Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Corren's words, "Starting tomorrow, you will come with me to the council chamber," were like a boulder thrown into a stagnant pool, stirring up a thousand waves in Euron's heart. The brief silence in the study was broken by this sudden decision; the air seemed to freeze, and even the leaping flames in the fireplace seemed to hold their breath.

Euron looked up abruptly, his heterochromatic eyes—the left like an abyss swallowing light, the right like ice frozen before a storm—revealing for the first time a pure, childlike astonishment before his father. Five years old? The council chamber? Even his brother Baron, the heir who at fifteen could already brave the storms on a longship, had only recently been allowed to occasionally sit in on such matters! Had his father gone mad? Or…did he take his childish words about the reefs and the tides so seriously?

Corren took in his young son's shock, his weary yet astonished smile deepening, even tinged with a hint of Ironborn-like, almost cruel expectation. "What? Scared?" He stood up, his tall figure stretching long in the flickering firelight, casting a shadow that almost completely enveloped Euron, exuding an undeniable, reef-like, unyielding authority. "Where was that air of authority you had just displayed, discussing the reefs and tides, my little sea monster?" He took a step closer, his voice low but each word like a hammer blow. "You wanted to help me, didn't you? You didn't want to see me frustrated by those salt-cured rocks every day? Then come on! See for yourself just how hard these 'reefs' of the Iron Islands really are! Listen for yourself to how many poisoned daggers are hidden in those voices 'afraid of change'! Just sitting in your study studying maps and pondering the ebb and flow of the tides isn't enough!"

This was not a discussion, but an order. It was a trial by the "Seastone King" of the Iron Islands for his heir—though this "heir" was currently only the second son, a five-year-old child. Coron's eyes were as sharp as Valyrian steel, as if he wanted to cut open Euron's tender skin and dig out the extraordinary wisdom in his soul along with his disguise, to see what monster or miracle was hidden inside.

Euron opened his mouth, his throat feeling as if it were blocked by sea salt, too dry to utter a sound. He could feel the heavy weight behind his father's words—trust, a test, and an invisible force dragging him completely into the heart of the chilling vortex of power. The council chamber wasn't a training ground covered in white sea salt; there were no crisp clinking sounds of wooden swords clashing, only silent flashes of blades, venomous words, and cold calculations capable of tearing a person apart. He subconsciously clenched his small fists, his nails digging deep into his soft palms, bringing a sharp sting, barely managing to maintain the thin layer of icy composure on his face.

"Yes, Father." He heard his own voice ring out, clear and crisp, yet like a taut bowstring, with a barely perceptible tremor. "I will... watch carefully and listen carefully."

Corren nodded with satisfaction, as if he had completed a crucial strategic deployment. "Very good. Now, go back and prepare. Tomorrow," he emphasized, like hammering in a nail, "don't be late." He waved, the salty scent of the sea carrying with him, and turned back to face the perpetually restless sea outside the window, its dark waves churning in the twilight. To him, this earth-shattering decision seemed as commonplace as ordering a longship to set sail.

Euron practically floated away from the study, filled with the smell of tobacco and the weight of pressure. Only the touch of the cold stone walls of the corridor against his slightly flushed cheeks brought his agitated mind back to reality. Lisa, like a silent shadow, had been quietly waiting in the depths of the corridor's shadows, as if she were an integral part of this ancient stone castle. Her emerald eyes, calm and undisturbed in the dim light, reflected the faint glow of the wall lamp, as if she had foreseen all this storm.

"Master?" Her voice was still as gentle as the sea breeze brushing over the rocks.

"He... wants me to go to the council chamber tomorrow." Euron's voice was low, carrying a hint of bewilderment that he himself couldn't quite discern, and... a secret excitement of being caught in the eye of the storm.

A flicker of understanding crossed Lisa's eyes, quickly replaced by a deeper, calmer stillness, like that of an ancient well. "The tide surges toward the rocks, and the rocks will eventually reveal their rugged true form," she murmured, as if stating an immutable law of nature. "Are you ready? To see, to hear, to... be silent."

"Silence?" Euron frowned slightly, puzzled.

"The eye of the storm is often the calmest place." Lisa bowed slightly, her posture humble yet carrying a strange insight. "Before you learn to unleash a raging torrent capable of destroying everything, first learn how to steady your small boat amidst towering waves. Observe more, listen more, and think more. Words are sometimes the most useless oars, and may even attract the attention of sharks, especially among a group of people who are used to speaking with tomahawks instead of tongues."

Euron silently pondered Lisa's words. "Silence..." he murmured, the initial shock in his heterochromatic eyes gradually subsiding, replaced by a focused, almost hunter-like calm. Lisa was right. The council chamber was an arena more dangerous than any battlefield. He was still too weak; rashly wielding the axe of words would only prematurely expose his position, making him the target of all arrows. He needed to be like an octopus among the rocks, concealing himself, observing, learning the cunning etched on the wrinkles of every lord's face, discerning the hidden blades in every seemingly peaceful word, and deciphering the deals concealed behind every meaningful silence. He needed to be, as Lisa had said, the quietest and most lucid point at the center of that storm's vortex.

However, this deliberately sought-after "quiet" was destined to never truly arrive in Pike Town on this turbulent night.

————————————————————————————————————————

That day, late at night.

The night was as black as ink, so thick it seemed impossible to penetrate, with only the salty sea breeze howling between the cold stone walls of Pike City. In the shadows of the armory's rear window, a small figure clung to the rough wall like a gecko. Through the narrow crack in the window, a scene on the rocky beach below clearly came into Euron's view—the altar of the drowning god.

Baron, shirtless, stood in knee-deep water, the icy waves constantly lapping at his taut calf muscles. On his broad chest, a newly tattooed image writhed menacingly in the dim moonlight and flickering torchlight—a longship sailing through the waves, its sails billowing, its hull spewing eerie green flames, its twisted mast constructed of piled-up bones! On either side of the altar, seawater washed over their slender ankles, where two barefoot girls stood. Their once-glorious green silk gowns were now completely soaked by the salty seawater, clinging tightly to their young bodies, outlining helpless curves like a second, pale skin.

The old priest's voice dragged across the rocks like rusty iron chains: "Where do you come from?"

"Yang...Yangji City." The tall girl's voice trembled uncontrollably. A few tiny grains of Dornish red sand shimmered faintly in the firelight between the ends of her curly hair, the last trace of her homeland.

"You are dead!" The cold iron staff, carrying unquestionable authority, struck the girl's smooth forehead with a heavy blow. A faint hiss of burning flesh and a burnt smell accompanied the sound, leaving a bloody brand symbolizing rebirth. "Reborn now, as the wife of the Iron Seed!"

As the heavy iron staff turned towards the second, smaller girl, Euron's gaze abruptly fixed on her slender neck—a delicate silver chain gleamed coldly in the firelight. It was Lannisport's most renowned "Nightingale Collar," each exquisite ring engraved with a different name, like the medals of her painful past. The girl seemed to sense the watchful gaze, and just as the staff was about to fall, she abruptly raised her head! Her amber eyes, a gift of the summer island sunshine, were now filled with fear and an almost bestial wariness. Even more chilling was her right eye, clouded by a murky, white film, like a punctured fish bladder, reflecting the flickering firelight with deathly stillness.

"You are dead!" The old priest repeated the action, branding the girl's forehead. "Now you are reborn, as the wife of the Ironborn!"

"Have you seen enough?" Baron's voice, like a cold anchor, exploded in Euron's ears without warning! Before he could even turn around, a tremendous force, carrying the smell of the sea and sweat, suddenly grabbed his collar and roughly dragged him out from behind the window crack where he was hiding! Immediately afterward, a fist carrying a raging wind slammed into his cheek!

"Ugh!" Euron groaned, his small body crashing onto the sharp, pebbly beach below like a kite with a broken string. His mouth was instantly filled with the strong taste of rust and the salty smell of the sea, and half his cheek burned with pain.

After a month of confinement, this was the first time the two brothers had seen each other. That punch was Baron's revenge; although he had held back, it still hurt, you bastard!

Baron's tall figure loomed over Euron, carrying the damp, chilly scent of the sea. He roughly grabbed Euron by the back of his dark collar, like lifting a stranded fish, and held him facing the altar. "Father gave you permission to peek?" Baron's voice was low, yet like muffled thunder rolling over rocks, each word icy. "King Coron is busy counting the gold coins the Braavos are paying in reparations right now, he has no time to worry about where his 'clever' youngest son is fooling around! You brat, open your eyes and see clearly! Ironborn don't go to the market to exchange wool and gold coins for wives! We steal them! That's the salt and iron flowing in Greyjoy's blood!"

Beside the altar, the old priest was gripping the Dornish girl's chin, forcefully pouring a large bowl of murky, cold, death-laden salt water into her open throat. The girl's futile struggles were drowned out by the sound of the waves, her heart-wrenching coughs and sobs cruelly torn apart by the sea wind.

"You punched me, consider it a debt I owe you from the punishment last time. Okay, put me down, I have something to say." Euron calmly patted Baron's hand and said, "Brother, Father wants me... to go to the council chamber tomorrow."

"The council chamber?!" Baron grinned, his previously violent laugh freezing on his face as if solidified by ice. He abruptly lowered his head, his hawk-like gaze fixed on Euron's face, his voice even lower, yet like a muffled thunder rumbling in the depths of the clouds before a storm, filled with unbelievable danger. "Father... has he really gone mad?!" His fingers, gripping Euron's hair, tightened unconsciously, causing a sharp pain. "You brat, you can't even lift the lightest longsword, what can you do there? Be a laughingstock for those old foxes, Drogon? Let all the captains of the Iron Islands see that the second son of House Greyjoy is just a brat who can only talk big?!"

Euron spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, enduring the pain on his face, and forced a nonchalant smile: "The council chamber isn't a fighting arena. Do we need to use swords to chop people up?"

"Bullshit!" Baron sat bolt upright, his black hair whipping around like seaweed in a storm, his rage intensifying. "Your little bit of cleverness might work on a three-year-old! But the council chamber? It's a den of wolves! A place colder than the Altar of the Drowned God! Those old bastards, their veins aren't filled with blood, they're filled with ice and poison! They'd chew you up, skin and bones, and swallow you whole, not even spitting out the bone fragments! Just to see Father make a fool of himself, to humiliate Greyjoy!" His voice, beneath the fury, suddenly carried a barely perceptible hint of anxiety Euron had never heard before. "What politics can a five-year-old understand? What can they discuss? Every word they utter is a knife hidden behind it! Do you even understand?!"

"It's alright, actually," Euron said, struggling to steady his suspended body, his voice as calm as possible. "Just listening is learning too. The more we observe and listen, the more we'll become lords eventually, and deliberation... that's part of learning." He paused, his heterochromatic eyes meeting Baron's burning gaze with a hint of inquiry. "Are you worried about me?"

"I'm worried about the Greyjoy family's reputation!" Baron immediately retorted like a seal whose tail had been stepped on, his voice rising, but the hand gripping Euron's hair unconsciously loosened its hold slightly. He irritably tossed Euron onto the rubble, then turned and kicked a nearby abandoned empty barrel hard, the barrel tumbling with a hollow thud. "Father is putting our dignity, the majesty of the 'King of the Seastone,' on the chopping block for those bastards to beat!" He turned his back to Euron, his shoulders heaving with anger, but his voice gradually lowered, carrying a heavy sense of defeat. "I'm afraid you, you ignorant brat... will be terrified by the looks those old men give you... then all the Iron Islands will laugh at us, saying that Coron's son... is a coward who wets his pants at the first sign of trouble!"

Before his eyes, the scene from three years ago flashed uncontrollably—on the training ground paved with white salt, three-year-old Euron was repeatedly knocked to the ground by a heavy wooden sword. His small body thudded against the hard stone, the purplish-blue bruises starkly contrasting against his fair skin. Yet, in those damned eyes, one black and one blue, burned a stubborn flame that even Baron found painful. That kid might be annoying, might always say things that were hard to understand, but… he was never a coward.

Euron chuckled, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, struggled to his feet, and looked up at Baron's tense profile: "That's why I came to find you, dear brother. In the council chamber… are there any rules I should pay special attention to? Which lords should I absolutely avoid looking at? What topics are the absolute no-go zones? Teach me, please…"

"What does this have to do with me!" Baron interrupted irritably, whirling around with a fierce look that seemed to want to devour Euron. His chest heaved violently, clearly struggling to suppress his surging rage. He glared at Euron, his eyes seeming to pin him to the rocks behind him. After a few breaths, as if using all his strength, he forced out a command, cold as deep-sea iron, through clenched teeth:

"Quiet. Don't say a word." He took a deep breath of the night air, which carried the stench of blood and salt, and added, his voice firm and unwavering. "No. It's 'Don't speak!' Sew your mouth shut! Shut up!"

"And don't be late!"