Lord Quellon ultimately placed the decision in Euron's hands. In the old man's weather-beaten eyes, there was worry, but also a rare gleam of trust.
Euron needed a few days to think alone. He stood in the chart room of Pyke, his finger slowly tracing the line marking the current date—the Summer of 281 AC.
If everything unfolded as he predicted, in less than a year—by the middle of 282 AC—the fires of the Usurper's War would engulf the Seven Kingdoms.
Euron's gaze swept across the nautical chart, as if piercing through the mists of time to look back at that turbulent, magnificent era of history.
In 106 AC, Prince Daemon Targaryen—the dragonlord known as the "Rogue Prince"—allied with the legendary "Sea Snake," Corlys Velaryon, to launch a campaign to unify the Stepstones.
The war reached its climax in 108 AC. The allied forces won victory after victory, sweeping through most of the islands with unstoppable force. The most glorious moment arrived when Prince Daemon, in a single combat, used his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, "Dark Sister," to behead the military commander of the Triarchy—Craghas Drahar of Myr, the infamous "Crabfeeder."
In 109 AC, amidst blood and fire, Daemon Targaryen was crowned "King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea," and the dragon banner flew high over the islands. Yet, the joy of victory was as fleeting as morning dew in summer.
By 110 AC, the Triarchy—the Kingdom of the Three Daughters—returned with a vengeance, their counterattack flooding the seas like a rising tide.
In 111 AC, Prince Daemon was forced to leave the lands he had conquered and return to King's Landing to deal with family matters.
And by 115 AC, when he completely abandoned the region, it marked the failure of a unification attempt that had lasted nearly a decade.
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The candlelight danced across Euron's face, illuminating both the lessons and the opportunities of history. He gently stroked the section of the map that had once been ruled by dragonlords, a light flickering in his eyes that was similar to, yet distinct from, Prince Daemon's.
Euron was convinced that if given a year, he could use the longships of the Iron Islands and the spears of Dorne to tear apart the existing order and plant his own flag on those treacherous, blood-soaked rocks. But to truly sweep away the entrenched pirate factions and establish stable rule over that complex web of islands—to become a "King of the Stepstones" in name and in fact—was far from easy.
History served as a warning. Prince Daemon Targaryen was a prime example. And Daemon had a dragon—Caraxes, the "Blood Wyrm."
The Stepstones. A strategic choke point in the Narrow Sea, the throat connecting Westeros and Essos. It had always been a paradise for pirates, smugglers, and sellswords.
The obstacles were many: complex networks of caves, hidden reefs scattered like stars, elusive privateer fleets, and native islanders who held a deep-seated hostility toward outsiders.
But the thorniest problem remained the "Kingdom of the Three Daughters"—the alliance of the Free Cities of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Though they were currently fractured, they agreed on one thing: they would never allow a single power to control the Stepstones alone. The combined fleets and wealth of these three cities would be the Iron Islands' greatest hurdle.
Even more troublesome was the terrain. The Stepstones were fragmented, easy to defend, and hard to attack. A campaign there could easily sink into the quagmire of a war of attrition. To truly become the master of these seas, the only permanent solution would be to completely conquer those three Free Cities.
But the war had to be fought. One year was enough time for Euron to drive a nail into this strategic region—a nail driven deep and firm.
The candlelight flickered over the map, reflecting the unwavering determination in Euron's eyes. In his mind, he could already see that nail being wedged deep into the heart of the Stepstones.
For the next two days, the candles in the chart room of Pyke never burned out. Euron sat around the massive map table with Balon, the old veteran Balfour, the fierce warrior Dagmer, and several other seasoned captains, drilling down into every detail of the conquest of the Stepstones.
The Ironborn have been children of the sea since the Dawn Age. Wherever the salt waves roll, you will find Ironborn trails and tales. The chaotic waters of the Stepstones were no exception—Ironborn had always been there, some passing through as merchant sailors, others having long since turned to piracy.
In fact, the Iron Islands knew more about the Stepstones than any other power in the Seven Kingdoms. This wasn't just because of the Ironborn scraping out a living among the rocks, but because Euron had set his sights on this strategic choke point long ago. Over the years, his intelligence network had spread like an invisible undercurrent, quietly permeating every corner of the archipelago.
Floyd Pyke, the bastard son of Uncle Balfour, was a crucial link in this chain.
On the surface, Floyd was just another pirate captain occupying a small rock, living freely and recklessly like the countless other outlaws in the Stepstones. But in reality, he was a dark piece placed on the board years ago by Euron and Balfour.
This young "pirate" carried a dual mission: secretly protect Iron Islands merchant ships from being raided, and continuously gather intelligence on the political shifts, pirate factions, and shipping lanes of the Stepstones. He was an eye buried in the chaos, constantly relaying valuable information back to Pyke.
When Euron's finger traced over that specific small island on the map, he exchanged a knowing look with Balfour. The piece they had set years ago was finally about to play its critical role in the endgame.
"We have more eyes in those waters than anyone imagines," an old captain with a scarred face said, pointing to the map. "We have men on almost every island."
Dagmer added in his gruff voice, "A lot of the pirate captains down there are Ironborn by blood. They know the hidden channels and coves like the back of their hands."
Balfour stroked his gray beard, musing, "The key is how to make these men work for us, rather than against us."
Euron's finger moved slowly across the map. He knew that conquering this sea required more than just longships and swords; it required wits and strategy.
He tapped the edge of the parchment lightly, his gaze sweeping over every captain in the room.
"Being Ironborn alone isn't enough to make those men die for us. They've put down roots in the Stepstones," Euron said, his voice calm and lucid. "Sea wolves care about two things: strength and profit."
Euron straightened up and continued, "But the groundwork is vital. We play on old kinships, but we make sure the Gold Dragons are on the table. Whatever they crave, we give them—whether it's better ships, sharper steel, or a license to raid under our banner."
The candlelight danced in Euron's deep eyes. "Make every Ironborn in the Stepstones understand that swearing loyalty to Pyke offers a future far brighter than their current scrap-picking existence. We need to show them that if they follow us, they won't just get an island—they'll get the whole damn ocean."
Then, Euron's voice turned cold, like a winter gale cutting through the hall.
"But at the same time, make them understand this clearly—" His fingertip pressed hard onto the map. "They don't have to help us. But if any of them dare to stand against the Iron Islands..."
He slowly raised his head, his gaze slicing across the room like a blade. "Their end will be more miserable than the corpses fed to the crabs. I want every Ironborn in the Stepstones to know that the price of betrayal is the full wrath of the Iron Fleet. We will hunt them down on every island, and the curse will follow their sons and grandsons forever."
The candlelight flickered in his eyes, reflecting an unquestionable murderous intent.
"Mercy is a gift for friends. But for enemies—" His voice dropped, low as rolling thunder. "—there is only total annihilation."
The hall fell into silence. Only the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below drifted in from the distance, as if echoing his cold oath.
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