While "Bloodhand" Marlin frantically rallied his Pirate Alliance, Euron Greyjoy sat calmly on Black Rock Island, like a hunter waiting for his prey to bleed out.
Euron didn't rush to march. Instead, he chose a method far more profound and malicious. He distilled his will into four iron laws and disseminated them through captives, deserters, and deliberate messengers. Like a plague, these orders spread rapidly to every dark corner and pirate den in the Stepstones.
First: The Summons.
The message blew through the hearts of all Ironborn like a cold gale: Any child of the Iron Islands who dares to fight against us, or acts against the will of the Iron Islands, shall be deemed a heretic who has forsaken the Drowned God. Their souls will be exiled forever, unable to enter the Drowned God's watery halls after death. Not only will they be barred from returning to their homeland, but their parents and siblings will share their sin, exiled from the Iron Islands to roam as refugees. However, should a prodigal son wish to return, he need only rally to the banner at Black Rock Island. Past crimes may be forgiven based on future merits.
Second: The Blood Oath.
This was a bloodthirsty invitation to all who struggled to survive on these seas: No matter who you once served, no matter what blood debts you carry, you need only bring the head of a member of the Pirate Alliance—be it a captain or a grunt. This head will serve as your ticket into the Iron Fleet. In the future, glory and wealth shall be shared with us.
Third: The Call for Talent.
This order transcended birth and history, dropping like a thunderbolt in a world of strict hierarchy: Whether you are noble or slave, whore or corpse-looter, scholar or executioner—if you possess a unique skill or an ability useful to the Iron Islands, a seat awaits you. Here, ability determines the hero; contribution determines rank.
Fourth: The Kill Order.
This was the final, coldest ultimatum: There is no forgiveness for those who remain enemies of the Iron Islands. There is only death. Their corpses will become the bricks and mortar for the next "Crown of Sea Skulls." Anyone who offends the might of the Iron Islands will be hunted to the ends of the earth and exterminated without mercy!
These four orders were like four invisible blades, precisely slicing through the foundation of the Pirate Alliance. They terrified the weak-willed and seduced the ambitious, burying seeds of fear and profit deep into this bloody soil.
---
On the same day, before the sun set.
The Golden Rose fleet of the Arbor finally arrived in the waters of Black Rock Island. Their pristine white sails formed a stark, grim contrast to the black sails of the Iron Fleet.
As the flagship approached the dock, the "Crown of Sea Skulls"—that tower built of countless severed heads—assaulted the eyes of every Redwyne soldier without mercy. Instinctive fear and nausea seized them instantly.
The thick stench of rot mixed with the brine of the sea hit them in the face. Hollow eye sockets and twisted expressions formed a hellish tableau under the blazing sun.
The sailors on deck turned green. Many bent over the rails immediately, unable to stop themselves from emptying their stomachs, the sour smell of vomit quickly mingling with the fresh sea breeze.
Lord Paxter Redwyne managed to keep his composure, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the gunwale. His usually ruddy, fleshy face was drained of all color, pale as paper, his eyes filled with poorly concealed shock and horror.
"Ha! Look at these flowers. They haven't even smelled real blood yet, and they're already wilting!" Balon Greyjoy's rough mockery rang out unceremoniously, carrying the savage sarcasm unique to the Ironborn.
Prince Oberyn leaned lazily nearby, the corner of his mouth hooked in a playful smirk. His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough to be heard. "Perhaps the fine vintages of the Arbor nurture the man, but they don't seem to nurture a stomach for... ah... 'art'." His gaze swept contemptuously over the soldiers still dry-heaving.
Amidst the chaos and mockery, Euron Greyjoy stepped forward silently like a ghost. He didn't join in the ridicule. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Paxter Redwyne's stiff shoulders—a gesture that was intimate yet carried an undeniable pressure.
Euron smiled at Lord Redwyne, his voice low and steady, as if discussing the weather rather than the horror before them. "You've arrived just in time, my Lord." His tone even held a hint of warmth. "Let the sea breeze wash away the fatigue of your journey. The real show begins in a few days."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the shaken soldiers of the Arbor, and raised his voice to ensure everyone heard him. "Let our brothers from the Arbor rest well and gather their strength. The coming feast will require everyone to drink their fill."
His words sounded like concern, but against the backdrop of that terrifying tower of skulls, they felt more like a velvet-wrapped command of steel that could not be refused.
---
Euron's four orders were like ice cubes thrown into a pot of boiling oil—instantly, the lawless lands of the Stepstones exploded into chaos. The effect was swift and brutal, far exceeding the impact of any traditional naval battle.
Wherever the orders reached, fear and opportunity spread like a plague.
Pirate captains who ran independent crews but had Ironborn saltwater in their veins hesitated barely a moment. They hoisted black sails, adjusted their course, and sailed unhesitatingly toward Black Rock Island. For them, this wasn't a choice; it was coming home. The call of the Son of the Drowned God and the longing for their kin outweighed any fragile loyalty to the Pirate Alliance.
For Ironborn serving on ships belonging to other Pirate Alliance leaders, the night became the perfect cover for betrayal. Cold daggers were drawn in silence, the blades pressed against the throats of "companions" they had been drinking and boasting with just yesterday. Many pirate captains had their throats slit in their sleep or while their backs were turned, killed by the Ironborn sailors who had been silent for so long.
Their heads were skillfully removed, treated with quicklime, and used as the bloodiest, most effective "Blood Oath" to present to their new master. These mutineers then stole small boats, or sometimes hijacked entire warships, sailing relentlessly toward the shadow of Black Rock Island.
Even more common were the Ironborn scattered like seeds among the countless pirate crews of the Stepstones—ordinary sailors, oarsmen, or fighters. Now, the call of faith and the harsh laws of their homeland became an irresistible gravity. They deserted their original gangs, ignoring attempts to stop or kill them, doing whatever it took to return to the Iron Fleet.
In a flash, paranoia and panic swept through the pirate crews. Their strength was severely diminished, and captains began to look at anyone with an Ironborn accent with suspicion and fear.
After all, there were countless pirate crews; you could serve Marlin today and someone else tomorrow. But the Iron Islands... there was only one home.
Euron Greyjoy—his title as "Son of the Drowned God" and the terrifying legends surrounding him—had already been planted deep in the ears and hearts of every Ironborn by the sea breeze and the whispers of travelers.
At this moment, he was not just their commander; he was almost the avatar of a god, bringing both salvation and destruction.