Inside the cold main hall of Pyke, the salty tang of sea breeze mixed with the damp chill of stone walls. Lord Owen Merryweather sat upright, fingertips tapping the table impatiently, finally breaking the silence with an aggressive tone:
"Has the Iron Islands not received the command from King's Landing, from His Grace the King?"
Euron met his gaze, expression calm: "We have, My Lord. We take it with utmost seriousness. In fact, upon receiving the order, my father was burning with anxiety. He even personally sailed to Braavos, hoping to exchange for enough grain from across the Narrow Sea to fulfill the King's command."
"King Quellon is not on the island because of this?" Merryweather narrowed his eyes, pressing, "What about your brother Balon? Did he go too?"
"Three years of winter, Balon has added three children. His father-in-law, Lord Harlaw, has yet to see his grandchildren. Before winter fully retreated, he had written many times urging them to visit." Euron answered fluently, tone steady. "Before learning of your impending arrival, Balon had already departed for Harlaw to fulfill the filial duty of showing the children to their elders."
"The King's command is clear: Levy grain from all realms! The grain must arrive in King's Landing within a month!" Merryweather raised his voice, trying to pressure with authority.
"Winter has just passed, new grain is unharvested," Euron's tone remained calm but carried the undeniable power of fact. "There is no surplus grain in the entire realm, My Lord. This is especially true for the Iron Islands. We do not produce grain; this is a fact known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. We only have salt, iron, and fish. Our poverty is equally well known. Every grain of wheat we eat relies on imports."
"But the King heard you brought back three full ships of grain from across the Narrow Sea." The Earl's voice became sharp.
"Yes, half a month ago we did," Euron admitted frankly. "But now, they have been exchanged away by other lords for Gold Dragons, timber, and ironware. What remains is only enough for the Ironborn to scrape by until the next harvest."
"Are you trying to disobey orders?!" Merryweather slammed the table, shouting sternly.
"Which law of the Seven Kingdoms requires lords to hand over their life-sustaining grain for free and watch their subjects starve to death?" Euron countered, voice still steady but revealing a cold, hard confidence. "We are not disobeying, My Lord. We have no grain to give."
The relationship between King and Lord was based on ancient contracts, not absolute royal power. The King could not demand money and grain for free; rights and obligations were mutual. Lords swore loyalty, provided military support (levies), judicial assistance, and economic aid in specific circumstances. The King protected the lords' safety, confirmed their land ownership, and maintained legal justice. Thus, faced with the Mad King's order for free grain levies, lords could justifiably refuse.
As for "appropriate economic aid," that depended on each lord's mood...
"The King is very angry, and the consequences are severe!" Owen Merryweather leaned forward abruptly, trying to crush the young man with his imposing manner, threatening shrilly, "Lord Leyton Hightower's Arbor Fleet has raised its war banners, ready to sail at any moment to flatten any rebellious nest!"
Euron's face remained like a calm sea surface, showing no ripples. Only deep within his mismatched pupils did the temperature suddenly drop, as if freezing with the ice of the North.
[Conqueror's Haki] Activated!
His voice wasn't loud, but it clearly pierced the tense atmosphere. Every word was like a carefully polished ice pick: "My Lord," he spoke slowly, no anger or joy discernible in his tone, "are your current words and deeds representing the Iron Throne, threatening war to force the Iron Islands to submit to an order we fundamentally cannot fulfill?"
"Not me! It's the King!" Merryweather shrilled immediately, as if burned, trying to clear himself and push everything onto the Mad King high in the Red Keep.
"Precisely because of that," Euron's voice suddenly sharpened, precisely seizing the other's identity, "as the Hand of the King—when His Grace, due to misinformation or momentary fury, might issue improper orders that could even lead to the kingdom's division and bloodshed, is it not your duty, Lord Hand—Lord Owen Merryweather—to offer counsel and prudent dissuasion? Or does the Hand of the King merely act as a mouthpiece, or even... a war drum beater?"
These words were like an invisible slap, striking hard at Owen Merryweather's sorest spot—his hard-won but baseless position as Hand, and his reputation for fawning over the monarch without backbone. His face instantly flushed red with shame and anger. He slammed the table and stood up, rattling the cups.
"You!" His finger trembled, pointing straight at Euron, almost roaring, "You are teaching me what to do?! A wet-behind-the-ears Iron Islands brat deserves to lecture the Hand of the King on his duty?!"
The air in the hall seemed to solidify. The gazes of the two Kingsguard knights instantly became incredibly sharp, focusing on the center of this suddenly escalating conflict.
"The Iron Islands," Euron's voice rose steeply, clear and cold-hard, resounding like thousand-year-old reefs meeting the impact of a storm, "never accept threats, and certainly never fear war!"
His words echoed in the cold hall. Before the sound faded, a deeper, more heart-palpitating change occurred abruptly. As his gaze swept over the three envoys like a cold blade, an invisible pressure crashed down—not physical force, yet heavy as substance, like terrifying water pressure from the deep sea, instantly shrouding the entire space.
This was his awakened Conqueror's Haki, deliberately and controlledly released at this moment.
Bearing the brunt, Lord Owen Merryweather's face turned pale as paper instantly. He felt a suffocating palpitation, as if a cold hand clutched his heart. He subconsciously wanted to retreat, but his legs went weak. His upright posture swayed, hands trembling uncontrollably, hurriedly grabbing the table to barely maintain dignity.
Behind him, the two Kingsguard reacted completely differently. Almost instinctively, Ser Arthur Dayne's right hand instantly pressed on the hilt of "Dawn." His handsome face was unprecedentedly grave, eagle-sharp vigilance erupting from his usually calm eyes. His aura turned inward like a taut bowstring, silently resisting this crushing pressure originating purely from will and spirit. Beside him, Lewyn Martell assumed a similar defensive stance, the Dornish laziness instantly replaced by a warrior's alertness.
However, right at this critical point of tension, Euron's aura suddenly retracted. He leaned back slightly, slowing his tone, like a shrewd merchant finding a compromise in an open ledger. The awe-inspiring stance of not hesitating to fight was cleverly wrapped into a pragmatic proposal: "Actually, things may not need to go to such a serious extent."
When the active release of Conqueror's Haki stopped, the pressure gradually faded. Only then did Ser Arthur Dayne and Lewyn Martell realize their lapse in composure, releasing their hands from their sword hilts.
But in their hearts, they were shocked by the pressure and threat Euron Greyjoy's speech had just brought—that was the spirit only a superior and a powerhouse possessed!