[Ding! Council Chamber Discovered. Reward: 10 Points.]
The Pirate King System.
It was Euron's greatest secret weapon. Every time he set foot in a new location, points accumulated automatically, and the world before him unfolded clearly as a map—explored areas revealed in minute detail, while unexplored lands remained shrouded in thick black fog, waiting for Euron's footsteps to light them up.
At this moment, the full view of Pyke spread out before Euron's eyes like an ancient sea chart soaked in brine. The coordinates of the Council Chamber had just unlocked, details emerging with it—the rough stone walls, the hanging kraken banners, his father King Quellon's black stone throne, the pile of loot in the corner... even the wine stains splattered by Ironborn captains were clearly visible.
Further away, unexplored areas were still swallowed by fog—the shipyards, the armory, the salt pans, the iron mines of Old Wyk... Each represented potential points and resources.
Points meant power.
---
Euron was not late. The morning light hadn't fully driven the dense fog from Pyke's reefs when he was carefully dressed by Lysa's deft and calm hands. His brand-new dark green velvet doublet, embroidered with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, shimmered faintly in the dim light. The kraken writhed, claws and tentacles extended, as if declaring his impossible-to-ignore presence.
He sat at the very end of the long table in the Council Chamber, on the side seat directly to the right of the main throne. His small body was straight as a ramrod, trying hard to mimic his father's steady posture. Maester Qalen stood in the shadows behind his left shoulder, thin lips pressed tight in worry, withered fingers nervously twisting the links of his maester's chain. Lysa stood deeper in the shadows behind his right, blending into the background like deep-sea flora, her emerald eyes lowered, seemingly just a shadow in the corner.
He was too early. King Quellon had not yet arrived. In the empty, cold hall, only the newly added logs in the fireplace crackled, and the sea wind sobbed through the cracks in the stone windows. However, this silence was soon broken.
The heavy oak doors were pushed open again and again, bringing in the unique scents of brine and chill from the different islands. Lord Dunstan Drumm of Old Wyk stomped in like one of his island's volcanoes, heavy leather boots thudding on the stone floor. Lord Gylbert Farwynd of the Lonely Light (text says Saltcliffe's Botley, but context implies a major lord; likely meant Lord Botley of Lordsport or Lord Goodbrother, but let's stick to the text's name Gymond Botley) had eyes as sinister as a moray eel hiding in a crevice. Lord Baelor Blacktyde of Blacktyde carried a priest-like solemnity, fingers telling a string of smooth driftwood prayer beads. Their retinues and spokesmen filled the seats on both sides. The vast hall instantly filled with invisible pressure and the pungent mix of sweat, ale, and salt.
Gazes—shocked, scornful, probing, or undisguisedly angry—shot from the flickering lamplight like cold tentacles, wrapping tightly around the small figure in the new kraken robe at the end of the table. The air seemed to congeal into thick seaweed soup.
"Hah!" Dunstan Drumm broke the silence first. He grabbed the rough clay mug before him and downed a large gulp of cheap ale, his Adam's apple bobbing loudly. His voice was like sandpaper on reef rock, smashing unceremoniously toward Gymond Botley beside him. "Look at that! Letting a babe who's barely weaned and hasn't grown hair sit here? What does he think the Seastone King's Council Chamber is? A sandbox for a milk-drinker to play house?" He deliberately raised his voice to ensure the whole hall heard. Every word was a salt-dipped lash, whipping at Greyjoy dignity.
Gymond Botley rubbed the sparse stubble on his chin, letting out a low, cold laugh like a sea snake sliding over wet sand. "Not necessarily a bad thing, Dunstan. Just right for everyone here to open their eyes and see." His sinister gaze swept the room, finally nailing Euron. "Let's see what wind is blowing in the head of our 'Reformer' patriarch. If this brat dares to spout nonsense in this sacred place... Hmph." The unfinished sentence was full of cold anticipation and threat.
Baelor Blacktyde seemed out of place. He didn't join the mockery but solemnly placed a small, oil-polished driftwood carving of the Drowned God on the table. He clasped his hands and whispered with closed eyes, his voice carrying a compassionate worry: "Drowned God... please hear the confusion of your humble servant. Is this your decree, signaling a new path? Or... a omen that the tides of chaos and misfortune are about to drown the Iron Islands? That child's eyes... one black, one blue, like the torn night sky and the frozen abyss. They stir restless waves in the calm sea of my soul..." His prayer was more like a declaration, quietly planting a faith-based doubt in the hearts of the lords.
These deliberately lowered discussions, undisguised contempt, and faith-based questioning washed over Euron's mental defenses like cold waves. He could feel Maester Qalen's anxiety behind him almost solidifying, and he could "hear" Lysa's imperceptible, deep-sea-steady breathing in the shadows—a silent reminder: Silence. Observe.
Is five years old too young for the Council Chamber?
Euron refuted silently in his heart, lowering his mismatched eyes to hide the turbulence within. His thoughts flew across the tapestry of Westerosi history. Joffrey I, the blonde boy on the Iron Throne, was crowned at twelve and turned the Seven Kingdoms upside down; every stupid decision flowed with the blood of the realm! Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island went to the battlefield at ten, living her house words "Here We Stand," taking the place of her dead father and brother in the Mormont council, issuing orders with a childish voice! The "Young Wolf" Robb Stark raised the direwolf banner at fifteen, pointing his sword at King's Landing, making even Tywin Lannister taste bitterness! And Winterfell... when the Stark men went south, who was left but Bran Stark, a few years old? Didn't he sit in the high seat with Maester Luwin, handling Northern disputes?
Countless examples! Young figures appearing at the core of power were never rare in this legendary and cruel land of Westeros! The only difference was whether they were ruthlessly pushed into the storm by fate, or... like him, actively pulled into the eye of the storm by his father?
These refutations clashed fiercely in Euron's mind, almost bursting from his mouth. But he clenched his small fist hidden under his sleeve, nails digging deep into his palm, using pain to remind himself of Lysa's warning—Silence. Now was not the time to wield the sword of knowledge. What he needed to do was be a true reef, standing immovable no matter how these malicious waves crashed. He adjusted his sitting posture slightly to appear calmer, his gaze falling on the polished table surface as if the rough wood grain contained infinite mysteries. Only his slightly tensed jawline betrayed that his heart was not entirely calm.
The mockery, suspicion, and unease filling the Council Chamber were like damp, thick fog. Before King Quellon even entered, they had set a cold, heavy tone for this destined-to-be-extraordinary meeting. Everyone's focus was locked tight on the five-year-old child who looked so small in the huge stone chair, yet so glaringly piercing in his gold-threaded kraken robe and mismatched eyes.