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Game of Thrones: The Giant Crab of the Narrow Sea
Game of Thrones: The Sword King
Game of Thrones: From Bastard to Emperor
The first day of negotiations opened in the council chamber suspended above the cliffs of Silent Bay, overlooking the azure harbor.
Euron Greyjoy did not personally engage in the verbal fray. Instead, Lord Paxter Redwyne acted as his proxy throughout the session, maneuvering against the gorgeously dressed yet visibly anxious representatives of the Triarchy Alliance. Euron himself sat in the main seat like a transcendent judge, his fingertips tapping unconsciously on the armrest.
All morning, as the Triarchy representatives—a silver-tongued Lysene banker and a shrewd-looking Tyroshi archon—took turns passionately stating their case, defending themselves, and attempting to use flowery rhetoric and complex logic to prove their innocence, Euron did not utter a single word.
He simply listened, responding with a silence that was near-cruel in its duration.
This silence was like accumulating storm clouds, pressing heavily on every attendee's heart. It magnified every slight hesitation, every uneasy exchange of glances, making their carefully prepared words seem pale and laughable in the absolute quiet. The representatives spoke faster involuntarily, sweat beading on their foreheads. In their eagerness to defend themselves, slight inconsistencies began to appear in their statements. Euron's silence became the most effective tool of interrogation.
Proving a negative regarding a fabricated event was an impossible task.
All the Triarchy Alliance could offer were some feeble "evidences." They even brought out a trembling witness, trying to prove that Commander Gustav Drummond was vacationing in Lys during the critical period when the so-called "order" was issued.
Lord Paxter Redwyne maintained the elegant demeanor of the heir to the Arbor, but his words were like poison-tipped needles. He shook his head gently, pointing out the flaw directly: "Where the General was is irrelevant. Not in the Stepstones? A single raven could deliver the order precisely. This proves nothing."
Following Euron's will, he turned a deaf ear to any proposals of compensation, concessions, or cooperation from the other side. Instead, he repeated the core demand coldly and stubbornly: "We only want evidence—solid evidence that directly proves you had nothing to do with the plundering of the Ironborn caravan. Otherwise," he paused, his tone calm but carrying unmistakable threat, "we can only assume negotiations have broken down. What remains is only war."
When the Lysene banker finally couldn't hold back and, with trembling hands, presented a piece of "ironclad evidence" they had painstakingly fabricated at great cost—perhaps forged official documents or a confession from a bribed "pirate"—Euron, sitting high above, finally moved.
Euron didn't even reach out to take it. He simply lowered his eyelids slightly, glancing casually at the expensive parchment with his good eye, as if looking at a piece of irrelevant trash.
He waved his hand dismissively, like shooing away an annoying fly. The "evidence," which the other side saw as a lifeline, was unceremoniously picked up by an Ironborn guard standing nearby and tossed into a corner to gather dust.
This gesture was more insulting and devastating than any angry rebuttal. It clearly declared: All your efforts, your so-called evidence, are worthless in my eyes.
---
As negotiations entered the second day, the scene became even more suffocating.
The representatives of the Triarchy Alliance were at their wits' end. They could produce no more evidence to truly prove they hadn't participated in the plundering. Thus, the meeting turned into a desperate game of raising the stakes. They continuously increased the amount of gold dragons in compensation, trying to pry open a path to survival with astounding wealth; they racked their brains to fabricate more "new evidence" and stories that seemed reasonable but were fragile; they threw out tempting chips like trade privileges and port discounts, trying to steer the topic from "guilty or not" to "how to compensate."
Lord Paxter Redwyne, sitting at the negotiation table, was now like a piece of steel soaked in ice water—cold and hard. He disdained all the glittering gold and fancy promises, reiterating with tragic indignation and absolute firmness:
"Life is priceless! How can the blood and souls of the Ironborn people be measured by these cold gold dragons? What we want is not money, but justice!"
Seeing the other side still stuck in the mire of profit, Paxter's voice suddenly rose. He perfectly repeated Euron's will, his words like an unsheathed sword, instantly piercing through all hypocritical performances:
"We are not here to play these childish money games! You and I both know perfectly well that whether 'Bloodhand' Marlin's dying words were true or false no longer matters!"
His gaze was like a torch, pinned dead on their pale faces:
"What matters is—who Lord Euron Greyjoy believes!"
Immediately after, he stood up abruptly, waving his arm toward the sparkling yet deadly sea outside the window, issuing the ultimatum:
"My fleet, and my monster 'friends', are right outside. Accept reality. What you lose might be some gold coins and face."
His voice dropped to freezing point, containing an undeniable implication of destruction:
"Reject it? What you will lose is everything you have built in these waters for decades—your ships, your trade routes, your strongholds, and even your lives."
---
"The choice is yours."
He finally announced, his tone calm but heavy as a mountain:
"You have only three days to decide. When the time comes, if there is no reply satisfactory to us, we will consider it... that you have chosen war."
Negotiations dragged through two days of suffocating silence.
Until the third day. When the representatives of the Triarchy Alliance were nearly crushed by uncertainty and fear, Euron Greyjoy finally spoke in person.
His voice was calm but carried unquestionable authority as he proposed a series of pre-prepared conditions so harsh they bordered on humiliation:
1. Massive Reparations: Demanding the Triarchy Alliance jointly pay one million Gold Dragons for the crime of "inciting pirates to murder Ironborn." This figure was like a sledgehammer, enough to turn the richest banker pale and drain the trade surplus of the three cities for years.
2. Fleet Restriction: Demanding the Triarchy immediately reduce the size of their fleet stationed in the Stepstones by half, or hand over a corresponding number of main warships to the Iron Islands for "safekeeping," euphemistically called "maintaining maritime security."
3. Taxation and Pricing Rights: Demanding 50% of all port tax revenue from all Stepstones ports controlled by the three cities permanently, and obtaining the right to intervene in the pricing of key commodities like wine and silk traded through these ports.
4. Handing Over Personnel: Demanding the surrender of mid-level naval officers and administrative officials directly responsible for contacting pirates and executing the so-called "orders," as the "price" that must be paid.
With every condition he listed, it was as if he dropped a block of ice into the room. The representatives' faces turned from pale to ghostly white; their breathing quickened, and some unconsciously loosened their tight collars.
Fierce objections and desperate defenses tried to surge up, but were forcibly suppressed under Euron's cold gaze that seemed to pierce through everything. He was like an anatomist, coldly watching all the struggles of his subjects in absolute disadvantage.
Just as the other side's psychological defense was about to collapse completely, realizing there was no choice but war, Euron's tone suddenly shifted. It even carried a hint of mitigation that could be called "mercy":
"...However," he raised his hand gently, stopping all the noise. "I am not an unreasonable man who only knows how to demand. What I value is not momentary gain or loss, but the future... long-term peace and mutually beneficial cooperation in the Stepstones."
After this preamble, he displayed the "victor's tolerance":
"To show my sincerity, I am willing to waive the two harshest conditions." He seemed to make a huge concession. "Personnel, you handle them yourselves. The fleet, you don't need to cut it by half immediately."
However, his gaze suddenly sharpened, locking onto the core interests like iron pincers:
"But the one million Gold Dragon reparation, and the 50% port tax revenue and pricing rights—this is the bottom line. It cannot be changed."
Finally, he issued the ultimate ultimatum, leaning back slightly, leaving the immense pressure entirely to the other side:
"Today is the final deadline for negotiations. Think it over carefully."
He paused, adding,
"Use your reason, not your emotions."
The members of the Triarchy delegation looked bloodless, exchanging terrified and desperate glances. Finally, the leading Archon responded with difficulty in a dry, hoarse voice:
"We... we need to confer internally. Before tonight... before tonight ends, we will give my Lord the final answer."