The Iron Fleet conquered Black Rock Island overnight with astonishing speed. Under the ferocious assault of the Ironborn, the resistance on the island crumbled rapidly.
There were no children to be seen on the island, but many women cowered in the corners—some were prostitutes making a living there, but more were pitiful souls abducted by the pirates.
Euron inspected these "spoils of war," his voice carrying clearly in the sea breeze. "We are not lawless reavers without discipline. If you fancy them, you may take them as salt wives, but you are absolutely forbidden from abusing them."
He specifically pointed to the red-haired widow—the relict of the Arbor merchant whom Gran Goodbrother had described as having a bosom "whiter than the salt in the pans."
"She," Euron said to Gran, "is yours to look after."
Gran Goodbrother grinned, his gold-inlaid canine tooth flashing in the morning light. Though rough, he pulled the shivering redhead up with a surprising hint of gentleness despite his delight. The sea breeze fluttered her fiery red hair, contrasting sharply with Gran's bronzed skin, painting a strange picture on the bloody battlefield.
When dealing with the captured pirates, however, Euron's face held none of that tolerance. In these waters soaked in blood and fire, he knew mercy was the most useless quality.
"Interrogation is redundant." He coldly swept his gaze over the row of kneeling captives. "These little scraps of filth know no more than we do."
The sea did not need weakness, only the rule of iron and blood; it did not need sympathy, only fear and deterrence; it did not need debate, only absolute submission.
This was the immutable law of the Stepstones.
Euron's method of disposal was simple and brutal. For those already dead, their heads were hacked off, and their headless bodies were thrown into the sea. "To feed our hardworking friends of the deep," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
For those still breathing, even those who had thrown down their weapons and knelt begging for mercy, Euron showed no pity. They were dragged to the shore and forced to kneel in rows. Behind them stood executioners, axes still wet with blood, waiting for the command.
"Remember in your next life: this is the price of making an enemy of the Iron Islands."
As the axes fell, the screams of seagulls mixed with the roar of the waves, as if the sea itself was shuddering at the slaughter.
Among all the executed pirates, only one boy—dark-skinned with thick lips—survived. He knelt on the blood-stained sand, his eyes unusually clear and resolute, starkly different from the fierce pirates around him.
This boy had been hiding among the abducted women. His mother had long since fallen victim to the pirates, her body heartlessly thrown into the vast ocean. During his captivity, he had never participated in any killing or atrocities. His thin back was crisscrossed with whip marks, and the raw wounds on his neck from iron chains were still oozing blood.
Just as the executioner's axe was about to fall, the women suddenly knelt en masse, vouching for him with their lives. "He's a good boy! He's not a pirate!" they cried out. "He secretly saved his own food to share with us!"
Euron's gaze lingered on the boy for a moment, noting the resilience in his eyes that belied his age, and the obvious scars of abuse on his body.
"Keep him," Euron finally ordered. His voice remained cold, but it granted a new lease on life to the boy hovering on the edge of death.
---
On Euron's orders, all the severed heads were piled up along the coastline of Black Rock Island, forming a grotesque and terrifying "Jingguan"—a tower of skulls.
The hollow eyes of the heads stared out at the sea, their frozen expressions retaining the terror and pain of their final moments. The salty sea breeze, heavy with the stench of blood, permeated the air.
Balon stood to the side, looking at his younger brother with a rare, complicated expression. His eyes flickered with something indescribable.
Euron seemed to sense his brother's gaze. A faint, inscrutable smile touched his lips. "What? Think I'm too cruel?"
"No," Balon shook his head slowly, a look bordering on admiration appearing on his rough face. "I just didn't expect you had it in you to do something like this." He kicked a pirate's head at his feet. "I always thought you preferred schemes and shadows."
The waves crashed against the reefs, the spray occasionally washing over the two terrifying monuments of human heads, as if the ocean too trembled at this brutal deterrent.
Euron stood before the tower of skulls, his dark robes snapping in the wind. "In the Stepstones," his voice was cold as iron, "fear is more useful than mercy, and slaughter works better than schemes."
Piling heads into a tower—such a chilling practice was unheard of in Westeros.
Euron gave this horrific creation a grotesque and poetic name—"The Crown of Sea Skulls."
To ensure that both the illiterate pirates of the Stepstones and the passing merchants would remember this name, he ordered the four twisted words written on a rough wooden plank in tar mixed with blood.
The sign was driven deep into the highest point of the skull pile, creaking ominously in the wind. The charred black characters were blindingly stark against the pale skulls; every stroke seemed like a struggling ghost, declaring the Iron Islands' reign of terror to all who witnessed it. Whenever a ship dared approach, the first thing they would see was this wooden sign swaying in the wind, and behind it, the crown built of death.
No explanation was needed. Anyone seeing this scene understood instantly—these waters had a new master.
Two horrific monuments of heads stood on either side of Black Rock Island's coast. Any ship entering these waters could see these hideous "crowns" from afar.
Hollow sockets stared at every passerby; rotting faces looked particularly ghastly under the moonlight; and the salty wind was forever tainted with the scent of death.
This was the bloodiest declaration, the most direct deterrent—The Iron Islands are here!
It had to be said, this deterrent was extremely effective.
In just one day, news of the Iron Islands' arrival spread like a plague to every corner of the Stepstones.
Ravens winged through the salty air; merchant ships whispered in ports; mutters in taverns turned into waves of fear. Everyone knew of the fall of Black Rock Island, and everyone knew of the "Crown of Sea Skulls" piled high with heads.
Mothers used the story to scare crying children; pirates froze with wine cups halfway to their mouths; even the fiercest mercenary captains wore grave expressions.
As the sun set and the last merchant ships pulled into port, the entire Stepstones was shrouded in the shadow of the Iron Islands. Everyone who heard the news couldn't help but look toward Black Rock Island, as if they could see those hollow sockets staring at them from the darkness.
Fear, like the thickest sea fog, completely enveloped these once lawless waters.
---
When the news reached Skull Island, its lord—Mor "Skull King" Bones—was guzzling rum. Hearing the report, he slammed his cup onto the rough wooden table, amber liquor splashing like blood.
"The bodies of those Ironborn?" he roared, the scar on his face twisting with rage. "I have no idea which idiot did that!" His fingers clawed at the map. "Someone probably framed us on purpose!"
But when he heard the description of the "Crown of Sea Skulls," his rage gradually turned into cold murderous intent. The pirate lord stood up and walked to the window, looking in the direction of Black Rock Island. The wind carried a faint scent of blood.
"Let them come," he suddenly sneered, his fingers unconsciously caressing the curved sword at his waist. "Let them come and die." A bloodthirsty light flashed in his eyes. "I'll show those Ironborn whose territory this really is."
The pirates in the tavern raised their weapons and let out wild howls, as if they could already see the coming bloodbath.
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