To the north, the Iron Oar and the Sea Dog, each accompanied by ten fast ships, closed like a pair of pincers on the rear of the Arbor Fleet while it was midway through its turn.
They were eager to board at once. After all, the archers of the Iron Islands were nowhere near a match for those of the Reach. Only boarding would give them a fighting chance; otherwise, the enemy would keep its distance and slowly whittle them away.
The shrill blasts of their horns carried far on the sea breeze. The rowers aboard more than twenty longships pulled in unison, driving the dark prows like spikes deep into the Arbor Fleet's rear formation.
A dense volley of grappling lines flew onto the enemy decks, iron hooks catching the rails. Dozens of burly men heaved together, forcibly hauling the ships alongside one another.
The Ironborn, already straining for battle, roared, "All hail the Drowned God!" and charged across the swaying boarding planks with axes and shortswords raised.
Even as the Reach's archers braced against the rails and unleashed showers of arrows, pinning the leading Ironborn to the planks or shooting them straight into the sea, those behind simply howled and trampled over their comrades' bodies to press forward. Not one of them retreated. The dopamine stirred by their excitement at bloodshed and slaughter had already seized control of their minds.
Meanwhile, aboard the Greenstone, a young sailor rushed into the sterncastle, his face covered in blood and his voice thick with tears. "Ser Oliver, the Ironborn have boarded. They're slaughtering everyone on deck. We may not be able to hold them."
Oliver Redwyne leaned against the sterncastle's bulkhead. Though the wound on his left arm had been hastily bandaged, it was still bleeding. Blood loss had left his