Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

In the depths of the Red Keep, in the darkest of halls, Varys the spider silently weaves his web. The flickering candlelight casts his rounded figure onto the cold stone walls, like a silent, expanding conspiracy.

Varys moved with the lightness of a cat, through shadows and whispers, until he finally came to the foot of the Iron Throne.

Facing the king on the throne, increasingly consumed by paranoia and rage, Varys leaned down and whispered in his characteristically soft, almost dangerous voice. Every word was carefully chosen, laced with honey and probing, silently entering Aerys's ears: "Your Majesty, a disturbing message has arrived from the salty sea breeze. Euron of House Greyjoy, that boy returning from his voyage, has not complained of poverty like the other lords. On the contrary, he has stockpiled mountains of grain at the port of Pyke, enough to feed an army, yet he has ignored your generous order to requisition provisions..."

King Aerys abruptly rose from his Iron Throne, the twisted metal spikes nearly tearing through his robes. His voice was no longer human, but a mixture of roars and the crackling of burning flames.

"How dare they?! These stinking fish and shrimp from the saltwater, these traitorous scum who can never wash away the smell of the sea! I gave them honor, allowed them to live in the name of Greyjoy, and they use their hoarded food to humiliate the Iron Throne!" He wildly waved his finger westward, as if he wanted to crush the entire Iron Islands from afar.

"Tell that old squid Corren Greyjoy—now! Immediately! Bring every single grain of wheat and every single grain of salt from all his warehouses to King's Landing! This is what you Ironborn owe the throne, what you owe the dragons!" His voice suddenly turned dangerous and deep, and a mad flame burned in his purple eyes.

"If I don't see his fleet in King's Landing within a month... I'll send the fleet from Greentree Island to raze Pyke City! I'll tear their fishing nets to shreds, sink their longships to the bottom of the sea, and I'll make sure every head of the Greyjoy family is stuck in—"

King Iris suddenly coughed violently, then revealed a sinister smile through his bloodshot eyes: "No, use wildfire to burn them all to ashes! Now, get out and deliver the king's decree."

The will of the King has never merely remained a cold, impersonal message from the raven. This time, it has materialized as a tangible threat, cutting through the waves.

A tall-masted warship shattered the cold, misty air of King's Landing, appearing abruptly on the horizon. Its black hull resembled a floating abyss, with only the enormous banner atop its mast billowing in the wind—embroidered with the ferocious three-headed dragon emblem of House Targaryen. With an arrogant disregard for the Iron Islands' winds and rules, the ship sailed unhindered toward the heavily guarded port of Pyke City; its very existence was an unquestionable ultimatum of royal authority.

Almost at the same moment, a weary raven, having traversed a long flight, stumbled and landed in the window of the Maester's Tower in Pike City.

The moment Maester Clygon untied the letter tube from its leg and unrolled the scroll, his wrinkled face drained of color, and he nearly fell off his chair in shock.

His hands trembled so much that he could barely hold the light yet heavy paper. Without pausing for a moment, he staggered out of the Bachelor's Tower and rushed toward the location of King Corren Greyjoy with a pace that was far beyond his years.

The note contained no ordinary message, but a harbinger from the core of power, carrying with it flames and thunder.

Corren slammed his fist on the long table, his knuckles turning white from the force. His voice, forced out between clenched teeth, was a suppressed rage: "The Mad King... has actually sent an envoy! Not only does he want to requisition grain, but he also wants three times the salt tax! He even declared that if he doesn't see our fleet laden with grain enter King's Landing within a month, he will... wage war against the Iron Islands!"

Upon hearing this, Baron let out a short, cold sneer, his eyes showing no fear: "We have no grain, but we have your lives. Why bother with such an unreasonable demand? War? Then let's go! The sea is always our home turf. Do you think our Ironborn longships would fear the fleet of Qingting Island?"

In the tense atmosphere, Euron chuckled softly, his tone calm as he said, "Father, perhaps things haven't reached the point where war is necessary. May I ask, who is the source of the message the raven brought?"

"It is Grand Master Paisir," Corren said in a deep voice.

"We Iron Islands seem to have no connection with him," Euron said thoughtfully.

"No, that's true. But he has no reason to lie to me either. If the news is true, the Iron Islands must make plans as soon as possible."

Euron nodded, his mind racing: Lord Palchard… Everyone knows his close ties to the Lannisters; it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say he's Tywin Lannister's loyal hound planted in King's Landing. His initiative in delivering this message must have the shadow of Casterly Rock behind it, and he's inextricably linked to that old lion, Tywin.

He then changed the subject, his tone becoming as relaxed as if he were arranging a family trip: "Coincidentally, a ship is setting sail for Braavos tonight. Father, perhaps you could take this opportunity to take Mother and your brothers to the other side of the Narrow Sea for a while. Brother Baron, hasn't your father-in-law written several times, wanting to see his daughter and grandson? This is a perfect opportunity; why not have the whole family go and stay for a while?"

Baron frowned, and Corren also looked at him sharply.

Euron shrugged, his usual nonchalant smile still on his face, but his words were clear and articulate: "Don't forget, I am only the second son of the Iron Islands, and ultimately, I cannot make decisions on many important matters. It is most appropriate for me to receive the royal envoys. If I can ensure they leave 'satisfied,' that would be best; but if they are dissatisfied... even if I have made any 'mishandling' mistakes, it will ultimately be up to you, Father, to decide."

"You're trying to... stall?" Corin immediately understood his intention.

"Exactly," Euron affirmed. "The Mad King is always unpredictable; he might remember an order today but forget it completely tomorrow. Why should we confront him head-on now? It won't benefit anyone."

It is now 280 AC, and only one year remains until the tournament at Harrenhal in 281 AC, a tournament destined to be recorded in history. The War of the Usurpers in 282 AC, which will completely reshape the balance of power among the Seven Kingdoms, is also fast approaching.

Why bother arguing with someone destined to lose, someone who is about to die?

Euron swallowed the words that were on the tip of his tongue. The clamor of Harrenhal, the war of the usurper, the flames of the mad king's end... these vivid images were like history that had already happened in his mind, but he could not tell his father and brother about them.

Euron's tone abruptly shifted, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the rough map of Westeros etched on the table. His voice grew calm, carrying an almost cold scrutiny: "To put it another way, Father, King's Landing is already like a cracked pane of glass. How long can the Mad King's reign last? His madness grows stronger each day, and resentment is rampant in King's Landing. Highgarden, the Eyrie, even Casterly Rock… among those powerful vassals, who still truly serves the Iron Throne?"

His gaze swept over Koren and Baron, his words like icy waves crashing against the reefs of reality: "Why should we confront a king who is deserted and isolated at this juncture? The mad king has far more enemies than just us. We just need a little patience to let the situation unfold on its own."

Corren fell silent, his rough fingers tapping unconsciously on the table. He knew Euron's suggestion might be the most rational choice at the moment, but entrusting the entire Iron Islands, especially dealing with the royal envoys, to his young second son still made him uneasy. He raised his eyes, scrutinizing Euron again, his gaze a mixture of worry and scrutiny.

Euron seemed to see through his concerns, a subtle, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. His tone was relaxed yet carried an undeniable certainty: "Don't worry, Father, it's nothing serious. Balf and his axe, and old Dagmore, will stay here with me." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the fortified city of Pyke outside the window. "On this island, on our own territory, what trouble could a few envoys from King's Landing possibly cause?"

The confidence and strength in those words finally convinced Corren. He took a deep breath of the sea-salty air and nodded heavily. "Very well," he said in a low voice, "the Iron Islands are yours for now."

That night, accompanied by Euron, Corren Greyjoy, along with his wife and two young sons, boarded the merchant ship bound for Braavos. Their figures blended seamlessly into the massive hull in the dim torchlight, disappearing quietly into the night and mist. Meanwhile, Baron, with his wife and children, boarded a longship bound for Harlow Island, ostensibly to visit relatives, but in reality to temporarily escape the eye of the impending storm.

The burden of Pike City quietly fell on Euron Greyjoy's shoulders.