A Song of Sun and Stars [Man of Steel x ASOIAF]

Chapter 30 –

All across the Iron Islands, men sat around driftwood fires, their bellies full of salt pork and Brinewater, raising horns of ale to the Old Ways. To the days when the Ironborn were terrors of the seas, when their sails brought dread to every shore from the Arbor to the Basilisk Isles.

To times when the rule was decided by true fearsome might, not by words pandering to the teat-suckling Greenlanders still attached to the fat tits of their mothers; as they warmed their ripening arses on golden thrones that had been claimed by dropping out from the right cunt of one of 'proper' blood.

They drank to the times when in the dead of Winter, the Ironborn feasted, while the Greenlander's sons worked their mines, and daughters warmed their beds.

Those fat lords and old Kings of the Greenlands have forgotten the fear the Ironborn of old managed to instill in their ancestors. Of the times when they afeared the shadows in the very seas; desperately moving the walls of their castles deeper inland away from their coasts. Just so they would be spared the sight of the black sails of the Golden Kraken on the horizon, coming to take their women as whores, and children as thralls.

The Greenlanders believe those times are now long past. That the Ironborn are neutered, sequestered in the middle of the sea, and in need of their aid. Because in their sorry heads, they believe without proper crops to grow on the thirty cold wet rocks they call 'land' named the iron islands, the Iron Born would be dependent on them for food and succor.

But they have also forgotten that hard places breed hard, sturdy men. And there is no harsher land in Westeros than the Iron Islands.

They believe that just because their foolish, decrepit old sod of a father is content to bow and scrape to the whims of the maddened wingless old Dragon; his sons would be too. That they too would hesitate in exacting the iron price along the bountiful orchard shores of the Greenlands in fear of retaliation of armies dying too far away, in wars that have little meaning for their own.

"Feast your eyes, men!" His brother, Euron roared as he watched the magnificent blaze in the very heart of the tall Hightower from his perch on the mast of the Iron Victory. "Listen to their whimpers as the symbols of their might burn before their very eyes! Watch them cower beneath their desolate rocks, as we take their treasures from their vaults, and women from their beds!"

Oh, how his mouth watered to see the faces of those Greenlander Lords now, as they set their shores ablaze, butchered their men, and made away with their women and children.

It had been difficult to make their Old Half-Dead fool of a father agree to throw their lot behind the 'Rebels' from the North. To make him see the change in the hands of power that was soon to come as a consequence of this war.

The rebellion was foolish. A consequence of a coddled little wolf bitch who would have spread her legs for a maddened but 'pretty' Dead Prince if there were no consequences to it. If the tales of their secret meetings at Harrenhal were anything to go by, she had already done so.

Even so, it was a rebellion that was set to change the very heart of power in the Kingdoms, and their father had been blind to it.

But they had managed it.

They had managed to reason with the rigid reformist old fart they had for a father in Quellon Greyjoy. If it were up to him, their father would have them spit on their histories and traditions. Would have them break bread with the fat Greenlander Lords. Would have them bow and lick the cunts of Greenlander women, begging their fathers for food when it could be taken so easily.

He did not know how the old goat's mind had been turned, but somehow Euron and Balon had managed it. And he was all the merrier that they had.

"Is this not what you had been promised!" Euron's roar was audible to all those who had Iron Born blood in their veins. "Is your blood not singing with the fury of battle?! Are your cocks not wet with the blood of maidens aplenty! IS THIS NOT THE OLD WAYS THAT THEY BELIEVE TO HAVE BEEN LOST?!"

If the answering "AYE! AYE! AYE!" That echoed across the ship, and from all the other Kraken ships in the sea was any indication, the man's voice must have had the echo of the Drowned God resonating with him.

He scoffed internally.

He knew not what his brother was aiming for. They had already earned the hearts of their men, the fires in Oldtown had burnt their names there with the blood that was being spilled tonight.

Perhaps it was the Seastone Chair that he coveted.

Their father was soon to croak. A 'Kingsmoot' would be held, and a new lord to warm the Seastone Chair would be 'chosen'.

As if that hadn't already been decided to be Balon's in all but name.

As if the Kingsmoot wasn't a farce that had been reduced after Harren the Black burnt to the Dragons. After Dalton Greyjoy was cut open by the blade of a mistress in the dead of night during the Dance of The Dragons.

Their return to the Old Ways was temporary, as it had been during the time of Red Kraken, limited to the time in which the war lasted.

If his brother believed that the adoration of these men would win him the chair, then he would have to change his estimate of the man he thought his brother was.

"THEN FIGHT WITH ME, MEN! FIGHT AND REVEL IN THE BLOOD SPILT TONIGHT!" Euron bellowed, and his chant was echoed across the fleet "TONIGHT WE FIGHT, MAKE THEM PAY THE IRON PRICE! AND TOMORROW WE FEAST LIKE EACH MAN IS A KING OF HIS OWN!"

At least, that was certain. They would feast and enjoy the bountiful fruit that this city was proving to be, in full on the morrow. But that was not their sole aim in coming here.

With a fleet of thirty sturdy ships. Longboats, hulks, galleys and all. They had come here with a single goal in mind. The single treasure that could make Kings of any who possessed it in lands not just in Westeros, but in the far reaches of Essos as well. And it had fallen in the lap of these Reacher Lords like a ripe fruit falling from a tree at the feet of a babe.

The Fat Flower and his house had been nipping at the heels of the Lannisters in terms of wealth. A cart's worth of the metal that fell from the heavens, propelled their wealth to match the gold of Casterly Rock, if not soar beyond it entirely.

And they believed that none would come for it. That they could place a fruit as ripe as that at their shores and it would be safe behind the walls of their castles and towers, adorning the eyes of their gods and whatever other inane 'safeties' they had in mind for it.

The metal was stronger than Valyrian Steel and if one were capable of forging a blade or armor from it, they would be Gods in their own right in the lands of mere men.

But he had no delusions of Godhood. The metal was unworkable in any smithies these Greenlanders could put it to work in. He did not believe they had the means to work it either.

Even so, there were those willing to pay Kingly fortunes for just a piece of it. From the Magisters of Braavos, the rich merchants of Pentos to the Warlocks of Qarth. There were even whispers from the far distant lands of the Golden Castles of Yi-Ti in the Jade Sea and the shadows of Asshai, that even there were scores and scores of Kings and Queens that were watering by their mouths to get their hands on the damned pieces of rock.

Each offered caskets of gold, and scores of women more than the last.

And these fools in the Greenlands were content to sit on their fat behinds and store it in their vaults never to see the light again.

'It would be sacrilege to the Seven' they said, as if the idea to forge a blade hadn't sprung from their own heads.

Now, they could watch as it was taken from them by those more worthy of the Metals of the Gods.

It seemed Euron's showmanship had come to an end as the man leapt down from the mast, landing with the ease of a cat. The men roared their approval, a few reaching out to clasp his arm, while others cheered, raising horns and swords to the stormy skies.

Along the burning docks, the frenzy was well underway. Ironborn warriors dragged screaming women and wailing children aboard the ships, their captives kicking and thrashing to no avail. Some had already started to take their fill, throwing their prizes down onto the blood-soaked planks and tearing at their dresses. The wails of Greenlander women filled the air, mingling with the drunken laughter of their captors and the crackling of flames.

Euron waded through the rabid throng like a lord among his thralls, his dark cloak swirling behind him. He was a man aflame, his dark hair catching the glow of the fires as he clapped men on the back, whispered words that made them laugh or snarl with renewed hunger, and even joined in their jeers at the prisoners huddled in chains along the deck.

Victarion watched in silence, his thick arms crossed over his chest, the salt wind biting at his face. The revelry around him felt distant, hollow even, as his gaze lingered on the city, its once-proud walls now crumbling under the weight of fire and smoke.

It took a while before Euron reached him, pushing through the throng with that ever-present grin plastered across his face. He leaned casually beside Victarion, the two of them standing like sentinels overlooking the carnage below. For a moment, neither spoke.

Euron broke the silence, his voice smooth and mocking. "Not going to join the men tonight, O blood of mine?" His grin widened, his blue smiling eye twinkling with satisfaction.

Victarion glanced at him, his jaw tightening. "Did you truly expect me to?" he asked, his voice rough as grinding stone. "We both know there's a bigger prize here than some cunt and gold." He gestured to the city with a tilt of his chin. "If I wanted to raid and pillage, I'd be with Balon and our father down by the Mander, not here."

Euron laughed, a rich, deep sound that carried above the chaos. He clapped Victarion on the shoulder, his hand lingering there as he leaned in slightly. "And that, dear brother, is why you are my favorite of all our kin. You keep some brain in there at least."

Even in praise, his brother mocked him. He had become used to it.

"Surely, you're jesting," he said, his lips curling in a rare smile. "I was certain it was Aeron that you favored. The boy can't seem to take his eyes away from you if you're around."

Euron's grin widened, his teeth flashing in the firelight. "Merely teaching him how to pray to the Gods properly," he said with a shrug, his tone light. "Godly men that we all are."

Victarion grunted, his gaze returning to the flames devouring Oldtown. He could feel the weight of Euron's gaze on him, piercing and unrelenting, but he didn't turn to meet it.

Euron chuckled low, the sound carrying over the din of revelry and crackling flames. He shoved Victarion lightly, a gesture almost fraternal, yet laden with something sharper beneath the surface. "Let me put your worries to rest then," he said, his grin widening. "Our prize is coming to us as we speak."

Ah, Euron's little pawn.

Victarion's gaze shifted to the burning docks, the firelight painting the streets in hues of orange and red.

At times, it all seemed far too simple, like a child's game of cyvasse. Euron pulled his tangled, tentacled strings, and the pieces danced to his whims without hesitation. The damned Hightower alight from within. The boom and chain in the bay lowered like a maiden lifting her skirts, inviting them to take what they pleased. The city left defenseless, its harbor wide open as they sailed through the thick of the dark fog.

All of it, done through convenient pawns. Or a single pawn. He knew not.

Pieces on a board Victarion couldn't even begin to trace back to their source. He didn't know when Euron had placed them, or how he had manipulated them into such perfect positions.

But then, there were the fruits of that labor. The blazing tower. The iron price paid in blood. The power they were set to claim.

Euron was his brother, and whatever his methods, they were of one mind about the Ironborn's path in the near future.

He pushed the unease from his mind. It didn't matter.

Euron threw his head back and laughed, the sound ringing sharp and bright over the chaos below. "Why do you brood so much, dear brother? It's a time for revelry, for blood and glory! Be merry!" His voice lowered slightly, a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. "Our prize will be here soon…She's almost here."

Victarion didn't know how his brother could be so certain, but he believed him. He always did. If Euron said their prize would come, even through the roaring flames, and the chaos of drunken, riled Ironborn, then it would come.

Still, his gaze was drawn to the burning tower. The fire blazed hotter than he'd imagined possible, consuming stone and timber alike. How the Star Metal could make its way down from there, through that inferno and onto their ship, was a mystery. But Euron's certainty was infectious.

Then his eyes caught something.

A shadow. A figure. Small and faint against the blaze, moving with an eerie swiftness up the tower's side.

"Do you see that?" he asked, his voice low, pointing toward the height of the burning tower.

"What?" Euron turned to him, his grin faltering just slightly. "What are you talking about? What is it?" he asked, a note of confusion slipping through the usual mockery.

"There," Victarion said, gesturing again. "Up the tower."

Euron narrowed his gaze, his smiling eye darkening, but after a moment, he shook his head. "I see nothing," he said, though his tone lacked its usual confidence.

Victarion's jaw clenched. "Bring me a far-eye!" he barked to one of the men nearby.

The Ironborn was busy struggling to undo his trousers, having shoved a naked sobbing woman down to the planks. The man glanced up, whining, "M'lord, I—"

The damned fool dared to question him?!

The sound of steel cutting through flesh silenced him. The woman's head hit the deck with a wet thud, rolling away, her lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Victarion's axe gleamed crimson in the firelight as he roared, "BRING ME A DAMNED FAR-EYE NOW, OR I'LL MAKE SURE YOU NEVER LAY WITH ANOTHER WOMAN AGAIN!"

The man stumbled to his feet, trembling, his face pale as he nodded frantically. "A-at once, m'lord!" he stammered, scrambling toward the ship's stores.

Victarion turned back to Euron, but something had shifted. His brother's face had gone still, the grin that never seemed to leave him now absent. His smiling eye was darker than Victarion had ever seen it, the blue almost swallowed by black.

"Euron," he said, trying to get his attention. "Euron! EURON!"

But his brother's gaze was locked in the distance, unblinking, his expression unreadable.

Victarion growled low, abandoning his attempts to rouse him.

The man returned moments later, clutching the far-eye with trembling hands. Victarion snatched it from him, stepping to the ship's edge and raising it to his eye.

The figure was clearer now. A small shadowed….. something punching its way up the tower, its movements unnaturally swift, unnervingly precise as it destroyed chunks of stone with each blow.

It wasn't possible.

"What in the hells…?" he muttered. A Crow cawed loudly. "Euron! What in the fuck is that?! Take a look!"

His brother ignored the offered Far-Eye as he stood stock still, staring eerily into the storm, high up the tower. The figure had made its way up and had entered one of the chambers at the very top, a few floors below the signal fire lit atop the tower.

"Euron! EURON!" He tried to get the man's attention and shook him with his hands, but the man merely slumped on the rails of the ship. His eye blackened, eerie, and unblinking.

After a few more attempts at getting the damned fool's attention, his brother's focus returned. His eyes hardened as he faced him completely.

Euron's hard gaze settled on him, sharp as a blade drawn in anger. "Blow the horns, ready the sails, call the men to the oars," he ordered, his voice cold and unwavering. "We are retreating."

Victarion bristled at the commanding tone, his teeth grinding audibly. "We haven't gotten what we came for," he growled. "We can't retreat!"

A sharp smile cut across Euron's face, his blue smiling eye blackened. "Do as you're told, Victarion," he said softly, the words laced with authority. "Have some faith in me, blood O' mine."

Victarion hated how those words settled like stone in his gut. But he did trust him. Euron was his brother, his blood.

"She isn't far," Euron continued, his grin widening, maddening. "I'll have to finish this."

Without waiting for a response, he hefted his sword and lept over the side of the deck with a swiftness that belied the chaos around them, disappearing into the throngs on the burning docks.

Euron had gone mad, Victarion thought grimly. But he was his brother, he would do as he was told.

Shaking off the unease creeping up his spine, Victarion turned his gaze back to the distant tower. The thing was there again, moving like a shadow cast by firelight. He could see it clearer now—it had leapt from the chamber it had entered, two figures clutched tightly in its arms.

There was no time to think, no time to consider what his eyes were witnessing. He didn't like it. He didn't like any of it.

He stormed toward the stern of the ship, his booming voice cutting through the din of chaos. "Man the oars! Lower the sails! Ready the ship for retreat!"

Some of the men hesitated, glancing nervously at one another. Others groaned, voicing their displeasure at the thought of leaving behind the spoils they had fought for.

"M'lord, we've barely loaded half the plunder!" one man shouted, as he dragged rows of naked, tied up women behind him.

"Aye!" another chimed in, his voice laced with desperation. "And what of the salt wives? Some of em've yet to be—"

Victarion's roared in fury. He would not have dissent from lustful madmen. "Do as you're told, or I'll see every one of you thrown overboard to the halls of the Drowned God himself!"

A younger raider, his hands still smeared with blood, stammered, "B-but, m'lord, there's still some of the-"

"Enough!" Victarion bellowed, his eyes blazing with wrath. He raised his axe, its edge gleaming red in the firelight. "You want to argue? Step forward, and I'll give you a taste of iron and send you to the halls of the Drowned God right now!"

The men shrank back, their protests dying in their throats.

His command carried weight, and the men scrambled into action, their hesitation forgotten.

Reaching the massive horn at the stern, Victarion grabbed it with both hands and blew with all his might. The deep, resonating call echoed across the bay, a signal to the rest of the fleet. Moments later, other horns answered.

The city was still in chaos, their men pillaging and plundering through its streets.

They would need to return to the ships soon—or be left behind to face the wrath of whatever awaited them in Oldtown's flames.

They had time. Barely. Until Euron returned.

The thing—demon, shadow, whatever it was—moved with an unnatural swiftness, scaling the tower like a spider chasing prey. Victarion's hands tightened on the far eye as he focused again.

Childlike in stature, yes, but its eyes—oh, hells—its eyes blazed like molten fire, burning through the distance with a fury that seemed unholy.

It snarled as it plunged back into the collapsing structure, two more figures clenched tightly in its grasp.

Victarion lowered the far eye, his jaw tight. Euron needed to return. And soon.

Around him, the men scrambled. Sails unfurled, snapping against the salt-laden winds. Oars groaned as they were locked into position. The last of the plunder—gold, wine, thralls—was dragged aboard with haste.

But Victarion's gaze never left the tower.

The creature moved with an unnatural, horrifying purpose. Leaping through the inferno, crashing through the stone. Its speed was unreal, its strength monstrous. And, gods help him, it had looked at him. For just a moment, their eyes met across the smoke and flame.

Its gaze bore into his very soul. A snarl twisted its face—a thing that should not be human, could not be human.

The fleet began to turn, the other ships shifting in the bay as horns called for his final signal, readying themselves for retreat. The Hightower's defenses had long since been crushed, their ships resting as broken husks beneath the waves.

Euron hadn't returned yet. He did not answer.

Then the tower shook, a deep, groaning quake that reverberated through the smoke-choked air. Victarion's breath stilled as he saw the damage, the gaping wounds in the ancient stone. Fire and heat had melted its heart, leaving it to crumble under its own weight.

It would fall soon.

It will die beneath the rubble! he prayed to the Drowned God. The weight will crush that unholy thing whole.

The men were ready. The thralls and whores had been bound, tossed into the hull beneath them. Bloodied plunder—gold, kegs of all, and other treasures—were heaped onto the deck, carelessly bundled in the rush. All that remained was his command to retreat.

But still, Euron had not returned.

Some of the men began murmuring, their unease bubbling to the surface. "What are we waiting for, m'lord?" one called out, his voice thin against the roaring winds.

"Aye," another shouted, his hand tightening on the haft of his axe. "The flames are rising. If we tarry any longer—"

Victarion silenced them with a glare, his lips a grim line. The steel in his gaze was enough to quell their tongues for now, though their eyes betrayed their fear.

It had been a moment since he'd last seen the thing—the demon, or whatever it was. Through the far eye, he had watched the inferno carve through the tower's upper reaches, melting the thick stone into rivers of molten slag.

Soon, the beacon burning with wildfire would collapse, engulfing the courtyard below in green flames. Nothing, not even that monstrous creature, could withstand wildfire's wrath.

Then, the demon returned.

It climbed with ferocious speed, tearing through the tower's crumbling facade like a beast unbound. Victarion raised the far eye once more, his stomach knotting as the creature perched by a jagged opening carved by the fire, its fiery red eyes scanning the flames within.

Some of the men on the ship finally noticed what had seized his attention.

"What in the hells is that?" one murmured, his voice hushed and trembling.

"Is it… is it a bird?" another whispered, his face pale.

"Nay!.... It's eyes! It's a Dragon!"" someone trembled.

"No… no… can't be a dragon! It's….it's…"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! PREPARE TO LEAVE!" Victarion roared, his focus locked on the impossible sight before him.

Suddenly, as though summoned by the hand of a god, a frigid gale burst forth from the creature's maw covering the tower. A frosty mist descended around it, and the raging flames within the tower began to subside. Ice crept along the charred stone, consuming the inferno in moments.

The men erupted in panic.

"MAGIC! DARK MAGIC!"

"We need to leave! The flames, the frost—it's not natural! It's…. it's an ice Dragon!"

"Back to the seas! The Drowned God will protect us from this…. this sorcery!"

Victarion ground his teeth. Euron wasn't back. He felt the ship move, as the oars began to push them away from the docks. He was about to order them to stop.

But finally, the sound of hooves thundered against the dock. Victarion turned to see Euron atop a horse, a limp maiden slumped behind him, her head lolling as he rode.

Euron charged up the ramp, his steed's hooves clattering against the deck. Dismounting the horse, on the deck of the ship, he pulled the unconscious girl from the saddle with a rough yank, tossing her over his shoulder as though she were a sack of grain.

"THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! RETREAT!" Euron roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "ROW! ROW! LOWER THE SAILS! RETREAT!"

The men scrambled to obey, their panic spurring them into motion.

Euron strode toward Victarion, his grin sharp, his blue smiling eye darker than ever. He dropped the girl unceremoniously at his brother's feet, a satchel clutched in her limp hands. With a flick of his wrist, Euron tossed the satchel to Victarion.

"There," Euron said, his grin widening as his gaze flicked back to the distant tower. "We have what we came for. The girl is my gift to you, for what is soon to occur! One of the prettiest handmaidens from the tower itself!"

Victarion barely registered his brother's words. Through the far eye, he saw the demon once more.

It crouched on the jagged edge of the crumbling tower, its fiery gaze fixed on the courtyard below.

And then, with an ungodly burst of strength, it leapt from the tower, vanishing behind the walls.

Victarion lowered the far eye. The ship began to pull away from the dock.

The ship glided further into the stormy sea, the distant fires of Oldtown reflecting on the churning waves. Thunder cracked above, the rumble echoing like the Drowned God's wrath.

Victarion's jaw was tight as he watched the tower collapse, its jagged structure crumbling under its own weight. The wildfire beacon toppled like a star plummeting to earth, its infernal green glow illuminating the night.

The men cheered, roaring triumphantly as chunks of stone splintered and fell into the flames below. But Victarion couldn't tear his gaze away from the fiery streak that shot from the courtyard.

There it was again. He could see it now, the fog had settled with the creature's magic.

The demon perched atop the wall of the fortress, its blazing red eyes defying the storm and smoke.

His heart clenched. If it could leap from the tower, could it follow them? Could it fly?

He didn't know. He didn't want to know.

Euron, standing at the prow, didn't seem fazed. The rain lashed against his face as his dark hair whipped in the wind, and his grin grew sharper. The men rowed harder, the oars slicing through the black water as the ship picked up speed.

Instead of fleeing, the demon positioned itself in the beacon's path. It was madness. The wildfire would consume every soul it had saved, and then itself.

Nothing survived wildfire.

The tower crashed around it with a deafening, earth-shattering thud, the massive beacon plummeting directly onto the demon.

Victarion's lips parted in shock as the creature launched the collapsing beacon into the air with an unholy burst of strength.

The beacon tumbled through the night sky like a green star, its fire missing the wall it had been set to fall on, before crashing into the sea with a hiss that rivaled the storm.

The demon was crushed beneath the falling rubble, sent tumbling down the fortress wall, green fire licking at its body as it rolled on the black stone of the lower keep.

It writhed, its limbs flailing as the wildfire devoured it. Victarion could almost hear the screams over the roar of the waves and the crackling flames. The wildfire had caught on to that monster at least.

Beside him, Euron watched the scene with a twisted smile. "I've always wondered," he said, his voice loud over the storm. "If men can fly. If the gods truly exist."

The demon clawed at the ground, reaching for the black stone it pulled itself on the ground, as it crawled to the sea. Its red eyes blazing brighter even as the green flames consumed it.

Euron's tone turned distant, almost contemplative. "I stopped believing in gods when they let Quenton and Donel die. I thought… I thought do something. That they'd save them."

The demon dragged itself toward the water, green fire clinging to its flesh. The sea wouldn't save it. Wildfire burned through all.

Euron continued, his grin widening, maddening. "But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps they answer only when their domains are under threat…. They send this…. pitiful creature to mock me. To save their servants, from me!"

Victarion glanced at his brother, his gut twisting as Euron barked a laugh.

"I've slain a godling tonight! Me!" Euron laughed, his voice a wild mix of triumph and mockery. "Do you know what I think of it?!"

Before Victarion could respond, Euron strode to the ship's edge, fumbling with his trousers. Holding himself in one hand, he pissed into the sea, his laughter booming above the chaos.

"That's what I think of the Gods!" he roared, his voice carried by the wind. "Worth nothing more than the piss from my cock!"

Victarion turned back to the writhing demon, his awe growing as it clawed its way into the ocean, even as the wildfire consumed it.

Its fiery red eyes locked onto him again, boring into his very soul.

Euron sauntered back, his grin never wavering. "Oh, dear blood o' mine," he mocked, his voice dripping with derision, cock dangling in the wind. "Don't tell me you're afraid! Don't tell me the sight of a dying god made you lose your balls! There are no Gods that can't be slain."

He couldn't focus on his brother, all he could see were the demon's eyes. Small rubies of fire, that burned hotter beneath the waves. Steam rose as the green flames hissed against the seawater.

Then, with a sudden burst of energy, a fiery red beam erupted from the depths, streaking toward the sky.

Victarion barely had time to react before the inferno struck their ship, searing Euron square in the back.

Euron's scream was a raw, guttural sound as the flames engulfed him, his body writhing in agony. The stern of the ship ignited, the fire licking at the wood.

Victarion roared for the men, his voice cutting through the chaos. "MEN! TO ME! TO ME!"

He ripped his cloak from his shoulders, rushing to smother the flames consuming his brother. The fire hissed and spat, but Victarion didn't stop until Euron lay moaning beneath him, his skin burned, his hair singed to ash.

"FIRE! PUT OUT THE DAMNED FIRE!" Another roared while he worked to save his brother.

"Oh…. Hells!" Another stumbled as they gazed at the massive tongue of flames that soared into the stormy night sky.

The fiery beam soared higher, a hellish pillar of light piercing the heavens. They were witnessing the final wails of a God.

The men rushed around him, some struck watching the pillar of fire as it soared through the air. Others rushed to quench the flames that had caught on the Stern of the ship and in parts of their sails.

At last, with extreme effort, he managed to put the fire easting at his brother out. His back had been singed, his dark hair burnt to a crisp, the skin underneath a pained red.

He moaned in pain, clawing at his back. He would survive.

Victarion turned back to the sea, his breath catching as the demon sank beneath the waves, its red eyes glowing one last time before they were swallowed by the depths.

The wildfire hissed and burned as the creature vanished, leaving only steam rising from the ocean's surface.

x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x

(A/N)

Merry Christmas!

Well, that ends the raid of Oldtown. One last chapter for this book left. (I wanted to cover this and the previous 2 chapters in one, but well that was impossible)

What did you think of the entire arc?

This whole thing was hinted at partially in that prophecy in Bloody Song.

"Below the sea, the dead arise! From depths, from depths, from depths they rise."

"The Red Eye watches the bleeding star. It sees, it burns, it dies afar."

"The star will die, the prince shall rise, He comes, he comes, he comes with eyes."

"The prince will fly, when the heart he burns, He cries, he cries, he cries and soars"

Well, there's more to this prophecy than just this scene. Multiple interpretations and all that.

Anywho. Caelum lost control of his heat vision. He wanted to stop them from retreating. Captured women, and children aboard.

He was also burning and on fire. Magic fire that burns everything.

He lost control, and the heat vision essentially became this giant pillar of light in the storm. He thought of setting the fleeing ships on fire, burned Euron, heard the captured captives aboard, diverted his gaze to sky, and lost consciousness.

Don't worry he isn't dead. Obviously.