Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

[Ding! Council Hall discovered. 10 points awarded.]

One Piece System.

It is Euron's greatest secret weapon. Every time he sets foot in a new location, points are automatically accumulated, and the world before him is clearly unfolded in the form of a map—explored areas are shown in detail, while unexplored areas are shrouded in a thick black fog, waiting for Euron to light them up with his footsteps.

At this moment, the entirety of Pike Island unfolded before Euron's eyes, like an ancient sea chart soaked in salt. The coordinates of the council hall had just been unlocked, and details began to emerge—the rough stone walls, the hanging sea monster flag, the black stone chair of his father, King Coron, the plundered spoils piled up in the corner... even the wine stains spilled by the Ironborn leaders while they were drinking were clearly visible.

Further afield, unexplored areas remain shrouded in mist—shipyards, armories, salt fields, iron mines on Old Wake Island… each representing potential points and resources.

Points represent power.

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Euron was not late. Before the dawn had fully dispelled the thick fog among the Pyke City rocks, he was already meticulously groomed by the skillful and composed hands of his maid, Lisa. The Greyjoy krait embroidered in gold thread on his brand-new, dark green velvet robe shimmered faintly in the dim light, its menacing appearance seemingly proclaiming his undeniable presence. He sat upright at the far end of the council table, to the right of the head seat, his small frame ramrod straight, striving to mimic his father's composed demeanor. The old Maester Clygon stood anxiously in the shadows to his left, his thin lips pressed tightly together, his withered fingers nervously fidgeting with the chain of his maester's necklace. Lisa, like a deep-sea plant blending into the background, stood silently further to the right, her emerald eyes lowered, as if merely a shadow in the corner.

He had arrived too early. His father, King Coron, had not yet arrived. In the empty, cold council chamber, only the crackling of newly added firewood in the fireplace and the whistling of the sea breeze through the cracks in the stone windows could be heard. However, this silence was soon broken.

The heavy oak doors were pushed open again and again, carrying the distinctive briny and chilly scents of the different Iron Islands. Lord Dunstan, Earl of Great Wake, strode in with the imposing presence of his island's volcano, his heavy leather boots thumping on the stone floor; Lord Gilmond, Earl of Salthill, had eyes as sinister as a sea eel lurking in the crevices of a reef; and Lord Belon, Earl of Blackteth, possessed a priestly solemnity, his fingers twirling a string of smooth, succulent beads. Their attendants and representatives took their places on either side. The large council chamber instantly filled with an invisible pressure and the pungent stench of sweat, alcohol, and sea salt.

A barrage of gazes—some astonished, some contemptuous, some inquisitive, and some filled with undisguised anger—like cold tentacles, pierced through the flickering light of the dim oil lamp, clinging tightly to the small figure at the end of the long table, dressed in a brand-new sea monster robe. The air seemed to solidify into a thick, viscous seaweed soup.

"Ha!" Dunstan Drough broke the silence first, grabbing the rough ceramic cup in front of him and gulping down a large mouthful of cheap ale, his Adam's apple bobbing loudly as he swallowed. His harsh voice, like sandpaper scraping against rocks, slammed into Gilmond Portley beside him without any politeness: "Look at this! Letting a baby who hasn't even been weaned for a few years, whose hair hasn't even grown all his hair, sit here? What does he take the Seastone King's council chamber for? A sandcastle for a baby to play with?" He deliberately raised his voice to make sure the whole hall could hear, each word like a whip quenched with salt, lashing at Greyjoy's authority.

Gilmond Portley stroked his sparse stubble, letting out a low, cold laugh, like a sea serpent gliding across damp sand. "Not necessarily a bad thing, Dunstan. It'll give everyone here a good look," he said, his sinister gaze sweeping across the room before settling on Euron. "What's going on in the head of our patriarch, who's so eager to be a 'reformer'? If this brat dares to spout nonsense and make wild claims in this sacred place... Hmph." The unfinished sentence was filled with icy expectation and threat.

Peron Blacktes, however, seemed out of place. He didn't join in the mockery, but instead solemnly placed a small, polished wooden carving of the Drowned God on the table before him. He clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and whispered, his voice tinged with an almost sorrowful worry: "Drowning God…hear the perplexity of your humble servant. Is this truly your will, a sign of a new beginning? Or…a harbinger of chaos and ominous tides about to engulf the Iron Islands? The child's eyes…one black, one blue, like a torn night and a frozen abyss, they stir unease in the calm sea of ​​my soul…" His prayer was more like a declaration, subtly planting a faith-based doubt in the hearts of the lords present.

These deliberately suppressed comments, undisguised contempt, and faith-based doubts crashed against Euron's defenses like cold waves. He could feel Maester Clygon's almost tangible anxiety behind him, and he could "hear" Lisa's barely perceptible, deep-sea-like, steady breathing in the shadows—a silent reminder: be silent, observe.

Is it outrageous for a five-year-old to enter the council chamber?

Euron silently refuted in his heart, his heterochromatic eyes lowered, long eyelashes concealing the turmoil within. His thoughts raced across the long scroll of Westeros's history. Joffrey I, the blond-haired king on the Iron Throne in King's Landing, crowned at the age of twelve, turned the Seven Kingdoms upside down, every foolish decision of his made dripping with the blood of his people! Lyanna Mormont, the young bear of Bear Island, went to the battlefield at the age of ten, upholding the family motto of "standing tall," taking the place of her fallen father and brother in the Mormont council chamber, issuing orders in her tender voice! Robb Stark, the "Young Wolf" of the North, raised the direwolf banner at fifteen, pointing his sword at King's Landing, making even Tywin Lannister suffer on the battlefield! And Winterfell… when the men of House Stark marched south, only a few-year-old Bran Stark remained! Didn't he also sit in the main seat, accompanied by Maester Luwin, and handle disputes in the North?

Countless! It's never been uncommon for young figures to appear at the heart of power in Westeros, a land full of legend and cruelty! The only difference is whether they are ruthlessly pushed to the forefront by fate, or... like myself, actively pulled into the eye of the storm by my father?

These rebuttals clashed fiercely in Euron's mind, almost bursting out. But he clenched his small fist hidden beneath his sleeve, his nails digging deep into his palm, the pain a reminder of Lisa's admonition—silence. Now was not the time to wield the sword of knowledge. What he needed to do was remain unmoved, like a true reef, letting these malicious waves crash against him. He slightly adjusted his posture, making himself appear more composed, his gaze fixed on the polished table before him, as if the rough wood grain held endless mysteries. Only the slightly taut jawline betrayed that his heart was not entirely calm.

The mockery, suspicion, and unease permeating the council chamber, like a damp, thick fog, had already set a cold and heavy tone for this destined-to-be-extraordinary meeting before King Koren even stepped in. All eyes were fixed on the five-year-old child who appeared exceptionally small amidst the massive stone chair, yet was strikingly conspicuous by his golden-threaded sea monster robe and heterochromatic eyes.