Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 385 Becoming King - Complaint

The salty sea breeze, carrying the sweet fragrance of hibiscus, forcefully entered every crevice of the Coral Castle, tearing the red silk hanging in the square until it fluttered loudly.

This city, built from the remains of millions of coral polyps, is bathed in the flowing honey-colored morning light.

Acacia trees stubbornly peek out from the cracks in the city wall, their delicate white blossoms fluttering like snowflakes in the wind. In the harbor, the masts of canoes stand densely packed like a forest, and all eyes are focused on the "Temple of Love and Desire" in the center, which is covered with seashells and mother-of-pearl.

There, a new flag is about to be raised.

Jalabar Sohr stood at the edge of the terrace, his bronze fingers unconsciously stroking the short sword at his waist. The mother-of-pearl inlaid on the scabbard gleamed moistly in the morning light.

His gaze swept over the throngs of people below—fishermen, merchants, and artisans from various islands, all dressed in their treasured, clean linen garments, their hair adorned with flowers symbolizing their homelands: the fiery coral lilies of Corona Island, the melancholy jacaranda of Misty Island, and the tenacious edelweiss of Ash Island. Their faces were tilted back, their throats rumbling with muffled cheers, like waves crashing against the silent stone walls of a castle at high tide.

"It's time to change the old flag."

Tessia Greyjoy's voice came from behind, blending naturally into the commotion.

She wore a long, indigo linen dress, the silver-embroidered waves at the hem billowing with her every step. The pearl hairpin in her hair gleamed warmly; she had personally chosen it from the offerings at the Temple of the Tide the previous night. She said she always carried the blessings of the Drowned God to greet the new dawn.

The door slowly opened to the sound of bells and chimes.

Twelve high priests dressed in feathered ceremonial robes filed out carrying bronze trays, on which were placed coral roses, mother-of-pearl, and soil and seawater offered by various islands.

Jalaba and Tessaya climbed the steps side by side, each step treading on the "path of destiny" paved with seashells.

When the two stood before the bronze cauldron in front of the Temple of Poseidon, Tessaia took a torch and lit the spices piled inside the cauldron.

Wisps of smoke rose, transforming into a crimson-gold cloud that drifted toward the stained-glass window in the dome.

The window was painted with an overlay of old and new flags: the left half was a complex display of red flowers and intertwined branches, while the right half was a menacing golden sea monster. The two were intertwined in the cloud patterns, making it impossible to distinguish between them.

Jalaba removed the leather helmet he had worn during the war, revealing his forehead, which had been tanned to a honey color.

The high priest presented a crown carved from a single piece of mother-of-pearl from the South Sea, with a base inlaid with pearls from seven different islands, symbolizing the seven regions of the Iron Islands.

In the center of the crown, a flower carved from red coral and a golden sea monster are joined head to tail, which is a miniature of the new flag.

"Jalabar Sol, you quelled the flames of war with courage and reconciled differences with wisdom. Would you be willing to dedicate your life to protecting every wave and every piece of coral in the Summer Islands?" The high priest's voice was hoarse with the ravages of time.

"I do." Jalapa knelt on one knee, pressing his palm into the sea sand on the altar. It was sea sand from various islands, mixed with coral fragments and shell powder.

Tessaya stepped forward and placed another crown in her hair. This crown was lighter, woven with silver threads into waves, and adorned with pearls and small sapphires, like the tides surging under the moonlight.

"Tessaya Greyjoy, you heal wounds with your kindness and plan for the future with your vision. Would you like to share this burden with me?"

""

"I do." Her voice was softer than the sea, yet more resolute than the rocks. A thunderous roar erupted from the square.

Fishermen pounded their oars, merchants rocked their crates, and even the shyest girls shouted at the top of their lungs, "King! Queen!"

The sea breeze blows, and the new flag flutters like a golden-red wave. In the crowd, someone is singing an ancient ballad, the tune of which he has never heard before, yet it warms his heart. The song goes: "Red flowers are the roots, sea monsters are the fins, and the summer ship will henceforth resonate in unison."

More and more voices joined in, shouting and celebrating the birth of the King of the Summer Islands, and the newfound protection of Greyjoy.

After Jalabar Zor became king, a common flag now flies over every one of the scattered islands of the Summer Islands.

The fiery sunrise on Corona Island, the silver-gray anchors on Misty Island, the inky black volcanoes on Ash Island—beyond these flags passed down through generations, the masts of every harbor and the towers of every fortress now fly the battle flag embroidered with a golden sea monster.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The Iron Islands did not insist on this; it was not a cold command, but rather an unspoken choice among all the island lords.

This was not out of fear, but a wise choice.

After the Battle of the Stone Steps Islands, everyone who traveled the seas knew of the Iron Islands' vengeful nature, the title of Lord of the Sea Beasts and Crown of the Sea Skeletons, and the Iron Islands' ability to control sea king-like behemoths.

From then on, the golden krait flag of the Iron Islands represented the invincible power of the sea, and no one dared to invade it.

The menacing sea monster pattern unfurled in the wind, and the ever-present threat began to recede. The human trafficker fleets that sailed the waterways turned their ships around upon seeing the flag; the cunning merchants toned down their arrogance; and even the most rampant pirates, upon catching a glimpse of that gold in their scopes, would raise their flags in alarm to avoid any misunderstanding.

This flag is a silent talisman, a barrier woven with the blood and heads of enemies.

The echoes of the coronation cannons still reverberated across the sea, while longships in the Iron Islands opened their hungry cabins.

Bare-chested sailors moved between the gangplank and the dock, forming a flowing chain of flesh and blood.

Buckets of cool, fresh water rolled between strong arms, making a dull thud; wooden crates laden with tropical pineapples and mangoes were steadily passed around, their vibrant colors gleaming like jewels under the blazing sun; and there were also meats carefully cured with sea salt, exuding an enticing yet dangerous aroma.

All of this was methodically swallowed into the deep belly of the longship, accumulating the energy needed for life in preparation for the upcoming, more distant voyage.

In the throne room of the Red Keep, on the Iron Throne, candlelight flickered as Robert Baratheon sat high on a throne forged from countless swords, a heavy crown pressing against his sweat-drenched brow. His thick fingers tapped the cold blades, producing dull thuds.

Below, messengers from the free city-states across the Narrow Sea flowed like a river adorned with silk and jewels. The Reiss wore flowing pale purple robes and exuded the scent of perfume; the Tyrothy sported exaggerated dyed beards, their rings adorned with gems the size of pigeon eggs; the Braavos representative wore a serene black velvet robe, a badge symbolizing the Iron Bank pinned to his chest; and the Myr were wrapped in intricate brocade, their fingers nervously intertwined.

"Your Majesty," the Braavos man stepped forward, his voice as precise and calm as counting coins, "the fleet of the Iron Islands, those longships flying the golden krait flag, are wantonly tearing apart our ancient pact. They are not merchants, they are wildfire."

The Rissian interjected, his voice sweet as poison: "The friendship between the Seven Kingdoms and us is being crushed by their dragon bones. Trade routes are cut off, harbors are in panic, and even insurance premiums have increased fivefold."

"They now occupy the Summer Isles," the representative's voice sharpened, "like vultures alighting on a sumptuous feast. Today it's her, but who will it be tomorrow?"

The group exchanged glances, and finally, the Braavos man delivered the final summary, cold and certain: "We implore—"

Your Majesty must restrain your vassals. If the ambitions of the Iron Islands are allowed to grow unchecked, we may have no choice but to reconsider all ties with the Iron Throne in order to protect ourselves—trade, friendship, loans, and all other relations.

Inside the throne room of the Red Castle, the air seemed to have solidified into amber.

The words of the Free City-States' envoys still echoed beneath the dome, but Robert on the Iron Throne had already abandoned his previous nonchalant demeanor. Robert's gaze swept over the group of richly dressed envoys, his massive body shifting uneasily on the throne as he coldly stared at the representatives who dared to threaten him.

Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, spoke first, his tone smooth: "Your Excellencies, you should know that all actions taken by the Iron Islands in the Summer Isles are the Iron Islands' own decisions and have nothing to do with the will of the Iron Throne."

"Ha! The Hand of the King is right!"

A short, loud sneer broke the brief silence. King Coron, arms crossed, his bronze face etched with undisguised contempt, retorted in a booming voice, "I'd like to ask you, did we Iron Islands attack your city-states, or plunder your merchant ships? As far as I know, Euron went to help his friend restore his kingdom at the request of Prince Jalaba of Redflower Valley, acting on a chivalrous act. What business is it of yours?"

Tywin Lannister, who had been standing silently by, took a half-step forward. His voice was as calm as a frozen lake, yet it sent a chill down everyone's spine: "It's not entirely unrelated." His self-glow slowly swept over the envoys, and he said coldly, "After all, some people are used to capturing civilians from those islands to use as slaves. Duke Euron has merely cut off one of their sources of income."

Tywin paused slightly, his pale green eyes finally settling on the Braavos representative. "As for the Iron Bank, there's no need to threaten the Iron Throne with cutting off ties. We already have our own bank."

Just as the messengers turned pale at these sharp and incisive responses, a burst of unrestrained laughter suddenly erupted from the throne.

Robert laughed so hard he almost fell over, as if he had just enjoyed a wonderful comedy.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" His booming voice reverberated throughout the hall. "Every word you uttered today, every single syllable, will be relayed verbatim to Euron Greyjoy." He leaned forward, a hint of cruel mockery in his eyes, staring at the increasingly grim faces of the crowd below. "I believe he will give you a perfectly appropriate reply."

As soon as the words were spoken, the representatives on the other side of the narrow sea froze on the spot, the last bit of color draining from their faces. Their expressions were as if they had seen the beacon fire they had lit with their own hands finally burn their own city walls.