Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 448 The End of the East—Us Island

On the second day after arriving in Assassin, the base promised by the Lord of Shadows was quickly emptied, so efficiently that it seemed the entire city was cooperating with his will.

When the area adjacent to the port, consisting of several sturdy black stone buildings, was officially handed over to the Iron Islands, the six island lords, led by Baron Greyjoy, were visibly excited. They almost couldn't wait to plant the banners they had prepared, symbolizing their respective families and honors, on the solid land of Assassin.

The Greyjoy family battle banner, embroidered with a golden sea monster, fluttered in the crimson light of Assassin's Day.

Other island lords followed suit, and their family banners—some with burning battle axes on black backgrounds, some with entwined sea serpents on gray sails, and some with skull rams on red cloth—were erected one after another, like clusters of aggressive colors being cast into a black ocean.

This excitement quickly spread to other Ironborn captains and leaders who were also eligible to possess family crests. With the same pride and ambition, they joined in the fun, carefully placing their own flags, which also carried their family history, on the walls, porches, and flagpoles of their settlements.

In the blink of an eye, this once monotonous black outpost became a place where flags fluttered and the rugged yet vibrant atmosphere of the Iron Islands was filled with life.

This was not a simple act of land acquisition; it was more like a ceremony, announcing that the tentacles of the Iron Islands had officially reached into this most mysterious land in the known world.

The Iron Islands base began operations immediately after it was established in Asshai.

They unloaded large quantities of the supplies that had been transported with the fleet and were considered hard currency in Asia—clear fresh water, plump fruit, and strong liquor—and began trading them right in front of their camp.

The transaction method is simple, shrewd, and extremely efficient.

Everything was clearly priced: a piece of dragon crystal could be exchanged for several buckets of water, a bag of gems for several boxes of fruit. The prices were written in chalk on the black stones in front of the supplies. There was no bargaining or haggling. There were no lengthy wrangling or deceitful probing; only direct and straightforward bartering.

Buyers from Asia arrived in silence, checked the items, placed down the agreed-upon gold, gems, amber, or blocks of dragon crystal, and then left silently with the survival supplies they desperately needed.

Within a few days, a large amount of wealth had accumulated in the warehouses of the garrison.

Gold shimmered alluringly in the dim light; gemstones of various colors piled together like a frozen rainbow; warm amber encased ancient insects; and magical dragon crystal emitted faint energy fluctuations.

Looking at the piles of wealth that seemed to have fallen from the sky, even the most knowledgeable old iron citizen couldn't help but click his tongue in amazement, his eyes flashing with unbelievable ecstasy.

"Seven levels of hell—" A captain grabbed a handful of coins, letting them jingle as they slipped through his fingers. "This business—it's incredibly profitable!"

Those nearby, staring at the quality of the gems, murmured in agreement, "Send these things back to Westeros—any one of them would immediately fetch a hundred times the price!"

The air was thick with the scent of wealth and the heavy breathing of the ironworkers. All the risks and hardships of this voyage seemed incredibly worthwhile at that moment.

Ten days later, the massive fleet of the Iron Islands, like a giant beast that had rested long enough, slowly sailed away from the silent black port of Asshal.

Instead of turning westward to return home, the ship resolutely continued eastward along the mysterious waterway known as the Saffron Strait.

This strait lies between the desolate coast of Urtes and that shadowy land shrouded in eternal gloom, where the seawater takes on an ominous deep purple hue, as if it has settled too many unspeakable secrets and forgotten times.

At the end of this dangerous shipping route lies the easternmost island in the known world, the legendary Island of Us.

This was not a return journey, but a more symbolic conquest.

The surging waves crashed against the bow, the sails billowing with unfamiliar air currents from the edge of the world. When the outline of the island finally appeared in the swirling sea fog, all the Ironborn rushed onto the deck. It was a desolate, rugged island, jagged and treeless, as if it were a stubborn rock forgotten in the most remote corner of the world.

The small boat was lowered, and Euron Greyjoy stepped onto the pebble-strewn beach himself. He surveyed the vast, pristine land and took the Greyjoy family flag of the Iron Islands, embroidered with a golden sea monster, from Baron's hands.

Euron then forcefully planted the flagpole into the soil of Us Island.

The sea breeze made the flag flutter, and the gold stood out starkly against the desolate backdrop.

The earth-shaking cheers filled the hearts of every Iron Man with an indescribable sense of pride.

This is not just a landing; it is a declaration, a testament—the easternmost island in the known world, the Iron People, have also been here! Their footprints, their flags, are already imprinted on the ultimate boundary of this world.

To many outsiders, the Iron Islands fleet's long voyage to the ends of the earth just to catch a glimpse of the desolate and barren island of Us and plant a flag there seemed like a foolish "check-in"—a costly and risky endeavor that yielded no tangible wealth.

But in the eyes of the Iron People, who were born and died at sea, the significance of this voyage was far beyond the comprehension of the merchants who dabble in abacuses or the nobles who clung to their localities.

For them, the ocean is not an obstacle, but their home; the distance is not a source of fear, but a call.

Reaching the easternmost island in the known world is not merely a confirmation of geographical coordinates, but a spiritual revelation, an instinct ingrained in our very being.

This proves that their keel bones can cleave through any unknown sea.

This proved their courage, reaching the ultimate boundaries that sunlight can illuminate;

This proves that the name of the Ironborn will not only resound throughout the West Sea of ​​Westeros, but will also echo in the far east of the world.

When the sea monster flag fluttered in the sea breeze over Us Island, they conquered not just land, but the boundaries of knowledge. This glory of etching their names at the edge of the world, this qualification to tell future generations, "We were there," is immeasurable by any number of gold dragons and jewels.

This unique pride and romance belonging to seafarers can never be known by outsiders.

The following morning, before the first light of dawn had completely dispelled the thin fog that lingered over the Saffron Strait, the Iron Islands fleet weighed anchor and set sail, beginning its return journey along the same waterway it had come from.

To the starboard side, a vast coastline covered by dense, primeval jungle stretches out like a giant, dark green python, lying silently on the horizon.

That is Urtes, the legendary fourth continent of the known world, a mysterious and dangerous virgin land that no book or map has yet recorded a single word about.

Euron Greyjoy stood at the bow of the Reach, raising his arm to point to the green coastline that exuded an aura of wildness and the unknown, like a king pointing out his future territory. He burst into a loud, ambitious laugh, his voice echoing between the waves and the sails: "Brothers! Look closely!" His gaze swept across the deck and all the Ironborn on the neighboring ships who looked up at him. "That land, if fate gives us another chance, we'll go and explore that continent, to accomplish a feat no one has ever done before! What do you say?!"

After a brief silence came a response as explosive as a tsunami!

"roar--!!"

Wild shouts and excited cries instantly swept across the entire fleet, echoing like thunder throughout the strait.

The weapons pounded rhythmically against the shields and deck, producing a deafening roar.

Every Ironman's eyes burned with a fiery passion—a yearning for the unknown, a desire for conquest, and a fervent belief in the limitless future that could be reached by following their leader.

At this moment, the return route no longer seemed to be just a journey home, but also the starting point for the next legend.