The Council Hall

[Ding! Council Hall discovered, 10 points gained.]

The Pirate King System.

It was Yulon's greatest secret weapon. With every new location he set foot in, points would automatically accumulate, and the world before him would unfold clearly in the form of a map—explored areas rendered in minute detail, while unexplored regions remained shrouded in dense black mist, awaiting Yulon to illuminate them with his footsteps.

At this moment, the full panorama of Pike Island lay spread out before Yulon, like an ancient sea chart soaked in brine. The coordinates of the Council Hall had just been unlocked, and details emerged—rough stone walls, hanging kraken banners, his father King Kaelen's black stone seat, piles of plunder in the corners... even the wine stains from the Ironborn lords' drinking sessions were clearly visible.

Further afield, unexplored areas were still swallowed by mist—the docks, the armory, the salt pans, the iron ore caves of Old Wick Island... each representing potential points and resources.

Points meant power.

Yulon was not late. Before the sky had fully dispelled the thick fog clinging to the reefs of Pike, he had already been meticulously groomed by the nimble and steady hands of his handmaiden, Lysa. His new, thick, dark green velvet cloak, embroidered with golden kraken sigils of the Greyjoys, shimmered faintly in the dim light, its claws and tentacles seeming to declare his undeniable presence. He sat upright at the very end of the Council Hall's long table, in the side seat to the right of the main seat, his small body held stiffly straight, striving to emulate his father's steady demeanor. Old Maester Kraggen stood behind him to the left, in the shadows, his thin lips pressed together, his gaunt fingers nervously fiddling with the links of his chain. Lysa, like a deep-sea plant blending into the background, stood silently further back to the right, her emerald eyes lowered, as if merely a shadow in the corner.

He had arrived too early. His father, King Kaelen, had not yet arrived. In the empty, cold Council Hall, only the crackling of newly added logs in the fireplace and the mournful howl of the sea wind slipping through the cracks in the stone windows broke the silence. However, this quiet was soon shattered.

The heavy oak doors were pushed open, one after another, bringing with them the distinct smell of the sea and the biting air of the various islands of the Iron Islands. Earl Dunstan of Great Wyk, as imposing as the volcanoes on his island, strode in, his heavy boots thudding dully on the stone floor. Earl Jymond of Saltcliffe, his gaze as sinister as a moray eel hidden in a reef crevice. Earl Balon of Blacktyde, with the solemnity of a priest, his fingers toying with a string of smooth Drowned God wood beads. Their retainers and spokesmen followed, filling the seats on either side. The vast Council Hall was instantly filled with an invisible pressure and the pungent mix of sweat, stale ale, and sea salt.

Gazes—astonished, contemptuous, probing, or openly furious—like cold tentacles, were cast from the flickering light of the dim oil lamps, fixating on the small figure at the end of the long table, clad in a new kraken robe. The air seemed to solidify into a thick seaweed soup.

"Hah!" Dunstan Drumm was the first to break the silence. He grabbed the rough clay cup before him, downed a large gulp of cheap ale, his Adam's apple bobbing with a loud swallow. His rough voice scraped against the stone like sandpaper as he unceremoniously addressed Jymond Potley beside him, "Look at this! Letting a child who's barely weaned, still wet behind the ears, sit here? What does he think the King of the Sea Stones' council hall is? A sandcastle for a baby to play with?" He deliberately raised his voice, ensuring the entire hall could hear, each word a salt-laced whip lashing at Greyjoy's dignity.

Jymond Potley stroked the sparse stubble on his chin, letting out a low chuckle that slithered like a sea snake across wet sand, "It might not be a bad thing, Dunstan. It'll give everyone here a good look," his sinister gaze swept across the hall, finally settling on Yulon, "to see what kind of wind is blowing through the head of our so-called 'reformer' of a chieftain. If this brat dares to spout nonsense and speak recklessly in this sacred place... Hmph." The unfinished tail of his words was filled with cold anticipation and threat.

Balon Blacktyde seemed out of place. He did not join the mockery, but instead placed a small, well-worn, glossy Drowned God wood carving he carried onto the table before him. He clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and murmured, his voice filled with a near-pitying concern, "Oh, Drowned God... hear your humble servant's confusion. Is this your decree, heralding a new path? Or... a harbinger of the tides of chaos and ill omen about to drown the Iron Islands? The child's eyes... one black, one blue, like a torn night sky and a frozen abyss, they stir an uneasy ripple in the calm sea of my soul..." His prayer was more like a declaration, subtly planting doubt rooted in faith into the hearts of the assembled lords.

These deliberately low voices, undisguised contempt, and faith-based questioning, like cold waves, crashed against Yulon's defenses. He could feel the almost palpable anxiety of Maester Kraggen behind him, and "hear" Lysa's barely perceptible, deep-sea calm breath from the shadows—a silent reminder: silence, observe.

Is it outrageous for a five-year-old to be in the Council Hall?

Yulon retorted silently in his heart, his mismatched eyes lowered, his long lashes concealing the turmoil within. His thoughts raced through the historical scrolls of Westeros. Joffrey I, the blond king on the Iron Throne in King's Landing, was crowned at twelve and plunged the entire Seven Kingdoms into chaos; every foolish decision of his flowed with the blood of the kingdom's people! Lyanna Mormont, the "young bear" of Bear Island, went to battle at the age of ten, fulfilling her house's motto of "head held high," taking her slain father and brother's place in the Mormont council hall, issuing commands with a childish voice! Robb Stark, the "young wolf" of the North, raised the direwolf banner at fifteen, pointing his sword at King's Landing, making even Tywin Lannister taste defeat on the battlefield! And Winterfell... when the Stark men went south, who was left but the young Bran Stark! Accompanied by Maester Luwin, he too sat in the main seat and handled disputes in the North!

Countless! Young figures appearing at the core of power had never been a rarity in Westeros, a land filled with legends and brutality! The only difference was whether they were ruthlessly pushed to the forefront by fate, or... like himself, were actively pulled into the eye of the storm by their father?

These rebuttals clashed fiercely in Yulon's mind, almost bursting out of his mouth. But he clenched the small fists hidden in his sleeves, his fingernails digging deeply into his palms, using the pain to remind himself of Lysa's counsel—silence. Now was not the time to wield the sword of knowledge. What he needed to do was be like a true reef, enduring the onslaught of these malicious waves, unmoving. He slightly adjusted his posture, making himself appear more composed, his gaze fixed on the smooth surface of the table before him, as if the rough wood grain held infinite mysteries. Only the slightly tense line of his jaw betrayed that his inner peace was not absolute.

The mockery, suspicion, and unease permeating the Council Hall, like a damp, thick fog, had already set a cold and heavy tone for this undoubtedly extraordinary meeting before King Kaelen's arrival. All eyes were fixed firmly on the five-year-old child, who seemed exceptionally small in the enormous stone chair, yet was incredibly conspicuous due to his golden kraken robe and heterochromatic eyes.