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The loss of Dead Bone Island forced Goneris to pull his defenses in tight.
He abandoned the smaller outposts on the distant reefs, pulled every light patrol ship back to the main channels, and brought in twenty armed merchant vessels from Lys to layer the outer ring around Torture Bay. Infantry patrolled the beaches day and night. Arrow-tower sentries never took their eyes off the water. Every ship entering or leaving the bay went through three separate checks.
The whole southern sea had become a floating steel fortress.
Viserys went ashore himself and walked every line of defense.
The exiled Targaryen prince knew the value of the Stepstones better than anyone. They were the gateway to Essos, the forward shield for Lys, and the only real stepping stone back to Westeros. He wasn't going to let a mad pirate like Euron turn these waters into an endless nightmare.
"Euron won't be satisfied with just Dead Bone Island," Viserys said, standing beside Goneris on the high fortress overlooking Torture Bay. He looked down at the packed fleet below. "He took one outpost. Next he'll go for something that actually hurts."
"The supply convoy," Goneris said at once.
Valantis's lifeline ran south from the mainland—grain, arrows, fresh water, weapons—carried on a dozen slow transports. No heavy armor. No heavy guns. Easy prey. Goneris had assigned four medium galleys as escorts, but on the open sea even the best escort could be blindsided.
Three days later the bad news arrived.
A convoy of seven transports was hit in the silent channel southeast of the Stepstones.
This time Euron didn't wait for fog.
He came in broad daylight—bright sun, flat sea, not a cloud in the sky. The worst possible weather for an ambush. The Valantis sailors had relaxed completely. Men on the transports were hanging laundry and joking on deck. They were sure pirates only struck at night. They forgot the Crow's Eye made his own rules.
The Silence burst out from behind the reefs like a black ghost. Black sails, black hull, swallowing the light. Twelve Ironborn longships and fifteen Tyroshi fast galleys followed. The formation looked loose but sealed both ends of the channel perfectly—an underwater pocket with no way out.
"Battle stations!" the escort captain shouted.
Too late.
Euron's ships didn't board. They didn't fight hand-to-hand. They stayed at range and used catapults and fire. The Silence carried Valyrian siege weapons—crossbows and stone-throwers far heavier than anything on ordinary ships. Massive rocks smashed into the transport decks. Bottles of burning pitch shattered across wooden hulls. Flames shot skyward in seconds.
The escort galleys tried to break through, but the Tyroshi fast ships locked onto them like wolves. The Ironborn longships circled the transports, tearing at oars and hulls—not to capture, just to burn and sink.
Fire raced across the water. Black smoke climbed into the clouds.
All seven transports were lost. Grain, arrows, timber, fresh water—everything went to the bottom.
Two of the four escort ships sank outright. The other two limped away burning.
By the time Goneris's main fleet reached the channel, only charred wreckage, floating bodies, and the stink of scorched wood remained.
Euron had vanished again.
"He's strangling us," Viserys said quietly, fingers resting on the hilt of Sunset. His eyes were cold. "Outposts first, now supplies. Piece by piece. He still won't show his full strength."
Goneris's face was grim. Cut the supply line and Torture Bay and Lys would soon run short. If the stalemate dragged on, the advantage would swing hard to the pirates.
He wanted to sail north into the reefs with everything he had, but the waters were a maze. Large ships couldn't maneuver. One ambush and the whole fleet could be trapped.
Meanwhile Euron stood on the Silence's deck, watching the distant fleeing remnants of the convoy, smiling like a man who had just won a hand of cards.
Zero losses.
The Tyroshi captains were convinced now. No one questioned the pirate admiral anymore.
"The Valantis think piling ships together means victory?" Euron spun a shard of dragonglass between his fingers. His voice was light and mocking. "They don't understand the sea. The sea isn't a battlefield—it's a hunting ground. I'm the hunter. They're the prey. Hunters don't charge straight in. They wait until the prey gets hungry, tired, and shows its throat."
"My lord, when do we hit Torture Bay?" one of the privateer captains asked.
"Hit it?" Euron laughed. "Torture Bay has Goneris's main fleet and Viserys's little dragon. A direct attack would cost us half our men. Why make that trade?"
He looked south, eyes fixed on the restless ships inside Torture Bay.
"What I want isn't a bay or an island. I want them afraid. I want them exhausted. I want them waking up every morning thinking I'm already beside their ship. When their arrows are gone, their food is gone, and their nerve breaks, the Silence will sail straight into Lys harbor."
The second blow hurt worse than the first.
Euron hadn't taken an inch of land, but he had cut the lifeblood of the Valantis alliance.
On the sea the balance tilted again—yet it hadn't collapsed.
Goneris held firm. Viserys kept morale steady. Fresh supplies from Lys kept filling the gaps. The alliance had survived the pirate's savage bites.
…
Two perfect, ruthless strikes had made Euron Greyjoy's name echo across the Stepstones.
The Tyroshi cheered. The shattered remnants of the Three Daughters called him savior. Every privateer and pirate flocked to his banner.
His fleet kept growing. New ships arrived every day. Wherever the Silence sailed, the sea itself seemed to bow to the Crow's Eye.
But Euron still didn't attack Torture Bay. He still didn't march on Lys.
He knew better than anyone that the Valantis main fleet was intact, the Targaryen banner still flew, and Goneris's defenses were rock-solid. A head-on fight wasn't a sure thing.
The gold, power, and titles Tyrosh had promised had to be earned with victories—not by throwing men away.
So he launched a third strike.
This time he didn't hit outposts or supplies. He went straight for the alliance's nerves and formation.
He chose the main shipping channel between the central island and the southern islands—the Three Forks. It was the vital artery: patrol ships, messengers, troop transports crossed it every day. The central nervous system of the whole line.
Euron didn't seize it. He didn't destroy it. He just kept hitting it—hit and run.
He split his fleet into three groups.
One group of Tyroshi ships pretended to be the main force and drew the Valantis patrols.
One group of Ironborn longships hid along the banks and waited for stragglers.
He kept the Silence and his fastest ships farther out, watching, ready to strike when the moment was right.
It wasn't a battle. It was endless psychological warfare.
At dawn a Valantis messenger ship entered the Three Forks and was ambushed—gone in minutes.
At noon a troop transport tried to cross. Tyroshi ships burst out, set it burning, then vanished.
At dusk the patrol fleet came hunting, but found only empty water. The pirates had already slipped back into the reefs.
Three days and three nights and the Three Forks was dead.
Valantis ships stopped using it. Messages stopped. Coordination between land and sea broke down. Goneris's formation stretched thin. The main fleet was pulled east one hour, west the next. Men and sailors were exhausted.
Viserys finally saw the pattern.
"He's grinding us down," the young prince said from the highest tower, voice calm but hard. "He doesn't want one big victory. He wants to win the war of patience. He knows we won't push deep into the north. He knows we can't guard every inch. So he keeps poking until we break ourselves."
Goneris said nothing. In all his years he had never faced an enemy this slippery. No rules. No honor. Just profit—like a snake that had sunk its teeth in and refused to let go.
"We stop reacting," Viserys said. "We tighten the lines, abandon the useless channels, and hold only the core islands. Let him harass all he wants. He can't outlast us."
Goneris nodded and gave the orders.
All ships pulled back to the three strongpoints—Torture Bay, the main island, and Lys—forming an iron triangle. Fortresses on land supported each other. Fleets at sea covered one another. No more chasing every little raid. No more spreading thin for distant rocks.
The move hit Euron exactly where it hurt.
His third round of harassment lost all meaning. The Three Forks was empty. No Valantis ships entered. The pirates' ambushes became punches into empty air.
Euron tried to probe Torture Bay and was driven back by Goneris's main line. He tried to raid the approaches to Lys and was thrown back by Viserys's shore defenses. He even sent the Silence on a probing attack and found the iron triangle unbreakable.
He finally understood.
He could not break the joint line.
He dared not face the main fleet in open battle.
He could not retake Torture Bay or take Lys.
And Goneris and Viserys had reached the same cold truth.
They could not seal off the entire Stepstones.
They could not catch the Silence or the fast pirate ships.
They could not trap Euron Greyjoy.
On the sea the pirate banner flew freely in the northern mists.
On land the Targaryen and Valantis banners stood firm in the south.
The islands were split—each side holding half.
The sea lanes were mutually blocked.
Raids and defenses were evenly matched.
Offense and defense watched each other warily.
A fourth strike never came.
The sun sank into the sea, turning the waters of the Stepstones blood-red.
Euron stood on the prow of the Silence, smiling at the unbreakable iron triangle to the south.
Viserys and Goneris stood on the fortress at Torture Bay, watching the pirate fleet flicker in the northern mists, eyes steady and resolved.
The wind howled past, carrying salt and the smell of old smoke.
The Tyroshi and their hired pirates held the northern reaches.
The Valantis, the Lyseni, and the Targaryen prince held the south and Torture Bay.
Euron's strikes were maddening, but they could never break the core.
Goneris's defenses were iron, but he could never root out the sea's venomous fang.
Neither side could win.
Neither side could lose.
Neither could retreat.
Neither could advance.
The naval war in the Stepstones had become a stalemate.