The Council Chamber

[Ding! Council chamber discovered. Received 10 points.]

Pirate King System.

It was Yulon's greatest secret weapon. Every time he set foot in a new place, points accumulated automatically, and the world before him unfolded clearly in the form of a map. Explored areas were shown in the finest detail, while unexplored places were shrouded in thick black fog, waiting for Yulon to illuminate them with his footsteps.

At that moment, the entirety of Pike Island spread out before Yulon like an ancient sea chart steeped in salt. The council chamber's coordinates had just been unlocked, and its details emerged: rough stone walls, a kraken banner hanging overhead, his father King Kolen's black stone chair, and the plundered spoils piled in the corners... Even the splashes of ale left by the Ironborn chieftains as they drank were clearly visible.

Farther away, unexplored areas remained swallowed by fog: the shipyards, the armory, the salt works, the iron mines on Old Wick Island... Every one of them represented potential points and resources.

Points meant power.

Yulon wasn't late. Before daylight had fully dispersed the mist among the rocks of Pyke, the deft, steady hands of his handmaid Lysa had already finished grooming him. On his new, thick, dark green cloak, the Greyjoy kraken embroidered in gold thread shimmered faintly in the dim light, its tentacles spread as if announcing his newfound presence. He sat at the very end of the long council table, in the seat just to the right of the head, his small body held ramrod straight as he tried to imitate his father's composed posture. Old Maester Craigon stood behind him to the left, in the shadows, thin lips pursed with worry as his bony fingers anxiously turned the links of his maester's chain. Lysa stood farther back on his right, as silent as a deep-sea plant blending into its surroundings. Her emerald eyes were lowered, and she seemed no more than a shadow in the corner.

He had arrived too early. His father, King Kolen, had yet to appear, and in the vast, chilly council chamber, there was only the crackling of fresh logs in the hearth and the moan of sea wind through the stone window slits. But the silence didn't last long.

The heavy oak door was pushed open again and again, admitting the sea-salt reek and biting air particular to the Iron Islands. Dunstan Drumm, Earl of Great Wyk, strode in with the same fearsome force as the volcano on his island, his heavy boots thudding against the stone floor. Gimond Pottery, Earl of Saltcliffe, had the baleful eyes of an eel lurking in a reef crevice. Baelon Blacktyde, Earl of Blacktyde Isle, carried himself with a priest's solemnity, turning a string of smooth Drowned God wood beads between his fingers. Their attendants and representatives gradually took their places along both sides of the hall. Their arrival filled the vast chamber with an invisible pressure and the pungent mingled smells of sweat, ale, and sea salt.

Looks of every kind—astonishment, contempt, curiosity, and unconcealed anger—reached out like icy tentacles from the wavering shadows of the dim oil lamps and wrapped around the small figure at the end of the table, dressed in his new kraken cloak. The air seemed to congeal into a thick, slimy soup of seaweed.

"Ha!" Dunstan Drumm broke the silence first. He seized the coarse clay cup before him and downed a large gulp of cheap ale, his throat working with a loud swallow. His gravelly voice grated like sandpaper against a reef as he addressed Gimond Pottery without the least courtesy. "Just look at this! A child who's barely been weaned, with hardly a hair on his chin, sitting here? What does he think the King of the Sea Stones' council chamber is? A sandcastle for playing house with babies?" He deliberately raised his voice so the entire hall could hear. Every word cracked like a salt-laced whip against Greyjoy authority.

Gimond Pottery rubbed his sparse stubble and gave a low, cold chuckle, like a sea snake sliding over wet sand. "It may not be a bad thing, Dunstan. This is a good chance for everyone here to open their eyes and see," he said, his baleful gaze sweeping the hall before settling on Yulon. "What kind of wind is blowing through the mind of our lord, so eager to be a 'reformer'? If this brat dares to spout nonsense and make wild claims in this holy place... Hmph." His trailing words brimmed with cold anticipation and menace.

Baelon Blacktyde, meanwhile, seemed out of place. He didn't join in the mockery. Instead, he solemnly placed a small, well-polished Drowned God wood carving on the table before him. He clasped his hands together and murmured with his eyes closed, his voice filled with a sorrowful kind of concern. "Drowned God... Hear the confusion of your lowly servant. Is this your will, showing us the path to renewal? Or... is it a sign that a tide of chaos and ill omen is about to drown the Iron Islands? That child's eyes... one black, one blue, like a torn night sky and a frozen abyss beneath the sea. They have stirred uneasy waves in the calm sea deep within my soul..." His prayer sounded more like a proclamation, quietly planting doubts rooted in faith in the hearts of the lords present.

The deliberately hushed remarks, unconcealed scorn, and doubts born of faith washed over Yulon's defenses like icy waves. He could feel Maester Craigon's anxiety behind him, almost tangible, and could also "hear" Lysa's barely perceptible breathing in the shadows, steady as the deep sea—a silent reminder: stay quiet, observe.

Was it really so absurd for a five-year-old to be in the council chamber?

Yulon silently retorted, his heterochromatic eyes lowered, long lashes concealing the turmoil within them. His thoughts raced over the long history of Westeros. The golden-haired "Joffrey I" on the Iron Throne in King's Landing had been crowned king at twelve, and turned the entire Seven Kingdoms upside down; every foolish decision he made was paid for in the blood of the realm's people! The Little Bear of Bear Island, Lyanna Mormont, had gone to war at ten, upholding her family's words, "Stand tall." She had taken her place in House Mormont's council chamber in place of her fallen father and brothers, and issued orders in her childish voice! The Young Wolf of the North, Robb Stark, had raised the direwolf banner at fifteen and marched on King's Landing, giving Tywin Lannister a taste of defeat on the battlefield! And at Winterfell... when the men of House Stark rode south, they left behind Bran Stark, only a few years old! With Maester Luwin by his side, hadn't he also sat in the seat of power and handled the North's disputes?

There were countless examples! On this land of Westeros, so full of legends and brutality, it was nothing unusual for young figures to appear at the very heart of power! The only difference was whether fate had callously shoved them into the eye of the storm, or... whether, like him, they had been brought into it by their father.

These counterarguments clashed fiercely in Yulon's mind, almost spilling from his lips. But he clenched his small fist beneath his sleeve, his nails digging deep into his palm, using the pain to remind himself of Lysa's warning: stay quiet. This wasn't the time to wield the sword of knowledge. What he needed to do was be like a true reef, unmoving as these malicious waves crashed against him. He subtly adjusted his posture to look calmer, his gaze resting on the polished tabletop before him as though its rough grain concealed endless mysteries. Only the faint tension in his jaw betrayed that he wasn't entirely unaffected.

The mockery, suspicion, and unease filling the council chamber hung like a damp, dense fog. Before King Kolen entered, they had already set a cold, oppressive tone for a meeting destined to be anything but ordinary. Every gaze remained fixed on the five-year-old child, so small in the enormous stone chair, yet impossible to ignore in his gold-embroidered kraken cloak and with his mismatched eyes.