The longship set sail, heading towards Sunspear.
The plan to rest for a night at Tarth en route wasn't a sudden whim. While Tarth's location was conveniently between Dragonstone and Sunspear, the primary reason was a letter from King Quellon received three days ago.
On the rough parchment, the handwriting carried Quellon's decisiveness.
The letter was blunt and mainly covered two things:
First, the fleet must stop at Tarth. Currently, the Lord of Evenfall Hall, Selwyn Tarth, the "Evenstar," was holding a celebration for the eighth nameday of his only child and heir, his daughter Brienne. Our fleet often docked at his port and received much care; this was an occasion not to be missed. It was a matter of courtesy, and perhaps a potential marriage alliance might hide future opportunities.
Second, your uncle Balf and Victoria Daniels had been ordered to arrive at Tarth ahead of time. The journey was perilous, so they would rendezvous with your ship there, then travel together to the Tourney at Harrenhal.
This wasn't just simple companionship; it was more like a convergence of strength.
At the end of the letter, King Quellon's strokes seemed particularly heavy, revealing deep concern: "House Frey seeks revenge for every grievance. You took the head of Lord Walder's kin; he will not let it rest. Every step to Harrenhal may hide murderous intent. It is safer to travel with our people."
Euron didn't resist the sincere concern revealed in his father's letter. He knew Quellon's worries weren't unfounded. He himself had never relaxed his vigilance, constantly guarding against cold arrows that might fly from any shadow. He accepted the arrangement; after all, on the vast and unpredictable ocean, being prepared was always good.
However, even having prepared for the worst, Euron hadn't expected House Frey to be arrogant enough to openly set a death trap on the boundless sea—the ocean was the hunting ground of House Greyjoy, not the domain of the rats from the Twins.
On the third day of the voyage, sunlight splashed like shattered gold onto the blue velvet of the sea.
Euron stood at the prow with Ashara and Princess Elia Martell, enjoying the slightly salty sea breeze. Facing the boundless expanse for days truly cleansed the mind; even Princess Elia's pale cheeks seemed to have gained a trace of color from the wind.
Just then, three massive, ancient sea turtles surfaced silently, slowly approaching the ship's side. Their mottled shells spoke of the ravages of time, and their eyes were extraordinary, shining with a spiritual light almost like human intelligence, as deep as the ocean itself.
Princess Elia was the first attracted. She leaned against the rail, whispering in awe, "Look, they are beautiful—especially their eyes, as if they could speak, full of spirituality." She indeed sensed a silent communication between these uninvited guests and Euron—they stared at him quietly, as if urgently conveying a message.
In a moment unnoticed by anyone, an ancient and direct whisper rang in Euron's mind. He seemed to see scenes through their eyes—friendship and warning from the depths of the ocean.
[Ahead—Ambush—] The consciousness surged like a cold tide, carrying the chill of the deep sea. [Three—ships with Twin Tower banners—hiding behind the cape—reeking of slaughter—]
A flicker of icy sharpness passed through the bottom of Euron's eyes. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, then the corner of his mouth curved into a cold arc. He reached out, gently patting the rough gunwale, expressing gratitude to these messengers in a way known to no one else. The turtles nodded slightly, left the ship's side, and dove into the deep.
"You are right, Princess Elia. They do speak." He turned to them, his smile still composed, but his tone unquestionable. "They told me some 'unfriendly' guests are waiting ahead. I'm afraid I must ask Princess Elia to return to the cabin and rest for a moment. Take good care of the little Princess."
Then, he turned his head, his voice not loud but clearly piercing the sea wind to fall into Dagmer's ears. "Raise the Kraken banner. All hands prepare for battle. We have visitors. Look sharp, hold your blades steady, don't disappoint them. Let's see... what our guests want to do."
The sea wind still blew, but suddenly it carried the portent of steel and blood. The setting sun dyed the sea blood-red, as if foreshadowing the coming slaughter.
Just as Euron's longship was about to sail toward the harbor of Tarth, three longships flying the Twin Towers sigil of House Frey rushed out like ghosts from behind the jagged reefs of Shipbreaker Bay, surrounding his ship in a pincer formation.
Every enemy ship was packed with men—roughly over thirty on each, nearly a hundred pairs of malicious eyes focused on this lone Kraken ship. In comparison, counting the infant princess in swaddling clothes, there were only eleven people on Euron's ship.
The disparity in strength was suffocating.
Standing on the prow of the lead ship was a man with a sinister face—Symond Frey, the seventh son of Lord Walder.
With revengeful pleasure on his face, he shouted, "Bastard of the Iron Islands! I've come to let you know the price of touching a Frey!"
Euron stood tall at the prow, the wind ruffling his hair, his expression terrifyingly calm. "If you mean the scum at the Inn at the Crossroads, they deserved to die."
"I don't care if they lived or died!" Symond roared. "But they wore Frey clothes and bore the Twin Towers. Everyone knows you killed Freys! Not to mention, Rhaegar Frey was among them! The honor of House Frey cannot be insulted!"
"Rhaegar Frey?" Euron raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his tone. "A son of Lord Walder?"
"He was the second son of Ser Aenys Frey! Ser Aenys is the third son of the Lord and his first wife—" Symond was eager to emphasize the deceased's identity.
"Heh," Euron let out a cold sneer, interrupting the tedious genealogy. "You Freys are as numerous as tadpoles in a river; you could birth an army by yourselves. Old Walder probably can't even remember the names if one or two die. You talk to me about the honor of House Frey? Does House Frey have any honor to speak of?!"
This mockery thoroughly enraged Symond. Symond Frey's gaze swept maliciously over Lisa beside Euron, a lewd smile appearing on his face. "Hmph, so this is the little handmaiden Rhaegar Frey and the others 'teased'? She is indeed somewhat pretty. Don't worry, later we will take turns on her right in front of you, properly 'comforting' her wounded soul!"
The cabin door opened.
Princess Elia Martell walked out, her pale face bearing an inviolable dignity. Her voice was clear and firm: "I am the wife of the true dragon of Westeros, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, and sister of Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, Elia Martell. I order you to leave immediately. I can pretend this rude interception never happened."
Symond Frey's face changed instantly; the royal name brought a flicker of instinctive fear. But a burly man behind him with a face full of transverse flesh—Tytos Frey—let out a crude sneer. "And I'm Prince Rhaegar! Hmph, who are you fooling? But, this little wench isn't bad looking." He licked his lips, eyes greedily circling Elia, and said to Symond Frey, "Later, this 'Princess' is mine!"
Princess Elia Martell's face turned ashen. Looking at the enemy outnumbering them ten to one, her expression dimmed. She wasn't worried for herself, but for her daughter—Rhaenys.
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