Stirring Up the Counter-Wave

The embers of mockery had yet to cool in the council hall, and whispers of doubt still echoed off the stone walls. Lysa's breathing, as steady as the deep sea, was a faint anchor behind him in this oppressive ocean. Yulon could clearly feel the gazes, cold or burning, clinging to his back. He met the eyes of the Lords in the hall calmly, neither surprised nor angered.

Just as Dunstan Drumm seemed poised to add more fuel to the fire, Giemund Poorterly's sinister eyes flickered with calculation, and Beron Blacktyde finished the last prayer over his wooden carving—

The inconspicuous, heavy oak door beside the main seat, leading to the inner chambers, slid open silently.

Kolen Greyjoy's tall figure appeared in the doorway, like a reef suddenly surfacing from the sea. He had not just arrived; his weather-beaten, sharp eyes, polished by the waves, were now calm and placid, yet they seemed to have taken in everything that had just transpired in the council hall—every taunt, every glance, every flicker of unease. His face was expressionless, holding only a deep, abyssal calm that itself carried an invisible pressure.

He strode in, his leather boots striking the cold stone floor with a steady, rhythmic sound, each step like a drumbeat on their hearts. He looked at no one, heading straight for the massive main seat carved from ancient black reef stone, the seat symbolizing the authority of the King of the Sea Stones. His kraken-emblazoned leather armor gleamed coldly in the firelight.

The entire council hall fell into a dead silence, the crackling of the firewood in the hearth sounding jarringly loud. Dunstan Drumm's wine cup, halfway to his lips, froze in mid-air; Giemund Poorterly's fingers stopped stroking his chin; and Beron Blacktyde quietly tucked his small wooden carving away. All eyes, whether respectful, defiant, or suspicious, focused on the ruler of the Iron Islands.

Kolen took his seat on the great throne, leaning back slightly. His gaze swept over them like a seasoned captain surveying his crew—or rather, scrutinizing a sea filled with hidden reefs. Without any pleasantries, he extended his bony, calloused hand and tapped the smooth, cold reef tabletop three times, neither too hard nor too soft.

"Dong. Dong. Dong."

The sound was not loud, but like a ship's hammer striking a warning bell, it echoed clearly in the silent hall, heralding the coming storm.

"Everyone is here. Let us convene," Kolen's voice was deep and even, yet carried an undeniable penetration. Each word sank like an anchor to the seabed, refusing to drift. "What waves are stirring on each of your islands?"

The brief silence was broken, like pent-up tides finding an outlet.

Dunstan Drumm was the first to speak again. He slammed down his wine cup, splashing a few drops onto the table. "Waves? The biggest wave is those silk-robed crows from King's Landing!" His voice boomed, filled with undisguised disgust. "Those Faith of the Seven! Scuttling around the islands like sea roaches! Chanting at fishermen on the docks, preaching to laborers by the salt pans! The priests of the Drowned God can barely contain their rage, Kolen! You let them onto our islands, and now they're polluting the Drowned God's shrines! This needs an explanation!" He pointed a thick finger at Kolen, as if he were the prime culprit.

Giemund Poorterly immediately chimed in, his voice not as explosive as Dunstan's, but colder, like a reef hidden beneath an undercurrent. "Lord Drumm speaks the truth; this is indeed a trouble. However, the bigger wave is likely the new port in Pike, which has consumed so much manpower and resources to build?" A sarcastic curve touched his lips. "What a magnificent pier, with brand-new stone quays, towering lighthouses… but what has it brought besides the crashing waves and seabird droppings? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He deliberately enunciated each word, as if each were an ice pick stabbing at Kolen's reform plans. "Not a single merchant ship flying the flags of the Seven Kingdoms dares to dock! Those merchants would rather take a detour to Seagull Town than approach the shores of our Iron Islands! What use is this pile of stones besides wasting iron ore and labor? Lord Kolen, the outside world doesn't even dare to look at your 'open' door!"

"Waves?" Beron Blacktyde's voice carried a mournful weight. He spoke slowly, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Lords. "My Lords, don't you feel the true chill? Winter is coming!" He spread his hands as if embracing an invisible cold. "The Iron Islands are barren; our food has always been bought from outside or… by paying iron price. How long can the grain reserves in Pike's warehouses last? Two months? Three months? And you," he looked at Kolen, his eyes filled with the worry of a believer, "you still want to raise the salt tax? Salt is one of the cornerstones of our survival as Ironborn. Raising the salt tax is like drawing out the last bit of life-sustaining salt from the poor fishermen and salt workers! This will make the hearths on the islands extinguish even faster! The Drowned God gave us salt so we could live, not to drive our people to desperation!"

As soon as he finished speaking, another representative from Old Wick Island—a gaunt captain with eyes like a hawk—suddenly stood up, his voice like a blade scraping bone. "Lord Blacktyde has touched upon the root of the matter! Food! Survival! These are the most critical waves! Lord Kolen, can your dreams of merchant ships, ports, and priests fill our children's bellies? Can they withstand the biting winds of winter?" He looked around, a primal, fanatical light burning in his eyes. "The Old Way! Only by returning to the Old Way! Let our longships sail again! Let our warriors grip their axes once more! Go to the rich southern coasts and 'pay iron price'! Go and seize the food we need to survive the winter! Go and reclaim the glory the Ironborn have lost! This is the way of the Ironborn that the Drowned God approves of! This is the anchor that solves all problems!"

"Yes! Return to the Old Way!"

"Paying iron price is the true path!"

"Raid for food to survive the winter!"

Several more radical captains and representatives from remote islands immediately echoed loudly. The council hall was instantly filled with a fervent, plunder-hungry restlessness. The calls to "return to the Old Way" surged like a hungry tsunami, fiercely battering Kolen and the reform direction he represented.

Kolen sat on the reef throne, his face as dark as water. His fingers tapped the cold tabletop unconsciously, as if measuring the depth and strength of these surging "waves." His gaze was deep, revealing neither pleasure nor anger.

And Yulon, seated at the very end, maintained a posture of near-stasis. His small body was enveloped in a new kraken robe, like a miniature reef adrift in a raging sea. When his father appeared, the taut line of his jaw seemed to relax slightly. Now, amidst the Lords' fierce arguments and the fervent shouts to "return to the Old Way," the eyes beneath his lowered lids—his mismatched eyes, one like an abyss swallowing all light, the other like ice blue that had frozen a storm—were exceptionally bright and focused. He imprinted every face contorted with anger, anxiety, and fanaticism, every cry filled with demands of profit, faith, and survival, into his mind like the most precise sea chart. Lysa's admonition echoed in his heart: Silence, observe. In the center of the storm, only absolute clarity allows survival. He was like an outsider chronicler, silently gathering firsthand intelligence from this arena of power, drawing a crucial map of the hidden reefs for the voyages to come.