Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 356 Setting Sail – Midsummer Islands

The spring breeze, carrying the salty scent of the sea, swept over the towering towers and rocks of Pike Place City.

As the weather warmed and the ocean currents shifted, the appointed day finally arrived.

Under a leaden sky, the priests of the drowning god ascended the steepest sea cliff. Their coarse linen robes fluttered in the sea wind. The high priest, at the head of the group, held a sacred staff carved from driftwood, its shaft weathered and worn by time and saltwater.

He didn't immediately look up at the churning sea. Instead, he raised his head, his grey-blue eyes, which seemed to pierce through the mist, gazing at the trails of drifting clouds and the arcs of circling seabirds. He was reading, reading the chapters written by the wind and the water, listening to the ancient whispers from the deep sea that only those favored by the gods could capture.

In the long silence, only the roar of the waves crashing against the rock walls echoed. All the accompanying priests and Ironborn warriors held their breath, as if each breath would disturb this sacred communion.

Finally, the high priest slowly raised his holy staff and dipped it into the surging white waves below the cliff. When he raised it again, the water droplets dripping from the tip of the staff faintly gleamed with a metallic sheen.

"God has revealed it!" The high priest turned, his voice not loud, yet piercing the wind like a conch shell horn, clearly reaching everyone's ears: "The tide will turn to a southwest wind at dawn three days from now. When the first ray of sunlight pierces the clouds and illuminates the highest spire of Pike, that will be the starting point of the journey chosen for us by the Drowned God, the moment when the waves will carry our longship!"

Three days later.

The time for departure has come. The priests of the drowning god, following the footsteps passed down for thousands of years in the Iron Islands, arrive among the reefs where the waves crash against the shore to perform the solemn "sea blessing".

The leading priest held a dark, floating wooden bowl and scooped up seawater churning with white foam.

The warriors, arranged in neat rows by "ship," stood bare-chested and muscular, as the priest poured salty water, carrying the chill of early spring, over their heads. The water droplets, like icy arrows, struck their bronze skin, meandering down their weathered scars and taut muscles.

The priest's aged and hoarse voice rang out amidst the wind and waves, each word heavy as iron: "The dead shall not die."

More priests joined the ranks, splashing seawater onto the Ironborn warriors' bodies, axes, spears, and shields.

The water shimmered on the cold iron, accompanied by a low, unified roar: "We will rise again!"

The sound started low and deep, then coalesced into a breathtaking wave.

As the priest poured the last drop of seawater onto the sharp prow of the long, narrow warship, symbolizing the drowning god cutting through the waves alongside this wooden hull, thousands upon thousands of voices finally broke free from the storm's restraints, transforming into a furious roar that tore through the sea and sky: "Its power will be even greater!"

"The dead live on!"

The shouts rose in waves, seemingly not from flesh and blood, but from the deep pulse of the sea itself. They drowned out the howling wind, shattered the drifting clouds, and even the earth beneath their feet trembled. At this moment, every Ironborn's eyes burned with the same flame—not a longing for life, but a thirst for conquest and glory, an unyielding will that, even if plunged into the abyss, the soul would return with the next tide.

In the solemn sacrificial ceremony, the priests began the final steps.

The lead priest held aloft a clay pot carved with ancient patterns, filled with deep red wine. Facing the roaring sea, his voice, desolate yet piercing through the wind and rain, cried out: "O Drowning God! Drink freely from this cup, accept our offering!" The priest tilted the pot, and the crimson liquid gushed into the sea like blood, instantly swallowed by the rolling waves. "Give your children strength, and guide our longships to victory!"

The priest stepped back to the shore, stood behind Euron, and bowed slightly.

Euron Greyjoy, the commander-in-chief of this expedition, stepped forward and walked toward his giant ship named "Zhiyuan".

Under everyone's watchful eyes, he took out a piece of meat, carefully roasted with sea salt and still steaming hot—the most substantial and precious offering.

Euron did not throw the food into the sea. Instead, he bent down and solemnly placed it beneath the sharp, blade-like figurehead of the "Zhiyuan." This was not an offering to a distant god, but an invitation for the god to join them.

"May you be with me!" Euron's deep voice was clearly heard in the sea breeze, both a declaration and a covenant: "Together we will witness the glory we are about to win."

Euron Greyjoy turned, the sea breeze whipping his dark cloak. He stood firm on the shore, as unshakeable as a rock, all eyes of the Ironborn fixed upon him.

With a clear clang, he drew his longsword—Ame no Habakiri—raised it high, its tip pointing directly at the churning clouds in the sky, and with all his might, unleashed the battle cry that had been passed down for millennia: "The dead shall not die!"

The sound was like thunder, cleaving through the clamor of the wind and waves.

The next moment, thousands of warriors raised their axes and spears, responding to their lord with a voice that shook the earth: "We will rise again!"

Before the uproar subsided, even more fervent shouts erupted like a landslide and a tsunami.

This time, it was no longer a repetition of an ancient proverb, but a proud declaration of one's own bloodline and destiny: "Iron Seed! Iron Seed! Iron Seed!"

Each shout was accompanied by the thunderous clang of weapons striking each other, and the entire coastline trembled in this primal and violent rhythm.

In the midst of this deafening frenzy, Euron suddenly swung his longsword toward the vast, boundless ocean that awaited conquest.

"Set off!!!"

No more words needed.

Like a flood bursting its banks, the Iron People roared their shared name as they surged toward the beach and leaped aboard the countless longships that were already poised to set sail.

The oars cut cleanly into the surging waves, and the fleet, like deadly arrows released from a bow, braved the wind and waves, heading anxiously towards their battlefield.

Among the long ships cutting through the waves, two giant ships stand proudly.

On the left wing stands the "Wrath of the Grey Sea King," once the flagship of King Koron. Ancient runes are engraved on its towering superstructure, and its dark grey sails are weathered and worn. The old king left it to Balon when he departed for the capital—he knew that his son, who was stationed at home, needed it more than he, who was going to the court.

On the right wing was Euron's "Reach". Its prow resembled a twisted sea monster, its outstretched tentacles seemingly ready to seize everything in its path, and its dark red sails billowed in the wind, exuding an ominous yet powerful beauty.

The two giant ships, like the leading sea beasts, sailed side by side, mercilessly cleaving the dark green waves with their heavy prows.

Around them, three hundred newly built longships circled like a school of agile sharks, their gray sails almost obscuring the horizon.

The countless oars rose and fell, cutting through the water with a rhythmic, awe-inspiring roar.

This massive fleet is sailing against the wind and waves, resolutely heading south towards the legendary, rich, and warm summer islands.

Nearly 20,000 Iron People soldiers stood on the ship's side, their blades gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

The sea breeze carries the scent of distant lands and a silent declaration—a grand expedition has begun.