Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

His brief visit to Harlo Island ultimately earned him 160 points. The harvest wasn't abundant, but it met expectations. Firstly, his stay was short, and secondly, although he held the title of the second son of the King of the Iron Islands, to the deeply entrenched and established Harlo family and their people, he was ultimately an outsider who needed to be wary. Many corners were off-limits to him, and many eyes held a watchful gaze, which greatly limited his efficiency in acquiring "points."

With the plan to cross the ocean imminent, Euron needed power more than ever. With a slight thought, the system interface glowed, and a full one hundred points instantly evaporated, plunging into the unfathomable vortex of rewards. A chilling sensation, felt only by him, swept through the depths of his soul, as if the gates of the underworld had opened for a moment.

[Acquired - Weapon: Soul-Slaying Sword]

A chill gathered, and a slender Western-style rapier quietly fell into his hand.

The sword was extremely thin, yet it shimmered with an inhuman, chilling blue light, as if forged from millennia-old ice marrow. Its weight was unusually light, feeling weightless in the hand, yet strangely maintaining perfect balance. This was the sword of Brook, the musician and swordsman of the Straw Hat Pirates, and one of the top officers of the Straw Hat Grand Fleet, from another world. Wherever its blade pointed, it could not only tear flesh but also inflict a bone-chilling coldness from the underworld, enough to make an enemy scream in despair as their blood froze.

For Euron, who is not known for his pure strength, this light, eerie, and deadly magic sword came at just the right time.

Euron hung the Soul-Slaying Sword on his left hip. It no longer belonged to Brook, so Euron gave it his own name—Frost Spirit. This extra rapier had attracted attention, but only attention; only Baron, itching to try it out, then scoffed, "A little girl's toy!"

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Euron's gaze swept across the grey, hazy sea outside the window, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the rough wooden table. "How many more months until winter, as the maesters in the Citadel speculate?"

Lisa didn't even look up, her voice clear and calm: "Three months. The raven letters from the North confirm this; the cold winds have already begun to gather north of the Neck."

"Three months... that should be enough time." Euron stood up, his shadow shifting across the stone wall as he moved. "For the next two months, I will traverse the rest of the Iron Islands, leaving no one untouched. My father has entrusted me with this important task, and I must see for myself whether their granaries are full, whether their roofs are strong enough to withstand the wind and snow, whether their swords are sharp—and whether they truly need no help at all."

He spoke calmly, offering seemingly legitimate reasons. However, deep down, this tour was far more than simply showing concern for the people or fulfilling his responsibilities.

Each island is a chessboard waiting to be played. Every appearance, every promise, even every act of punishment, will become a silent bargaining chip, accumulating Euron's "points." He needs these points, yearning for the "rewards" from the Pirate King system that follow. The journey across the narrow sea is already faintly beckoning from afar, a perilous path filled with unknown storms, bizarre techniques, and ruthless enemies. Beyond that vast expanse, any external assistance may vanish like mist; only the power held tightly in one's own hands is the sole reliance for cleaving through the waves and surviving.

For the next two months, Euron Greyjoy's footsteps followed the dark hull of the Drinking Ship, traversing every inch of the untamed waters of the Iron Islands.

This was not a leisurely cruise, but a silent storm. The "Drinking Ship," like an extension of his will, broke through the leaden waves and visited the rocky, howling islands one after another.

Despite being only seven years old, no lord of the Iron Islands dared to regard Euron Greyjoy as an ordinary child.

He controls "Platinum Sands"—nothing more than gold, but a source of power far more intoxicating than any other substance. No one knows the origin of this secret formula, but its blazing white light obeys only his will. Every grain of sand allocated to the island nobles is determined by his slender fingers; this gift can elevate a family to prominence, or deprive another of theirs, plunging them into oblivion.

All the merchant shipping routes leading to wealth and plunder, like interwoven threads of fate, ultimately converge at his fingertips. He decides which routes are revealed and which raids along the "ancient routes" can proceed. The power with which the Ironborn wield their swords actually originates from the meticulously crafted plans silently operating in his mind.

Even more awe-inspiring is that the unfathomable Drowning God seemed to crown him through the priests. The priests loudly sang his "miracles" before the smoke-filled altar, honoring him as the "Son of Drowning God." Thus, religious fervor and secular authority were strangely fused in him.

When the distinctive black sails of the "Havoc" appear on the horizon of any island, the entire territory instantly enters a tense, ritualistic state, a mixture of anticipation and fear.

The horns on the watchtowers would sound at a specific rhythm, no longer as a warning of an enemy, but conveying a more complex message: He's coming. The port would immediately descend into orderly chaos. The lords would never wait for the ships to dock before making hasty preparations. They would immediately don their finest furs or chainmail, order their servants to sweep the courtyards as quickly as possible, bring out the most precious sour ale and cured meats from their cellars, and force the sea-smelling, boisterous crew to temporarily quiet down and form a procession that at least appeared respectful.

No lord would regard this visit as a mere courtesy call. In their eyes, the gradually becoming clearer warship was not carrying a child, but rather a moving treasure trove and an invisible scepter.

The welcoming ceremony at the dock was always overly elaborate, even bordering on clumsy flattery. The lord himself was always present, followed by all the important members of his family and tense-looking scholars. Their faces were plastered with the most sincere smiles possible, but their eyes were racing—why was he here this time? To inspect the tribute? To allocate the share of "Platinum Sands"? To reveal the next season's shipping routes? Or… had he heard some unfavorable rumors?

No matter how full the wine glasses were at the banquet, they couldn't mask the cautious and inquisitive atmosphere in the air. Every toast was laced with hidden meaning, and every report on the territory's situation was carefully chosen. They displayed the ample grain reserves and strong warriors in the warehouses not out of pride, but to prove their worth and loyalty, hoping to gain more favor in the upcoming "distribution."

What they feared was not his age of seven, but the absolute power he represented: the flight information that could ignite greed and war, the "White Gold Sands" quota that could determine the rise and fall of a family, and the terrifying legitimacy, endorsed by the Drowned God Priests, bordering on divine authority. Each of Euron's visits was a mini-king election for them, a test of their fate. The object of their bows was not just a seven-year-old body, but also the undisputed embodiment of power that controlled the lifeline of the Iron Islands.

He appeared to be fulfilling his duty as the second son to patrol the border in place of his father, inquiring with concern about grain reserves, ships, and preparations for winter. But his sharp, hawk-like eyes were measuring something deeper—the hearts of the people, the price of loyalty, and the depths that fear could reach.

Of course, for Euron at this moment, the most important thing was to gain the points that would make him even stronger.