Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Greyjoy Steel is Euron's goal, but achieving this goal is not something that can be accomplished overnight, even with so many suggestions for improvement.

On the second night on Iron Smoke Island, the roar of the furnace was like an endless background symphony.

Inside the stone chamber, the light of the oil lamp once again cast the shadows of the two figures onto the rough rock wall, distorting and swaying. The air was filled with the same scent as the night before, a mixture of sulfur, incense, and a subtle, sweet, and fishy aroma.

Euron Greyjoy leaned against the wall, a playful glint in his eyes in the dim light. He looked at Gwendolyn, at her pale face, which struggled to maintain a priestly solemnity but couldn't hide her exhaustion, and a barely perceptible smile curved his lips. He spoke again in that deliberately innocent tone, "Gwendolyn, in the quiet of the night, I've been thinking again… I want to see the Lord of Light again, to hear his teachings."

Gwendolyn's body stiffened almost imperceptibly. Her deep eyes looked at Euron, a clear hint of speechlessness and intense, almost uncontrollable anger flashing within them.

She was almost certain that this man wasn't seeking any divine revelation at all!

He was just... making excuses. Making excuses that would allow him to possess her again with impunity, and to justify this behavior as "hearing divine pronouncements"—a shameless excuse! She wanted to rebuke his hypocrisy, to expose his vile pretense, but the cultivation she had gained through years of arduous practice and her reverence for the gods made her swallow her words, turn her head away, and give a cold snort.

Euron seemed to find this reaction amusing and continued his "performance," throwing out those questions he knew would embarrass her:

"If I 'listen' like this every day, won't it shorten my lifespan?"

"Can the red priestess bear my child?"

"Would you be my concubine?"

Gwendolyn: "..."

This time, her silence wasn't just out of shock or humiliation, but more of a sense of powerlessness after seeing through everything. She understood; this man didn't care about the answer at all.

These questions themselves were his means of toying with her, tearing away her sacred cloak, and ultimately pulling her back to the stone bed. He enjoyed the process, this trick of defiling the sacred with worldly desires.

He didn't actually want to see the Lord of Light... he just wanted an excuse to have sex with me again. This realization filled her with a sense of absurdity and profound weariness. All the sacred rituals, all the fanatical illusions, were perhaps just the most exciting background decorations in this game of power and lust for him.

"Shameless!" She lowered her head deeply, letting the shadow of her hood conceal all the emotions that might be revealed on her face—there might be anger, helplessness, and even a hint of humiliation at being looked down upon, but in the end, they all turned into an indifference that was almost resigned to fate. Her clenched fists loosened slightly, no longer in resistance, but in a gesture of giving up the argument.

He chuckled softly, a laugh devoid of feigned piety, now filled with a triumphant, all-powerful air. "It seems," he rose and walked toward her, grinning, "that the Lord of Light has no new teachings to impart tonight." He lifted her chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"However," he lowered his voice, his intention leaving no room for argument, "we might...revisit last night's 'ritual.' After all, practice makes perfect, doesn't it? Perhaps with more practice, we'll be able to hear something." His words were flippant, his purpose blatant.

Gwendolyn closed her eyes and said nothing more. —That bastard doesn't believe in the Lord of Light, R'hllor! What he seeks is never divine revelation, but rather her body, which is considered a "sacrifice," and the thrill of control he can feel in this *intercourse*, a control that transcends that of the god's representative.

Euron lightly tapped his left shoulder, and a tiny ball of fire, smaller than a table tennis ball, created from the Soul Fruit leaped up. Gwendolyn had stayed by Euron's side precisely because of this flame, which seemed to possess a soul. Now, the small flame still danced before her eyes, but Euron's tight embrace almost suffocated her…

But the scenes and sounds he had seen and heard last time didn't appear... After one round, Euron reflected: Hmm, perhaps I wasn't devout enough, didn't put in enough effort, didn't persevere enough... Well then, 1, 2, 3, 4, let's try again...

The symphony of spring played all night long!

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Good fortune never comes in pairs; this saying is absolutely true!

The next morning, Euron Greyjoy had barely set foot on his homeland, the saltiness of the sea still clinging to his black robes, when bad news, carrying the heavy scent of the sea and rust, eagerly assaulted his ears.

His three merchant ships, the "Ice and Fire Caravan," were hijacked in the Throat Sea.

Euron paused, stunned: Iron Islands ships? Ironborn ships? Our ships? Hijacked?

There's a saying, "He who hunts geese all day long gets pecked in the eye by one!" He laughed in exasperation! The ancestor of robbery got robbed right at his own doorstep, hahaha…

The salt winds of the Iron Islands never cease, like the endless whispers of the gods, blowing against the jagged towers and cold stone walls of Pike.

Red-haired Oakwood knelt on one knee, his face ashen as if he had eaten shit, his voice trembling slightly with anger and humiliation: "My lord, it's the people from Green Pavilion Island! It's Adrian Redwin's fleet! The captain is his son, Parker Redwin."

Euron's eyes narrowed slightly, like a sea eagle eyeing its prey. "Qingting Island?" His voice was steady, yet carried a cold quality, as if a blade were scraping through ice. "How can you be so sure? The Narrow Sea is full of wild dogs who want something for nothing, cowards who fly skull and crossbones flags."

Oakwood, the red-haired man, looked up abruptly, his face flushed with excitement: "There's no mistake, my lord! Their warships—ten in total!—are openly displaying the Redwyn family crest: a cluster of plump, almost arrogant, deep purple grapes on a blue background! I couldn't possibly be mistaken! They've surrounded our merchant ships like seals, and Paxter Redwyn on the lead ship is standing there at the bow, wearing bright armor bearing the family crest, shouting to our men—they say they're here on the King's orders to 'collect' the Iron Islands' overdue 'taxes' from King's Landing, claiming that the grain was originally intended for the Iron Throne!"

"By order of the King? The ghosts of the Reapers gave them the order?" Euron let out a short, cold laugh devoid of any humor.

Redhead Oakwood swallowed hard, then added with difficulty, "They...they only took all the food from the ship, not a sack of wheat, not a barrel of salted fish. But...they didn't kill anyone, or even cause much damage to the ship. After emptying it, they...they just left, as if they had only completed an unpleasant tax collection task."

"I knew it... how could there be such polite bandits who even introduce themselves?" Euron's words were full of sarcasm, as if he had heard an extremely clumsy yet incredibly insulting joke. "The King's orders!? What obedient dogs! The King just farted, and the Redwyn family dared to attack us!?"

"Wolf, go and inform my father, brother, Balf, and Maester Clergon that we will discuss this matter at the main castle in half an hour. Oakwood, once the brothers on the merchant ships are settled and well-fed, tell them that anyone willing to wash away their shame should now sharpen their swords and axes. Remember, the Ironborn never compromise!"

Wolf and Oakwood grinned and sprang into action.