Dawn was breaking, and the defenses of the Isle of Tears were set.
Morris commanded from the center, perched at the highest point of the Weeping Keep. The elite troops of the Blood-Weeping Society were scattered across the castle's arrow slits and platforms, manning several heavy siege scorpions. These massive war machines weren't aimed at the beachhead; instead, they were dialed in on the sharp turns of the Serpent's Coil. They waited only for the enemy to funnel into the narrow pass before unleashing a crossfire designed to shred them to pieces.
Agallon and his Great Axe Reavers held the trailhead and the treacherous first leg of the climb. They had choked the path with barricades of felled timber and boulders, with piles of logs ready to roll down at a moment's notice. Agallon's personal guard carried something nastier: massive, weighted fishing nets lined with barbs, designed to ensnare the invaders in the tight confines of the pass before the axes came down to finish the job.
Olado's Serpent Fangs, a unit of master climbers, didn't bother with the path. Like the vipers they were named for, they concealed themselves in the fissures and natural caves of the sheer cliff faces flanking the trail. Armed with throwing spears and blowpipes, their orders were to rain death from above on anyone attempting the ascent, and when the moment was right, trigger the loose rockfalls prepared earlier to bury the enemy alive.
Vick and his Crocodile Tail crew lurked in the subterranean gloom. They held the entrance to the Weeping Cavern and the underground river network. The dark waterways were rigged with poisoned grappling hooks and submerged spikes, turning the complex terrain into a labyrinth of death. Their task was harassment—endless hit-and-run attacks to drag anyone foolish enough to attempt a waterborne infiltration down into the drowning dark.
Bullen's Iron Anvils, the heaviest infantry on the island, were positioned at the very end of the Serpent's Coil, right behind the main gates of the Weeping Keep. They were the final wall, the anvil upon which the enemy would break. If the Ironborn paid the butcher's bill to breach the first two lines, they would find Bullen's heavy plate warriors waiting, fresh and rested, ready to force the exhausted survivors into a brutal, close-quarters slaughter in the open kill box of the gatehouse.
Tolkien of the Black Sails played the rover. His men weren't tied to one spot but served as a mobile reserve. They sprinted between the keep's storehouses and the fortifications, ferrying arrows, stones, and oil, ready to plug any breach in the line the moment it opened.
---
Out on the water, the Iron Fleet cast off in the morning mist, the Golden Kraken banners snapping atop the masts.
High above, far beyond the reach of the naked eye, black shapes circled silently. The ravens of the Three Sisters of Lonely Light had returned from the Isle of Tears to the deck of the flagship, The Far Reach.
These birds, touched by shadow and skin-changed by the sisters, were the ultimate scouts. Every troop movement, every new barricade, the barbed nets of Agallon "The Mountain Splitter," and the poisoned caltrops of Vick "The Crocodile"—everything was laid bare before them. But they saw more than just defenses; they saw the defenders' confidence—a foolish, wishful belief that this would be a fair fight decided by steel on land.
Euron had brutally suppressed all information regarding the assaults on Fly Island and Howling Mountain. Specifically, he had silenced any talk of the Wildfire. The routs had been so fast, so total, that no survivors had escaped to tell the tale of the emerald doom or the aerial bombardment from the Millennium Dragon.
So, in the war council at the Weeping Keep, no one spoke of death from the sky. The pirate lords of the Isle of Tears were puffing out their chests, bracing for the kind of ground war they understood.
---
On the Far Reach, inside the strategy room, the air was thick with anticipation.
Euron tapped a finger on the rough sea chart, his tone calculating and cold. " The ingredients for Wildfire are rare and the cost is ruinous. Our stocks are low. Thinking we can just burn the entire Isle of Tears to ash is a fool's dream."
Hearing Euron speak of limitations, the Ironborn lords—who had perhaps grown too fond of the green fire after two easy victories—erupted into rough, confident laughter.
"Aye, well said!" King Balon's voice boomed like a war drum, shaking the wine in the cups. "Before we got our hands on that green piss, did our axes bounce off men's skulls? Don't make me laugh!"
Lord Drumm waved an arm encased in plate, scoffing at the idea of an easy win. "That business at Howling Mountain... sure, it was clean, but we felt like spectators at a tourney! Staring up at the sky with our thumbs in our belts? That's not war. That's boring!"
Lord Harlaw of Ten Towers adjusted his monocle, the voice of reason. "We aren't Aerys the Mad King, burning the world for pleasure. We cannot expect to conquer the world with a single trick. War is won by strength of arms."
Meldred Merlyn of Pebbleton looked further ahead. "There are endless seas and islands beyond the Basilisk Isles. We conquer to rule. You can't collect taxes from a pile of ash."
Raff Stonehouse of Old Wyk yanked his battleaxe from his belt, the heavy steel gleaming. He growled, "Good! Let those bastards on the island taste the iron price. Let's see if our edges are still sharp!"
Amidst the clamor for blood, Euron stood up slowly. A faint smile played on his lips.
"A man who leaves a weapon in its sheath when it offers an advantage is an idiot," he said softly. "We will use the Wildfire where it hurts most. We show no mercy."
Then, his voice hardened, ringing like steel on an anvil. "But the foundation of the Iron Islands is you. You and the fearless reavers behind you! Prepare for a ground assault, brothers. Let the Isle of Tears learn, let the whole known world learn—the Kraken's wrath does not stop at the water's edge!"
---
The Iron Fleet hit the coast of the Isle of Tears like a black tidal wave.
Armored longships crunched onto the shallows, heavy boarding ramps crashing down into the surf. The Ironborn, unable to hold back any longer, poured onto the beach like beasts released from a cage. Their axes and swords reflected the pale sunlight, a moving forest of cold steel.
Euron Greyjoy stood at the prow of the lead ship, his dark cloak whipping in the gale. He wasted no energy on speeches. He simply raised a hand and pointed forward. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a chill that cut through the roar of the surf, reaching every ear on the beach.
"The Old Way."
He paused, letting the words sink in like nails into a coffin.
"Kill them all. Leave none standing."
The command was given; the slaughter began.
The Ironborn surged forward by ship crews, forming rivers of death flowing toward the fortress carved into the mountain. Their war cries drowned out the ocean, fueled by a pure lust for destruction.
But this wasn't just a charge of brute force.
High in the clouds, the massive wings of Halcyon, the Millennium Dragon, cast a terrifying shadow. The Three Sisters of Lonely Light stood silent on the dragon's saddle, their eyes rolled back white, their minds locked on the targets below. With a silent command, jars filled with volatile, emerald Wildfire began to drop.
They didn't target the open ground. They fell with terrifying precision on the choke points—the heavy scorpions overlooking the path, the stockpiles of logs and rocks, and the dense clusters of pirates waiting in ambush.
BOOM—!
Flowers of green death bloomed across the defensive lines of the Weeping Keep. The deafening roar of explosions and the towering columns of green fire instantly swallowed the fortifications and the men manning them. Screams were cut short, drowned out by the roar of the inferno.
Hellfire from the sky. A tide of steel from the sea.
From the very first second, the defense of the Isle of Tears was caught in a vice of absolute despair.