Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 221 Assassination

Faced with Euron's four ironclad rules that undermine morale and his ever-growing fleet, Marin "Bloody Hand" responded directly and ruthlessly by assassinating them one by one.

A carefully chosen assassin, carrying Marin's most sinister instructions, mingled among a group of pirates who had genuinely come to surrender. He carried a disfigured head, a "pledge of allegiance" to Euron. Unbeknownst to anyone, beneath the head, a matte-smelling, poisoned dagger was tightly bound, its presence perfectly concealed by congealed blood and tangled hair.

When the assassin was brought before Euron, he prostrated himself on the ground, holding aloft the terrible offering, and recited the words of submission that he had memorized long ago.

Euron Greyjoy sat languidly in his seat, his single, icy blue eye seemingly unfocused, as if he were already used to everything.

Just as the tribute was brought very close, the assassin's eyes flashed with murderous intent. With lightning speed, he reached under Euron's skull, pulled out a dagger, and thrust it straight into Euron's heart. At that very moment, Euron moved.

His evasion wasn't based on visible agility, but rather on a kind of almost eerie composure, as if he had foreseen it all along.

[Naval Type 6 Paper Drawing!]

His body shifted slightly by the millimeter, and the poisoned blade grazed his robes, merely slicing through the air. The distance was so close that it was almost impossible for him to react by human effort, as if he had already seen through every single note of the performance.

The assassin's ecstatic expression froze instantly, turning into incredulous horror. Before he could make a second move, the Iron Guards beside him pounced on him like wolves, pinning him to the ground.

Euron slowly stood up, straightened his undamaged clothes, his face expressionless, only showing a hint of cold weariness.

"It seems Lord Marin still doesn't understand," he said calmly, his voice devoid of emotion, "where his gift should be placed."

He waved.

The guards dragged the ashen-faced assassin toward the gruesome "Crown of the Sea Corpses." They bound him tightly to the pile of heads with rough ropes, making him the freshest and most tormented part of this monument to death.

Under the scorching sun and the corrosive sea breeze, he would watch helplessly as flies laid their eggs on his body, and feel scavenging birds and insects slowly nibbling at his flesh, gradually turning into a skeleton that blended into the surrounding horror amidst endless pain and torment.

The second assassination attempt was carried out late at night.

This assassin moved with a lithe gait, lighter than a cat, and breathed with a gentler whisper than the night breeze.

He was a true shadow under "Bloody Hand" Marin's command, experienced and seasoned, having taken the lives of his targets countless times in their sleep. Like a slick smear of ink, he silently blended into the shadows of Euron's residence, perfectly avoiding the sight of all patrols, his fingertips touching the door, and with almost imperceptible skill, he opened it.

The room was pitch black, save for the faint moonlight filtering in from the window, which outlined the blurry contours of the furniture and the indistinct human figure on the bed. The assassin made up his mind; the blade slid from his sleeve into his palm, and he took his first step toward the bed—his last step.

The cold, metallic touch pressed against his Adam's apple without warning, compressing his trachea and cutting off all movement and breathing. The dagger appeared as if from nowhere, faster and more deadly than the knife in his hand, sealing his death before he even realized it.

An overwhelming sense of horror instantly overwhelmed him. He froze on the spot, every muscle in his body stiff, unable to comprehend, unable to believe. In this absolute silence, a calm, almost elegant voice, carrying a faint sigh, whispered close to his ear: "I'm sorry—"

These were the words of regret whispered in his ear by Castor Daniels, the last words this experienced assassin heard on earth.

In the oppressive days leading up to the full-blown outbreak of the war, the Stone Steps Islands did not experience a moment of peace; instead, they were plunged into even bloodier local cleansing and conquest.

The Iron Islands Alliance's massive fleet, based on three main islands, is like three unsheathed swords, holding the throat of this sea area—Prince Oberyn himself is stationed on Blackrock Island, Prince Oberyn's Dorne army controls Bloodsail Point, and the Redwyn family's fleet is entrenched on Serpent Fang Island.

With this as the core, a "sorting out" operation targeting the numerous small islands scattered around the area was quickly launched.

The Ironborn's longships, Dorne's speedboats, and Redwyn's oars, like a school of sharks that have smelled blood, patrolled day and night, rushing toward every reef and islet that might harbor a threat.

The choice left to the rulers and inhabitants of these islands was cruel and simple, with no room for retreat: either immediately swear allegiance to the Iron Islands Alliance, offering supplies, hostages, and absolute obedience; or face utter and annihilating destruction without survivors.

Euron's will was crystal clear: he would not allow any "neighbor" behind him who might suddenly strike with a dagger. This sea area would either belong entirely to him, or it would become a desolate graveyard with only the mournful cries of seagulls.

The shadow of war loomed over the Stone Steps Archipelago like a thick, tangible fog. In this sea soon to be stained red with blood, the old laws had become obsolete, replaced by a disorder and chaos even more profound than in the era of rampant piracy.

The once bustling maritime trade route has now become a death trap. No merchant ship dares to claim it can safely traverse these treacherous waters. For those caravans that unfortunately sailed into the archipelago just before the outbreak of war and are now briefly stranded in the harbor, every day is spent in agonizing anticipation.

Worried merchants gathered at the docks and inns, their faces ashen, arguing incessantly, yet utterly helpless. Many had already converted all their gold into spices, silks, or fine wines in the hold; any mishap meant ruin. Others carried seasonal, scarce goods—fresh fruit about to rot, furs that would become unsellable after the season—and desperately needed to reach their destinations to sell them, now forced to watch their wealth vanish in vain. Still others simply wanted to flee this dangerous place with their remaining possessions, far from the impending slaughter.

Reality was a cold prison. No caravan dared to set sail into the Steps Islands at this time and walk into their trap, and those already on the islands were equally trapped. Any ship attempting to leave without permission, whether merchant or fishing, would be ruthlessly intercepted or sunk by patrolling warships.

The entire Stone Steps Archipelago has been transformed into a massive, isolated walled city.

All trade lifelines connecting the region to the outside world were abruptly and completely severed.