Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Every Wednesday afternoon, the top floor of the Bachelor's Tower is always filled with the scent of aged parchment, sour wine, and some deeper, more intellectual dust.

Sunlight streamed through the thick, stained-glass windows, its rays slicing into murky beams that illuminated the slowly drifting particles in the air. Euron Greyjoy, a child barely taller than the high-backed chair, was huddled in the enormous chair made of whalebone and ironwood, almost swallowed whole by the behemoth. Opposite him, Coron Greyjoy, King of the Seastone, sat as imposingly as a mountain, his rough fingers tracing the letter, recently delivered by ravens and bearing the bronze chain seal of the Citadel.

The message in the letter was heavy as lead: the long summer that had lasted for a full ten years was about to end, followed by at least three years of bitter cold (277AC-279AC).

"Eulen, what do you think?" Corin's voice was deep, like distant thunder. This wasn't asking a child's opinion, but testing the mind of an heir.

How can I read this? How can I possibly read this?! I'll read it lying down... A nonsensical idea from some distant time and space flashed through Euron's mind, bringing a sense of absurd detachment. But his heterochromatic eyes calmly swept over every rigorous and cold character on the letter, and he raised his eyes, his childlike voice clear and crisp, without the slightest hesitation: "The maesters of the Citadel have been observing the stars, recording the tides, and dissecting the clouds for thousands of years. Their predictions may occasionally have slight deviations, but they have never been completely wrong. This ten-year long summer is itself a defiance of the natural order, so the ensuing winter will surely correct all of this with double the severity." His small finger pointed to the prediction on the letter regarding the length of the winter, "Three years, perhaps that's a conservative estimate. The Iron Islands must stockpile enough food to last at least three years, and my suggestion is—the more the better. In the long winter, surplus grain is more powerful than surplus gold."

Corren nodded slowly, his jawline like a weathered reef. "We have a year left. The Roses of Highgarden are struggling to survive; their provisions will only flow to the Golden Dragons of King's Landing. The North and the Vale… their vast lands will only produce more hunger in winter." His gaze drifted to the grey-green sea beneath the gloom outside the window. "It seems only the Free Cities of the East and Pentos remain."

"Food, timber, and furs and grease that will keep our people warm in the icy sea," Euron interjected, his tone as if reciting a common trade list, "have always been our most important and frequent transactions with the outside world." Since news of the approaching winter spread like wildfire throughout the Seven Kingdoms, the masts at Iron Salt Harbor have grown denser day by day. Under Euron's behind-the-scenes coordination, the longship fleets belonging to the "Ice and Fire" trading company and various lords are traversing the Narrow Sea with unprecedented efficiency, like busy worker ants stockpiling food for their nests for the winter.

However, before the breath of winter truly touches the towering towers of Pyketown, a crucial matter concerning the Greyjoy family's bloodline and power urgently needs to be resolved—the marriage of their eldest son, Balon. In this archipelago where iron and blood are the laws, marriage is never a personal pleasure, but rather a family game. Especially for the heir to the Seastone King, his bride must be a sufficiently significant bargaining chip.

Winter lasts three years, and before it arrives, the marriage of Euron's brother Balon must be completed; otherwise, they will have to wait another three years. According to Westeros custom, the three years of winter are the best time to have children. Euron doesn't want to delay the birth of his nephew and niece...

The following day, Euron stood alone deep within the Greyjoy family's crypt. The cold, salty air swirled around the whale oil lamps that burned eternally on the stone walls, casting flickering shadows. His fingertips traced the inscriptions on the stone coffins, blurred by time and sea winds, feeling the ancient glory and death recorded therein. The five-year-old child's body appeared as small as a speck of dust beneath the massive, imposing statues of his ancestors, yet the calm calculation in his eyes was colder and harder than the ice at the deepest part of the crypt.

"Master." A soft yet clear voice broke the silence. Lisa appeared behind him unnoticed, like a ghost emerging from the shadows. She presented him with a roll of yellowed parchment, "The Harlow family information you requested."

Euron took the scroll, which slowly unfurled in his hands. Dense text and diagrams outlined the bloodline, power distribution, and recent undercurrents of another great Iron Islands family. His gaze finally settled on a name: Alanis Harlow—the sixteen-year-old niece of the family head, her mother from the Blacktes family, and her father an Iron Fleet captain who had died ten years earlier in battle at the Stepstone Islands.

"Tell me about her." Euron's voice was very soft, almost swallowed up by the roar of the waves crashing against the tomb's foundation.

Lisa lowered her eyes, the firelight dancing on her long eyelashes: "Her eyes are a rare light sea green, her hair a deep brown uncommon in the Iron Islands, like oak sunk to the depths. She can prepare medicine to cure high fevers at the still, and play melodies that evoke homesickness in sailors on her lyre. But last month, someone witnessed her precisely piercing the neck of a seagull stealing a catch from ten paces away with a skinning knife. Last year, she threw away the tokens of marriage proposals from both of Stonetley's sons."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on Euron's lips. Perfect. The close branch of the Harlow family, closely connected to Blacktes through the maternal line, possessed both a certain exotic cultural refinement and the inherent ferocity of the Ironborn. More importantly, the Harlow family controlled the Iron Islands' vast knowledge base, and their fleets were more interested in trade routes than plundering ancient trails. This marriage would cleverly combine Greyjoy's toughness with Harlow's wisdom and wealth. Moreover, in the predetermined course of history, this Alanis was destined to be Baron's Rock Wife, bearing him offspring who would inherit the Greyjoy name and his wild nature. Euron had no intention of altering this already written chapter; he even looked forward to the nephews and nieces destined to be born.

Three days later, the training ground was filled with sweat, the clanging of metal against metal, and heavy breathing. Baron Greyjoy was furiously hacking a heavy battle axe into an oak dummy, splinters flying everywhere. Each swing was imbued with the unvented energy of the nineteen-year-old and the pent-up frustration that had accumulated since his father issued the "New Rules of the Ancient Road." Steam rose from his bronze skin, and his muscular back resembled a restless volcano.

"Brother." A calm child's voice, completely out of place with his current state of mind, rang out.

Baron paused, panting, and turned around to see Euron standing on the sidelines, holding a small wine barrel with iron hoops.

"Try this." Euron handed over the barrel of wine.

Baron took it suspiciously, uncorked it, and took a big gulp. A strong burning sensation instantly rushed to his throat, making him cough involuntarily, but his eyes lit up: "Dorn's Red Venom?! Where did you get this, little...?"

"It was sent by Alanis Harlotto." Euron blinked, a sly glint in his heterochromatic eyes. "She said that of all the islands, only the eldest son of House Greyjoy deserves this blood-igniting spirit."

Baron's ears turned red at a visible speed. As if he had been burned, he rudely shoved the barrel back into Euron's arms, deliberately raising his voice to cover his momentary embarrassment: "Hmph! Those bookworms and accountants of the Harlow family..."

“She’s not.” Euron slowly pulled a dagger from his pocket. The dagger was exquisitely crafted, but the handle was wrapped with non-slip seaweed fibers, a strange yet practical design. “Look at this—last month near Kuroshio Island, a Mil sailor tried to steal her amber necklace, and she used this to precisely pierce his throat.” He paused, then added, “A fatal blow.”

Baron instinctively softened his movements as he took the dagger. His fingertips traced the cold blade, and he could almost smell a faint, lingering stench of rust. He stared silently at the blood-stained weapon, as if seeing something else through it.

"If nothing unexpected happens, she'll soon be your rock wife, my sister-in-law." Euron's tone carried the undisguised teasing unique to brothers. "You've met Alanis, brother. In terms of looks, courage, and that spirit, she's a perfect match for you, a reef who only knows how to chop. It's a gift from the sea god. I really don't know what kind of dog shit you ate to get such good luck~~~"

"You brat! Is it any of your business how you get involved?" Baron, like a wildcat whose tail had been stepped on, instantly replaced his nascent, unfamiliar emotions with familiar rage. "Looks like it's been a while since you've been 'intimate,' are you itching for a beating? Come on! Let your dear brother see if your tongue is any more nimble than your skills!"

Before he finished speaking, he kicked a heavy wooden axe used for practice at Euron, then drew another axe with his other hand and brought it down with a fierce gust of wind! The force was fierce and merciless, yet it miraculously avoided all vital points.

Euron deftly dodged to the side, the wind whipped by the wooden axe ruffling the black hair on his forehead. He was unarmed, only a knowing smile playing on his lips, and began to contend with his enraged brother on the gravel-strewn training ground.

For a moment, the only sounds in the arena were the muffled thuds of clashing wooden objects, Baron's roar, the whistling of wind as Euron occasionally dodged lightly, and a certain... hardcore and passionate way of "communication" unique to the Greyjoy brothers of the Iron Islands.