Faced with Euron's four morale-shattering iron laws and his rapidly growing fleet, "Bloodhand" Marlin's response was direct and vicious—assassination.
A carefully selected deathsworn warrior, carrying Marlin's most venomous instructions, blended in with a group of pirates who had genuinely come to defect. In his hand, he carried a treated, grotesque severed head—his "blood oath" offering to Euron. No one noticed that beneath the head, hidden perfectly by clotted blood and matted hair, a matte-black, poison-quenched dagger was tightly bound.
When this assassin was brought before Euron, he prostrated himself on the ground, holding the gruesome tribute high, reciting the memorized words of submission.
Euron Greyjoy sat lazily in his chair, his ice-blue eye seemingly unfocused, as if he had seen this scene a thousand times before.
Just as the tribute was presented within arm's reach, a fierce light erupted in the assassin's eyes. With lightning speed, he reached under the severed neck, drew the dagger, and thrust it straight at Euron's heart.
In that split second—Euron moved.
His dodge didn't rely on visible agility; it looked more like a premonition, an almost eerie nonchalance.
[Rokushiki: Kami-e — Paper Art!]
His body shifted to the side by a mere fraction of an inch. The poisoned tip grazed his robe, cutting nothing but air. The distance was so close it should have been impossible for human reflexes to evade, as if he had read every note of this performance before it began.
The ecstasy on the assassin's face instantly froze, turning into incredulous horror. Before he could make a second move, the Ironborn guards beside him pounced like wolves, pinning him firmly to the ground.
Euron stood up slowly, straightening his unblemished tunic. There was no fluctuation of emotion on his face, only a trace of cold boredom.
"It seems Lord Marlin still doesn't understand," he said indifferently, his voice devoid of anger or joy. "He doesn't know where his gifts belong."
He waved his hand.
The guards dragged the ashen-faced assassin toward the bone-chilling "Crown of Sea Skulls." They used rough hemp ropes to bind him tightly atop the pile of rotting heads, making him the freshest—and most suffering—part of this monument to death.
Scorched by the sun, eroded by the salt wind. He would watch helplessly as flies laid eggs on his skin, feeling scavenger birds and insects peck away at his flesh bit by bit. Amidst endless pain and torture, he would slowly transform into a skeleton, merging with the horror around him.
The second assassination attempt came late at night.
This time, the assassin's steps were lighter than a cat's, his breathing fainter than the night breeze.
He was a true shadow under "Bloodhand" Marlin's command, a veteran who had taken countless lives while his targets dreamed. Like a slick smear of ink, he silently blended into the shadows of Euron's quarters, perfectly avoiding all patrol lines. His fingertips touched the door, sliding the latch open with barely a sound.
The room was pitch black. Only faint moonlight filtered through the window, outlining the furniture and the vague shape of a figure on the bed. The assassin steadied his heart, the blade sliding from his sleeve into his palm. He took the first step toward the bed—
It was also the last step of his life.
The cold touch of metal pressed against his Adam's apple without warning, compressing his windpipe and cutting off all movement and breath. The dagger seemed to appear from the void, faster and more lethal than the one in his own hand. Before he could even realize what had happened, his death was announced.
Endless horror drowned him instantly. He froze in place, every muscle locked, unable to comprehend or believe it. In this ultimate silence, a voice, calm to the point of elegance and carrying a faint, almost non-existent sigh, whispered right behind his ear:
"I am so sorry..."
It was Castor Daniels, the Sorrowful Man, whispering his signature apology. It was the last sentence the veteran assassin would ever hear in this world.
---
In the oppressive days before the war fully erupted, the Stepstones did not see a moment of peace. Instead, the region plunged into a bloody phase of localized purging and conquest.
The massive fleet of the Iron Islands Alliance used three major islands as their foundation, like three drawn swords choking the throat of the sea. Euron personally held Black Rock Island; Prince Oberyn's Dornish forces controlled Blood Sail Point; and the Redwyne fleet of the Arbor occupied Serpent's Tooth Island.
Forming an "Iron Triangle" with these strongholds, they launched a swift "combing" operation against the scattered smaller islands in the vicinity.
Ironborn longships, Dornish fast boats, and Redwyne galleys patrolled day and night like sharks scenting blood, pouncing on every reef and islet that might harbor a threat.
The choice left to the rulers and squatters of these small islands was cruel and simple, with no room for negotiation: Either immediately swear allegiance to the Iron Islands Alliance, offering supplies, hostages, and absolute obedience; or face total extermination with no survivors.
Euron's will was crystal clear: He would not tolerate any "neighbor" in his rear capable of stabbing him in the back. This sea would either belong entirely to him, or it would be turned into a silent graveyard where only seagulls mourned.
The clouds of war, thick as physical fog, completely shrouded the Stepstones. In these waters soon to be dyed red, the laws of the past were void. In their place was a disorder and chaos far deeper than the era of rampant piracy.
The once-busy maritime trade routes were now death zones. No merchant ship dared claim it could safely cross these treacherous waters. For those caravans unfortunate enough to have sailed into the islands just before hostilities began—and were now trapped in ports for a "brief stopover"—every day was spent in agonizing anxiety.
Worried merchants gathered on docks and in taverns, their faces the color of clay, arguing endlessly yet helpless to do anything. Many had converted all their gold into the spices, silks, or wines filling their holds; any mishap meant financial ruin. Others carried perishable, high-demand goods—fresh fruits were rotting, furs would soon be out of season. They desperately needed to sail to their destinations to sell, but could only watch as their wealth evaporated while they waited. Many just wanted to leave this dangerous place with whatever property they still had, fleeing far from the coming slaughter.
But reality was a cold cage. No caravan dared to sail into the Stepstones and walk into the trap, and those already inside found it impossible to fly out. Any ship attempting to leave without permission, whether merchant vessel or fishing boat, was ruthlessly intercepted or sunk by the patrolling warships.
The entire Stepstones had turned into a massive, isolated besieged city.
All trade lifelines connecting it to the outside world had been brutally severed.