Inside the great hall, lights blazed, and the noise was deafening.
Long tables were laden with whole roasted lambs emitting a charred aroma, sea fish drizzled in rich sauces, mountains of black bread, and an endless flow of ale and wine.
But all the food and clamor were merely the backdrop. What truly captured everyone's gaze was the person sitting on the high-backed main seat, carved from ebony and sea-beast bone, in the deepest part of the hall—Euron Greyjoy.
He leaned back leisurely in the chair, as if born to sit above everyone else.
When the important guests had mostly taken their seats, he didn't stand. He simply tapped his wine cup lightly. The crisp sound strangely overpowered the noise of the hall, causing all eyes to focus on him instantly.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice steady but carrying unquestionable authority. "Today marks both the end of an old era and the beginning of a new one. Here, I introduce to you the arms that will rule these waters alongside me in the future."
He extended his arm slightly, pointing to the man sitting to his lower left—a man with a cold, hard face and fierce light in his eyes.
"My brother, Balon Greyjoy, the bravest warrior of the Iron Islands. His courage and battle-axe will sweep away all obstacles for me."
His gaze turned to an older man with a shrewd face, tapping his fingers on a sword hilt.
"My uncle, Balfour Greyjoy. His wisdom and loyalty are the bedrock of our family."
Next was a giant of a man, built like a mountain, with hideous battle scars on his face, silent as a rock.
"Dagmer, my capable general, captain of the Foamdrinker. I'm sure you have heard of his strength and fearlessness."
After introducing the core family members, his arm swept gracefully to the VIP seats on the right.
"This is our distinguished and powerful ally, the Prince of Dorne, the Red Viper Oberyn Martell. His support is as sharp and unstoppable as his spear."
Then to a young nobleman dressed gorgeously, whose face was slightly pale but who strove to maintain composure.
"And another vital friend of ours, the heir to House Redwyne of the Arbor, Paxter Redwyne. His fleet will add strength to our cause."
With each introduction, the person named would nod, raise a cup, or show a haughty expression in response to the room's gaze.
Through this introduction, Euron clearly outlined to all factions an indestructible new power structure centered on him, integrating the iron blood of his family, powerful external aid, and fresh forces.
Finally, Euron's gaze landed on a face that was young but carried a ruthless air, his tone holding a hint of approval. "This man was once the bastard son of my Uncle Balfour. But in the battles before, he displayed extraordinary courage and merit. Therefore, I grant him the surname Greyjoy! From this day forth, he is my cousin, Floyd Greyjoy!"
Floyd Greyjoy—the bastard who, just days ago, had to bear the name "Pyke"—sat stiffly at the table. When Euron's undeniable voice publicly announced the heavy and glorious surname "Greyjoy" for him, a scalding heat rushed to his head, washing away all the humiliation and coldness he had accumulated over the years due to his birth.
His eyes instantly turned red, not from wine, but from an emotion so intense it almost tore his chest apart. He clenched his fists tightly, knuckles turning white, trembling slightly, as if using all his strength to suppress the excitement about to burst out. He had fantasized about this moment countless times in his deepest dreams, but that illusory glimmer was always ruthlessly extinguished by the cold seawater of reality upon waking.
And now, it had become true.
The coveted surname was like a branding iron, seared onto his soul by his King, his God. He felt his throat blocked, unable to make a sound. He could only nod heavily, almost convulsively, suppressing his infinite fanaticism and willingness to die for Euron, along with that unspeakable excitement, into this silent vow.
From this moment on, he was no longer rootless duckweed. He was a Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. His bloodline had finally found its anchor.
Euron rose slowly from the main seat, holding high a golden goblet filled with deep red wine. His movements were unhurried, yet they naturally drew the attention of the entire room, silencing the hall.
"Raise your cups," his voice wasn't loud, but it reached every corner clearly, carrying an undeniable rallying power. "To the... future of the Stepstones."
His words fell like a decree.
---
Regardless of what they thought internally, everyone in the hall—the fierce Ironborn commanders, the Sand Snake knights of Dorne, the nobles of the Arbor, the newly submitted pirates, and the anxious merchant representatives—dared not delay. They raised their cups in unison, threw their heads back, and drained the wine.
Whether it tasted like nectar or bitter poison, in this moment, it had to be swallowed.
After the toast, the atmosphere of the banquet split sharply.
The members of the Iron Islands Alliance relaxed completely. They laughed loudly, cut roasted meat with vigor, clinked glasses, and talked freely about satisfying battles and future plunder. They were raucous and unbridled, as if this hall were their own home.
The joy of victory and fine wine washed over their nerves; every movement overflowed with the pleasure of the conqueror.
In stark contrast were the representatives of other factions. They chewed their food like wax. Every time they raised their chopsticks or forks, they did so carefully, their eyes darting around, constantly peeking at the expressions of those on the main seat and the surrounding Ironborn, terrified that an inadvertent move would invite disaster. To them, the delicious food was filled with unspeakable pressure and fear.
Among these "outsiders" laden with worry and unable to taste their food, only the newly appointed leader of the Pirate Alliance, Edwin Ramirez, seemed out of place.
Edwin leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, even enjoying himself. He skillfully picked at a roasted fish with his dagger, occasionally looking around with an inscrutable smile on his lips, as if the turbulent undercurrents before him were merely a splendid play.
Midway through the banquet, Euron Greyjoy offered no explanation. With a slight nod, he quietly left his seat and entered a heavily guarded inner chamber at the rear side of the hall.
Moments later, an Ironborn guard walked silently to Edwin Ramirez's table and whispered a message.
Edwin raised an eyebrow slightly, set down his wine cup, and under the gaze of countless eyes—some open, some covert—rose calmly and followed the guard toward the inner chamber.
The heavy wooden door closed behind him, cutting off the noise outside.
Candlelight flickered in the inner room; the light was somewhat dim. Before Edwin could speak, Euron had already turned around. The indifferent expression he wore for the public melted instantly, replaced by a sincerity bordering on warmth. He strode forward and gave the new Pirate King a solid embrace.
"Old friend," Euron's voice held rare, undisguised admiration. "Thank you for wading into this muddy water."
Edwin Ramirez laughed, a relaxed and cunning sound, as if they had just switched to a different tavern for a drink. "Just changed to a more exciting stage, that's all. You know me; I've always liked a new adventure." He paused, his tone becoming meaningful. "Besides, having a man who is about to be the King of the Stepstones as a friend is my honor, and... an incredibly profitable investment."
Euron released him, his gaze sharp and full of expectation. "Well said. Now, what you need to do next is truly... condense those pirates—who are used to being scattered and unruly—into a fist. A fist that understands commands and can be used by me in the future. The future Stepstones needs 'order', even if it is a pirate's order."
The two conversed in low voices by the flickering candlelight for a long time. When the door to the inner chamber opened again, Edwin Ramirez walked out, twirling his meticulously groomed mustache, wearing a smiling expression that said everything was under control. His gaze swept over his pirate companions in the hall who were watching him nervously, and he made a gesture that was extremely subtle yet incredibly clear—signaling "Victory" and "All is well."
In that instant, all the pirates who had been holding their breath and hanging their hearts on the outcome let out a long, silent sigh of relief, as if all their strength had been drained. The long-suppressed smiles finally returned to their faces.
It seemed their new King had won them a future.
---
The noise of the banquet seemed to hit an invisible wall.
When a guard clad in Ironborn scale armor with a cold, hard face walked silently to the table of the Triarchy delegation, the surrounding laughter and chatter seemed to drop instantly. The guard's gaze was like an ice pick, stabbing straight at General Gustav Drummond.
"General, representatives," the guard said stiffly, without emotion. "My Lord invites you inside for a talk."
This sudden summons was like a cold chain instantly binding their hearts. Commander Gustav and the representatives from Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr exchanged a look full of unease, each seeing the same gravity and apprehension on the others' faces.
Marlin's dying accusation and Euron's pointed words hung over their hearts like dark clouds.
They rose slowly, their movements slightly stiff from tension. The expensive velvet and silk they wore felt as heavy as lead.
Though the surrounding guests pretended nothing was happening, the glances they cast were filled with scrutiny and an imperceptible distancing. Following the Ironborn guard, under the gaze of a subtle silence, harboring the anxiety of stepping into a dragon's den, they walked toward that heavy, unknown door leading to the inner chamber.