On the High Seas
Euron's fingers tapped unconsciously on the edge of the nautical chart before he suddenly threw out a seemingly simple question: "How long, would you say, does it take to sail from the Iron Islands to the Stepstones?"
The men were momentarily stunned. As captains who lived their lives on the sea, this was common knowledge etched into every Ironborn's bones.
Finally, the seasoned Dagmer answered cautiously, "My lord, with fair winds and following seas, twelve days at the shortest. If we meet ordinary winds, at most fifteen. Of course, that's barring any storms extreme enough to flip a whale."
Euron's lips curled into a deep smile, like a whirlpool suddenly appearing on the ocean surface. "The news of our departure must have spread across the Seven Kingdoms by now. Those fellows in the Stepstones with their ears to the waves will naturally have heard the wind too." He looked around at everyone, his gaze sharp. "But what if we appeared before them like a kraken—suddenly, three or even five days early? What kind of scene would that be?"
Surprise flashed in Dagmer's eyes. "That... would shatter all their deployments, like a dagger straight to the heart! But..." His rugged face was full of disbelief. "How is that possible? The sea never bargains."
The sea breeze blew through the cabin, stirring the black hair on Euron's forehead. He didn't speak, but his eyes held confidence.
---
Twenty Ironborn longships sailed mightily into the waters of the Arbor, making no attempt to hide as they docked for resupply. The fleet swaggered to the shore, and the Ironborn clamored as they replenished fresh water and dry rations, treating this once-hostile land as if it were their own home port.
Lord Redwyne stood on the castle terrace, looking down at the brazen Ironborn in the harbor. His eyes revealed a complicated mix of emotions—admiration for Euron assembling and launching a fleet in just three days, yet also a lingering resentment from old grudges.
By the harbor bonfires, the Ironborn looked relaxed and at ease, laughing loudly, drinking fine wine, eating large chunks of meat, and shamelessly boasting of past battles. If not for the sharp blades at their sides and the scars on their bodies, one might mistake them for travelers on a pleasure cruise rather than warriors heading to a battlefield.
Lord Redwyne walked down from the castle to meet Euron, his tone slightly awkward. "Apologies, our fleet is not yet fully assembled, but we will catch up to you as soon as possible."
Euron laughed heartily, patting the Earl on the shoulder. "No matter. I trust the credit of House Redwyne." His gaze swept over the Redwyne banners in the port. "After all, we are partners sharing profits now, aren't we?"
Lord Redwyne's expression softened noticeably, and his tight lips finally relaxed.
However, shortly after the Ironborn longships left the Arbor, countless ravens took flight from the castle's rookery.
These black messengers carried news not only to the Seven Kingdoms but to every corner of the Stepstones—the Iron Fleet had departed and was sailing toward those bloody, wealth-filled waters.
When the fleet left the Arbor and entered the embrace of the vast ocean, completely out of sight of land, Euron stood at the prow and issued a baffling command: "Use iron hooks to link all ships together!"
Balon whipped his head around, incredulous. "How can we sail if we're tied together? What game are you playing!"
Euron turned slowly, the sea breeze rustling his dark robes. "Father did allow you to come along, but don't forget," his voice was calm but carried unquestionable authority, "I am the commander of this fleet. Follow orders, brother Balon."
The brothers' gazes clashed in the sea wind. Finally, Balon spat angrily but turned and roared, "All hands! Bring the ships together! Connect with hooks!" His voice rolled over the sea like thunder. "I want to see what this little lunatic is up to!"
Though confused, the Ironborn executed the order swiftly.
Massive iron hooks were thrown to adjacent ships, chains clanking amidst the spray. Soon, the twenty longships formed a moving island, a fleet like an unprecedented sea monster on the vast ocean.
When all the longships were linked by iron chains into a massive floating island, Euron suddenly opened his eyes, a profound light flashing within them. "Now, let me show you all the speed of our friends from the sea."
As his words fell, the sea surface suddenly churned violently.
Hundreds of giant whales, sharks, and various unheard-of massive fish broke the surface, surrounding the fleet. Even more terrifying were Euron's famous pets—the beast known as the "King of the Near Sea," the agile and fierce "Sea Cat," and the steel-scaled "Sawshark." They swam docilely beside the flagship.
Many Ironborn nearly drew their weapons in fright but were harshly stopped by Balfour and Dagmer. Euron personally looped thick ropes around the "King of the Near Sea," the "Sea Cat," and the "Sawshark," then turned to the dumbstruck crew. "Don't just stand there. Lasso those whales and sharks."
These colossal beasts were as docile as trained hounds, approaching the ships in orderly fashion, pressing their massive bodies against the hulls, quietly waiting for the Ironborn to rope them. Once harnessed, they tacitly dove underwater to make room for the next beast, the whole process like a precision drill by a well-trained army.
The Ironborn obeyed with trembling hands, their palms cold with sweat. They watched all this in disbelief; some even pinched themselves to ensure it wasn't an absurd dream. These tough men, who could wrestle storms without blinking, were rendered speechless by the impossible sight. The salty wind slapped their faces, but it couldn't blow away the awe and astonishment thick in the air.
When all ropes were secured, Euron raised his hand and pointed forward. "Set sail! Target: The Stepstones!"
The "King of the Near Sea," "Sea Cat," and "Sawshark" took the lead, pulling with immense power. The other sea beasts followed suit. The linked fleet of longships shot forward like an arrow from a bow, cutting through the waves at triple their normal speed, leaving a shocking white wake across the ocean.
---
Black Rock Island
The moonlight was like a rusty silver dagger, stabbed obliquely into the ink-black horizon.
The cliffs of Black Rock Island were cut into sharp silhouettes under this bleak light. Patches of moss on the rock face glowed with a faint, ghostly green, like scabs unhealed for a thousand years.
The sea wind, wrapped in salty moisture, swept over the cliffs, kneading the rolling surf into pale foam before smashing it ruthlessly against the reefs—the sound was like the bones of countless drowned men colliding in the darkness, weaving with the rhythmic footsteps of the garrison patrol into an invisible, airtight net in the night.
In the Stepstones, there was never a safe place, nor a safe time. If you wanted to live long, you had to be cautious every moment—this was the most valuable advice, bought with the blood of all survivors.
At this moment, the Invincible Ironborn was like a dormant black eel, silently hidden among the reefs on the west side. The hull blended perfectly into the shadows; only the figurehead—a ferocious kraken statue—occasionally caught the moonlight, its eyes flashing with the ghostly light of a predator before the strike.
Euron Greyjoy stood at the prow, his gaze piercing the night like a falcon. His knowledge of meteorology allowed him to make an accurate judgment: "High tide in three hours. When the Bright Star sinks into the Sea God's Tears, dense fog will swallow the entire sea area." His voice was low as distant thunder, carrying unquestionable certainty.
Veteran Balfour leaned over the chart, the dim lamplight stretching his shadow long. The ink on the parchment blurred slightly from the night dew, spreading like a drop of coagulating black blood. He dug his rough fingernail deep into the paper, his knuckles turning pale from the force. "The sentries at the eastern landing point rotate every half hour. There is enough of a gap—" He raised his bloodshot eyes, the dancing candle flame reflecting in his pupils. "—Enough for twenty longships to glide into the shallows like ghosts."
The wind brushed past the sails, making a dry, rasping sound like rubbing bones. As the two men exchanged glances, a meticulously woven slaughter was quietly unfolding under the pale moonlight.
The distant lighthouse flickered in the misty tide, like the last heartbeat of a dying man. Euron raised his bronze-inlaid spyglass. The lens reflected the scene of the harbor: massive breakwater chains rusted in the wind; on the walls, guards used their spears to casually flip fishing nets drying salted fish, a picture of complete, unguarded relaxation.
"Their salt wives are still drying their undergarments on the deck," Gran Goodbrother grinned, his gold-inlaid canine tooth flashing in the moonlight. "Heard that red-haired widow is the relict of some Arbor merchant. Her bosom is whiter than the salt in the pans."
Greydon Goodbrother glared at his brother. "They aren't Ironborn, you idiot. That's not called a 'salt wife'." He gripped his battle-axe, a bloodthirsty excitement flashing in his gray eyes. "But soon enough, they'll learn our ways." The wind carried faint laughter from the distance, a cruel contrast to the coming bloodshed.
All the warriors were immersed in the deathly silence before the attack, silent as the reefs. They quietly chewed on hardtack tough as gravel, sipped fresh water from skins, and held their blood-quenched blades close. Most closed their eyes to rest, gathering strength for the slaughter in the darkness, only the occasional twitch of an eyelid betraying the turbulence within.
"Now," Euron's voice was pitched extremely low, like a blade scraping against a whetstone. "The tide is rising."
Twenty longships, like a pack of krakens scenting blood, glided silently on the push of the tide. The keels scraped the sand of the shallows, making a rustling sound like a viper flicking its tongue. The warriors opened their eyes, their pupils glowing with a wolfish light in the dark.
The lead longship touched shore. The first Ironborn warrior leaped into the knee-deep water, his curved sword tracing a cold arc in the moonlight.
The time for slaughter had finally arrived.
Soon, soaring flames tore through the night curtain, lighting up the entire bay as bright as a bloody day.
Euron stood atop the castle wall, coldly watching the garrison scatter in panic like a disturbed ant colony amidst the firelight.
A young guard, his hair licked by flames, let out a wretched howl; another was pierced through the chest by an Ironborn arrow, stumbling into a burning tent.
The first defender to charge up was a burly man with a thick beard. His shield ridiculously still held half a piece of unfinished black bread, as if he had rushed to battle straight from the dinner table. The man roared and swung his sword, but the blade stopped mid-air—Euron's knife had already sliced precisely across his throat.
Blood sprayed onto the hot sand with a sizzling sound, weaving a cruel nocturne with the cries and the roar of the fire in the bay.
Arrows tore through the air like iron locusts, screaming death.
Ironborn warriors surged into the castle like a tide. The sharp clang of clashing steel and the dull thud of breaking bones composed a brutal symphony. They fought with the berserk fury unique to the Iron Islands; every swing sprayed a mist of blood, every chop was accompanied by a wail. The battle continued until no one dared raise a weapon in resistance, until the last standing figure flew the banner of the Kraken.
When the first ray of crimson morning light pierced the clouds, the beach of Black Rock Island was dyed a deep red. The golden kraken banners of the Iron Islands were planted all over the coast like tombstones.
Euron stood on the highest reef, the sea breeze billowing his dark cloak. Beneath his feet lay mountains of corpses and scattered spoils. The rising sun ascended slowly behind him, casting his shadow long across the conquered land.