Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

The grain trade didn't last long, and the Iron Islands were nearly overturned by a chorus of curses.

It wasn't an insult to the Iron Islands, nor to Greyjoy, but rather to the Mad King, who sat high on the Iron Throne.

When the levies and tax increases issued by the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen reached the Iron Islands, one clause in particular stung all the islanders—the salt tax was tripled.

For most of Westeros, salt may simply be a seasoning on the table; but for the Iron Islands, which are bathed in salty sea breezes year-round and whose life depends on marine catches, salt is "white gold" that sustains life.

It is the cornerstone of preserving food and surviving the long, harsh winter, and the most solid commodity for trading gold and copper stars in the Green Lands.

Especially after the "White Gold Sands" brought astonishing wealth to the Iron Islands, salt became a crucial pillar supporting the entire archipelago's economy. At this critical moment, the Mad King abruptly tripled the salt tax, essentially wresting wealth from his vassals and stifling their livelihood.

Euron Greyjoy could even foresee that if left unchecked, the next time the Mad King would likely demand the secret formula for refining "Platinum Sands," a treasured gem of the Iron Islands.

This absurd and cruel decree was not only a plunder of the Iron Islands' finances, but also a direct strangulation of their very lifeline. Its greed and shortsightedness suffocated and chilled even the most loyal lords.

Even Corin Greyjoy, known for his iron-fisted nature and stoicism, finally shed his facade of composure upon hearing the decree to triple the salt tax. He didn't roar; instead, he fell into a terrifying silence, his fingers gripping the royal decree bearing the royal coat of arms as if he wanted to crush it.

The next moment, he slammed the document down on the long table, the parchment striking the wooden table with a thunderous crash. He looked up, his eyes burning with a blaze unseen for years, his voice low yet like the calm before a tsunami, reverberating throughout the hall:

"He's trying to charge us for the seawater and air—!"

He spoke slowly and deliberately, each syllable sounding as if it had been tempered by ice and soaked with anger.

The news of the Mad King's imposition of a threefold salt tax swept across every corner of the Iron Islands like a sudden storm. It traveled on the damp sea breeze to every wave-lapping harbor, every stone castle, and every longship tossed about on the grey sea.

In the lord's hall, the island lords and captains gripped their wine glasses tightly, their knuckles turning white. Low curses echoed between the stone walls as they denounced the Iron Throne's insatiable greed and calculated how many "gold coins and bronze stars" this absurd decree would cost to their treasuries.

In the fishermen's villages, the news sparked even more immediate panic and anger. The men stood in the icy water, gazing at their boats and fishing nets, the means of their livelihood, while the women looked at their half-cured catch with despair in their eyes.

"They're trying to bleed us dry!" An old fisherman spat towards King's Landing, his roar drowned out by the sound of the waves, but it expressed the sentiments of everyone. Salt was the main source of their income, but now the king had imposed an unbearable tax on it, which was tantamount to taking their lives.

In the taverns and on the docks, curses rose and fell like an endless tide. Sailors and warriors greeted the king and all his ancestors in the roughest Iron Islands slang, and goblets were slammed onto the tables. A dangerous restlessness hung in the air, as if a single spark could ignite all the pent-up resentment.

Above this boiling tide of fury, at the zenith of all the curses, stood the cold, somber hall of Pike City. Corren Greyjoy's voice, like the clash of cold metal, clearly drowned out all the clamor, delivering the final, resounding verdict: "This is no king—this is a complete madman!"

This statement was less of an evaluation and more of a judgment. It was like a branding mark, fiercely imprinted on the hearts of every citizen.

In an instant, the humiliation of being taxed, looked down upon, and called "pirates" for years, as well as the anger over the mad king's absurd rule, erupted like wildfire, burning in every pair of eyes.

When the Mad King's decree to triple the salt tax caused a huge uproar in the Iron Islands, sparking a chorus of angry curses, Euron Greyjoy remained unusually calm.

Knowing the trajectory of fate, he had long anticipated the Mad King's madness. In his eyes, none of Aerys's absurd actions were surprising. He stood alone on the seaside terrace of Pike City, letting the sea breeze tousle his dark robes, his expression indifferent as if the raging tides sweeping across the islands had nothing to do with him.

Just as the crowd was filled with indignation, the Iron Islands made an unexpected decision: to do nothing.

The grain trade ceased, as the brought-back grain had been almost entirely exchanged. The Iron Islands made no public statement defiance of orders, but they also refused to award the "Mad King" a single bronze star, explaining that the salt trade hadn't even begun and there were no taxes to pay.

This is not surrender, but a calm contempt.

Euron had long seen through Westeros's current predicament: after the devastation of the long winter, the treasuries of the major lords were empty, and even if there was any remaining wealth, it had already been used to buy life-saving food. Who would have the spare resources to buy salt from the Iron Islands? The real trade had already begun at sea.

Even before the decree arrived, the Iron Islands' merchant fleet had already set sail. Each ship's cargo hold was filled with coarse salt and their prized "white gold sands," their destination not any port in Westeros, but the free city-state of Braavos, far across the Narrow Sea, beyond the Iron Throne's control.

Euron's lips curled into a cold smile.

The mad king wants to levy taxes? Let him levy them on the empty docks and the sails of ships that have already sailed far away.

Only days after the proclamation of the Mad King Aerys ordering the collection of grain and salt taxes reached the Iron Islands, a second raven arrived in Pyke with an even more succinct command. Its message was cold and direct: "Transport the grain to King's Landing."

Corren Greyjoy unfurled the thin scroll, his gaze sweeping over the few words on it, a cold, unfeeling smile playing on his lips. He spoke not, but let out a low, disdainful snort, then flicked his wrist, tossing the edict bearing the Targaryen three-headed dragon emblem into the flickering flames of the fireplace beside him. The edges of the parchment quickly curled and charred, finally being completely consumed by the crimson flames, turning into wisps of smoke.

He paid no heed to the royal decree. He knew all too well that similar requisition orders had already flooded the desks of every lord in the Seven Kingdoms like snowflakes of despair. However, the nobles of Westeros were no fools; they possessed their own ravens and messengers, exchanging information and attitudes day after day in an invisible network.

All the feedback pointed to the same answer: no grain. In this difficult time when spring famine followed by a harsh winter, and food was scarce, even if a king held a full bag of gold dragons and wanted to exchange it for a shipload of grain, the lords would have to frown and weigh their options carefully. Let alone such blatant robbery!

Survival is far more urgent than loyalty.

However, the situation is quite different for the Iron Islands this time.