"Fear cuts deeper than swords."
— Arya Stark
…
Wind and sea conspired to gnaw at Pyke's ancient stones. It was a grey day, grey as the iron in the blood of the men who called these islands home, and the brine-laden gusts seemed to whisper across the towers and rope-bridges in a secret, mournful tongue. Grell Wynch stood at the edge of a freshly dug pit in one of Pyke's lesser courtyards, watching thralls struggle under the weight of heavy stones. They looked like ants at their labors, sullen and tireless, faces etched by salt and fear.
He folded his arms across his chest, sniffing the air. Salt and damp mortar—an old smell, yet oddly comforting. They were fortifying Pyke again, bracing for storms and the possibility of more ruin from the mainland. The Iron Islands had not forgotten what dragonfire could do to rock, and Grell was determined to see the castle's foundations strengthened. A new cellar, deep and wide, would serve to store what meager supplies they scraped together in these harsh times, but it might also be repurposed should calamity come knocking. The thought gave him scant comfort.
"See that you shore up the walls before nightfall," he told the foreman, a thickset fellow whose brow glistened with sweat. "If you've no taste for collapsed stone burying you in your bed, then get it done."
The man nodded, barking orders at the thralls in a harsh accent. Grell watched them form a ragged line, passing rocks hand to hand, the scrape of stone on flesh setting his teeth on edge. The wind gusted again, driving a fine spray over the courtyard. He wiped his mouth and tasted salt.
He turned at the sound of frantic footsteps. A boy—thin as a rail, hair plastered to his skull—skidded to a halt at Grell's side. "My lord," the lad panted, "ships… Lord Dalton's ships."
Grell's first thought was that the boy must be mistaken or a fool. Dalton Greyjoy had left with two-third's the Iron Isles' strength, bent on war across the sea. None expected his return so soon. "What are you blathering, boy?"
The thrall swallowed. "They've been sighted, m'lord. Sailing towards Lordsport. Sails black as the depths."
For a moment, Grell could only stare. Dalton's reaving was meant to be long, punishing, a vicious foray against the mainland to avenge old wounds and carve out new glories. Yet here he was, if the boy spoke truly, returning far sooner than sense or rumor might suggest.
His heart thudded in his chest as he waved the lad off with a brusque nod. "Say nothing more," Grell commanded, "to anyone. If you've spread this about already, keep your mouth shut now."
The thrall scrambled away, nearly stumbling over the rubble. Grell cast one last glance at the laborers, then strode off across the courtyard. His long cloak lashed at his ankles with each step. The ancient corridors of Pyke were damp and chill, carved from black stone as old as the sea itself. He could feel the presence of ghosts here—men and women drowned or starved or broken on the edge of an Ironborn axe, their spirits swirling in the gloom.
He climbed until he reached one of Pyke's swaying rope bridges, stepping onto the slick planks with a caution that belied his stoic façade. The wind snatched at him, tugging the bridge side to side, but Grell's grip was steady on the ropes. From this vantage he could see the horizon beyond the cliffs. And there, in the shifting light, he spotted sails—dark silhouettes bobbing against the grey swell.
He counted them. Almost the full complement that Dalton had taken, by the look of it. But there was something… off about the formation. The ships moved in eerie unison, like men marching to a funeral dirge, without the swagger or brash defiance one might expect of Ironborn returned from a triumphant raid.
He stood a moment more, the cold wind whipping at his face, before turning away. He hurried down the cliffs, mounted a horse, and rode hard for Lordsport. The clouds hung thick overhead, promising rain, and by the time the harbor came into view, a misting drizzle had begun.
What he found there did not ease his unease. A knot of islanders clustered along the docks, confused and murmuring. The vessels—indeed Dalton's ships—were moored, the ropes creaking as sailors made them fast. But the figures who disembarked were not the battered, surly Ironborn that had departed. No sea-stained raiders howling about plunder. Instead, Grell glimpsed red cloaks.
His breath snagged. Aemond's butchers.
They came off the gangplanks, quick and disciplined, forming neat ranks. Their shields bore the golden three-headed dragon, and their helms gleamed in the feeble light. Grell saw fear and anger flicker across the faces of the Ironborn on the dock, men who had not forgotten how these same Red Cloaks once arrived on the heels of a dragon's wrath, plundering and cutting down what Aemond's fire had spared.
He dismounted, pushing through his own people with a rising dread that clawed at his throat. He came face-to-face with a man in dark leathers and a deeper crimson cloak than the rest, trimmed in silver thread. This stranger had a lean, hungry look, his hair tied back tight. At his hip hung a long, utilitarian mace.
Grell halted, swallowing back the swirl of alarm in his gut. "You," he began with a barely suppressed tremor in his voice, "I am Grell Wynch, who stands for Pyke in Dalton's absence."
The man regarded him with an expression of mild condescension. "Kellen Rivers, Marshal of the Camp, Seventh Standard," he said in a clipped tone, not offering so much as a bow.
Without preamble, Grell posed the question that pressed upon his mind like lead. "Dalton?"
In answer, Kellen Rivers gave the slightest nod to one of his men. The soldier stepped forward, bearing a sack that dripped darkly onto the dock. He overturned it with a brutal casualness. A head rolled free, hair still flecked with dried blood. The face that stared back was ghastly pale, eyes open and empty. There was no mistaking that face, even matted with gore.
A hiss tore from Grell's throat, more emotion than words. Around him, the Ironborn murmured or called out, recoiling at the sight of their lord's severed head. A hush fell over the dock, broken only by the crash of the waves on the shore.
"What do you want?" Grell forced the words from his tightening chest. "We have no gold left. If it's plunder you've come for—"
Kellen Rivers shook his head, the motion almost pitying. "The Prince has wearied of krakens and their insolence. He sends us to see these islands yield, once and for all. You are to surrender—unconditionally. We will remain, garrisoned here, for however long the prince deems necessary. Any who break his peace will die."
A numbness spread through Grell, as cold as the sea spray that lashed the docks. He felt an urge to snarl defiance, to spit at these foreign curs in their scarlet finery, but one glance at Dalton's severed head silenced him.
"What if… we refuse?" he managed.
Kellen Rivers's smirk turned cruel. "Then we do what we were instructed to do from the start. Burn every tower, torch every house, slay every man, woman, and babe with salt in their blood. When the last of you sinks to the bottom of the sea, we'll return to Lannisport, our task complete."
Grell looked over at the Ironborn gathered on the piers, saw fury and fear contorting their features. He did not doubt for an instant that these Red Cloaks would carry out their threat. The Destroyer's ilk had proven long ago that mercy was not something they traded in.
Kellen Rivers followed Grell's gaze. "Should you choose that path, it would please me well enough. Less time spent on these wretched rocks."
The wind gusted, stirring Dalton's hair where it lay in a slick, bloody coil. Rain began in earnest now, pattering upon armor and flesh, running in thin streams over the dock. Grell's stomach churned with disgust, with grief, with a grim knowledge that the moment for heroics had passed.
He stared at Dalton's lifeless eyes and felt the weight of his people's fate pressing down on him like a millstone. The Ironborn had always prided themselves on their stubbornness, yet the memory of dragonfire and One-eye's savagery remained too fresh.
Surrender or die, the choice as stark as the cliff edges of the island.
Grell swallowed hard, tasting salt and sorrow. "We will… do as Prince Aemond commands."
He nearly despised himself for uttering those words, but the alternative was to see Pyke's towers crumble in flame, the men he had fought beside butchered, and their children drowned in blood. Grell turned away in disgust as he made his way back to a castle certain to be claimed by new masters. He did not bother offering a last glance at Dalton Greyjoy's severed head, staring sightless at the sky. The days of krakens defying dragons were finished. Now, the best he could do was snatch what valuables he could from Pyke before it was too late.