The equatorial sun scorched the newly conquered port. The salty sea breeze carried a mix of gunpowder smoke that hadn't yet dissipated and a faint scent of blood.
The unification of the Summer Isles was a foregone conclusion. The manner in which the Iron Fleet handled things bore the distinct mark of House Greyjoy.
They had not come here for traditional plunder—Euron had a grander vision, and mere looting and burning were beneath him.
But the Ironborn had believed in a principle since ancient times: "Blood and iron paid must yield returns."
Returning empty-handed? That was the greatest insult to a warrior.
For those seven or eight islands that dared to raise swords and stubbornly resist, the Ironborn gave the most direct and cruel response. No calls for surrender, no negotiations. With a single command, cold blades replaced all language. The blood of the resisters soaked their own beaches, castles were breached, and final wails and curses fell into dead silence amidst flames and thick smoke.
This was a necessary deterrent, using fear to tell all living islanders the price of resisting the "King's" order.
The wealth accumulated over generations on these islands was tallied from the ruins. Gold, jewelry, precious timber, and spices were neatly stacked—half for the Iron Fleet, and the other half, as agreed, given to the local collaborator, Jalabhar.
The islands that understood the times and chose to submit witnessed the merciful side of the Ironborn. They were allowed to keep their lives and homes but had to offer "gifts" to thank this "mercy."
The most characteristic products of each island—plump coffee beans, fragrant exotic spices, colorful parrot feathers—were continuously delivered into Ironborn hands. This was called "thanks for the Ironborn's forgiveness and mercy," a tacit tribute maintaining superficial peace and the dignity of the subjects.
From the three largest islands with the most abundant resources and several important trading towns, the Ironborn's "harvest" was even richer.
Ironborn carried crates of loot, stepping heavily on the docks, preparing to transport them back to the giant longships that resembled sea fortresses.
Seagulls circled and cried among the masts, looking down on this land that had both undergone a bloody baptism and rapidly established a new order.
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Lord Rodrik Harlaw, head of House Harlaw, walked steadily toward Euron, the parchment scroll in his hand curling slightly in the salty sea breeze. He was tall, his face bearing the cold hardness unique to Ironborn tempered by sea wind and war. He walked up to Euron without superfluous courtesy, simply unfurling the scroll directly. His low voice, like waves slapping the hull, clearly read out the numbers:
"Commander, with the end of the battle for the Summer Isles, our army has suffered a total of three hundred and eighty-six deaths."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the scroll, where every name had once been a warrior roaring in a charge.
"Of those," Harlaw's voice deepened, as if emphasizing the weight of this fact, "two hundred and ninety-four fell in the bloody battle to take the final fortress."
The final Lotus Port, with five thousand castle guards and one thousand Unsullied, was the symbol of the most stubborn resistance in the Summer Isles.
The Ironborn, aided by the mercenary companies opening the gates, attacked under cover of night. Against sharp swords and long spears, stepping over the corpses of comrades, they finally planted the Greyjoy Kraken banner at its peak. This number told of the brutality and cost of that battle.
Then Harlaw began to report another result: "The gains from this battle—gold and silver vessels, pearls and agate, various gems, as well as spices, cloth, and other materials cleared from warehouses and cellars—after preliminary calculation..." He looked up at Euron, reporting a figure tempting enough for any lord: "Converted to Gold Dragons, the total is about three hundred thousand."
Euron took the parchment scroll, looked it over, then handed it back to Rodrik, saying indifferently, "All spoils will be distributed after the voyage is completely over. Record all merits on your end. For all those who died in battle, let our priests hold Drowned God funerals for them, inviting them to the Drowned God's watery halls for a feast."
Rodrik Harlaw nodded and exited the tent.
It meant new warships, better equipment, and months of revelry and songs echoing through Pyke in the future.
The dust of battle had not yet completely settled, but the smoke was already replaced by a new, restless atmosphere.
The victors began to write a new order.
Jalabhar Xho's messengers, riding light boats like stones thrown into a still lake, quickly spread a message to every corner of the Summer Isles: In five days, right in the heart of this broken archipelago—the capital, Lotus Port—he would don the crown and declare himself the "King of the Summer Isles," ruler of the entire realm.
Wherever the news went, reactions varied.
Some cheered, some were silent, and others clenched their fists in unknown corners, flames of unwillingness flickering in their eyes.
On the giant Iron Fleet flagship Zhiyuan anchored off Lotus Port, Euron Greyjoy also issued his orders. His voice was calm, echoing among the captains: "Pass the order: the fleet will rest here for seven days."
The order was concise and clear. Seven days—this meant the massive fleet of the Iron Islands would weigh anchor and sail for the next leg of the journey on the morning of the third day after Jalabhar Xho was crowned king and enjoyed his initial glory.
This was not merely a generous gift but a present. During this time before departure, the Ironborn would not simply lie in the sun polishing their weapons.
The heavy sound of war boots hitting the ground rang out again on those islands that had just submitted.
Warriors of the Iron Islands, in the name of "ensuring the stability of the ally's throne," conducted one last, most thorough "cleanup." Any potential "resistance forces" that might threaten Jalabhar's rule, whether a family, a village, or a hiding noble, were precisely and ruthlessly uprooted.
The Ironborn used their way to tell this new king, and all islanders: Your crown is crowned by our swords; your rule is guarded by our fear. Before you sit on that Lotus Throne, we will clear all obstacles for you, letting your kingdom start from a point of absolute submission.
With the war in the Summer Isles just settled, the air still carried the lingering scent of smoke and blood. As the mastermind of this conquest, Euron Greyjoy did not linger in the noise of victory.
After completing the unification of the Summer Isles, Euron also received a notification from the One Piece System:
[You have conquered the Summer Isles — All Islands]
[You have gained System Points: 20,000.]
Every time the Iron Islands fleet conquered a small island, a notification of point gains would come. Those small islands usually only yielded a few hundred or thousand, but little by little, after the entire Summer Isles came under Iron Islands control, Euron gained a total of sixty-six thousand points.
Euron was in no hurry to use the massive amount of points.
Inside the captain's cabin of the Zhiyuan, Euron dismissed his attendants. No sails or oars moved, no horns sent him off; he simply raised his hand calmly and pushed gently against the air in front of him.
A formless, intangible "door" with shimmering edges opened silently. On the other side of the door was no longer the wooden wall of the cabin, but the dry, warm wind of Dorne hitting his face, mixed with the unique scent of sea buckthorn and lemon trees.
One step out.
Space twisted and closed behind him.
The sound of waves thousands of miles away, the hammering of smithies, the drilling of soldiers... all sounds belonging to the battlefield and fleet vanished instantly, replaced by absolute tranquility.
He was already standing under the corridor of the Sun Tower in Sunspear. The setting sun poured its last heat and light generously onto the pale red sandstone walls, outlining warm golden lines on the edges of his travel-worn armor.
Euron didn't alert anyone, simply following the familiar, light laughter.
The first thing that caught his eye was Ashara sitting on a soft couch in the garden. Her dark long hair was loose, her head bowed in concentration on the embroidery in her hands, her profile incredibly soft in the sunset. Beside her, Rhaenys was on tiptoes, trying to touch a butterfly resting on a rose bush with her small, dirt-stained hand.
Ashara looked up as if sensing something. The moment she saw him, wordless surprise and tenderness instantly rippled in her violet eyes. Rhaenys also turned her head, froze for a moment, then like a cheerful little bird, opened her arms, giggling, and threw herself at him, crashing into his embrace.
Euron bent down, laughing as he picked up his daughter steadily, her small, warm body snuggling tightly against him. Not far away, his son Caesar, playing in the sandbox, also spotted his father and ran over cheering.
Elia heard the commotion and walked out of the room holding Alexander. Alexander swayed gently in her arms, blinking, and reached out his hand toward Euron...
Euron narrowed his eyes and smiled, enjoying this rare leisurely life.
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