Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 161 Social Gatherings – Open and Covert Struggles

In the banquet hall, a clear and melodious sound of silver strings suddenly broke through the noise, enveloping the entire hall like the morning sun piercing through the mist.

All conversations came to an abrupt end.

All eyes turned to the high platform—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat in the shadows, an ancient harp resting against his chest. His long fingers gently caressed the strings, and notes flowed out like water, sometimes plaintive, sometimes soaring, as if telling ancient legends and unfulfilled dreams.

The candlelight gently outlined his angular profile, his pale purple eyes lowered, and his silver-gold hair shimmering softly in the light.

The girls unconsciously held their breath, forgetting to drink from their cups, and some even had tears of emotion welling up in their eyes. The music echoed in the hall, and even the most hardened warriors couldn't help but soften their gazes, being transported to another realm by this extraordinary performance.

As the last note slowly faded into the air, its lingering melody creating a moment of silence, the entire venue fell silent before erupting into thunderous applause.

Lord Harrenhal stepped forward at the opportune moment, his voice booming and filled with respect: "Your Excellencies, please allow me to introduce to you the one who has cleansed our souls tonight with his heavenly voice—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen of Dragonstone! His presence greatly honors Harrenhal!"

Rega slowly rose, nodded slightly to the crowd, his posture elegant and composed, as if he were born to stand in the center of attention.

Earl of Rivers, with a shrewd, businessman's smile, glanced at Euron in the crowd, then announced loudly, his voice echoing through the vast hall: "Distinguished guests, please join me in raising a glass! Thank you to the Iron Islands, and thank you to House Greyjoy for their generosity! All the fine wines and white sand for this tournament have been generously provided by them!"

He paused briefly, his smile widening, and introduced the wine as if reciting poetry: "White and crisp, blue and deep, purple and rich, gold and luxurious—four kinds of sea monster red wine, surely one of them will conquer your taste buds!"

A knowing laugh erupted from the room, and the guests raised their glasses in salute in the direction of the Greyjoy family, the crystal and silverware clinking together with a crisp sound.

Prince Rhaegar sat serenely in the high seat, flanked by the Dornish and Targaryen princesses like jewels, quietly observing the commotion below.

Euron leaned against the long table, a half-smile playing on his lips, as he keenly sensed a gaze that seemed to pierce through him. He lazily raised his eyes and met the Earl of Qingting Island's fiery gaze, a look so fierce it seemed he wanted to devour him alive.

Euron merely raised an eyebrow indifferently. He fully understood that hatred; after all, it was war, a life-or-death struggle with no way out. For the future and survival of the Iron Islands, some things, once done, need no regrets, nor need any further reflection.

Euron even found the other party's undisguised anger rather amusing.

Instead of avoiding it, Euron met the murderous gaze head-on, leisurely raising his wine glass in a toast towards Earl Redwin, his face bearing an almost mocking "magnanimity."

As Euron's gaze shifted, he caught sight of another figure, and a hint of genuine surprise crept into his usual nonchalant attitude—Old Walder Frey, that nearly eighty-year-old man, had actually dragged his old bones all the way to Harrenhal.

Euron almost admired the old man's tenacity. At his age, traveling such a long distance, wasn't he afraid of accidentally dying on the way and becoming a forgotten skeleton by the roadside?

Euron, holding a glass of dark amber-colored sea monster red wine, strolled leisurely through the noisy crowd, finally stopping before the marquis, renowned for his advanced age and numerous offspring. He leaned slightly forward, the glass gleaming faintly in his hand.

"Marquis Frey," his voice was steady, yet carried a hint of barely perceptible coldness, "Nice to meet you."

Please allow me to introduce myself—I am Euron Greyjoy.

Old Walder Frey raised his cloudy, yellowish eyes, letting out a dry, hoarse cough, like a worn-out bellows. "Your name has been known to me for a long time," he said, his voice hoarse yet clear, "The blood shed by the Frey warriors at the crossroads—it hasn't even dried yet. The Frey family will not forget Lord Euron's lesson."

Euron's face was expressionless. He leaned closer and lowered his voice, as cold as ice scraping against rock: "Then you'd better never forget it, never forget it."

Euron paused, as if suddenly remembering something, and said softly in a voice only the two of them could hear, "I wonder if Lord Frey has heard of a popular song recently—'The Flames of Green Pavilion Island'?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued in a low voice, as if sharing a secret story, "The sea—ultimately, is not a place the Frey family should go. The winds are strong and the waves are high, and it's easy to capsize."

Having said that, he didn't wait for Frey's reply and walked straight away, heading towards Highgarden.

Olenna Redwyn, the Queen of Thorns of Highgarden, also noticed Euron's presence. Unlike her brother Adrian, who nearly crushed his wine glass, this wise and sharp-witted old lady wore her signature, slightly mocking smile. Instead of avoiding his gaze, she gracefully raised her goblet towards Euron and took a small sip of the deep purple liquid.

"I must say," her voice was soft but clear to those around her, "this Kraken wine is quite delicious. It seems that after the celebration, Highgarden will have to order a few barrels from the Iron Islands. It's perfect for entertaining distinguished guests or for our own enjoyment."

These words were like a pebble thrown into still water. Earl Adrian Redwin, standing beside her, abruptly turned and glared at his sister as if she were a despicable traitor. He spat out the words through clenched teeth: "Our Green Pavilion wine is the best of the Seven Kingdoms! This—this stuff from the Iron Islands—is nothing but swill tinged with the salt of the sea!"

Her son, Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, puffed out his cheeks like an enraged inflatable fish upon hearing his mother's words. Adrian was his uncle, and Greenwood was one of Highgarden's most important vassals. The Iron Islands' raid on House Redwynn was undoubtedly a slap in the face to Highgarden. By all accounts, Euron was his enemy.

Velas Tyrell, the future heir to Highgarden, simply smiled and sipped his wine. He seemed unwilling to comment further on the war that had already ended.

Lady Olenna, unfazed by her brother's anger, calmly stated, "Good is good, and bad is bad. Your hostility won't turn fine wine into swill." Her sharp gaze swept over the assembled crowd. "After the tournament, I dare say all the nobles of Westeros will know the name 'Krak Wine,' and orders will flock to the Iron Islands like ravens. Your opinion changes nothing."

She paused, her tone becoming even more meaningful, as if speaking to everyone: "A wise person knows when to let go of what." Her gaze finally settled on her son's flushed face, and she added mercilessly, "Stop puffing your cheeks up, my inflatable fish duke. Even if you blow your cheeks out, it won't change the fact that sea monster wine is about to become a sensation." She had clearly given up on reforming her "neither scholarly nor martial" son, and turned to her eldest grandson: "Veras, what do you say?"

Velas Tyrell nodded calmly, displaying a wisdom beyond his years: "Grandmother is right. At least in this matter, the outcome is decided. However," he changed the subject, his eyes showing appreciation, "the Greyjoy family's sales tactics are indeed novel and efficient, and are well worth learning from."

Euron walked calmly to the group of nobles of Highgarden, gave an elegant bow, and his gaze swept over Elena Redwyn, Queen of Thorns, Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, the ashen-faced Earl Adrian Redwyn, and the composed Velas Tyrell.

"It's been a long time since we last met," he said calmly, as if greeting an old friend. "How have you all been?"

Earl Adrian Redwin of Qingting Island snorted and walked away.

Lady Olenna Redwin raised her sharp eyes, which seemed incongruous with her age, and gave a cold, unforgiving laugh: "Good? How could it be good!" The wine in her glass swirled slightly, the deep red liquid like blood. "Our cellars have been emptied, our vaults depleted, and the ships in the harbor have either been towed away or reduced to ashes. Even the centuries-old vines have been uprooted—" Her voice suddenly rose, sharp with sarcasm, "And worst of all, you've kidnapped every single one of our winemakers and taken them to those rocky islands! And now, you're using our skills to brew this 'Sea Monster Wine,' trying to completely destroy Green Pavilion Island's lifeline?"

She coughed lightly, her gaze sweeping across Euron's face like a knife: "You've certainly learned a thing or two from Tywin Lannister. Now, throughout Harrenhal, the 'Burning of the Greenbeard' echoes everywhere—" The old lady's words were chillingly hateful, "You've crushed the glory of Greenbeard into your stepping stones, and now you want to trample it into the mud. Tell me, how can we possibly be alright?"

Euron hadn't expected the old lady to be so direct. A slight, enigmatic smile played on his lips. "War is always cruel, old lady. It's all about life and death; where is there any morality or righteousness? That's precisely why we should remember the cost of war, do our best to avoid conflict, and strive for peace."

Olenna Redwin's sharp eyes met his unwavering gaze. "That sounds nice. So, are you planning to return the kidnapped winemakers? Don't tell me they're all 'tragic casualties,' not even a dog would believe that." Her voice was low, but each word was clear. "Or are you saying that your Iron Islands are giving up winemaking altogether? Otherwise, tell me, where does this 'peace' even come from?"

Euron's expression remained unchanged as he calmly replied, "What's done is done, there's no point in discussing it further. I can't return the wine, but perhaps we can find other ways to cooperate."

"Cooperation?" Olena raised an eyebrow, her tone clearly sarcastic. "I'd like to hear about it."

"We are willing to purchase all the grapes produced on Green Pavilion Island at a price 30% higher than the market price," Euron said calmly.

Olena scoffed, turned her head and glanced at him, her eyes looking at him as if he were a madman.

Euron, unfazed, continued with a laugh, "And then there's trade. The world is vast, not just Westeros—across the Narrow Sea, the markets of the free cities far exceed our imagination. We, the Iron Islands, cannot swallow the entire East alone." He leaned forward slightly, his voice alluring, "If you wish, Green Pavilion can become the exclusive agent for Kraken Wine in Essos."

Olena paused for a moment, her sharp gaze softening slightly. "That's something to consider. Is that all?"

"And then there are the Stone Steps Islands," Euron said slowly, lowering his voice, "I wonder if you're interested in those islands?"

A sharp glint flashed in Olenna Redwin's eyes, and almost without hesitation, she declared, "Deal!"

Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, blinked blankly, his gaze shifting between his mother and Euron, his chubby face filled with confusion: "You—you've already decided? The Stepstone Islands? That place is a complete mess, with more pirates than merchant ships. What could you possibly be interested in?"

Lady Olenna Redwin sighed deeply, a sigh filled with endless helplessness and disappointment. She raised a hand to rub her temples, as if overwhelmed by the weight of the situation. "Gods above, I simply cannot understand how I could have given birth to such a—" She paused, ultimately swallowing back the harsher words, leaving only a cold, sarcastic remark, "—a son as stupid as a pig. What a pity, now that he's born, I can't just put him back in my belly."

She turned to Mace, her tone sharp and urgent, as if lecturing a perpetually clueless apprentice: "Haven't you noticed? The Iron Islands recently launched a colossal ship, I hear several times larger than the Lannisters' Sea Lion! Their shipyards are running day and night, pushing warship after warship into the sea. Do you really think they build so many warships just to do business peacefully?"

Before her son could answer, she coldly chuckled and answered her own question: "In a fight, we might not be able to win now; in business, we're clearly outmatched. Now that Euron Greyjoy has personally offered us a way out, if we don't seize it, do we really want to wait until we're completely crushed?" Her voice was low, yet carried an undeniable sharpness. "Besides—the Steps Islands! That disputed territory is an untapped gold mine! Controlling the shipping lanes there is far more promising than tending a few acres of vineyards!"

Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, remained bewildered. He lowered his voice, his obese face filled with incomprehension and disdain: "But he's just the second son of that King Coron of the Iron Islands! What can a second son do? What can he promise on behalf of House Greyjoy?"

Lady Olenna Redwyn sighed deeply again, a sigh tinged with despair at the obtuseness of her heir. "If you're so dull, read more!" her voice was sharp as ice. "I've told you to pay more attention to news from all over the world, but you haven't listened at all. Euron Greyjoy may be the second son, but everything he's done, every ambition he's displayed, far surpasses what ordinary people can achieve. The rules of the Iron Islands are being rewritten because of him; the future of the Iron Islands will also be changed because of him—beyond your imagination."

Duke Mays' face flushed crimson instantly, his eyes bulging like a startled frog, his cheeks puffing out like an inflated fish: "That—that's not a good thing! Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows that the rightful heir to the Iron Islands is the eldest son, Balon! The family's greatest taboo is this kind of fratricidal strife and power struggle; it can utterly destroy a family!"

Mrs. Olena looked at her son quietly, her gaze so sharp it seemed to pierce through all his fear and shortsightedness.

She spoke softly, her voice low, yet like an ice needle piercing through all the noise: "What if—he had never limited his vision to those few cold islands?"