Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 399 Blood and Reward

In the laws of the Iron Islands, the distribution of spoils follows ancient and cruel rules.

The greatest credit always goes to the warriors who behead the enemy. Each head is a bloody bargaining chip, its value lying not only in its quantity but also in the identity of its original owner—the head of a pirate captain is worlds apart from that of an ordinary henchman.

These heads would be carefully counted and evaluated, and eventually converted into gold, silver, goods, or other items.

But this bloody reward doesn't only favor the vanguard. Those captains responsible for sealing off the perimeter and cutting off retreats, those craftsmen forging armor in the rear, and even the scholars treating the wounded on the medical ships can all get a share of the feast.

But their share could never compare to that of the first berserkers who charged through the broken city gates into the enemy ranks. The spoils of war always filled the bags of those warriors whose blades still bore the blood of the enemy.

This is the ironclad rule of the Iron Islands—risk and glory must be measured in blood and spoils.

On the Iron Islands, whenever the war drums sound, the most terrifying and spectacular sight can be seen: the Ironborn, like sharks smelling blood, rush headlong into the most dangerous battle lines. This ingrained ferocity stems from their unique beliefs and survival rules.

"The dead never die"—this is not only an ancient proverb passed down among the islands, but also a belief deeply ingrained in the hearts of every Ironborn from childhood.

They firmly believed that the souls of those who died bravely in battle would not be swallowed by death, but would be invited by the drowning god to sink into the eternal "Water Palace" beneath the deep sea. There, there are endless war songs and inexhaustible wine, and every fallen warrior will be served by a gentle mermaid, who will fulfill all the wishes they could not realize in their previous life.

Therefore, when the blade is drawn, it's difficult to find fear of death on the faces of the Ironborn. What burns in their eyes is a fanatical zeal to live by the flames of death, a direct desire for glory and spoils. Faced with such an enemy, even the fiercest opponent will feel a chill down their spine—for they are not fighting an army, but a group of desperate men who have long regarded sacrifice as a shortcut to divine kingdom.

For the Ironborn, following Euron's banners into battle meant two very real things: the war would never end; and victory would ensure they would always have enough to eat.

Under that golden sea monster's banner, desolate reefs could be mined for gold, and enemy fortresses could be transformed into staircases. Every strike brought not only glory, but also tangible spoils to fill the ship's hold. While other lords were still haggling over taxes, Euron's men were already worrying about how to move mountains of treasure.

So whenever war was about to break out, you would always see the most peculiar sight: warriors weren't praying for peace, but rather, with red eyes, vying for the vanguard position. Because everyone knew that following this lord of the sea beasts often meant receiving the richest rewards.

As the blood-stained warships slowly returned to port, the depth of their draft and the number of crates on their decks were themselves the most moving triumphant song.

Nothing excites the ironworkers more than watching their ships, laden with cargo, crush their hulls.

The smoke from the battle on Fly Island had not yet completely dissipated when the soldiers of the Iron Islands began their methodical cleanup.

The most secret treasure room in Bonewall was roughly pried open, and the gold and silver artifacts and strange collections from all over the world were moved out one by one and piled up into a shimmering little mountain in the square.

Deep within the stench-filled swamp, the soldiers made an astonishing discovery: treasure chests, wrapped in layers of thick waterproof cloth and buried deep beneath the mud, were being dragged out one by one. Muddy water seeped from the cracks in the chests, as if the gold and silver were weeping for seeing the light of day again.

After all the spoils of war had been collected and tallied, Lord Harlo of Ganta City approached Euron with a parchment filled with numbers. His expression was calm, and his voice echoed clearly in the silent square: "In this battle, our army suffered twenty-six casualties."

He paused slightly, his gaze sweeping over the figure on the paper that didn't quite match the effort put in: "There are only a little over 100,000 gold dragons on this island, and there are still some things of value waiting to be sold."

This number made the island owners grimace.

But for pirates, this was perfectly normal—they lived a precarious life, believing in the motto "live for today." No one knew if tomorrow's waves would become their grave, and most of their accumulated gold had long since been exchanged for strong liquor, gourmet food, and unrestrained revelry in brothels.

Lila's room, known as "Poison Bait," was filled with a strange, lingering odor of herbs and blood. On the table and wooden shelves were scrolls sealed in obsidian boxes, and the walls were covered with glass bottles—containing various bizarrely colored poisonous plants and exotic herbs.

The red priestess Gwendolyn's fingertips brushed against a book bound in human skin, the dark red patterns on the spine seemingly still pulsating; the shadowbinder Evelyn sniffed a jar of pearly powder, the shadows curving a subtle arc at the corners of her lips.

"These filth are yours to dispose of," Euron said calmly, standing in the shadows of the porch. "Consider it your share for this trip."

The two sorceresses nodded, exchanged a smile, and realized that compared to ordinary gold and silver, these relics tainted with dark knowledge were the real spoils that tempted them.

The slaves, freed from the depths of the dungeon, finally saw the light of day again.

The islanders from Nas Island were personally housed by the Warrior Queen Alicia on a sturdy longship.

She summoned several Ironborn sailors and ordered them to escort the man back to Nash Island. These usually unruly Ironborn did not object to her arrangement at all, readily accepting the order with a knowing, almost obsequious expression on their faces.

The relationship between Alicia and Euron had already spread like wildfire throughout the Iron Islands fleet. Everyone knew that this queen from the Isle of Women was going to bear an heir for their esteemed Lord of the Sea Beasts. Therefore, obeying her commands was considered perfectly natural by the Ironborn.

As for the slaves from Braavos, the Summer Islands, and other places, they were temporarily settled. Two merchant ships from the Ice and Fire Merchant Guild will be passing through the Summer Sea soon, and the slaves will follow them back to their homeland.

Bone Fortress stood silently in the salty sea breeze, this fortress that had grown from the depths of the swamp now exuding a foul stench of rotting wood and death. Several island lords stood on the edge of the mud, pinching their noses, their faces full of disgust.

"Burn it all up!" The island lord of Gubler kicked away the skull half-buried in the mud at his feet. "This godforsaken place is stinking and filthy; staying here even a moment longer makes one's whole body itch."

"Let the flames purify this filthy land," another island lord chimed in, and everyone nodded in agreement.

All eyes were on Euron.

"If we build a camp on this island in the future, we will naturally choose a location by the sea, so that warships can easily reach it." Euron finally spoke, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight, "But this place—Bone Fortress City—will remain for now."

Euron pointed to the swamp that had swallowed countless lives and the intricate terrain: "It's not needed now, and it's best if it's never needed. But this natural barrier, these labyrinthine paths, can serve as the last bastion of survival for the future garrison stationed on this island."

The island lords exchanged glances and said no more. They realized once again that the gaze of this sea beast lord always saw further and was more ruthless than that of ordinary people.

Euron's gaze swept over the spoils of war on the plaza, and he chuckled, "Have all the battle achievements been tallied? Those heads need to be carefully packed and properly preserved." He lightly tapped the hilt of his sword at his waist, producing a metallic clang: "The materials for building the Crown of the Sea Bones have always been scarce and difficult to obtain."

The island lords erupted in boisterous laughter, the sound startling the crows perched on the ruins. King Baron, wiping away tears of laughter, roared, "This time, the foundation stones are enough to build half a tower!"

The Crown of the Sea is now a landmark of the Iron Islands, known to everyone in the world.

In the taverns across the Narrow Sea, sailors used the "Crown of the Sea Skeletons" to frighten crying children; in the courts of the Free Cities, envoys used the size of this Tower of Skulls to measure the threat to the Iron Islands.