Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Inside the council chamber, the embers of mockery had not yet cooled, and whispers of doubt still lingered on the stone walls. Lisa's deep, steady breathing was barely audible behind him, the only anchor in this oppressive sea. Euron could clearly feel the gazes, some cold, some burning, clinging to his back. He calmly met the gaze of the lord in the hall, neither surprised nor angry.

Just as Dunstan Zodoo seemed ready to add fuel to the fire, and Gilmond Portley's sinister eyes flashed with calculation, as Peron Blacktes finished reciting the last line of his prayer to the wooden sculpture—

The unassuming, heavy oak door next to the main seat, leading to the inner room, slid open silently.

Corren Greyjoy's towering figure appeared in the doorway, like a reef suddenly emerging from the sea. He hadn't just arrived; his weathered, sharp eyes, as if polished by the waves, were now calm and still, yet seemed to have taken in everything that had just happened in the council chamber—every sarcastic remark, every glance, every hint of unease. His face was expressionless, only possessing a deep, abyssal calm that carried an invisible pressure.

He strode in, his leather boots making a steady, rhythmic sound on the cold stone floor, each step like a drumbeat striking the hearts of everyone present. He didn't look at anyone, heading straight for the enormous main seat carved from ancient black reef stone, the seat symbolizing the authority of the "King of the Sea Stones." The sea monster-patterned leather armor he wore gleamed with a cold, hard sheen in the fireplace light.

A deathly silence fell over the council chamber; even the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace seemed jarring. Dunstan Zod's half-raised wine glass froze in mid-air, Gilmond Portley's fingers, which had been stroking his chin, stopped, and Peron Blacktes quietly slipped the small wooden carving into his pocket. All eyes—those of awe, discontent, and suspicion—were focused on the ruler of the Iron Islands.

Koren sat down on the enormous throne, leaning back slightly, his gaze sweeping over his crew like that of a seasoned captain—or rather, scrutinizing this sea full of reefs. Without any pleasantries, he extended his bony, calloused hand and tapped it three times lightly on the smooth, cold stone tabletop.

"Thump. Thump. Thump."

The sound was not loud, but it was like a ship's hammer striking an alarm bell, echoing clearly in the silent hall, announcing the arrival of the storm.

"Everyone's here. Let's discuss this." Corinth's voice was deep and calm, yet carried an undeniable penetrating power; each word was like an anchor sinking to the bottom of the sea, leaving no room for rest. "What waves are brewing on each island?"

The brief silence was broken, like a suppressed tide finding an outlet.

Dunstan Drough was the first to strike. He slammed down his wine glass, spilling a few drops onto the table. "The biggest wave? The biggest wave is those silk-robed ravens from King's Landing!" His voice boomed, filled with undisguised disgust. "Those Seven Gods monks! Scurrying around the archipelago like sea cockroaches! Chanting sermons to fishermen at the docks, preaching to slave laborers at the saltworks! The priests of Drowned God are about to lose their temper, Coron! You let them land on the island, and now they're going to defile Drowned God's sanctuary! This must be explained!" He pointed his thick finger at Coron, as if the other was the culprit.

Gilmond Portley immediately chimed in, his voice less fiery than Dunstan's, but colder, like a reef hidden beneath the current: "Lord Zod is right, this is indeed a problem. However, the bigger wave is probably that new port in Pike City, built with such difficulty and exhausting manpower and resources." A sarcastic smile played on his lips. "What a magnificent dock, brand-new stone shore, towering lighthouse... but what has it gained besides crashing waves and seabird droppings? Empty! Utterly empty!" He deliberately enunciated each word, each syllable like an icicle piercing Coron's reform plans. "Not a single merchant ship flying the flags of the Seven Nations dares to dock! Those merchants would rather take the long way to Seagull Town than approach the coastline of our Iron Islands! What use is this pile of stones besides wasting iron ore and labor? Lord Coron, your 'open' doors are not even open to a glance from outside!"

"Waves?" Belon Blacktes' voice carried a heavy, compassionate tone. He spoke slowly, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords. "My lords, don't you feel the true chill? Winter is coming!" He spread his hands, as if embracing the invisible cold. "The Iron Islands are barren; our food has always been purchased from outside or… 'paid in iron money.' How long can the grain reserves in Pike City last? Two months? Three months? And you," he looked at Koren, his eyes filled with the worry of a believer, "you still want to raise the salt tax? Salt is one of the foundations of our Ironborn's survival. Raising the salt tax is like taking away the last bit of saltiness from the poor fishermen and salt workers! It will extinguish the fires on the island even faster! The Drowned God gave us salt to keep us alive, not to drive his people to their doom!"

He had barely finished speaking when another representative from Old Wake Island—a captain with a gaunt face and hawk-like eyes—stood abruptly, his voice like a blade scraping bone: "Lord Blacktes has hit the nail on the head! Food! Survival! These are the most deadly waves! Lord Coron, can your merchant ships, ports, and monks' dreams fill the children's stomachs? Can they withstand the harsh winter winds?" He surveyed his surroundings, his eyes burning with a primal, fanatical light. "The Ancient Way! Only by returning to the Ancient Way! Let our longships set sail again! Let our warriors grip their battle axes once more! Go to the rich southern coast to 'pay the iron money'! Go and reclaim our winter's food! Go and reclaim the Ironborn's lost glory! This is the Ironborn's Way, recognized by the Drowned God! This is the anchor that solves all problems!"

"Yes! Let's return to the ancient trails!"

"Paying for iron is the right way!"

"Steal their food to get through the winter!"

Several more radical captains and spokespeople from remote islands immediately echoed his sentiments, and the council chamber was instantly filled with a fanatical, plunder-hungry atmosphere. The calls for a "return to the ancient ways" surged like a hungry tsunami, violently assaulting Koren and the reform direction he represented.

Corren sat upright on the rocky throne, his face ashen, his fingers unconsciously tapping the cold tabletop, as if measuring the depth and power of the surging "waves." His gaze was deep and unreadable.

Euron, seated at the very end, remained frozen in place. His small body, encased in his new monstrous robe, resembled a miniature reef adrift in a raging sea. His taut jawline seemed to relax slightly when his father appeared. Now, amidst the lords' heated arguments and fervent cries of "Return to the Ancient Road," his heterochromatic pupils—one like an abyss swallowing all light, the other an icy blue frozen by the storm—were unusually bright and focused. He imprinted every face contorted with anger, anxiety, and fanaticism, every cry filled with self-interest, faith, and the will to survive, like the most precise nautical chart, deeply into his mind. Lisa's admonition echoed in his heart: silence, observation. In the eye of the storm, only absolute clarity can survive. Like an detached chronicler, he silently gathered firsthand intelligence from this power struggle, drawing a crucial map of the hidden reefs for his future voyage.