Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

As he was about to leave the hall, Euron suddenly remembered someone who might be of great use.

"Father," Euron's voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable penetrating power, "among the prisoners brought back by the 'Havoc', there was a Pentos merchant."

Koren's brow twitched slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

"His name is Mario. He deals in spices and Myrles smuggling and has some influence within the Pentos Merchant Guild." Euron's fingers tapped lightly on the table, the rhythm steady. "I want him to be our eyes."

"Eyes?" Corren's voice was as deep as the undercurrents of the deep sea.

"The merchant shipping routes, cargo lists, and guard configurations of free-trading city-states... this information is more valuable than the plunder itself." Euron raised his eyes, his left eye as black as an abyss that swallows light, and his right eye as icy blue as the polar regions where storms are frozen. "But merchants do not easily betray their city-states, so we need to ensure their loyalty."

Koren's knuckles tapped lightly on the armrest of the throne, his gaze sharp as a knife: "What do you intend to do?"

Euron's lips curled up slightly, revealing a cold smile that seemed out of place for his age: "Lisa has a poison called 'Siren's Kiss'." When discussing how to control those who might be disobedient in the Scholar's Tower, Lisa offered to share an ability she possessed in addition to her linguistic talent.

"Poison?" Corin's voice held a hint of scrutiny. "You've taken in a dangerous and mysterious girl."

"Yes, but she's my handmaid now, and I'll trust her." Euron's voice was calm, yet every word was icy. "'The Siren's Kiss' requires an antidote once a month, otherwise... the skin will fester, the bones will crumble, and one will die a more gruesome death than a slave in the saltworks."

Corren paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over Lisa, who stood silently in the shadows. The maid's emerald eyes were lowered, as unfathomable as the deep sea.

"Poison is only the first shackle," Euron continued. "The second is the Ironborn's blade."

"Iron Citizen's knife?"

"Two Ironborn, one acting as a merchant's guard in the open, the other lurking in Pentos, watching his shops, ships, and family. If he dares to betray him, he won't be the only one to die. He'll be in the shadows." Euron's voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable coldness. "Merchants value profit, but they fear death even more. Under double shackles, he'll be more obedient than even the most loyal Ironborn."

A sharp glint flashed in Corren's eyes. He slowly leaned back in his chair, his fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of his wine glass.

"Intelligence is more valuable than brute force," Euron said in a low voice. "If we can know in advance which merchant ships are carrying Braavos' adamantium, which fleets are poorly guarded, and which ports are laxly defended... our longships can hunt like sea monsters, striking with deadly accuracy and returning laden with spoils."

Corren's lips tightened slightly, his gaze fixed on Euron's face like an anchor. After a long while, his deep voice echoed in the stone hall:

"This matter is limited to this area only."

His gaze swept over Lisa and Maester Clegane in the corner, and the old maester's Adam's apple bobbed involuntarily as his imposing presence emanated from him.

"Lisa, Clergon, you are the gatekeepers of this secret. If even a whisper of it leaks out..." He didn't finish his sentence, but the killing intent in his voice froze the air.

Lisa bowed slightly, her posture respectful and silent. Clygon, on the other hand, was pale, his fingers tightly gripping the maester's necklace at his chest, as if it were his only talisman.

Corren's gaze finally returned to Euron, his deep voice carrying an almost cruel authority: "Go ahead and do it. Use your poison, use your Iron Citizens, to weave this web."

"The men sent to monitor him must be quick-witted, resourceful, and loyal. Father surely has such candidates in mind." Euron nodded slightly, a cold glint flashing in his heterochromatic eyes. Coron waved his hand, remained silent for a moment, and then slowly said, "The Ironborn are never short of such talent. Besides, old Wick is still better suited for fishing. Dagmore, he can be trusted; he will be your bodyguard from now on! Just give him instructions, and he will arrange everything properly."

Euron paused for a moment: "Does he no longer want to be the king of the Great Drinker?" — Ironman tradition: Every captain is the king of his ship.

"He could become king again at any time, but he'd rather be your shield and spear, which is exactly what you need," Corren said with a smirk. "So, stir up some waves and let me see what you're capable of!"

"Thank you for your trust, Father!"

The plan has been approved and is even more perfect than imagined.

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[Discovered Pike Island: Salt Flats Dungeon, earned 15 points]

Deep within the dungeons of Pike City, dampness and despair writhed like living creatures on the stone walls. The stench of salt, mold, and excrement mingled, creating a nauseating, viscous atmosphere. The flickering, dim light of torches barely pierced the thick darkness, illuminating rows of rusty iron bars behind which figures huddled like abandoned rags. Groans, coughs, and the occasional creaking of chains were the only sounds of the night.

In a relatively secluded, dark corner, a figure stood out conspicuously. His once-glorious brocade robes had long lost their luster, becoming filthy and tattered, stained with dirt and suspicious dark marks, several tears revealing an equally expensive lining underneath. But the exquisite tailoring, the remnants of intricate embroidery, and a faint gold thread at the collar still silently proclaimed his former dignity—a merchant from a free-trading city-state. Now, he huddled on the cold stone ground like a frightened shrimp, his last vestiges of dignity stripped away, replaced by a deep-seated fear and numb despair. He was the "prey" captured by the "Havoc" ship more than a month ago, now merely a lowly slave on the saltworks' list, his number vague, and at risk of being swallowed by the waves at any moment.

Euron Greyjoy appeared at the end of the passageway, like a ghost from another world. He wasn't wearing the dark green kraken robes that symbolized his status, but only a thick, dark gray cloak that almost blended into the shadows, its hood pulled low, obscuring most of his youthful face. Only when he raised his eyelids did his heterochromatic pupils suddenly light up in the shadow of the hood, like inhuman, cold flames igniting in the darkness. Lisa, like his silent shadow, stood half a step behind him, her emerald eyes unfathomable in the flickering torchlight, like an unfathomable whirlpool in the deep sea.

Dagmo stood beside Euron, one hand on his sword hilt, the other roughly flinging open the cell door. The grating metallic scraping made the merchant on the floor shudder, and Dagmo's gaping jaw made the merchant tremble with terror. As Dagmo turned to the side, he saw that standing in the doorway was a child. His cloudy eyes instantly filled with absurdity and a deeper confusion. A child? Deep in the dungeon? No, he was on the ship. It was him, the second son of the King of the Iron Islands?

Euron did not step into that filthy place. He stood at the doorway, his gaze beneath his hood like a precise scalpel, meticulously slicing through every line on the merchant's face: the deep-seated fear, the utterly extinguished pride, the remnants of mercenary instinct, and the most basic, almost instinctive, faint desire for survival. This desire, like the last glimmer of light in a drowning person's eye, was fragile and vulnerable, yet it was precisely the fulcrum Euron needed.

"Pentos?" Euron asked, his childlike voice clear yet carrying the penetrating chill of a dungeon, a cold statement without question.

The merchant let out a muffled whimper, nodded subconsciously, his chapped lips moving but unable to utter a clear sound.

"Do you know why you're still alive?" Euron's voice was flat and emotionless, as if he were talking about something unrelated to himself. "Because your tongue is more valuable than your bones."

A complex light, a mixture of astonishment, confusion, and a faint glimmer of hope, suddenly flashed in the merchant's cloudy eyes.

"Work for me." Euron was direct, without the slightest beating around the bush. "Not a slave, but... a tool. A talking, messenger tool." He leaned forward slightly, the shadow beneath his hood deepening, revealing only his captivatingly bright heterochromatic eyes. "I will let you go back. Back to your silks, spices, and gold. You will still be the respectable... Mario in the Pentos Merchant Guild, won't you?" He pronounced the man's name precisely, a detail that sent a shiver down the merchant's spine, as if pierced by invisible icy needles.

"But freedom comes at a price." Euron's voice suddenly turned cold, like the chilling winds of the North. He turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over Lisa behind him.

Lisa silently took a half-step forward, retrieving a small, unassuming leather pouch from the depths of her cloak. Her slender fingers moved with elegant precision, as if performing some mysterious ritual. She poured a tiny amount of dark red, viscous powder, resembling congealed blood, into her palm, and then dripped a drop of clear liquid from an even smaller crystal bottle. The instant the two met, an extremely faint yet nauseatingly sweet and eerie fragrance filled the air. The powder dissolved rapidly in the liquid, transforming into a deep purple, slightly wriggling, almost living substance. Lisa dipped a hair-thin silver needle into it, and the deep purple venom condensed at the tip into a tiny, eerily shimmering dewdrop.

"Open your mouth." Lisa's voice was as soft as a feather, yet carried an undeniable command.

The merchant was terrified, desperately trying to shrink back, his throat emitting hoarse sounds of resistance. Dagmo roughly stepped forward, his large, iron-like hand gripping his jaw, forcing his mouth open. The deep purple poison bead, gleaming deadly in the torchlight, was precisely flicked into the depths of his throat by the silver needle. An indescribable, burning, and icy pain instantly spread through his esophagus; the merchant coughed violently, gagged, and tears streamed down his face, as if he were about to vomit up his insides.

"Don't waste your energy." Euron's voice was like a judgment. "'The Siren's Kiss.' Lisa's masterpiece. It's now in your blood. One month." He held up a small finger. "Before each full moon, you must be at the designated location on time to receive the antidote for that month. One day late..." He paused, looking at the merchant's face contorted with pain and fear, "You will watch your skin turn inch by inch the ashen white of a dead fish, then peel away like rotting seaweed; you will feel your blood boiling in your veins, as if being filled with molten lead; finally, your bones will become brittle from the inside out, crumbling like weathered rocks at the slightest touch." Every detail he described was like a cold blade, cutting into the merchant's nerves.

"No...no..." The merchant collapsed to the ground, as if all his bones had been removed, with only instinctive fear supporting his breathing.

"The antidote is a gift," Euron continued, his voice regaining its previous cold calm. "And your 'loyalty' will be overseen by the Ironborn of Pyke. They will watch you like seagulls watch a dead fish on the shore. Your shops, your fleet, your mistresses… everything you cherish will be within their sight. Any act of disloyalty," his voice suddenly plummeted to freezing point, "will not only result in a agonizing death, but everything you have in Pentos, everything you cherish, will be reduced to ashes in the wildfire. Believe me, the wrath of the Iron Islands is faster and more devastating than wildfire."

Naked poison control, coupled with the omnipresent shadow of the Iron Citizens, formed a double-layered web of death. The merchant watched the child calmly inflicting torture in the gloomy dungeon; the child's heterochromatic eyes were devoid of emotion, only displaying a cold-blooded control and an indifferent understanding of humanity. He felt his soul freeze under that gaze. Refuse? Instantly into hell. Agree? Stepping into an endless abyss of poison and violence. Driven by extreme fear and a desperate yearning for a sliver of hope, that once proud head finally, heavily and desperately, nodded.

"Very good." Euron's voice was devoid of any emotion. "Lisa will tell you how to contact him, the location of the first antidote, and... the first 'message' you need to pass on when you get back." He turned, his dark gray cloak drawing a resolute arc in the damp dungeon corridor, leaving the merchant, who looked completely hollowed out, slumped in the filth, breathing heavily. The air was filled with the cloying scent of poison and a despair more pungent than the smell of the sea, a despair of utter surrender.

Mario, the free-trading city-state, will be Euron's first nail, but not his last. In the near future, every major port will be under Euron's watchful eye.