborn longships. Countless sailors are physically thrown up off their feet and fall hard on the decks or waters.
Only Euron stands, straight, still as pillar, as fixed as the foundations of the earth, even as the ships careen from side to side like drunkards and the ocean trembles beneath his feet.
He smiles. It is almost serene.
"Ás táf tàth."
The ocean screams. A high-pitched cry comes from beneath the waves. All the seabirds for miles take off and wheel away in fright, save only a passing eagle flying high in the distance. And in a circle half a mile wide around the Silence, including all the ships of all the fleets of all the kings, underneath the pale clear cold sky the waters darken. Blacker than blue, blacker than the deeps, blacker than midnight… The waves thrash like drowning men begging for succour.
They receive none. Straining with effort, through gritted teeth, the voice of the Crow's Eye calls through the dark: "Ás—táf—tàth—shii."
The ocean convulses. The waters beneath their feet are rent as if by a sword-thrust. Deep inky blackness bursts up from beneath the waves, drinking sunlight out of the sky.
Then, as the blackness spreads, you can see it is no longer blackness. It was never black at all, only, it was so dense you could not tell so. The writhing water has turned to blood.
More than a thousand ships are sailing upon an ocean out of nightmare. The placid waters of summer morning have turned to churning blood that repulses all things living. To their horror the mainlander sailors see the hulls of their ships, built for water, convulse and crackle at the unnatural touch of the red writhing sea. Wood bubbles, hisses, splinters, gives way. And when it does…when it does, the bloody tide lays its lethal touch upon the men.
Whenever they fall into the water, even the bravest men are turned to quivering children, weeping and crying with helpless fear. The sea of blood swallows them slowly, muffling their cries. Ships shudder and shake apart, spilling every man of their crews to the most grisly of fates, their bones moaning and shattering in the eldritch sea while they are drowning.
Yet the curse of the water does not cease. No such fate befalls the Silence.
Indeed, it is more than that. Through the chaos, gradually you realise that every ship with the sacrifices' throats leaking into the waves is spared. The sea of blood spreads from them, it does not consume them. Only those who listened to the Crow's Eye are protected. No such luck goes to those who were sensible and careful, focusing on the battle. The Ironborn ships whose captains did not heed every mad command are being devoured by the bloody tide as remorselessly as the mainlanders.
On the ships that gave sacrifice, Ironborn watch wide-eyed as their comrades on neighbouring ships die screaming.
Some of those ships' crews dash to their prows, desperate with fear and fading hope, wantonly slaughtering their fellow-men with none of the knives and spells and knowledge that their master used. It is too late. It is far too late. The massacres avail nothing. They are, and remain, doomed.
Among King Robert's royal fleet, chaos reigns. Full-grown men are sobbing, calling for their mothers. As he yells his orders, struggling to be heard over the screams, amidst the end of the world Gerold Grafton somehow hears a small soft voice.
A young sailor is kneeling on the deck, shaking, eyes closed. He cannot be more than four-and-ten. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…"
"See!" Euron is laughing, drunk on power or drunk on blood, you cannot tell. "You thought yourself my equal, little brother? See what I am! Do you not see? Do you not see? Do you not see?"
All the mainlanders are screaming now, from lofty lords to whipped oarsmen. They fight desperately to keep their ships afloat for one more minute, one more second, one more moment—knowing what will befall them if, when, they cannot.
The sea of bubbling blood is eating through the thick beams of their hulls. Greedily it reaches for their flesh.
No more thought is paid to the Ironborn. They think only of escape. They think only of survival. Lofty lords and overseers drop their whips, fall to their knees and man the oars of their galleys with the utmost of their strength, toiling fiercely to row out of the killing zone as their ships disintegrate beneath them.
It is for nothing. Only one small ship escapes the massacre, a ship of a sort. Its crew are four screaming sailors, maddened by the madness they have seen, missing toes or hands or legs that briefly touched the water. What they are clinging to is no ship, just a piece of scorched driftwood which—be it by the will of the Crow's Eye or by pure blind luck—is caught by a current that bears it out of the sea of blood, out into clear clean water, half a second before it would have been consumed entirely. Through them, the folk of mainland Westeros will learn what has befallen their fleet when they wash ashore on the beaches of Lannisport, incapable of everything except to writhe wild-eyed and babbling without end "The blood!—the blood!—the blood!—"
Slowly, as the last of the Baratheon ships collapse to skeletal timbers, blood turns back to water.
All the king's ships and all the king's men availed him naught. Robert has been defeated yet again, this time more terribly than ever. Boneless chunks of ships and men drift on the water's surface, covering the sea with the detritus of the countless dead. Barely half of the Ironborn survive. Those who do look with stupefied awe upon the Crow's Eye.
There is a vast, ghastly silence.
Then a great cloud crosses the air, dark against the sky. Euron looks up, idle, cat-quick, curious. It grows, and grows, and grows…
…you see, it is not a cloud at all. It is not growing. It is coming closer.
A crowd of crows are rushing here from the nearby land, drawn by the overpowering scent of blood. Crows in their tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—no, crows in their millions are here to feast upon the corpses of the slain. When they descend, their extraordinary numbers nigh block out the sun.
At the same time, the sea, once blue, once red, turns grey with a feeding frenzy of thousands of sharks swimming up from the depths. They dine on the sinking stinking chunks of sailors, snapping and fighting with one another for their share of this banquet of carrion beyond anything seen in the circles of the world.
A thousand miles away, a pair of dark blue eyes snap open.
Upon awareness, attendants come rushing close. "My prince, what—"
"Commander—"
A low rumbling voice speaks over them all. "I am going to find Euron Greyjoy. And I am going to kill him."