Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Euron ultimately chose to confront the situation directly.

Inside the study of the King of Pike City, the air was heavier than the storm-brewing sea outside the window. The whale oil lamp cast a flickering halo on Coron Greyjoy's massive black stone desk, illuminating the open nautical charts, the half-rolled trade manifests, and the silent clash of wills between the three family members—no, almost the entire heart of Greyjoy.

Euron Greyjoy, only seven years old, stood as steady as a sea reef. His clear voice pierced through his mother Sansa Blacktex's rapid breathing.

"Father, Mother. The long night is coming, lasting three years. I don't want to waste these precious thirteen hundred days and nights hiding behind the thick stone walls of Pike, existing like an onion in a cellar, waiting to be slowly consumed." His words had long surpassed his age: "Waiting is itself a kind of death."

King Coron did not answer immediately. His thick fingers unconsciously caressed a bronze paperweight on the table, an artwork shaped like the agonizing image of a drowning person. His gaze was like an abyss, scrutinizing his youngest, most enigmatic, and most uncontrollable son.

"I know your mind is filled with thoughts far beyond your years, like you're possessed by the Drowning God," Corren finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse from the sea breeze. "But your body, Euron, is only seven years old. A seven-year-old child, on a narrow sea in winter, a single wave, a gust of cold wind, can wipe away all your 'difference.' If you were five years older, or even three, and possessed shoulders that could withstand the storm, my answer might be different."

Euron's lips curled into a faint, almost mocking smile, his heterochromatic eyes gleaming with an inhuman light under the lamplight. "Father, have you forgotten? They call me 'Son of the Drowned God,' some even whisper in the tavern that I'm the 'Grey Sea King' returned from the deep sea… Do you think the sea will easily reclaim its creation?"

"Get out!" Corren slammed his fist on the table, the paperweight jumping up. "Don't try to fool me with those fishermen and salt concubines talk! You are my son, you have my blood, not some fucking myth!" His roar carried a kind of agitation at having a taboo touched, and a deeper unease—sometimes he couldn't tell whether his son was truly gifted or if something ancient had truly taken over his body.

Faced with his father's anger, Euron's expression suddenly became extremely pragmatic, even somewhat cold, instantly dispelling the mysterious atmosphere. "Of course I'm afraid of death, Father, terrified." His frank admission was chilling. "That's why I won't jump into the icy sea unprepared."

He stepped forward, his small hand resting on the coastline of Essos on the nautical chart. "Pentos has the largest warehouse of our 'Ice and Fire' Merchant Guild and at least a hundred loyal Ironborn. The three alleys of Rhys are filled with spies who serve us. We have trading partners in Valantis, and even further afield in Kohor. I'm not going on a wandering journey; I'm going to inspect the businesses we already have."

His finger pointed to several key locations, his tone as calm as if he were stating an account: "'Crackjaw' Dagmore will lead his longship fleet 'Drinking' and two other fast ships, a total of three hundred of the bravest and most loyal Ironborn as my guards. They have drunk their fill of saltwater and swore to protect me with their lives."

He paused, then raised his eyes, his gaze sharp. "Furthermore, I've had Mario Romis—you know, the Braavos man who handles our 'gray' affairs—pre-hire a squadron of elite mercenaries at a hefty sum. A hundred seasoned professional warriors will join me at Pentos to provide shore protection. I'm not going to wage war, Father; I'm simply going to… secure our trade routes, inventory our warehouses, and ensure that gold and supplies continue to flow to the Iron Islands like blood, even in winter. This is safer and more important than any plunder."

"No! Absolutely not!" Lady Sansa could no longer contain herself. She stood up abruptly, her face ashen, her voice shrill with fear. "You're only seven! Seven! Essos? That's a place teeming with slave traders, assassins, and plague! They'll kidnap you and sell you to those Eastern wizards as a medicinal ingredient! Or they'll let you die of fever in some filthy inn! I won't let you go! Not anywhere! You'll stay in Pyke, where I can see you!"

As a mother, what she saw was not a grand vision, but a small body about to be swallowed up by the terrifying East.

Euron turned to his mother, his tone softening, yet carrying an unwavering resolve that seemed particularly chilling on a child's face. "Mother, I won't go now. I promise you. I will wait until the first real snowflake falls on the towers of Pyke, until the sea begins to freeze over, until Westeros is officially in hibernation. Only then will I depart." His promise sounded more like a countdown.

The study fell into a deathly silence, with only the crackling of the fireplace and the howling of the sea breeze against the high windows.

King Coron's gaze shifted from his wife's trembling face to his young son's calm, almost indifferent expression. He saw something deep within those eyes—not the capriciousness of a child, nor the recklessness of a youth, but a cold, precisely calculated ambition and… a hunger for a larger stage. He realized this was not a discussion, but an announcement.

After a long silence, the King of the Seastone let out a heavy sigh, a sound that seemed to emanate from the depths of the sea. "It seems," he said slowly, each word weighing heavily, "that you have made up your mind. Not as a son asking his father for permission, but as... a Greyjoy, announcing your actions."

Euron nodded slightly, not denying it. "Yes, Father."

Koren leaned back into the massive stone chair, shadows covering most of his face, only his eyes remaining sharp as knives. "Then," his voice regained its usual unquestionable authority, "be fully prepared before the first snowflake falls. I want to see the maintenance logs of every ship, the list and background of every guard, the details of every agreement with the mercenary group, the exact location and contact information of every supply point. Your plan must be as airtight as the scales of the Naga. Otherwise, even if I chain you to the altar of the Drowned God, I won't let you step out of Pike City."

This is not a blessing, but a command, a test. It is a final ultimatum from a father to his son, and also from the King of the Seastone to the "being" who may lead the family to the unknown seas.

Euron nodded and smiled, "Absolutely! I've said it before, I'm terrified of dying."