The battle for the Isle of Tears didn't just start; it erupted—a symphony composed of clashing steel, bursting flame, and the gurgling cries of the dying.
The overture was played from the sky.
Halcyon, the Millennium Dragon, tore through the cloud layer with his massive wings. Standing upon the dragon's saddle, the Three Sisters of Lonely Light looked down with eyes devoid of mercy, locking onto the defensive nodes of the fortress below. With practiced precision, they began dropping clay jars filled with emerald death.
The first wave of Wildfire struck the heavy scorpion batteries on the outer perimeter of the Weeping Keep. With deafening roars, columns of green fire shot into the sky, moving like living things as they instantly devoured the wooden frames, the winches, and the massive bolts racking the walls. The viscous substance clung to the stone itself, burning fiercely and twisting the solid fortifications into slag.
Key supply dumps, stacked high with rolling logs and defensive stones, were also bathed in the green inferno. The defensive measures, placed at the most treacherous choke points, were annihilated by judgment from the heavens before a single enemy soldier had even come within range.
This destruction did more than shatter walls; it shattered the pirates' nerves. The crossfire zones they had meticulously planned were rendered useless before the first arrow could be loosed.
From the highest point of the fortress, the Dais of Lament, Morris the "Weeping Lord" watched it all unravel. The ranged advantage he had banked on to hold the enemy at bay was being erased by a power he couldn't comprehend. The ghostly green light danced on his deep purple cloak, making his already pale face look deathly white, frozen in shock.
---
Down on the Serpent's Coil, the fighting bypassed skirmishing and went straight to the butchery.
Agallon "The Mountain Splitter" and his Great Axe desperadoes held the throat of the path. It was a position where one man could hold off a hundred. They commanded the high ground, and despite the aerial bombardment thinning their support, they should have had the advantage. Even with Olado's men on the cliffs reduced to taking potshots with stray arrows and pebbles, the terrain was on their side.
But King Balon led the main Ironborn force, and against this remnant resistance, he demonstrated the brutal efficiency of Iron Islands siege tactics.
The vanguard formed a moving wall with iron-bound tower shields. They ignored the scattered debris raining down, marching in a heavy, unified rhythm up the narrow track.
Agallon's barbed nets, designed to tangle and trap, slowed them down momentarily. But the Ironborn were ready. The second row of warriors stepped up with razor-sharp axes, hacking the nets to ribbons with a frenzy that bordered on madness.
When the shield wall reached the enemy, it opened like a jaw revealing rows of teeth. The Ironborn roared and surged through the gaps, slamming into the pirates. In that confined space, there was no room for fancy swordplay—only the raw, primitive crush of bodies. Weapons clashed against weapons, bone ground against bone. Every step forward was taken on mud slick with warm blood.
Agallon fought like a demon possessed. Standing at the very front, he swung a terrifying double-bitted greataxe. Every swing carried enough force to crack stone; at least three Ironborn who tried to challenge him were split open, shields and all, spraying the cliff face with red and white ruin.
But Agallon's prowess attracted the true apex predators.
With a bloodthirsty roar, Balon Greyjoy charged like a battering ram. His axe blows were heavy and relentless, shaking Agallon's arms with every impact. Flanking him like a ghost was Lord Goodbrother of Hammerhorn, his warhammer and axe moving with vicious, calculated cruelty.
Caught between two seasoned killers, even a giant like Agallon faltered. Balon delivered an unstoppable overhead chop that bit deep into Agallon's shoulder blade. The sound of cracking bone was sickeningly loud. Agallon stumbled, his grip on his weapon loosening from the shock.
In that moment of imbalance, Goodbrother struck like a viper, his axe hamstringing Agallon from behind.
"The Mountain Splitter," the giant who seemed as immovable as the island itself, finally crashed to his knees. He let out one last roar of defiance and rage before being swarmed by the Ironborn tide. Axes fell from all sides, and his massive body was hacked apart in seconds.
---
With the hardest bone in the Serpent's Coil shattered, a different kind of hunt was taking place on the vertical cliffs above.
The warriors of House Drumm formed a shield roof at the base of the cliffs. Behind them, the archers of House Harlaw stood ready, eyes sharp as hawks. Whenever a pirate head popped out from a fissure to loose an arrow or push a rock, a Harlaw shaft would whistle through the air, sending the man tumbling into the abyss.
But suppression wasn't enough. The cleaning was left to the climbers—Ironborn who moved like rock goats. With daggers clamped between their teeth, they scaled the near-vertical walls, using cracks and jutting stones to move with lethal grace. They were patient hunters, clearing out the "Serpent Fangs" one nest at a time.
Violent, short skirmishes erupted in every crevice and cave mouth.
It was intimate killing with nowhere to run. Screams and the clang of steel echoed off the canyon walls, punctuated by the thud of bodies—both Ironborn and pirate—hitting the ground below.
Olado "The Rock" found his ambush point compromised by the smoke and chaos of the Wildfire. He tried to use his knowledge of the terrain to fight a retreat, dragging the battle deeper into the cliffs. But the Ironborn clearing squads were too efficient; they flanked him, cutting off his escape.
Forced back step by step, Olado eventually found his back pressed against a massive, weathered black boulder. There was nowhere left to go. His rugged face was smeared with blood and sweat, his chest heaving, but his eyes remained as hard as the stone he was named for.
The Ironborn closed the circle. Arrows and throwing spears rained down on him like hail.
Olado swung his weapon wildly, parrying what he could, but he couldn't stop the tide. One shaft, then two... eventually, a dozen arrows and spears studded his chest, stomach, and limbs. The impact slammed him repeatedly against the rock, but he refused to fall, as if pinned there by the steel in his body.
In the end, he died standing, his blood washing the black stone, a "Rock" to the very last.
---
Deep in the labyrinth of the underground river and the Weeping Cavern, Vick "Crocodile Tail" was sweating.
He and his men waited like submerged predators, holding their breath for prey that never came. Instead of Ironborn infiltrators, they were met with a suffocating silence and the muffled, ominous sounds of the fleet moving overhead.
The Ironborn solution to the caves had been simple, crude, and effective.
They had blockaded the water. Small boats armed with heavy crossbows and whaling harpoons guarded every known exit. Whenever a pirate, desperate for air or information, broke the surface, they were met with a bolt to the brain or a harpoon heavy enough to punch through a ship's hull. The clear water began to cloud with ribbons of red. The ambush zone had become a tomb.
Realizing the trap had failed and his retreat was cut, Vick made a snap decision. He abandoned the blockade and led his remaining men through the dark, damp tunnels toward a secret, secondary exit deep in the cave system. He intended to pull a disappearing act.
They waded through the gloom, the only sound the dripping of water and their own panicked breathing. When the light of the exit finally appeared, Vick and his men almost cried out in relief.
They burst out of the cave mouth, blinking in the sudden light—only to find themselves staring at a wall of cold steel and colder eyes.
Meldred Merlyn of Pebbleton was waiting for them. There was no demand for surrender. No warning. The warriors of House Merlyn simply charged in silence.
The fight at the cave mouth was brief and nasty. Vick's men, demoralized and blinded, were bottlenecked as they exited the tunnel. They were slaughtered by the disciplined Merlyn formation.
Vick fought like a cornered rat, slashing with his poisoned dagger, but three longswords pierced him simultaneously. He staggered back, sliding down the cold rock face, his eyes wide with disbelief. He slumped into the mud, dying in the very shadows he had hoped would save him.
The Crocodile Tail had failed to slip the net.
---
When the Ironborn forces, boots sticky with blood from the Serpent's Coil, finally reached the heavy main gates of the Weeping Keep, the final test awaited them.
Bullen "The Iron Anvil" stood there with his heavy infantry. True to his name, he was the anvil upon which the attack was meant to break. Clad in heavy plate, wielding warhammers and greatswords, they were the castle's last, hardest line of defense. Bullen, his bald head gleaming under the torchlight, stood silently at the front, waiting for the clash.
Facing them were the Ironborn elites—berserkers who had just waded through a river of blood to get here. Their morale was peaking, their bloodlust a tangible heat.
The collision in the plaza behind the gate was seismic. Bullen's troops were strong, their blows heavy. But against the Ironborn, who attacked like a storm surge, their line began to erode. It was chipped away, compressed, and finally torn open.
As the circle of defenders shrank, a figure ghosted through the chaos, heading straight for the center.
Euron Greyjoy didn't bother with the common soldiers. His eyes were fixed on the commander—Bullen.
Bullen saw him. With a muffled roar like an angered bull, he swung his massive warhammer directly at the intruder.
Euron didn't flinch. He didn't even block. He drew his twin curved blades in a blur of motion.
And then, something impossible happened. The steel of his blades ignited. Not with oil, but with a ghostly, emerald flame that seemed to spring from the void itself—a fire from the depths of the underworld.
The burning blades met the heavy hammer with a shower of sparks. Bullen was strong, but Euron was faster, and his weapons were unnatural. The exchange lasted only a few seconds. Euron deflected the hammer with one blade, and with the other, he slashed upward in a vicious, diagonal arc, the green fire trailing like a viper's tongue.
Flash.
Bullen's charge froze instantly. His heavy hammer clattered to the stone floor. He tilted his head down, trying to look at his chest, but the motion caused his head to slide cleanly off his neck. The stump was cauterized black by the spectral fire; there was no spray of blood.
His bald head hit the ground, the expression of shock still frozen on his face.
Euron flicked the non-existent blood from his blades, and the green fire vanished. He didn't spare a glance at the headless corpse that stood for a moment longer before toppling over. His eyes were already on the inner sanctum of the Keep.
---
As the Wildfire detonated like green thunderbolts across the ramparts, and the news of his fellow captains' deaths tolled like a funeral bell, the mask of indifference that "Black Sail" Tolkien wore finally cracked. It shattered, replaced by raw, primal despair.
As the commander of the reserve, he had watched from the rear as the entire defense collapsed. It was a slow, irreversible slide into oblivion.
Tolkien made a choice different from the others. He didn't seek a warrior's death. He grabbed a few loyal men and vanished like a shadow, fleeing into the deepest, darkest bowels of the Weeping Keep. He abandoned his army, abandoned his allies. He had only one thought: survival, no matter how pathetic.
They scurried like rats through the maze of the castle, eventually cowering in a storage room filled with rotting grain and old rope. In the dark, the only sound was their ragged, terrified breathing. Tolkien clamped his hands over his mouth, praying the Reaper would pass them by.
But the Ironborn sweep was systematic and merciless.
The rotten door was kicked in. Torchlight stabbed into the darkness, piercing his last hope.
In that moment, the Lord of the Black Sails made his final, futile play. He threw himself to his knees, hands raised high, tears streaming down his face. His voice cracked with panic.
"Don't kill me! I surrender! I have gold! I have secrets! I'll tell you everything! Please, just let me live!"
He cast aside all dignity, begging like a dog.
Euron appeared at the doorway. He looked down at the sobbing figure, his expression unreadable—neither angry nor disgusted. Just empty.
Tolkien, thinking he saw a chance, crawled forward on his knees, reaching out to hug Euron's boots, babbling his pleas.
Euron didn't let him touch even the hem of his cloak.
He tilted his head slightly and spoke a single word to the soldier beside him.
"Kill."
A blade flashed.
Tolkien's begging cut off abruptly. His head—filled with schemes, cowardice, and finally, absolute terror—rolled across the dusty floor.
Even in death, his face wore that pathetic, pleading expression.
Euron turned and walked away. He had no time to waste on traitors and cowards.
---
In the deepest hall of the Weeping Keep, the gloom and majesty of the past were gone, replaced by ruin and firelight.
Morris, the "Weeping Lord," stood in a circle with his last few dozen guards. His purple cloak was stained with ash and blood. They stood back-to-back, cornered beasts.
They knew it was over. But on Morris's pale face, there was no begging. Only a grim, paranoid determination. He had refused to run. He would die here, in the heart of his power.
When Euron Greyjoy stepped through the shattered doors, walking over the debris and the dead, Morris tightened his grip on his rapier, the hilt set with a teardrop gem.
"Come on then!" he shrieked, his voice echoing shrilly in the cavernous hall. "Let me die a pirate's death! In blood and steel!"
Euron didn't answer. He didn't even draw his terrifying flaming swords. He simply walked forward, eyes locked on Morris.
Morris lunged, his thrust fast with desperation. Euron merely turned his torso, letting the blade hiss past his clothing. In the instant they passed each other, Euron's right hand shot out like a striking snake, seizing Morris's sword wrist.
Snap. The sound of the bone breaking was sharp and loud.
The rapier clattered to the floor.
A second later, a blade flashed.
No drawn-out duel. No fancy techniques. Morris felt a sudden chill at his neck, and then the world began to spin. The last thing he saw was his own headless body sinking to its knees, and the back of Euron Greyjoy as he sheathed his blade.
His head had been removed with clinical precision. His face still held the grimace of his final charge.
Euron had granted his wish. He gave him the death of a warrior. Nothing more, nothing less.