The Stepstones, an archipelago scattered like broken fangs from east of Dorne to the Disputed Lands, was the most notoriously treacherous place on the Narrow Sea—a den of pirates, sellswords, and ambitious schemers.
Among the hundreds of barren reefs, only two islands had names due to the countless bloodshed and deaths they bore—Bloodstone and Grey Gallows. Their very existence was a footnote to the eternal turmoil of these waters.
Bloodstone—its name originated from a terrifying legend that chilled the spine.
It was said that over thousands of years, countless brutal battles had erupted on this island and its surrounding waters. So much hot human blood had been spilled that it had soaked deep into every inch of the island's soil, staining the texture of every rough stone red.
Under the scorching sun, those dark red patches covering the beaches and rock layers seemed never to dry, still emitting the heavy scent of rust and death.
Grey Gallows—was another embodiment of fear.
Countless rough, tall gallows stood like a withered forest, covering the island's capes and highlands, emitting tooth-aching creaks in the sea wind.
The lives they swallowed were uncountable, ranging from once-famous Pirate Kings, fallen sellsword captains, and madmen claiming to be Kings of the Stepstones, to even more nameless pawns and wronged souls. Their corpses once swayed here in the wind, becoming terrifying totems warning latecomers, making the island itself a synonym for despair and ultimate punishment.
The Stepstones had never known true peace.
War, plunder, and betrayal were the only laws here.
The title "King of the Stepstones," a hollow crown watered with blood, changed hands constantly amidst endless infighting and slaughter.
The Free Cities—Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh—had once joined forces to establish the fragile "Kingdom of the Three Daughters" to vie for control of this strategic location, only to tear it apart in the end.
This place attracted the remnants of House Blackfyre, the sharpness of Dorne, the iron hooves of the Golden Company, and even the gaze of the Iron Throne. One after another, countless powers were drawn into this eternal arena, turning it into a millstone of ambition and greed.
Now, it had once again fallen into a power vacuum, a masterless land, becoming a bloody paradise where pirates ran rampant. Euron's gaze, like a circling sea eagle, had long locked onto this chaotic sea filled with danger and opportunity. But he knew well that he was far from the only predator coveting this piece of meat.
Euron's fleet waited quietly in place. Sailors took turns eating and resting to regain strength. About two hours later, those loyal "friends" sent a message again through invisible bonds—the cruel melee in the distance had finally settled.
Receiving the confirmed signal, Euron then ordered the sails raised. The two longships cut through the blue sea once again, heading toward the Stepstones.
When they truly crossed the narrow waters between the islands, the scene before them was like a painting of hell.
The seawater was no longer azure but dyed a thick, ominous dark red, as if the entire ocean had become a giant bowl of blood soup. Broken limbs and unrecognizable scraps of flesh floated like foul foam with the waves. Even more corpses drifted silently with the tide.
Even more palpitating were the crude small boats shuttling like vultures among the floating bodies.
The people on the boats—a profession unique to the Stepstones known as "Corpse Looters"—were mechanically and skillfully performing their work: using hooks to drag swollen corpses closer, nimbly stripping them of anything potentially valuable—rings, necklaces, coins, even decent clothing—then tying heavy stones to the stripped bodies and coldly pushing them back into the deep, as if handling common cargo rather than lives that were once their own kind.
When Euron's two well-equipped longships with grim-faced crews sailed into these waters of death, the movements of all the Corpse Looters paused. They looked up in unison, sizing up the outsiders with gazes mixed with vigilance, greed, and ferocity.
However, when they saw the forest of blades on the ships, the faces that were clearly not kind, and the golden Kraken banner flying high at the prow, the few evil thoughts they had just kindled were instantly extinguished. They quickly lowered their heads, their dim eyes refocusing on their gruesome livelihood, as if they had never looked up, knowing deeply that in these lawless waters, some people were destined to be untouchable.
When Euron's longship was half a day's journey from Sunspear, the silhouette of a warship suddenly appeared on the vast horizon. It was sailing toward them, the banner at its prow particularly striking—on a yellow field, a golden spear pierced a red sun sharply.
"It's our sigil! It's a ship from Sunspear!" Princess Elia Martell recognized the flag instantly. The melancholy that had always lingered on her brow seemed blown away by the sea breeze, replaced by a near-maidenly excitement and joy. She almost jumped as she grabbed Euron's arm, pointing into the distance, her voice trembling slightly with emotion, like a child away from home finally seeing familiar lights.
From afar, one could see two figures, a man and a woman, standing at the prow of that ship, waving their arms vigorously in their direction, their movements full of undisguised enthusiasm.
Princess Elia immediately rushed to the bow, leaning half her body out over the gunwale, disregarding the danger, waving her arms forcefully in response. She shouted back to Euron excitedly, "It's my brother! It's Oberyn! He's here!"
Euron squinted, trying to look into the distance. To him, the two figures were just blurry shapes, hard to see clearly. "At such a distance, you can barely tell man from woman. How can you be sure it's him?"
Princess Elia turned back, her face beaming with immense pride and confident laughter. The sea breeze blew her hair as she spoke decisively, with the unique certainty of blood and kinship. "Of course! We are siblings connected by blood, and closest friends. I would never mistake him!"
The banner flapping in the sea wind—a golden spear piercing a red sun on a yellow field—unquestionably belonged to House Martell, the symbol of Sunspear. There was no possibility of mistake.
Euron's gaze remained sharp as a hawk, scanning the deck, the spear shafts, and every visible detail of the opposing ship. He didn't relax his vigilance in the slightest because of the flag. A low, clear command quickly spread through the ship: "Everyone, weapons ready. Stay alert. Do not move without my order."
This instinctive, almost paranoid caution clearly stung Princess Elia Martell's feelings. Seeing Euron distrust her judgment and her family so much, the joyful smile on her face cooled instantly, turning into a layer of frost. She jerked her head away, letting out a very soft but disdainful hmph through her nose. She lifted her chin slightly, revealing the unique pride and annoyance of a Dornish princess, as if greatly insulted.
"Caution is never wrong, no matter when!"
Euron remained unmoved.
---