In this campaign designed for destruction and plunder, a strange spectacle erged: fierce Ironborn warriors, looking like demons, were hauling chests of gold and weapons with one hand, while carefully carrying heavy crates of books with the other. As they marched prisoners along, they "courteously invited" terrified Maesters clutching their dical kits and a few scrolls, along with craftsn possessing specialized skills, to join them.
Euron Greyjoy's ambition clearly went beyond the imdiate wealth in front of him. He was systematically and ruthlessly draining the Arbor of both its material and intellectual blood. He didn't just want to leave the enemy destitute; he wanted to uproot the very foundation of knowledge and talent they relied on to survive and thrive, transplanting it all to the Iron Islands to be used for his own gain.
The once peaceful and beautiful vineyards of the Arbor had been transford into an open-air workshop for displaying the conqueror's will and inflicting humiliation.
King Quellon's orders were executed without rcy: All Redwyne soldiers in and around Starfish Harbor who had surrendered and laid down their arms were not executed, nor were they simply locked in a dungeon. Instead, they were herded by Ironborn blades into the endless vineyards—the symbol of House Redwyne's glory and wealth.
They were forced to take up crude tools—rusty hoes, broken shovels, or simply their bare hands.
"Get to work!" the Ironborn overseers roared. Whips cracked sharply in the air, landing rcilessly on the backs of any prisoner moving too slowly. "Pull these damn vines up by the roots! Don't leave a single one standing!"
And so, a brutally symbolic scene unfolded: Soldiers who, just a short while ago, wore the uniform of House Redwyne and held weapons to defend their ho, were now forced to beco farrs, performing devastating labor on the very land they had sworn to protect.
The sun beat down viciously.
Stripped of honor and freedom, these soldiers sweated like slaves, chanically and numbly repeating the sa motion: bending down, grabbing the sap-filled vines that birthed the finest wines, and using all their strength to rip them violently from the fertile soil!
Earth was overturned, roots snapped, and green sap stained their hands like blood. The air filled with the raw scent of dirt and the fresh, grassy sll of destroyed vegetation, replacing the usual intoxicating sweetness of grapes. The process was silent and oppressive, punctuated only by heavy breathing, the clank of tools, and the shouts and whip cracks of the overseers.
But this scene of destruction required its most important audience.
King Quellon deliberately ordered that Lord Adrian Redwyne and his son, Paxter Redwyne—still heavily guarded—be brought to the center of the vineyard.
The father and son remained bound, held down firmly by strong Ironborn warriors. They were forced to lift their heads and watch everything happening before their eyes.
Lord Adrian's body began to shake violently—not from fear, but from extre rage and humiliation.
His once-proud eyes were now bloodshot, staring fixedly at the vines being ripped from the earth. Every destroyed vine felt like a piece of flesh cut from his own heart! These weren't just crops; they were the history, the glory, and the very symbol of House Redwyne's existence! Watching his own soldiers, driven like cattle by the enemy, destroying their own roots... this ntal torture was far more agonizing than any physical pain. A beast-like whimper escaped his throat, and his teeth ground together so hard they threatened to shatter.
Young Paxter's face was as pale as paper, his eyes filled with disbelief, fear, and despair. The scene was too much for him. The legacy his family had guarded for generations was being systematically, humiliatingly erased right in front of him, and he and his father were powerless to stop it. They were prisoners, forced to watch this long, slow execution. When he tried to lower his head, an Ironborn behind him roughly grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at every detail.
King Quellon stood beside them like a cold statue of a sea god. He didn't speak. He simply watched it all in silence, observing every twitch of pain on the faces of the Redwyne father and son. This silent display was more lethal than any venomous words.
He didn't need to roar, and he didn't need to gloat. Letting the losers witness the destruction of what they cherished most, branding that despair and powerlessness deep into their souls—this was the ultimate conquest, and the cruelest punishnt.
The golden sun shone on the erald vineyards, yet it seed to cast the shadows of hell. Sweat, tears, dirt, and the sap of broken plants mixed together, writing the darkest, most humiliating page in the history of House Redwyne.
The Iron Islands' victory was built not only on ruins and plunder but on the utter trampling of their enemy's dignity and pride.
The vineyards of the Arbor—once lush and symbolizing wealth and glory—were now a ssy execution ground. The air slled of turned earth, the raw sap of broken vines, and the desperate sweat of the defeated.
King Quellon Greyjoy stood like a black reef before Lord Adrian Redwyne. His cold gaze swept over the Arbor soldiers forced to destroy their own foundation under the lash, before finally settling back on Adrian's face, twisted with extre rage.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the crushing weight of the deep ocean. Every word hamred into Adrian's heart.
"'Gilbert of the Vines,' the legendary son of Garth Greenhand. He taught the people of this land how to brew the red wine that the Seven Kingdoms adore. He founded House Redwyne." Quellon's voice carried the calm of reciting an ancient epic, making it all the more cruel. "That is why your sigil is a cluster of deep purple grapes on blue. That is why your house words are 'Ripe for Victory.'"
He paused, letting the words that represented the root of Redwyne glory congeal in the air.
"Therefore, the thing you value most, the thing you take the most pride in, is not your gold, not your warships, but these—" He swept his hand toward the vineyard being destroyed. "Grapes!"
His tone suddenly sharpened, like an unsheathed blade of ice.
"But you! Adrian Redwyne! You hijacked rchant ships of the Iron Islands!" The suppressed anger finally ignited in King Quellon's eyes. "The 'Old Way' is our tradition! We are the ones who raid others; we never allow others to raid us! Your actions trampled on and insulted the dignity of the Iron Islands!"
King Quellon's voice sounded like a final verdict, delivering a cold, hard fairness.
"So, I am pulling up all your vines. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. That... is what I call fair and square!"
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