Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

The next morning, a long, narrow boat silently glided away from the cold, damp docks of Pike City, heading towards Iron Smoke Island in the distance, an island that constantly spewed thick smoke and was home to all the blacksmiths and iron ore of the Iron Islands.

A small boat for three people, with Euron Greyjoy standing at the bow, and only Dagmo and the red priestess Gwendolyn on board.

Dagmer, Euron's guard, paddled his oar with heavy strokes. The red priestess Gwendolyn, who claimed to be an expert on fire and light, volunteered to accompany Euron upon hearing he was going to Ironsmoke Isle and might stay for a few days. "My lord," her voice was low and had a strange rhythm, like the crackling of burning firewood, "true fire can not only forge steel, but also temper the soul, and even… reveal the future. The power you seek may not merely originate from cold hammers and furnaces."

Euron scrutinized her, with his usual, undisguised skepticism. What insights could a Red God priestess possibly have about iron smelting? He almost scoffed, but then he thought of the wonders of magic, and besides, having a beautiful woman by his side, even if she didn't serve any purpose, would be comforting, so he took her with him.

The red priestess Gwendolyn, dressed in a striking crimson robe, stood out starkly against the grey sea and sky, like a drop of thick blood mixed with ink. Her hood was slightly lowered, revealing a pale, sharply defined face with deep, unfathomable eyes that seemed to flicker with invisible flames.

The small boat moved forward in silence. Dagmo focused on steering the boat, oblivious to the priestess's presence.

Gwendolyn sat upright with her eyes closed, her hands folded on her knees, her lips moving silently as if she were whispering to some unseen being.

Before even reaching the shore, the familiar, pungent smell of sulfur and coal ash filled the air, revealing that the once desolate island had been completely transformed.

Along the island's coastline, a dense cluster of rugged stone houses stands, their roofs covered with thick seaweed to protect them from the sea winds. A newly constructed road winds its way from a makeshift pier to the island's center, where grime-covered workers pushing mining carts are a common sight. In the island's heart, the scene is even more spectacular: dozens of stone chimneys of varying heights, like a jarring forest of ironwood, ceaselessly spew thick smoke day and night, staining the sky a perpetual grayish-yellow. Huge bellows rumble heavily and rhythmically within the sheds, like the island's enormous lungs breathing. The clanging of hammers striking anvils is dense and incessant, creating a rugged symphony of iron and fire.

All the skilled blacksmiths recruited from the Iron Islands have been ordered to relocate here with their families. Their families have formed small villages on the island, where women and children gather shellfish on the beach, and kids run and play amidst the dust and smoke, adding a touch of bittersweet life to this hardcore industrial island.

At the island's highest point stood two of the most magnificent forge workshops. The managers, Marvin Stephens and Atticus Whitney—two master blacksmiths personally appointed by Euron—were already waiting on the dock. Marvin was a robust, middle-aged man, his arms as thick as an average man's thighs, taciturn, his face always flushed from the furnace fires; he was a hands-on, highly skilled blacksmith. Atticus, on the other hand, was slightly thinner, with sharp eyes, his fingers exceptionally nimble from years of meticulous work; he was a theorist, adept at improving techniques.

"My lord." The two bowed, their voices muffled by the surrounding noise.

Euron nodded, his gaze sweeping over the bustling scene on the island: "Take me on a tour, show me Iron Smoke Island."

They walked through the bustling workshop area. Inside the enormous furnaces, molten iron churned and flowed like rivers of hell, the scorching heat distorting the air. Strong apprentices shouted commands, stirring the mixture with long poles, their sweat instantly evaporating as it dripped down. Shaped billets were tweezed and placed on anvils, where they were repeatedly hammered by experienced blacksmiths, sparks flying everywhere.

"The houses are all built, sir, large enough to accommodate all the craftsmen and their families." Marvin's voice was as deep and powerful as his hammer. "The two largest furnaces are lit, the bellows, anvils, quenching pools... all the equipment is in place. We... can now officially begin smelting iron."

His tone didn't convey much joy; instead, it carried a hint of heaviness.

Atticus continued, his tone more direct: "My lord, the ore...is piled up like mountains, just as you commanded. But..." He paused, bent down to pick up a piece of dark reddish-brown ore from the roadside, and handed it to Euron, "...the quality is inconsistent. Most are too low grade, with too many impurities, especially excessive sulfur and phosphorus. With this ore, we need to use more charcoal and more time to repeatedly calcine and purify it, and the resulting wrought iron...is brittle, prone to cracking, and far less strong than expected."

Euron took the ore and examined it carefully. The stone was heavy and rough, certainly not as dark and dense as some of the high-quality ore he had seen in Essos.

On the island's edge, as Atticus had described, iron ore from all over the Iron Islands piled up into several small hills, but their dull appearance silently testified to their poor quality. The blacksmiths' faces showed no excitement at their initial production, only exhaustion and disappointment with the materials.

Euron held the ore in his hand, his fingertips able to feel its roughness. A moment of silence followed, the deafening clanging of metalsmiths in the surrounding area seeming to become the background noise. His eyes slowly narrowed, his gaze shifting from the ore to the cluster of chimneys spewing endless black smoke, then to the distant, surging sea.

Then a cold smile curled at the corner of his mouth, as if mocking nature's stinginess, or challenging the predicament before him. "Then let's find a way. No matter what the problem, there's always a solution. The Iron Islands never produce anything that comes easily—whether it's wealth or steel!" He casually tossed the ore back into the ore pile with a dull thud.

Euron's voice suddenly rose, drowning out the noise, carrying an undeniable command, "Keep forging! Find a better formula, improve your processes! Remember, I don't want a few pretty daggers, I want steel to arm an entire fleet! If the quality isn't enough, make up for it with quantity and experience!" He surveyed the island he had forcibly bestowed with this mission, his eyes burning with an ambition hotter than the furnace itself. "Iron Smoke Island isn't called that for nothing. Marvin, Atticus, show me the complete iron-smelting process. Over the next few days, we'll find a way together."

Euron Greyjoy did not immediately issue harsh orders regarding the craftsmanship or ore quality, as the two master blacksmiths had anticipated. Instead, he changed the subject, his eyes sweeping over the weary faces blackened by coal dust.

"Marvin, Atticus," his voice boomed over the nearby clatter of metal, "take me to see where you live."

The two masters paused, seemingly not quite understanding. Looking at the lodgings?

"And your wives and children," Euron added, his tone calm but undeniable, "as well as the places where the other craftsmen and workers eat, sleep, and wash."

With a hint of confusion and bewilderment, Marvin and Atticus led Euron away from the bustling core work area and toward the residential area built along the rugged terrain on the edge of the island. The stone houses here were even lower and simpler, the thick seaweed roofs unable to conceal the barrenness, and the narrow windows letting in a faint light.

They arrived first at Marvin's house. His wife, a large-handed, weathered woman, was outside washing clothes covered in coal dust with their two young children. Startled by the lord's sudden arrival, she stood up abruptly, wiping her wet hands on her apron, while the children huddled behind her in fear. Euron didn't go in; he simply stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the interior—a simple stone fireplace, a rough wooden table, and clutter piled in the corner. He asked if the sea breeze was too cold and if the roof leaked.

Next came Atticus's slightly tidier quarters. His wife seemed to come from a better background and could read a few words; there was even a small row of well-worn books in the room. Euron asked a similar question, and even picked up the hard, dark bread on the table, examining it and squeezing it between his fingers.

They walked through the communal kitchen area, where a thick soup, mainly made of dried fish, beans, and a small amount of coarse grains, was simmering in a huge iron pot. The smell wasn't exactly pleasant, but it was filling. Euron stirred it with a long spoon and asked how often they ate meat each week, besides seafood, whether there were fresh vegetables, and whether the types of meat and vegetables were frequently changed.

They arrived at several makeshift water tanks and washing areas carved out of the cliff face, where workers washed themselves after work; the water was icy cold. Euron reached out to test the water temperature and frowned.

He even stopped, crouched down, and looked at a little boy playing with polished pebbles at eye level, asking him his name, whether he missed home, and whether he was happy here. The boy answered timidly, but his eyes were curiously fixed on Euron's heterochromatic eyes, one black and one blue.

We walked, observed, and asked questions along the way.

Euron didn't say much, but his observations were meticulous. He saw some signs of improvement, but more than anything, there was hardship, scarcity, and compromise.

Finally, Euron had the two leaders of Ironsmoke Island gather all the residents of Ironsmoke Island. He stood on a slightly higher rock in the residential area, with a group of furnaces spewing black smoke behind him and the craftsmen and their families who had stopped their work and were looking at him anxiously in front of him.

His voice rang out again, no longer deep, but clear enough to reach everyone's ears, drowning out the distant hum of the bellows:

"I have seen your sweat and heard the sound of hammers striking the ground. That will be the Greyjoy family's strongest shield and sharpest spear. I care about the quality of the iron; it's a matter of our survival and our strength."

He paused, his eyes slowly sweeping over each face, stained with coal dust, filled with weariness and anticipation.

"But today I'm more interested in seeing what kind of lives the people who forge this steel lead. Because the strength of steel comes not only from the flames and hammering, but also from the spirit and strength of the forger!"

"I promised you," his voice rose, carrying a resolute force, "that by following me to this island, you would receive far greater rewards than before, your families would be protected, your skills would be respected, and you would no longer be slaves at the beck and call of some lord, but my 'Ironsmiths,' the cornerstone of the Iron Islands' future!"

His gaze was intense: "I see that your stone houses could be made stronger and warmer, that your food should contain more meat and ale, that your women and children need warmer water to wash, that your craftsmen need better tools, and that your children... perhaps need a safe place where they can learn to read and play. They need a teacher to teach them swordsmanship, to teach them language, and to write."

A suppressed commotion arose in the crowd, and disbelief and a glimmer of hope began to flicker in their eyes.

"Whatever I have promised," Euron's voice was like a hammer striking an anvil, each word heavy and clear, "I will fulfill for you! This is not charity, it is what you deserve! For your worth far exceeds these promises!"

He pointed to the mountain of low-quality ore, and then to the newly formed weapons that gleamed with a cold light.

"Only when you live well, live in peace, and live with a future can you forge the finest iron and the sharpest swords for me! This is not the end, but only the beginning. Tell me, what are you still lacking? What else do you need?"

After a brief silence, the crowd erupted in shouts of excitement, gratitude, and desperate need. Euron Greyjoy stood on the rock, listening and taking notes, his eyes no longer displaying only cold calculation, but also a pragmatic determination to win hearts and minds. He knew that to extract the ultimate loyalty and power, he must first feed their stomachs, warm their bodies, and bind their hearts.