Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

The heavy oak doors of the council chamber slammed shut after the last lord had left, shutting out the salty sea breeze and the lingering tension of the earlier confrontation. A deathly silence fell over the chamber, broken only by the faint crackling of the embers in the fireplace and the ghostly howl of the sea breeze squeezing through the cracks in the stone windows, which suppressed the dying embers in the hearth, casting shifting, unpredictable shadows on the cold, rough stone floor.

Corren Greyjoy's towering frame seemed to have its mast removed, the majesty of the Seastone King receding like the tide. He slumped heavily back into the throne carved from massive whale bones and black reefs, the leather creaking softly against his knuckles. Now, he resembled an exhausted old seal, battered by waves against the rocks, stripped of the ferocity of its struggle against the storm, leaving only the deep weariness etched by time and pressure. His rough, rock-like fingers unconsciously traced the cool rim of his earthenware goblet, the amber mead inside reflecting the flickering embers. His gaze, carrying a scrutiny born of a burden's release and an indescribable complexity, passed over the swaying light and shadow, landing on the small figure at the far end of the long table.

"Speak," Corren's slightly hoarse voice broke the silence. He took a sip of mead, the sweet liquid sliding down his throat, but it couldn't dispel the heaviness in his heart. "The storm has subsided for now. Now, tell me with your eyes what you see?"

Euron looked up, and the strangely colored vortex seemed to be ignited, burning silently. "Father, I heard the waves crashing against the shore, and I saw the jagged rocks. But the loudest sound did not come from the quarrels of the Iron Islands." His childlike voice was clear and crisp, yet carried a chilling quality that seemed to transcend time and space. Each word was like an icicle, frosted with salt, striking the empty stone wall. "It came from King's Landing. From Aerys Targaryen, who sat atop the twisted iron thorns, called the 'Mad King' by fear and hatred."

Corren's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, and the fingers stroking his wine glass paused slightly. He didn't interrupt, but his hawk-like eyes, which had seen countless storms, became even deeper, like the unfathomable surface of the sea before a storm.

The child's voice suddenly took on a strange, ethereal quality, as if it didn't come from him, but from some ancient, vast place: "Father, last night... I dreamt of the Drowning God." He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the invisible tides, "His robes surged with boundless deep blue, his fingers pointed to the scarlet sky to the south... He said: 'Look, the red dragon of King's Landing is frantically gnawing at its own tail! The lion's golden mane will eventually be soaked with its own blood! Ravens, carrying venomous snakes, quietly build their nests in the shadow of power. When the horns of winter sound, only a fleet linked by iron chains can crush the frozen sea.'"

Corren's fingers froze completely on the cold ceramic cup. An indescribable chill crept up his spine. The maesters of Pike had countless times tried to explain Euron's rare heterochromia with "birthmarks" or "coincidence," but now, this dreamlike prophecy, carrying the unique, chilling pressure of the deep sea, made him waver for the first time regarding the maester's unwavering explanation. The firelight reflected in the mead in the cup flickered violently in his eyes.

"Explain yourself." His voice was low and hoarse, like gravel rubbing against rocks, each syllable heavy with emotion.

Euron's childlike voice regained its almost cold calm, as if reciting a bloody chronicle that had been predetermined: "The rebels of Duskwood, even those who laid down their weapons and knelt in surrender, were thrown into the eternal green flames. Their cries were the dirge of the Mad King. The remnants of the Blackfire remnants, bound to the iron thorns he claimed to rule, were roasted alive in the wildfire, their skin charred and flesh rotten... The Iron Throne groaned, twisted, and deformed in that hellfire—not the forging of victory, but the foundation of centuries of Targaryen rule, which he himself threw into the flames that would burn everything!" His fingertips traced a twisted, charred mark on the tiny grains of salt on the table, as if symbolizing the scorched throne. "Ser Barristan Selmy, the knight who pulled him back from the hell of Duskwood… his pleas, his meager loyalty, barely saved the life of a three-year-old child from the Mad King's madness. If not for that…" Euron's voice held a chilling pity, "even that last vestige of his own bloodline would have been severed. Is this mercy? Or a deeper, more desperate madness?"

Koren's breath seemed to catch in his throat. His tall frame slumped in the chair, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his face. Those bloody rumors, those deliberately obscured yet chilling fragments of news from King's Landing, were now strung together by a five-year-old child in such clear, cold, and penetrating language, forming a horrifying picture. He seemed to return to the oppressive Red Keep, to see the dragon banner fluttering atop the tower, to the menacing silhouette of the Iron Throne, and to the king with his flowing blond hair, his eyes gleaming with a maddening light like shattered glass. On his knuckles, an old scar throbbed—the mark left by the golden cup Iris had inexplicably hurled in a rage during an audience a year earlier, a first imprint of madness.

“He became obsessed with fire,” Euron continued, a chilling sneer in his voice, “commanding that fire mage Rosart, who climbed to his position by licking sores, to bury countless wildfire pots beneath King’s Landing, beneath the foundations of the Red Keep, like eggs for a dragon. That wasn’t a bulwark to protect the kingdom, Father,” he raised his right eye, his icy blue pupil reflecting the fire, yet devoid of warmth, “that was a grave buried beneath his own throne, waiting to be lit! A cremation he dug for himself, for the entire Targaryen dynasty!”

He paused, his left eye's darkness seeming to absorb all the surrounding light. His voice, lower yet more piercing, spoke: "Queen Leila, his wife, imprisoned in the cold stone chambers of Maegor's Tower, accused of... having an affair with Tywin Lannister?" The question was filled with chilling sarcasm. "The wrath of Doran Martell of Dorne has long been boiling in the blood of House Martell! This imposed humiliation is like a poisoned spear thrust into the Dornish sun; the wound will only fester and ooze pus, with no chance of healing!"

Corren's Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty. He recalled the cryptic yet chilling letter he had recently received from Prince Doran of Dorne. The Mad King's actions were tearing apart, burning away, and reducing to choking ashes the network of alliances that the dragons had built over centuries with blood and fire, marriage and promises.

“The slightest disturbance,” Euron’s slender fingers tapped lightly on the salt, producing a subtle yet unsettling rustling sound, like the pendulum of a countdown clock, “a delayed tax payment, a careless remark, even a fleeting glance… could be the fuse that ignites the next pyre. Guards, commoners, criminals, noble lords… the eerie green flames of wildfires consuming the living have become the lingering shadow of death over King’s Landing.” He leaned forward slightly, his small body appearing unusually resolute in the enormous chair. “He abolished the ancient system of aristocratic deliberation.” His rule only trusted those jesters who crawled out of the mud, and those "loyal servants" who knelt at his feet, licking the foul sores on his fingers to survive. "Father," his voice carried a heavy, judgmental tone, "this is not rule. This is a cauldron of deadly poison, simmered in fear and madness! Beneath that boiling lid lie countless chains of loyalty, forcibly pulled and on the verge of collapse, mountains of dry tinder ready to explode at the slightest spark! He thought the flames would forge terrifying chains, but he didn't know the sparks had already fallen—waiting only for a gust of wind from fate!"

Euron's childlike voice echoed and collided in the empty, cold stone hall, each word like a cold hammer, heavily striking the anvil of reality, producing a chilling echo. Corinth fell into a long silence. His gaze shifted from Euron's all-seeing little face to the last struggling flame in the fireplace. The flickering orange-red shifted and distorted in his eyes, overlapping and merging with the terrifying green flames he had heard of, the flames that had consumed the surrendered citizens of Duskvalley. The image of the Mad King, through his young son's cold, almost cruel analysis, had never been presented to him so clearly, so concretely, so despairingly—a madman sitting atop a mountain of gunpowder barrels, frantically waving torches, the fuse already burned to its end.

"This mad fire," Euron's voice suddenly rose, carrying a sharp edge that pierced through the fog, "is burning far more than just the Red Keep of King's Landing! Its sparks have already been carried by ominous winds and splashed across the dry woodpile of Westeros!" His fingers moved quickly across the rough map outlined by salt grains, marking each powder keg about to explode.

"The North!" His fingertip slammed heavily on the spot representing Winterfell. "The Stark family, whose bloodline runs with the honor of the ancient icefields! The Mad King's atrocities—burning the living, imprisoning the innocent, and wantonly trampling on noble dignity—are completely incompatible with the honor and principles of the North, frozen for millennia! Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, the Warden of the North known for his unwavering integrity, has already, on more than one public occasion, hurled the title of 'Mad King' at the Iron Throne!" Varys's bird... "My sons, these rebellious words will surely reach the depths of the Red Keep. Do you know the Mad King's reaction?" Euron's lips curled into a cold smile. "He smashed the Dragonbone Crown, a symbol of royal power passed down from Aegon the Conqueror!" He paused, letting this horrifying symbolic act fester in the cold air. "Father, this is not merely anger; it is a utter desecration of his own bloodline, a utter blasphemy against the glory of the Conqueror! The fangs of the wolves of the North have been silently sharpened!"

"The Westerlands!" His finger slashed sharply towards Casterly Rock. "Tywin Lannister! His wife, Lady Joanna..." The name carried a heavy weight in his mouth. "Her death, though lacking conclusive evidence against the Mad King, casts a lingering shadow, like the golden dust that never dissipates beneath Casterly Rock! Not to mention the years of humiliation etched into his very being—treating the richest and most powerful lord of the Seven Kingdoms like a jester! 'Lannisters always pay their debts,' Father. This is not merely a proverb, but a vow etched into our very bones! Every coin of the mountain of gold accumulated at Casterly Rock is soaked with cold hatred—hatred for the Mad King, for that crumbling Iron Throne! This hatred is more flammable than wildfire, heavier than gold itself!"

"Dorn!" The fingertips finally landed on the blazing south sun. "Princess Elia Martell is about to marry into the Red Keep, becoming Prince Rhaegar's bride. However, her mother-in-law, the esteemed Queen Leila, is imprisoned in Maegor's Tower, branded with the stigma of adultery, suffering endless humiliation! The pride of the Dornish is like their spears under the blazing desert sun, unyielding and unbreakable! The Mad King's disdain and harm towards House Martell has already pushed their loyalty, built on this marriage alliance, to the brink of collapse, as fragile as a spider's web in the wind!"