Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Euron's gaze swept over each of the envoys present, and he said, "In any case, you envoys have come from afar, representing the King's will, and the Iron Islands will certainly do their utmost... to raise funds." He deliberately paused slightly on the word "raise funds."

"What we can offer is some grain, and—" he mentioned the key ingredient again, "our salt. You've tasted it yourself; it's 'Platinum Sand,' a rare commodity that can serve as hard currency in any market."

Euron leaned forward slightly, offering his seemingly considerate suggestion: "You can take our salt to the Reach or Riverlands, to the lords' territories that still have grain reserves, and trade it. Or..." He paused, offering a more flexible option, "Sail directly to the free trading city-states across the Narrow Sea and buy any amount of grain you need. Isn't that far more practical and effective than mobilizing a large fleet?"

Earl Owen Marie Weiss's face remained ashen; the indescribable pressure he had just felt still lingered, and the slight tremor in his fingertips had not completely subsided. He took a deep breath, suppressing his surging anger and a hint of barely perceptible fear, and finally forced out words of compromise through clenched teeth, but still with the harshness of a superior: "Hmph... since that's the case, how much can you raise? I warn you, if the quantity is too small, if it's just a perfunctory effort, none of us will be able to answer to His Majesty the King!"

Euron's enigmatic smile returned, as if the tense, oppressive atmosphere from moments before had never existed. His tone became smooth and considerate, even tinged with a hint of warmth:

"Please rest assured, my lord, the Iron Islands will do everything in its power." He first gave a vague but positive promise, then changed the subject and proposed a more actionable plan, "Tomorrow, in the name of the Greyjoy family, I will summon the lords of the seven Iron Islands to Pyke City to discuss the requisition of grain and salt. At that time, I will give you a clear answer."

He continued, gracefully making up for his initial "sloppiness": "Besides, Your Excellency Hand of the King, it is a rare privilege for you to grace our remote land with your presence. How can we entertain you so simply with only bread and salt? We should do our duty as hosts and prepare a welcoming banquet befitting your status for you and your entourage. We would let you experience the warmth and hospitality of the Iron Islands, rather than discussing official business on an empty stomach in this solemn hall."

"Please forgive the hasty preparations today, which have failed to fully demonstrate the hospitality of the Iron Islands," Euron said with a smile, skillfully changing the subject and temporarily setting aside the unpleasant matter of requisitioning grain.

He clapped his hands lightly. As if they had been waiting, two beautiful women, draped in light, flowing saris and with graceful figures, entered and danced to the faint strains of exotic music. Their eyes, brimming with Listerian languor and allure, swept over Earl Owen Mariewes, the Hand of the King, and nestled into his arms like docile vines, one on each side.

They were clearly well-trained by Madam Ries and knew the art of pleasing the Earl. Their slender fingers deftly filled the glasses, their hips swayed like water snakes, and with giggles, they even used their soft lips to gently feed the wine to the Earl. This bold and sensual act instantly dispelled the lingering gloom and displeasure on Owen Mariewes's face, replacing it with a smug, blissful smile, as if the earlier argument and threats had been completely forgotten.

On the other side of the long table, however, the atmosphere was quite different. The two Kingsguard—Arthur Dayne and Levin Martell—were unfazed by the erotic scene. Loyal Balf and seasoned Dagmore were drinking with them.

There were no giggles or veils here, only the steady clinking of glasses between men, whispers about weapons and navigation, and the occasional mutual scrutiny and respect for each other's warrior identity.

The banquet did not last until late at night.

Soon, Earl Owen Marie Weiss, the Hand of the King, was quite tipsy. He was flanked by the two alluring ladies from Rhys, and walked unsteadily toward the prepared guest rooms, claiming he wanted to have a "deep conversation" with them. What profound topics they discussed behind closed doors is a matter of opinion.

After seeing off the satisfied royal representative, Euron's smile faded like the tide, and he regained his usual composure. He did not rest, but went straight to the cold, somber Maester's Tower in Pyke City.

Amidst the flickering candlelight and the piled-up scrolls, Euron succinctly explained his plan and the content of the letter to Maester Clygon.

"In the name of House Greyjoy," Euron's voice was steady and unwavering, "send a message to every lord of the seven Iron Islands: by sunset tomorrow night, each must bring a barrel of the finest salted fish and a sack of grain to Pyke Isle in person. I want to see them at the banquet!"

The order—a barrel of salted fish and a sack of grain—was not a heavy burden for any lord; it was more of a symbolic gesture to appease the king's messenger so that he could bring back something to report to the mad king.

However, behind this seemingly simple request lies Euron Greyjoy's deeper intention. What he truly needs is not these meager supplies, but rather to take this opportunity to personally observe the attitudes of each lord of the Iron Islands when they receive this order, which originates from the oppressive power of the royal family.

Who will execute without hesitation? Who will complain yet still obey? Who will hesitate or even show dissatisfaction? This will be a silent test of loyalty and efficiency. More importantly, all the lords of the Iron Islands must know that the pressure exerted by the Royal Family on the Iron Islands is not just a matter for House Greyjoy, but a shared responsibility for the entire Iron Islands.

Maester Clegane knew the gravity of the matter and dared not delay. He immediately knelt by the dim light of an oil lamp and translated Euron's will into a formal command, meticulously worded and stamped with the Greyjoy family crest. The scratching of the pen across the parchment was the only sound in the Maester's Tower at that moment.

Then, Maester Clygon carefully tied each scroll of parchment to the leg of the restless raven. These black messengers were tossed one after another into the night sky, their wings fluttering like scattered thoughts and decisions, quickly merging into the thick, cold darkness of the Iron Islands, flying towards Blacktide Isle, Harlow Isle, Old Wick Isle, and all the other islands, to knock on the windows of every lord, to awaken their loyalty.