Euron's gaze swept over every envoy present as he spoke: " regardless, you envoys have come from afar representing the King's will. The Iron Islands will certainly do our utmost to... raise what is needed." He paused deliberately on the word "raise."
"What we can provide is some grain, and—" he mentioned the key item again, "our salt. You have tasted it yourself; that is 'White Gold Sand,' a treasure sufficient to serve as hard currency in any market."
Euron leaned forward slightly, proposing a suggestion that seemed to consider the situation entirely from the other party's perspective: "When the time comes, you can take our salt to the Reach or the Riverlands—territories of lords who still have grain reserves—and exchange it. Or..." He paused, offering a freer choice, "Sail directly across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. Use the salt to purchase any amount of grain you require. Would this not be far more practical and effective than mobilizing a fleet and moving troops with such fanfare?"
Lord Owen Merryweather's face remained ashen. The lingering fear from that indescribable pressure just moments ago still haunted him; the slight trembling in his fingertips had not fully subsided. He took a deep breath, forcefully suppressing his churning anger and a trace of imperceptible fear. Finally, he squeezed out a compromised response through his teeth, though it still carried the harshness of a superior: "Hmph... in that case, how much can you raise? I warn you, if the amount is too small, if you try to perform your duty perfunctorily, none of us will be able to answer to His Grace!"
The elusive smile returned to Euron's face, as if the sword-rattling oppression just now had never existed. His tone became smooth and considerate, even carrying a hint of enthusiasm:
"Please rest assured, My Lord, the Iron Islands will do everything in our power." He first gave a vague but positive promise, then shifted the topic to a more operational plan. "Tomorrow, in the name of House Greyjoy, I will summon the Lords of the Seven Iron Islands to gather at Pyke to jointly discuss the levy of grain and the collection of salt. At that time, I will certainly give My Lord a definite answer."
He continued, elegantly making up for the initial "slight": "Furthermore, it is a rare occasion for the Hand of the King to visit our remote land. How could we entertain you so shabbily with just bread and salt? It is only right that we fulfill the duties of a host and hold a welcome banquet worthy of your status for you and your entourage. Let you witness the hospitality of our Iron Islands, rather than discussing official business on an empty stomach in this solemn hall."
"Please forgive the hasty preparations today for failing to fully display the Iron Islands' way of hospitality," Euron said with a smile, cleverly changing the subject and temporarily setting aside the unpleasant matter of the grain levy.
He clapped his hands lightly.
As if waiting in the wings, two glamorous women draped in light, thin saris entered, dancing gracefully to faint, exotic music. Their eyes rippled with emotion, carrying the unique laziness and temptation of Lys. They went straight to the side of the Hand of the King, Owen Merryweather, one on the left and one on the right, snuggling into his arms like docile vines.
They had obviously been carefully trained by the madams of Lys and knew the art of pleasing men well. Slender fingers filled the wine cup dexterously; twisting waists moved like water snakes. Accompanied by coquettish laughter, they even held the fine wine with their soft lips, slowly passing it into the Earl's mouth. This bold and erotic act instantly dispelled the remaining gloom and displeasure on Owen Merryweather's face, replacing it with a smile of smug satisfaction deep in a gentle embrace. The dispute and threats from just a moment ago seemed to have been thrown to the back of his mind.
On the other side of the long table, the atmosphere was starkly different.
The two Kingsguard—Arthur Dayne and Lewyn Martell—were not disturbed by such erotic scenes. The loyal Baelor and the seasoned Dagmer were accompanying them in drinking.
There were no coquettish laughter or light gauzes here, only the steady clinking of cups between men, low whispers about weapons and navigation, and the occasional mutual scrutiny and respect for each other's identity as warriors.
The banquet did not last late into the night.
Soon, the Hand of the King, Lord Owen Merryweather, was tipsy. With an arm around each of the two charming women from Lys, he walked with unsteady steps toward the arranged guest room, claiming he wanted to have a "deep heart-to-heart" with them. As for what profound topics were discussed behind closed doors, that was a matter of interpretation.
After sending away the satisfied royal representative, the smile on Euron's face receded like the tide, returning to his usual calm. He did not rest but went straight to the cold Maester's Tower of Pyke.
Amidst flickering candlelight and piled scrolls, Euron concisely explained his countermeasures and the content of the letters to Maester Clegon.
"In the name of House Greyjoy," Euron's voice was steady and unquestionable, "send word to every Lord of the Seven Iron Islands: Before sunset tomorrow, each person must personally come to Pyke Island carrying one barrel of high-quality salted fish and one bag of grain. I want to see them at the dinner banquet!"
The requirement of this order—one barrel of salted fish and one bag of grain—was not a heavy burden for any lord. It was more like a symbolic "gesture" to put off the King's envoy so he would have something to take back to answer the Mad King.
However, behind this seemingly simple demand lay Euron Greyjoy's deeper intent. What he truly needed were not these meager supplies, but the opportunity to personally scrutinize the attitude shown by every lord of the Iron Islands upon receiving this order originating from royal pressure.
Who would execute it without hesitation? Who would complain but still obey? Who would hesitate or even reveal dissatisfaction?
This would be a silent test of loyalty and efficiency. More importantly, it was to let all lords of the Iron Islands know that the pressure the Crown applied to the Iron Islands was not just House Greyjoy's affair, but a responsibility shared by the entire Iron Islands.
Maester Clegon knew the gravity of the matter and dared not neglect it in the slightest. He immediately bent over under the dim oil lamp, transforming Euron's will into formal orders with rigorous wording, sealed with the wax crest of House Greyjoy. The scratching sound of the quill across parchment was the only noise in the Maester's Tower at that moment.
Subsequently, the Maester carefully tied each scroll of parchment to the legs of restless ravens. These black messengers were thrown into the night sky one after another. Flapping their wings like escaping thoughts and decisions, they quickly merged into the heavy, cold night of the Iron Islands, flying toward Blacktyde, Harlaw, Old Wyk, and all other islands, to knock on every lord's window lattice and awaken their loyalty.