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Game of Thrones: Dwarf Become King
Game of Thrones: Dragons Dance
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Euron had already spotted the deep purple robe, had seen the Qartheen's pretense of noble reserve. But he had no patience for such aristocratic posturing.
He didn't lash out immediately. Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over the fierce Island Lords beside him. Feigning confusion, he spoke in a voice just loud enough for everyone around to hear clearly:
"Oh? Look, gentlemen. Everyone in this city seems to understand the rules. They know how to submit." He raised a hand, pointing a finger directly at the standing figure, his tone suddenly turning icy. "Except for that one standing there. It seems he has made up his mind to refuse."
Euron paused slightly, tossing the question out lightly. "What do you say we do with... someone like that?"
The Island Lords around him were ruthless men who had followed him for a long time. They understood his intent instantly. Without hesitation, several brutal roars erupted at once:
"Chop him!"
"Hang his head from the mast!"
The command given, several wolf-like Ironborn grinned savagely, drawing axes and blades from their waists. They strode through the kneeling crowd, charging straight for the Qartheen. The bright axe blades cut through the wind, ready to come down on his still-straight neck without mercy, leaving no room for questions or warnings.
The Qartheen in the fine robes saw the gleaming steel descending. In that instant, all his feigned calm and reserve shattered. Extreme terror turned his legs to jelly. With a thud, he collapsed, kneeling heavily as if his bones had been removed, looking far more pathetic than the commoners around him.
"No! I'm not... Ah! I submit! I yield..." he shrieked, trying to grasp at the last straw of life.
The Ironborn ignored his wails. Grinning, they grabbed him roughly by the collar of his expensive robe like a chick, effortlessly dragging him out of the kneeling crowd and throwing him onto the open ground, awaiting their leader's final judgment.
Euron didn't immediately acknowledge the Qartheen groveling in the dirt. It was as if this interlude was merely a breeze passing over the sea. His gaze drifted lightly elsewhere, past the robed figure, landing on the dark mass of kneeling commoners.
Euron took two steps forward, his voice carrying a benevolent majesty across the silent dock.
"The Iron Islands accept your submission."
He raised a hand gently, smiling. "Rise. You have made a wise choice, and you will never regret the choice you made today. The Iron Islands are always tolerant and merciful to our subjects."
Euron paused, letting the promise ferment in the crowd, watching as they stood up hesitantly, one after another. Then, he pivoted sharply to appoint the administrator.
"From this day forth, Fralegg Blacktyde shall serve as the Governor of Faros!"
Fralegg Blacktyde, named, stepped forward with steady, powerful strides.
As the second son of Lord Baelor Blacktyde of Blacktyde, he inherited the family's signature thick black hair and eyes sharp as a falcon's. Though young, with angles on his face not yet fully smoothed by time, his brow held a determination forged by wind and waves. He had already proven himself a brave warrior in numerous boarding actions and coastal raids, and an excellent captain who commanded deep trust from his crew through skillful navigation and precise judgment.
Fralegg Blacktyde's face was solemn with the weight of responsibility, but deep in his eyes, excitement flickered uncontrollably. He took a deep breath, turning to face the populace who had just risen, still full of fear and expectation. His voice was loud, carrying the metallic resonance of a warrior.
"Hear me! I, Fralegg Blacktyde, am the Governor of Faros from this day forth. The Golden Kraken of the Iron Islands and the Green-and-Black Vair banner of House Blacktyde of Blacktyde shall fly side by side over the walls of Faros!"
He waved his arm, shouting, "These two banners shall be your protection from now on! They will guarantee the safety of your lives, guard your property, and secure your trade! As long as you serve loyally, the prosperity of Faros shall be witnessed by us all!"
Only then did Euron seem to notice the forgotten figure. His lazy gaze swept over the Qartheen still kneeling on the ground, a cold axe blade resting against his neck.
"Oh?" Euron uttered a flat syllable, asking indifferently, his tone devoid of interest. "You... seem to have something to say?"
The words were like a pardon. The Qartheen hurriedly raised his head, his pale face a mix of post-disaster terror and eager desperation. He spoke rapidly.
"Yes! Yes! Honored Lord Euron, greetings. I am Jared Taylor of Qarth." He took a deep breath and stated his true purpose. "I represent the 'Ancient Guild of Spicers' to request an audience with you, my Lord!"
"Request an audience?" Euron laughed as if he'd heard something amusing. "I don't recall having any business dealings with your Ancient Guild of Spicers in the past."
"Indeed not in the past, my Lord," Jared Taylor admitted hastily, raising his eyes to look sincere. "But we hope that from now on, we can have very close and mutually beneficial business dealings."
The ice on Euron's face melted instantly. He reached out kindly to help the trembling Jared Taylor up, even thoughtfully dusting off the dirt on his expensive robe.
"Ah, why didn't you say so earlier!" Euron's tone was gentle, tinged with mild reproach, as if the axe at the neck had been a harmless misunderstanding. "Since you are an envoy from the Ancient Guild of Spicers, we could have talked in a much more comfortable setting."
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that carried a bone-chilling intimacy. "I almost misunderstood you just now. If I had been a little careless..."
His right hand flattened into a knife-hand and sliced through the air with a sharp crack.
"...your head would be gone, wouldn't it?"
Jared Taylor jumped at the realistic sound effect, the little color that had returned to his face draining away again.
Euron asked pleasantly, "So, risking so much to see me... what is it for?"
Jared Taylor gave an awkward smile, struggling to organize his words. "Lord Euron may not know... actually, including Vahar, and this city of Faros, historically these have been territories governed jointly by the merchant guilds of Qarth."
"Oh? Ruled by the Qartheen guilds?" Euron's mouth quirked up, but his eyes went cold instantly, his voice returning to its freezing temperature. "By your logic, I've occupied your territory? So, are you here today representing Qarth to formally declare war on the Iron Islands?"
"No! Absolutely not! Please do not misunderstand!" Jared Taylor waved his hands frantically, almost incoherent with fear. "We... our guild is willing to voluntarily cede Vahar, Faros, and even Port Moraq on Great Moraq to the Iron Islands. We ask for nothing else, only that our two sides maintain peace and non-aggression in the future."
"Cede?" Euron raised an eyebrow, the mockery in his tone almost overflowing. "Did we not take these islands fair and square with our warships and swords? When did we ever need you to let us have them?"
"Of course! Undoubtedly, you took them by your strength!" Jared Taylor was sweating profusely, his back soaked. "My wording was improper, please forgive me!"
"Since we took them ourselves," Euron stared at him dead on, speaking coldly, "then what does any of this have to do with your Ancient Guild of Spicers or any other guild? Does it concern you even half a copper?"
Jared Taylor opened his mouth but no sound came out. He could only continue his awkward smile, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
Euron waved his hand dismissively, like shooing away an annoying fly. "Enough. Go back."
His tone brooked no argument. "Tell your guild members, if there is truly important business, when I have time in the future, I will personally go to Qarth and speak with your royalty. You... are not qualified."
With that, he ignored the frozen Jared Taylor and turned, striding directly into the city of Faros. He left the envoy representing vast wealth but no real power, along with his "generous" concession, abandoned in the sea breeze.