The storm carved a massive wound across the giant chained fleet, but it didn't tear the ships apart like everyone hoped.
The storm had burned itself out just making that gash. Its fury faded fast, and even the waves lost their bite against the hulls.
Sailors on deck sucked in air and started unchaining the fleet as fast as they could.
Hundreds of warships poured in from the east, swallowing the rising sun.
The ironborn lords on Pyke watched their last hope die.
They should've surrendered the second the fleet showed up.
Now it was too late. Defiance meant death.
"We should've bent the knee earlier!" Gorold Goodbrother muttered, voice hollow.
If they'd given up at the start they might've walked away breathing. But calling that storm? That was open rebellion.
Now they'd bleed for it.
"What good is saying it now?" Donald Drumm lifted his axe, trying to fire the men up. "We're ironborn! Sons of the Drowned God! What the fuck is there to fear? The Grey King's halls and the mermaids are waiting!"
Nobody answered.
House Harlaw was gone. House Goodbrother had iron mines and didn't need to raid anymore. Asha had already run to the enemy. Balon and Euron were nowhere to be found. There was no one left to lead.
Gorold was already picturing the exact way he'd kneel so Jon might let his family live. Fight on? They had maybe ten thousand men left—half too old or too young, half green recruits who broke at Harlaw. Thirty thousand armored soldiers were coming. No chance.
The combined fleet shoved into Lordsport like it owned the place. Nothing slowed them down.
Jon would fold the ironborn fleet straight into his own. Three hundred sailships at minimum to hold the Sunset Sea. The Redwyne fleet would back him. The North had nothing. The western ocean belonged to him now.
The army hit the beach like a steel wave and rolled straight to Pyke's walls.
Asha stared at the castle. Probably the last time she'd ever see it. Balon was dead—Euron had sacrificed him for the storm. No family left. Time to go.
Loras shouted across the deck, "Lord Tully, when the hell do we storm the castle?"
He'd cut down a few old men and boys during the landing. No glory in that. He wanted real steel.
"Pyke's too strong, Ser Loras," Randyll Tarly said calmly. "They surrendered the last time Robert came knocking. They'll fold again. No point wasting good men."
Soon enough Gorold Goodbrother opened the gates, carrying Donald Drumm's head on a pike.
No Greyjoys left inside. No reason to keep dying.
Tarly's men swept the island clean. Every Drowned God priest got the axe. Young women became spoils—valuable breeding stock now that the ironborn wouldn't be raiding anymore.
Jon ordered the Seastone Chair dragged out and every symbol of reaving and the Drowned God smashed. Even Nagga's fossil bones were coming with him.
"Plough the fields and salt the earth"—that was the plan. Wipe the pirate culture off the map. Change "We do not sow" to "You reap what you sow."
Jon turned his attention to hunting Euron.
The moment the storm failed, Euron ran.
Jon's ravens and ships tore the coast apart. Massive bounty: land for anyone who spotted him, an earldom for whoever killed him.
They found an empty ship first. Kept searching through the night anyway.
At dusk they finally cornered him and his last thralls in the sea north of Pyke.
Euron floated with his puppets, face going slack when he saw the fleet boxing him in.
He knew he couldn't win. Too few men. Nowhere left to run.
"Jon, spare me! I want to live! I'll serve you—make you my master!"
Jon noticed the eyepatch was gone. The red eye underneath had gone black.
He gave Sandor a nod. Sandor waved. Archers loosed on the mute thralls.
Euron tried to dive, but the water bloomed black-red.
They netted him and hauled him up like a fish.
Jon didn't waste breath. He drew his sword and took the head himself.
As they turned away, the severed head spoke.
"Jon!"