Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Dunstan Zod's roar, Gilmond Portley's cold irony, Peron Blacktes's heavy worries, and the fervent cry of "returning to the ancient road" collided violently in the cold council chamber like several undercurrents that flowed in different directions but were equally turbulent, almost drowning Coron and his rocky throne.

However, Corren Greyjoy remained seated, his fingers still rhythmically tapping on the cold, rocky table. The soft "thump, thump" sound strangely maintained a serene atmosphere amidst the cacophony of noise. When the last old Wake Island representative, driven by a plundering frenzy, sat down, leaving only heavy breathing and the restless crackling of the fireplace in the hall, Corren finally raised his eyelids.

His gaze, like two spears forged from the icy sea, pierced precisely at Dunstan Zodoo.

"The Seven Gods' monks?" Corren's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a sharpness that cut through the waves. "They are preachers, nothing more. Which of the Iron Islands' laws, the ancient laws etched on the reefs, says 'No one may preach under the Drowned God'?" His gaze swept across the room, each word like an iron nail driven into wood. "The Drowned God's monks can also set sail, to the ports and towns of the Seven Kingdoms, to spread the Drowned God's teachings! That's the Ironborn's spirit! Don't like those in silk robes?" A cold smile curled at the corner of his lips. "Close your ears, turn away! But—"

Corren's voice suddenly rose, booming like thunder, shaking the hall. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze like a tangible shackle, fixed on Dunstan Dragoon's flushed face, and sweeping over every lord who might harbor ill intentions: "Who dares to lay a finger on them, who dares to pour a drop of seawater on them in disrespect! I, Corren Greyjoy, swear in the name of the King of the Seastone," he slammed his fist heavily on the table, making a dull thud like cannon fire, "that I will personally hang that fool on the highest black reef in Pike City! Let the sea breeze and seagulls peck at his corpse! Let everyone see the consequences of disobeying my orders and defiling the laws of the Iron Islands!"

This blatant, bloodthirsty threat, like the coldest frost, instantly froze the anger on Dunstan Zogu's face and the menacing glint in the eyes of some captains. The air seemed to solidify, leaving only heavy breathing. Beron Blacktes opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to argue from a religious perspective, but under Corren's unquestionable, sea-god-like gaze, he ultimately lowered his head silently.

Corren's gaze shifted to Gilmond Portley, the chilling pressure still lingering. "The harbor? Empty?" He chuckled, a certain confidence that seemed to foresee the future. "Open your salted eyes and look further down the horizon! I've sent ravens to contact the Prince of Dorne, the Duke of Dragonstone—old friends who traded with us Iron Islands during those chaotic years, even fought alongside us! Reputation takes time to build, Gilmond, like fine wine. Trust," he surveyed the crowd, his gaze piercing, "is not something you smash open and steal, but something you slowly forge through honest trade and safe passage, like waves washing over rocks. One day, our docks will be full of ships! But not today. Patience is another weapon the Ironborn use to survive the storms."

He paused, his gaze falling on the worried Baelor Blackteas and the captains shouting "The Ancient Road!" His tone softened slightly, yet still carried the decisiveness of a ruler: "Food? Timber? The chill of winter is indeed creeping closer." He acknowledged the harsh reality. "Next month, my messengers will set sail north, carrying iron and salt from the Iron Islands, to Winterfell to meet Lord Eddard Stark! Southward, to Highgarden to meet Lord Mace Tyrell! We will trade our produce for winter's grain and timber for shipbuilding! This is the way to survive!"

Finally, his gaze, like a heavy anchor, fell back on those eyes that still burned with the desire to plunder. His voice became low and heavy with the weight of history: "The ancient road... 'paying iron coins'..." He slowly uttered these words, as if chewing a piece of bitter cured meat. "I know, it's the salt and rust flowing in my blood. I admit, perhaps I was too hasty in trying to sever it with one stroke."

This rare, almost compromising admission instantly ignited a spark of hope in the eyes of Dunstan Zogu and others. However, Corren's next words were like a bucket of ice water, precisely extinguishing that flame.

"But!" Corren's voice became resolute again, carrying the grand imprint of Aegon's Conquest era. "Remember the War of Conquest! Remember the dragonfire of Harrenhal! Remember the crown offered by Toren Greyjoy! When Aegon I Targaryen pacified the Iron Islands, he sat atop a dragon and declared: From this day forward, within the Seven Kingdoms, the Ironborn's tradition of plundering is illegal! Those who violate it will be consumed by dragonfire!"

He abruptly stood up, his tall figure elongated in the firelight, like an insurmountable rocky barrier. His imposing gaze swept over each lord: "The ironclad laws established by Aegon I remain the cornerstone of the Seven Kingdoms! The Iron Throne still stands! The Targaryen dragons may be hidden, but their power endures! I, Corren Greyjoy, as the Seastone King who submits to the Iron Throne, will not, and absolutely will not, allow you to violate these ironclad laws and drag the Iron Islands back into the abyss of destruction!"

A deathly silence fell over the council chamber, broken only by Corren's booming voice echoing through the stone walls: "Therefore, the 'Ancient Road' may be traversed, but only outside the seas designated by Aegon I! Ships of the Seven Kingdoms, those flying the flags of any lord, any castle, are our neighbors, our potential trading partners! Absolutely not! To! Touch! Them!" He spoke each word with the force of a hammer blow, each syllable branding the other. "Your battleaxes and longships, your 'Iron Money,' can only be directed—at the pirate dens of the Stepstone Islands! At the slave ships of Slaver's Bay! At the remote islands and trade routes of the Summer Sea that do not belong to any kingdom! At the merchant ships of the Free Trade City-States, rich beyond measure but lacking a powerful fleet for protection! These places are yours to enjoy! Use the blood and goods of your enemies to strengthen the Iron Islands!"

"This is my decision! 'New Rules for the Ancient Road'!" Koren sat down again, leaning back in his cold, rocky chair. His eyes were tired but still sharp. "It's not about abandoning the ancient road, but about tying it with the reins of wisdom! So that it can nourish the Ironborn without attracting the devastating dragonfire! Who agrees? Who disagrees?" With that last sentence, his gaze once again became like a drawn blade, slowly sweeping across the faces of every lord present, awaiting a new storm, or... temporary submission.

At the end of the long table, Euron remained silent. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed with a brighter, more complex light under his father's declaration of a "new rule for the old ways," a declaration that combined both ruthless threats and a glimmer of compromise. He saw his father's tough stance, and also his pragmatic political wisdom—a difficult but potentially viable path between ironclad rules and the traditions of the people. Lisa's strategy of "silence" allowed him, at this moment, to observe, like the most composed chess player, the subtle tremors each piece in this power game evoked by his father's move.

The island lords shouted in unison, "We obey your will, King Coron!"

Koren waved his hand and said, "Alright, if there's nothing else, everyone can leave!"