Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

The massive stone hall in Pike Place City is over thirty feet high, with a dome made of unpolished obsidian, from which the salty sea breeze seeps out.

Hundreds of whale oil candles were embedded in the cracks in the walls, their flames dancing on the bronze skin of the Ironborn and casting the war banners hanging between the beams into distorted ghosts—the blood-stained silks embroidered with sunken ships, broken oars, and the bones of the drowned.

The bronze brazier in the center of the hall spewed out thick smoke with the smell of sulfur, while the aroma of roasting meat mingled and rose.

Long tables stretched across the hall like a winding dragon's spine. The nobles of the Iron Islands followed the ancient rule of "paying homage to the sea first, then dividing the spoils": roast suckling pigs were spun whole on iron forks, their crispy skin peeling off in a flurry, and fat dripping into the charcoal fire, stirring up blue smoke. Attendants used iron hooks to tear off the fattest pieces of breast meat and stuff them into the guests' mouths; seal ribs were piled up like small mountains, and dark red blood seeped into the barrels of salted cod and herring below.

The Ironborn tore flesh and bone with their bare hands, translucent fish fat clinging between their fingers; oysters gleamed like pearls in ice buckets, nobles pried open their shells with flint knives, squeezed on some sour wild berry wine, and drank it all in one gulp; lobsters were skewered on iron rods and roasted on shields, their shells cracking open to release snow-white roe and meat, children laughing and scrambling for the fattest claws; red wine from the south rippled in silver jugs, turning a deeper ruby ​​red when poured into glasses…

The commotion was almost enough to lift the roof off. A group of ironworkers sat around, each with a loud voice that drowned out the musician's playing.

"I swear in the name of Drowning God!" An old captain with a full beard and scars on his chest pounded the table, his wine glass sloshing around. "On our last voyage, the storm we encountered had waves higher than the towers of Park City! But what are men from Old Wake Island afraid of? They've bathed in Drowning God's trenches, so they can sleep soundly even in a storm!" A burst of rough laughter and agreement erupted around him.

Elsewhere, several more respectably dressed lords—perhaps from Great Wake or House Harlow—were talking in hushed tones, yet with just as much tension.

"...Lord Greyjoy's fleet is growing stronger every day," a lean man said softly, twirling his wine glass, "but food supplies remain a problem. I'll have to ask Lord Euron later where we can 'borrow' some more." The man opposite him nodded slightly, his gaze sweeping across the noisy crowd: "Might makes right. The iron and blood of the Iron Islands will surely provide what is needed. However, we must proceed with caution..."

In the corner, a few guards draped in gold robes appeared slightly reserved and out of place. They sipped their red wine, observing warily.

"Damn, these Ironborn can really drink," a young man in a golden robe muttered to his companion, rubbing his ears which were aching from the noise. "It's like they're drinking seawater."

The older one snorted, tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the gravy, and said, "Speak less, listen more. Perhaps the king wants to know the answers to their wild pronouncements. Remember, we're here to be ears, not mouths." His sharp gaze swept over the boastful Ironborn captains and the whispering lords.

The maids, dressed barely enough to cover their bodies, flitted about like butterflies among flowers. Their figures were graceful, their skin glowing with a honey-colored sheen in the firelight. They smiled charmingly as they filled the guests' cups with wine, and were occasionally pulled into the arms of drunken men, eliciting laughter and playful banter. Their coquettish cries mingled with their rough teasing, blending into the sweltering air.

The aroma of desire and alcohol is equally strong, fermenting and evaporating amidst the fragrance of grilled meat and seafood.

Some began banging on the table, singing off-key battle songs; more joined in, their voices rough and powerful. The clinking of glasses, the roaring toasts, the unrestrained laughter, the clatter of plates and cutlery, the crackling of grease dripping into the brazier…

All of these elements intertwine to form the most primal, boisterous, and distinctive Iron Islands symphony of feasting on this land, resonating long afterward in this sleepless hall.

Earl Owen Mariewes, the Hand of the King, had long since put his unhappiness behind him, embracing two women on either side and indulging in fine wine and soft, fragrant flesh.

The two Kingsguards maintained their usual restraint, sitting quietly in a corner, observing this feast full of the wild vitality of the Iron Islands.

The golden-robed men who accompanied them also drank and chatted with the warriors of the Iron Islands, and the temporary peace was barely maintained under the influence of alcohol.

After several rounds of drinks, the clamor of the banquet reached its peak. The air was thick and scorching, stirred by the heat of the roasting meat, the vapor of alcohol, and the boisterous chatter. At the crest of this chaotic wave, Euron Greyjoy, like the black back of a sea monster quietly emerging from the waves, slowly rose to his feet.

Euron didn't roar; he simply raised the heavy, gold-inlaid goblet in his hand. The movement wasn't fast, but it carried an undeniable weight. As if an invisible signal had been sent, the clamorous tide strangely began to recede.

The noisy conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the rough singing quickly subsided, as if swallowed by the coastline.

All eyes—drunk and hazy, clear-headed and sharp, wild and unrestrained—were drawn to him and focused on him alone.

The light from the brazier danced on his dark, ornate robes and the golden cup, making his eyes appear even more unfathomable and sharp as an eagle's, scanning his pack of wolves.

"I've gathered you all here now," his voice rang out, not loud, but exceptionally clear, each word like a cold pebble thrown into still water, echoing powerfully between the rough stone walls, "firstly, to celebrate this damned, long, bone-chilling winter—" He paused, his gaze sweeping over each face etched with the marks of sea wind and alcohol, "—finally, it's fucking over!"

The first wave of shouts erupted from the crowd, a mixture of approval and catharsis, as people pounded on the table, creating a rhythmic, war-drum-like sound.

"And we—" Euron's voice suddenly rose, drowning out the commotion, his arm sweeping out as if encompassing everyone, "—the descendants of the Iron Islands, the chosen ones of the Drowned God! We did not freeze to death, we did not starve to death, we did not die weakly like Southerners by a warm fireplace! We still live tenaciously on this land of salt and stone! Does this not itself deserve three cups of wine, does it not deserve to be proclaimed with the loudest shouts to our ancestors sleeping beneath the flowing water palace?!"

"Whoa!!" The response was a true thunderclap. It was the roar of hundreds upon hundreds of throats, the thunderous thud of fists pounding heavy wooden tables, the clanging of sword hilts striking shields. The entire hall trembled, and a frenzied fire burned in every pair of eyes. People frantically raised their goblets, splashing wine into the air as if offering a sacrifice to a drowning god.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!"

Euron enjoyed the uproar, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips. He let the commotion continue for a moment before raising his hand again.

The commotion subsided for the second time, but this time, the air was filled with the heat and anticipation of something that had been ignited.

"Secondly," his tone shifted, from that of a fanatical instigator to that of a ruler well-versed in etiquette. He gracefully turned to face the guests who had always seemed out of place at this event—the envoys of King's Landing. His gaze fell upon the head of the group, Earl Owen Mariewes, his posture impeccable.

"Let us welcome the esteemed Hand of the King, Lord Owen Mariewes, with the salt and bread of the Iron Islands." His voice carried just the right amount of respect, neither obsequious nor arrogant. "And also welcome the King's Kingsguard, the true knights renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Levin Martell." His eyes swept over the white robes of the two Kingsguards, his gaze seemingly piercing through their gleaming armor.

Countless wine glasses slammed against the table, symbolizing the unique welcoming ceremony of the Iron People.

"The Iron Islands are remote and harsh, where only the sea breeze and unwavering loyalty remain. It is a great honor for us that you, my lords, have traveled across the raging seas." He raised his golden cup and bowed in the direction of the delegation. "May you feel the unique 'warmth' of the Ironborn here. This cup is to the King's messengers, and to Westeros...unity and strength."

The etiquette was impeccable, and every word was spoken in its proper place.

The Ironborn lords raised their glasses in unison, their calls, though not perfectly synchronized, were loud enough to be heard. However, beneath this seemingly respectful wave, many eyes gleamed with a completely different light.

Some were pure indifference, some were hidden sarcasm, and some were undisguised, naked contempt for these "softies" dressed in gorgeous velvet and white robes.

Amidst the clinking of glasses and the rising of noise, the atmosphere of the banquet seemed to temporarily drown out all calculations.

Red wine stained their lips and dampened their beards, and the messengers of King's Landing seemed to relax their tense nerves slightly in this Iron Islands-style wildness.

Earl Owen Marives, the Hand of the King, his fat face glistening with oil and the smell of alcohol, finally leaned forward amidst the commotion, his voice slurred and cloying with drunkenness, yet revealing an unmistakable determination.

"Lord Greyjoy," he began, trying to make his voice clear amidst the noise, but it inevitably carried a hint of bureaucratic slur, "Your hospitality... is unparalleled. However, the King's... needs, like the waves of the sea, never cease. Though winter has passed, the granaries of the Seven Kingdoms are empty. The King is particularly concerned about... this year's tribute from the Iron Islands, grain, and... uh, three times the salt tax..."

His words were like cold salt water poured into a boiling oil pan, instantly silencing the surrounding tables. Several Ironborn lords put down their glasses, their gazes hardening like reefs. The aroma of roasted meat in the air seemed to freeze, leaving only the unpleasant lingering echo of Earl Owen's words.

Euron Greyjoy smiled. It wasn't a smile of pleasure, but more like the fangs of a shark before an attack—calm, even a little playful. He didn't answer immediately, but slowly sipped his drink, his eyes sweeping over Earl Owen's face, flushed with alcohol and lust, and the two Kingsguard behind him, sitting upright with their hands on their sword hilts.

"Lord Owen is truly loyal to the king, remaining mindful of his mission even during the banquet; he is admirable." Euron's voice was smooth and even, revealing no trace of anger. "The Iron Islands' loyalty to the Iron Throne is as unwavering as the rock beneath the feet of the drowning god. How could we dare to neglect the king's needs?"

He clapped his hands lightly.

The hall doors opened again, and a group of Euron's trusted Ironborn carried in a single file. Heavy wooden barrels clattered against the stone floor, coarse burlap sacks were dragged along, and two men struggled to lift a small storage box that was clearly from a ship. These items were placed one by one on the ground in front of the delegation, creating a strange contrast with the lavish banquet surrounding them.

"A specialty of the Iron Islands: fish!"

“Grain,” Euron casually kicked a bulging sack, raising a little dust, “this is the best harvest that can be squeezed from the barren land.” He pointed to the wooden barrels, “coarse salt, and a little bit of ‘white gold sand’.” He personally used a dagger to pry open the lock of the small box and lifted the lid.

In an instant, all the firelight in the hall seemed to be drawn to it—the box did not contain real gold dust, but rather high-quality, crystal-clear sea salt, which, under the firelight, actually shimmered with a pale and precious light, like gold.

"The 'golden sand' of the Iron Islands is salt, Lord Owen." Euron's eyes gleamed with an almost mocking light. "This is the limit of what we can offer. You know, our islands are rich in sea breezes, rocks, and hard bones, but not in surplus food. As for the salt tax... three times the usual amount is indeed difficult, but this is the 'sincerity' we've scraped together by exhausting all the resources of our salt fields and even plundering every salt shaker on every table."

He opened his arms, a gesture that was almost generous, yet carried an iron-cold truth. "Please take these back to the King. Tell him that the Iron Islands will forever remember the Royal Family's 'favor.' These tributes may not be enough to fill the Royal Treasury and granaries, but they are enough to prove our... sincerity."

The sentiment is very important!

The Ironborn present let out suppressed chuckles and murmurs. They saw it clearly—that little bit of grain and salt was a drop in the ocean for the Mad King's greed, for King's Landing, more like a carefully calculated, insulting platitude. But it was indeed "tribute," enough to ensure these envoys wouldn't leave empty-handed and unable to explain themselves to the King.

This is an arrogant submission, a bowing of the head with a sneer.

Earl Owen's plump face twitched, as if he had instantly sobered up halfway. He looked at the meager "tribute" on the ground, opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately, under Euron's gaze and the undisguised cold stares of the Ironborn lords around him, he swallowed his words with difficulty. His fat fingers gripped the wine glass tightly, his knuckles turning white.

Ser Arthur Dayne's white robes remained motionless, but his hand on the hilt of his sword was slightly tense at the knuckles. Ser Levin Martell's gaze swept sharply over the offerings, then over Euron's face, a barely perceptible assessment and wariness flashing in his eyes.

Euron Greyjoy raised his glass again, as if what had just happened was merely a trivial interlude. "Then let us continue drinking! To the King's health, to... the bright future of Westeros!"

The banquet continued until most people were drunk and passed out in the hall.