Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

The tide has turned, the battle has ended.

Our black sails blotted out the midday sun.

We haven't been paid for the goods in our hands.

It was paid in ancient and courageous iron coins!

So fill the rum and make the campfire burn bright!

Sing aloud, for the desire of every departed soul!

The dead do not die.

They will surely rise again under this sky, even more rampant than before!

Their ship's planks were cracked, and their flag had been lowered.

They sent their master to underwater paradise.

We seized their wine and plundered their food.

They abandoned their dreams beside the corpses.

So fill the rum and make the campfire burn bright!

The ocean will devour both the weak and the strong.

The Drowning God knew that we had nowhere to go.

Cultivating the land or kneeling to pray for blessings?

We are the storms that end the day!

Iron coins... are our only creed...

Iron coins... before we sink...

…………

The sailors sang "The Iron Coin Song" at the top of their lungs, with Baron standing at the bow, drinking heavily and waving his hands as if he were conducting the band. This was Euron's first time hearing this wild pirate song, and he wanted to drink with the other Ironborn, but the bottle was snatched away from him by old Wick as soon as it was passed to him.

The deck of the HMS Grand Drinker was piled high with spoils, gleaming alluringly in the midday sun. Euron squatted on an oak barrel, watching the sailors sort and arrange the loot. His gaze was drawn to bolts of oriental silk—black cashmere from Corhol that shimmered like pearls in the sunlight, more exquisite than the tapestries in the homes of the wealthiest merchants in Pike City.

The sailors pounced on the pried-open cargo crates like hungry wolves, their rough fingers tearing at the silks, spices, and gleaming gold and silver vessels. "Crack!" Dagmore kicked open the oak door to the captain's cabin, dragging out a pearl-encrusted iron chest and chopping open the latch with an axe—crash! Piles of mill gold coins tumbled onto the deck, shimmering like fish scales in the sunlight.

"Gods above!" An old sailor with a missing front tooth grabbed a handful of gold coins, stuffed them into his mouth, and bit them to make dents. "Real gold! Purer than what was dug out of the old Wake Island mines!"

"Look at this!" Redhead Oakwood held up a goblet studded with rubies, the rim still stained with deep red wine. "The private collection of the Braavos banker!" His smile, missing two front teeth, looked particularly menacing in the sunlight, and fresh blood still seeped from a new scar on his forehead.

Old One-Eyed Wolf knelt before a pile of spices, his trembling fingers picking up a pinch of safflower and inhaling deeply. "Gods above," he choked out, his voice hoarse, "this was my wife's favorite scent before she became paralyzed..." He carefully wrapped the spices in a piece of cloth torn from his clothes and tucked it into his leather pouch. This old pirate didn't love his paralyzed, ugly wife; he knew this spice was worth its weight in gold.

Dagmore laughed heartily, a few drops of saliva spilling from his split jaw: "Everyone grab a handful first! The rest—" He glanced at Baron, "...according to the Iron Islands rules, the captain gets 30%, the warriors get a larger share, and the rest goes to the Greyjoy family!"

The sailors cheered and rushed toward the spoils. Some wrapped Braavos silk scarves around their necks, while others filled silver goblets with strong liquor and drank it down. A burly man with a scarred face even put on a captured gilded breastplate on the spot, even though it was as small as a plate to him.

The prisoners in the cabin were driven onto the deck.

The Braavos merchants and sailors, chained together, knelt pale-faced on the blood-stained deck. The women—three trembling girls—were brought before Baron alone. According to the old ways, the men would be slaves, mining iron in the Iron Islands until death; the women, if any iron lords wanted them, would become salt concubines; if no iron lords wanted them, they would be the toys of all the iron lords.

"These two are yours, Baron." Dagmore grinned and nudged the two older girls.

The first was a Dornish girl, about fourteen years old, with olive skin still streaked with sand, her green silk dress soaked through by the sea and clinging to her body. Anger burned in her dark eyes, yet her lips were stubbornly pursed, like a wildcat cornered.

The second one was from Tyrosi, a little older, about sixteen, with a white film over her amber right eye, like a punctured fish bladder. She had a purple lotus tattooed on her ankle—the mark of the Tyrosi brothel—and a jingling gold bell on her wrist.

Baron was satisfied, his lecherous gaze sweeping over them, a slight smirk playing on his lips: "Take them back, soak them in salt water, and they'll be Ironblood women."

But Euron's gaze fell on the third girl.

She was younger than the other two, no more than twelve years old, thin as a reed, her pale golden hair tousled by the sea breeze. She didn't cry, nor did she glare at them like the girl from Dorn; she simply stood quietly, her blue eyes seeming to see right through people.

"What's your name?" Euron asked.

The girl looked up, her voice as soft as a sea breeze: "Lisa."

"Where did you come from?"

"Pentos," she said in her Common with a soft, exotic accent, "but my mother is from Braavos, and my father is a merchant from Rees. I speak seven languages."

Euron raised an eyebrow: "Seven kinds?"

She nodded, then suddenly switched to High Valyrian: "Valar dohaeris (All men must serve)." She then switched to Dothraki: "Anha vaderakoe vitihirat (I have seen the sunset over the plains)." Finally, she uttered a few words of difficult Giskalian ancient language.

Dagmo whistled, "This little brat's mouth's faster than a parrot's!"

Euron looked at Baron: "I want her."

Baron snorted, "How old are you? How old is she? She hasn't even started her period yet, it's too early for her to become a concubine."

"I won't be a salt-serving concubine," Euron said. "I prefer to be a maidservant; I like young girls to serve me."

Baron stared at his younger brother for a moment, then suddenly grinned. "Suit yourself. If Father asks, you can explain yourself." He winked and teased, "You little rascal, when you look for a woman, find one like this," he pointed to the two large-breasted, big-bottomed exotic girls he was holding in his arms, their faces radiating allure. "Run!"

Euron shrugged, unimpressed—compared to her physical abilities, the ability to speak seven languages ​​was far more valuable. Her simple clothes and messy hair seemed more like a disguise. Her hands and face were covered in mud, but her skin was incredibly smooth, indicating that she had never done any dirty or strenuous work. Her demeanor was more like that of a pampered noblewoman.

The Haoyin returned fully loaded, its draft half a foot higher than when it arrived.

The deck was piled high with spoils: glassware from Braavos, lace from Myr, barrels of wine from Greentree Island, and even a few exquisitely crafted Valyrian steel daggers—though second-rate, they were enough to make the Ironborn envious.

The sailors sang vulgar pirate songs in a drunken stupor, and some tied stolen silk scarves to the masts, letting them flutter in the wind like ostentatious flags.

Baron stood at the bow, one arm around the waist of the Dornish girl—she had stopped struggling and was simply staring coldly at the sea. The one-eyed girl from Tyroth sat at his feet, combing her wet hair with a gold comb she had captured.

Euron's "handmaid" Lisa stood quietly behind him, her grey-blue eyes reflecting the afterglow of the setting sun.

Dagmo took a swig of the golden wine from Qingting Island and laughed heartily, "This trip was worth it!"

They harvested a lot of gold and silver jewelry, but it could not replace fresh water and bread.

The merchant ship was scheduled to arrive at the port in another day, so it didn't have much food or fresh water stored, only wine that it was going to trade.

Of course, the Hao Yin (豪饮) couldn't just dock at a merchant ship's port immediately after plundering it; it had only one option—to return quickly. So, in the last few days of the voyage, the shortage of food and fresh water caused everyone's lips to crack and bleed, and their gums to swell and fester.

Euron sat in a corner of the deck, chewing on a piece of moldy, hard bread, maggots wriggling on his tongue. He no longer vomited, no longer hesitated—like all Ironborn, his stomach was accustomed to decay and saltiness.

The sea never offered the Ironmen romantic adventures, but rather maggots, thirst, and the drudgery of survival, yet they still yearned for the next voyage. That's the Ironmen!