The Wrath of the Grey King lay like a black reef, silently spanning the essential trade route connecting Walano to the Free Cities.
Balon Greyjoy's fleet held firm here like an iron chain, twenty longships spread on its flanks like a school of patrolling sharks.
They did not wait long.
On the distant horizon, two Swan Ships with graceful lines and sails like white clouds were fleeing north in panic, attempting to escape the archipelago about to be engulfed in war.
Their ornate shapes were glaringly conspicuous in the eyes of the Ironborn.
No warning horns, no flag signals ordering them to stop, not even a superfluous inquiry. Balon stood at the prow, watching coldly as the prey entered the encirclement, squeezing out a single word through his teeth:
"Kill!"
In an instant, giant iron hooks tore through the air, biting savagely into the exquisite hulls of the Swan Ships. Axe-wielding boarding parties surged onto the enemy vessels like a gray tide, roaring. The battle—or rather, the slaughter—erupted instantly and ended just as quickly. Resistance was weak; desperate wails were soon drowned out by the dull thuds of Ironborn axes cleaving flesh and bone.
Also intercepted was a mercenary ship attempting to slip away in the chaos. On board was a detachment of the Golden Company, renowned in the Disputed Lands.
Balon's method of dealing with them was simple and direct to the point of cruelty. He looked at the terrified captives on deck, including a noble prince, with no fluctuation in his eyes—only the indifference one has for lambs to slaughter. He raised his hand, preparing to give the order he had executed all his life: execute them all, leave none alive, throw the corpses into the sea to feed the fish.
"Father!"
Asha Greyjoy's voice rang out decisively. She strode quickly across the deck, standing between Balon and the captives. Though young, her gaze met her father's oppressive stare without flinching.
"Seneca is the Prince of the Isle of Birds; he is more valuable alive than dead! Members of the Golden Company are also important sources of intelligence! Indiscriminate killing will only earn us the name of 'Butchers,' not the glory of conquerors!"
Asha added, "Before I boarded, the only thing Uncle Euron asked me to do was to tell you to stop meaningless slaughter when you were about to kill everyone!"
Balon's brows knitted into a knot, his heavy breathing betraying his displeasure. He was used to solving problems with a battle-axe; his daughter's words sounded pedantic to him. Father and daughter faced off on the blood-soaked deck, the air as heavy as the eve of a storm.
Finally, Balon grunted heavily and waved his hand roughly, a gesture of tacit consent. He turned and walked away, dumping the troublesome task of dealing with captives onto Asha.
Had it not been for Asha's firm opposition, these waters would have been dyed even redder, and several figures who might play key roles in the future war would have silently sunk to the bottom of the sea.
The azure sea surface was stained with blood. Balon Greyjoy stood at the prow of the Wrath of the Grey King. The dissatisfaction accumulated from being sent on blockade duty had long been washed away by the continuous "harvest" before his eyes.
He had originally felt that being unable to participate in the frontal assault of sieging cities and seizing land, waiting here like a fisherman, was suffocating.
Now, it seemed this worry was entirely superfluous.
As soon as the war began, the pampered nobles and wealthy merchants of the Summer Isles, like a frightened mischief of rats, sailed their ornate but clumsy Swan Ships, attempting to flee this paradise about to sink.
Looking at another captured Swan Ship and the loot piled on deck, Balon spread his arms and let out a laugh that shook the sea surface, his voice rough as grinding stones. "Lads! Keep your eyes peeled! I promised Euron—" He waved his hand fiercely, pointing at the open sea, his tone filled with ferocious excitement. "Not a single damn sea fly gets past my eyes in these waters!"
The surrounding crew were busy. They roughly turned over corpses, skillfully prying off rings, tearing off necklaces, and stuffing looted Gold Dragons and silver coins into their pouches. The deck was thick with the scent of blood and plunder.
Hearing the King's roar, they looked up, blood speckling their faces, eyes shining with greed and the satisfaction of slaughter. They raised their bloodied axes or daggers, responding with a tsunami-like roar:
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Now, it seemed, this wasn't a boring watch at all. It was a continuous feast, waiting for prey to throw themselves into the net.
---
On the southern route held by Donnell Stonehouse of Saltcliffe and Baelor Blacktyde of Blacktyde, it was a similar scene of "abundant harvest."
Ships attempting to flee the war continuously crashed into this web of death. Planks floating on the sea and occasional patches of red blood proved the brutal efficiency of the blockade line. Donnell and Baelor's style was similar to Balon's, following the most direct law of the Iron Islands: those who resist die; those who surrender must pay a heavy "iron price" for their lives.
In stark contrast to this bloody route was the area managed by Edwin Ramirez and Victarion Greyjoy. The atmosphere here was equally tense, but with an added layer of treacherous calculation.
Edwin Ramirez stood leisurely before an intercepted refugee boat, looking at the pale-faced captives on deck with their hands raised high. He twisted his meticulously groomed goatee, a half-smile hanging on his face.
"Look," his voice carried a feigned helplessness, teasing, "I spent a lot of breath convincing these blood-crazed brothers behind me to spare your little lives for now."
He held up two fingers, speaking slowly. "You have two choices now. The first," he pointed to a fierce-looking Ironborn warrior beside him holding a dripping battle-axe, "is to let him come over, axe falls—crack! Clean and simple, all over. Just right, the little ones waiting under the sea for a meal are hungry too."
"The other one! We choose the other one!" The captives almost screamed, fear distorting their voices.
"The other one..." Edwin drawled, a glint flashing in his eyes. "Is to let you go back." He scanned those eyes filled with the desire to live. "Remember, after you go back, tell everyone you know, knock on every door you can, tell the entire Summer Isles—their King, the true King of the Summer Isles, Jalabhar Xho, has returned!"
His gaze turned cold, his voice suddenly rising. "Then use every method to support Jalabhar Xho in ascending the throne! Otherwise..." He leaned closer, lowering his voice, the threat even more bone-chilling. "When the new King truly takes power and starts the reckoning, your end... that prolonged pain will be a thousand times worse than having your head chopped off by an axe!"
"We'll do it! whatever you say, we'll do! We promise!" The captives scrambled to swear.
Edwin smiled nonchalantly, as if seeing through their hearts, sighing, "No need to force it~~~ Actually, it doesn't matter if you don't keep it." He shrugged, his tone relaxed as if chatting. "Since you chose to flee, you must understand the scale of this war and know what massive military force the Iron Islands have deployed. Smart people know which side to stand on right now to survive, and even... live better."
He waved his hand casually. Two pirates he brought, looking alert and vicious, stepped forward.
"They will go back with you to 'assist' you. As long as you listen, your little lives are temporarily stored on your own necks."
In a short time, five such small boats carrying "special missions" and "supervisors" were released from Edwin's blockade line back to the Summer Isles.
This seeming act of mercy actually quietly planted five forces within the turbulent archipelago to disintegrate resistance from the inside and push for unification.
To attack the heart is the superior strategy; Edwin knew this well.
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