Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Euron abruptly raised his head, his pupils, which had torn through the night and frozen the abyss, gleamed with an almost eerie light in the last embers of the hearth. That light pierced through the solemnity, contemplation, and lingering fear in Corren's eyes, reaching straight to the core strategic intent: "Father, the 'no-go zone' you demarcated here today in the eye of the storm—the 'new rules of the ancient road' that points the Ironborn's battleaxes beyond the Seven Kingdoms—is an incredibly wise rein! It skillfully prevents us from being prematurely drawn into the raging inferno that will soon engulf Westeros, a flame capable of burning everything, and it also protects us from being burned ourselves and becoming the target of everyone's wrath."

Within his small body, it seemed as if the power of a sea beast, dormant for millennia, was awakening, bursting forth with a chilling sharpness far beyond his years, and his voice carried a prophetic power that seemed to see into the future with unwavering certainty:

"When the wildfire pot that the Mad King himself planted was finally ignited by his own mad torches, or detonated by some desperate spark... when the lions, direwolves, sun serpents, golden roses, howling stags of Westeros... tore each other apart in the flames and chaos ignited by madness, flesh and blood flying everywhere... when the cold light of the Iron Throne was completely obscured by endless blood and smoke—"

Euron abruptly stood up! His thick, dark green kraken robe seemed to come alive in the dim firelight, the Greyjoy kraken totem embroidered on it thrashing and snarling! He opened his small, childlike hands, palms facing upwards, as if using all his strength to support an invisible yet incredibly heavy world chessboard, a board rife with smoke and fire, blood and flames intertwined:

"That will be our golden moment to break free from the 'new rules,' allowing the Iron Axe of Drowned God to feast on the blood and gold of our enemies! At that time, Lannister Harbor will be teeming with gold-laden merchant ships, the Reach will be overflowing with bountiful granaries, and the Stepstone Islands will be teeming with pirates—all the wealth and lifelines that have been thrown into chaos by internal strife and left to fend for themselves will become our legitimate hunting grounds, where we can 'pay with iron'! We can take whatever we want!"

His voice echoed in the empty, deathly silent stone hall, carrying a primal, blood-pumping, seductive power, like the low roar of a deep-sea monster:

"The more the Mad King burns, the deeper Westeros descends into chaos, and the more fertile and tempting the hunting grounds beyond the 'safe seas' defined by our 'New Rules of the Ancient Road' become! Father, we are not prophets who foretell storms, we are fishermen who ride them! And the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, is stirring up a raging sea filled with whales and golden scales for us with his madness!"

"The faster the Targaryen dragonbill falls, the fiercer the fires of Westeros burn, the brighter the glory of our Seastone throne will shine! For that world-burning fire will force all men of the land—lions, wolves, deer, and serpents—to leap in terror into the raging chaos for survival! And we, Greyjoy," Euron's voice rose, carrying a pride forged of iron and salt, a pride ingrained in our very bones, "have waited a thousand years in the raging waves! We were born here, we grew here, we are the waves themselves! Chaos is not a bottomless abyss, Father, but the only ladder the gods have bestowed upon us, Greyjoy, to unparalleled power and eternal glory!"

"Those merchant ships laden with gold, grain, and wine; those castles deprived of their lords' protection and left defenseless—they will all become fat sheep, devoid of the wolves' guard, ready for our slaughter! The Lannister's gold mines, Tyrell's granaries, Seagullshire's wine cellars… our longships will appear like ghosts wherever we wish, taking whatever we desire, using the flesh and blood of our enemies to strengthen the bones of our Ironborn and sharpen the battleaxes of our drowning gods!"

"Enough!" Corren's roar, like a thunderclap, abruptly interrupted Euron's highly inflammatory declaration. His voice was hoarse, as if polished by sand and salt, each word bursting from clenched teeth, carrying an unbelievable shock, a deep chill, and a hint of fear—a fear he himself was unaware of—of this terrifying insight. "These... these viper-like seductive words!" His sharp, dagger-like gaze swept abruptly across Lisa and the old Maester Clygon in the shadows, his gaze carrying an all-encompassing pressure. "Who? Who poured these things into the head of a five-year-old child? Was it you, Lisa? That handmaid of unknown origin who speaks seven languages? Or you, Clygon? That old scholar whose mind is filled with moldy parchment and ancient legends?!"

Lisa remained standing silently in the deepest shadows, as if one with the stone wall. Her emerald eyes were lowered, and her long eyelashes concealed all emotion. She seemed oblivious to Corinth's fury, which could crush bones. Only her deep, steady breathing testified to her presence. Maester Clegane, in the corner, was struck dumb. His emaciated body trembled violently, his face as pale as a dead fish in a salt flat. His cloudy old eyes were filled with extreme confusion and a fear that almost devoured him—clearly, he too was utterly shocked by Euron's analysis, which was beyond his years and beyond common sense, and he was speechless.

“The news brought by the ravens is all backed up in the Maester’s Tower.” Euron’s face showed a childlike innocence, yet also a sly smile, cleverly deflecting his father’s question. “Father, have you forgotten? I was ‘confined’ there for a whole month. That’s enough time for me to peruse those files, to think about the Iron Islands’ past, present… and future.” He readily admitted, “I did consult Lisa about the genealogy and customs of the Southern nobility, and I also consulted Maester Clygon about history. But last night’s dream about the drowning god, and everything I just said…” He pointed to his small head, his heterochromatic eyes clear and bright, “It all started here. The more I think about it, the more I feel…”

He paused, then, in an almost philosophical tone, clearly uttered the words that would shake the entire Westeros aristocracy: "Those who act justly gain much support, while those who act unjustly find little! When all the nobles feel that the man on the throne... is unworthy of his position..."

"Shut up!" Corren's fierce shout exploded like a tsunami, instantly drowning out Euron's words and extinguishing the last embers in the fireplace. His voice, mixed with the suddenly intensified roar of the waves outside the window, carried the unquestionable, absolute authority of the King of the Seastone: "You have no right to 'think'! You have even less right to express your 'opinion' on the Iron Throne here!" His tall figure in the dim light resembled a volcano about to erupt. "Everything you just said, every single word, rot in your belly! Rot completely! And you—" His icy gaze swept over Lisa and Clygon again, like a tangible blade, "Lisa, Clygon! If a fifth person knows any of the syllables heard in this council chamber today… even a whisper…" He didn't finish, but the chilling killing intent and iron-blooded threat froze the air like tangible ice, conveying his meaning with unparalleled precision.

Lisa bowed slightly, her posture respectful and silent. Clygon, on the other hand, was so frightened that he almost collapsed, and could only nod frantically, making hoarse sounds in his throat.

A deathly silence descended once more, heavier than before. Only the roar of the waves crashing against the rocks outside the window could be heard, like the panting of a giant beast.

After a long while, King Coron's tense fingers finally relaxed slightly. He looked at the young son before him, the one who stirred his emotions, filling him with both fear and trepidation. His knuckles tapped lightly twice on the cold stone table, producing a dull sound, as if he had made a difficult decision. "From now on," his voice returned to its usual deep tone, yet carried an undeniable command, "come to my study every Wednesday afternoon." He paused, his gaze deep, "and learn... how to read those sealed, wax-sealed secret letters."

As Euron bowed and retreated step by step from the vast stone hall, filled with the lingering warmth of power and the invisible smoke of battle, he clearly heard his father's low, almost delirious voice behind him, mingling with the roar of the crashing waves outside the window, sounding like an ancient incantation:

"The dead never die..."

The heavy oak door slowly closed behind him, cutting off the second half of the sentence, but the maxim, full of the Iron People's indomitable will, was already branded into Euron's heart.

In the shadows of the corridor, Lisa appeared silently like a ghost, holding a thick parchment scroll in her hands—a scroll containing a detailed account of the vital food reserves of Pike City and the islands. Her appearance was as precise as a calculated tide.

Euron raised his small face to meet Lisa's unfathomable emerald eyes, a glint of triumph flashing in his heterochromatic pupils. He winked at her, a barely perceptible smile curving his lips—the plan had gone smoothly.