A Chaotic Future

Yulon suddenly raised his head, his pupils, which could tear apart the night sky and freeze the abyss, erupted with an almost demonic glow under the reflection of the last embers of the hearth. That light pierced through Kolen's solemnity, contemplation, and faint alarm, reaching the core strategic intent: "Father, the 'Raid Exclusion Zone' you've designated at the center of this storm today—this 'New Rule of the Old Way' that points the Ironborn axe beyond the Seven Kingdoms—is an incredibly wise restraint! It cleverly prevents us from being prematurely entangled in the cataclysmic inferno that is about to sweep across Westeros, an inferno capable of burning everything, and it also protects us from drawing fire upon ourselves and becoming the target of all."

Within his small body, it was as if a sea beast's power, dormant for a thousand years, was awakening, unleashing a heart-palpitating sharpness utterly disproportionate to his age, his voice also taking on a prophetic power that discerned the future with unwavering certainty:

"When the wildfire caches personally buried by the Mad King are finally ignited by his own frenzied torch, or detonated by some desperate spark... When the lions of Westeros, the direwolves, the Sunspear Vipers, the Golden Roses, the Roaring Stags... tear each other apart in the flames and chaos ignited by madness, flesh and blood flying... When the cold gleam of the Iron Throne is completely obscured by endless blood and gunpowder smoke—"

Yulon stood up abruptly! His dark green, thick velvet kraken robe seemed to come alive under the faint firelight, the golden threads of the embroidered Greyjoy kraken totem writhing ferociously, baring its fangs and claws! He spread his young hands, palms up, as if lifting a shapeless yet immensely heavy world chess game with all his might, a game where smoke billowed and blood and fire intertwined:

"That will be our golden moment to break free from the shackles of the 'New Rule' and let the Drowned God's iron axe drink its fill of enemy blood and gold! At that time, the Lannister Port's merchant ships laden with gold, the Reach's boundless fertile granaries, the Stepstones' pirate-infested vital arteries... all the wealth and lifelines that fall into chaos due to internal strife and are unable to attend to anything else, will become our legitimate hunting grounds for 'paying Iron Coins'! We can take whatever we want!"

His voice echoed in the vast, silent stone hall, carrying a primal, blood-stirring allure, like the low growl of a colossal deep-sea beast:

"The crazier the Mad King burns, the deeper Westeros falls into chaos, the more bountiful and tempting the hunting grounds outside the 'safe waters' designated by our 'New Rule of the Old Way' will become! Father, we are not prophets foretelling the storm; we are fishermen riding the storm! And Mad King Aerys Targaryen is using his madness to churn up a furious sea full of great whales and golden scales for us!"

"The faster the Targaryen dragon banners fall, the fiercer the sea of fire in Westeros burns, the more dazzling our Sea Stone Seat will shine! Because that world-burning fire will force all the people on land—whether lions, wolves, stags, or snakes—to leap in terror into the chaotic sea in a desperate bid for survival! And we Greyjoys," Yulon's voice rose, carrying a bone-deep pride forged from iron and salt, "we have been waiting in the raging waves for a thousand years! We were born here, we grew up here, we are the raging waves themselves! Chaos is not an abyss that devours all, Father; chaos is the only ladder the Drowned God has bestowed upon us Greyjoys, leading to supreme power and eternal glory!"

"Those merchant ships laden with gold, grain, and fine wine, those castles whose lords have lost their protection and whose defenses are empty, will become fat sheep without the protection of the wolf pack, ripe for our slaughter! The gold mountains of the Lannisters, the granaries of the Tyrells, the wine cellars of Seagull Town... Our longships will appear like ghosts wherever we wish to go, taking whatever we desire, using the flesh and wealth of our enemies to strengthen the sinews of us Ironborn and sharpen the axe of our Drowned God!"

"Enough!" Kolen's roar exploded like thunder, abruptly interrupting Yulon's highly inflammatory declaration. His voice was hoarse, as if scoured by grit and salt, every word shot out from clenched teeth, carrying unbelievable shock, profound coldness, and a trace of fear of this terrifying insight that even he himself had not noticed. "These... these words that seduce the heart like a viper's venom!" His gaze, sharp as a blade, suddenly swept towards Lysa and the old Maester Craigon in the shadows, carrying the oppressive weight of scrutinizing everything, "Who? Who stuffed these things into a five-year-old child's head? Was it you, Lysa? That maid who knows all the languages of the Seven Kingdoms and whose origins are unknown? Or you, Craigon? That old scholar whose head is full of moldy parchment and ancient legends?!"

Lysa remained still in the deepest shadow, as if merged with the stone wall, her emerald eyes lowered, her long lashes concealing all emotion, as if completely unfazed by Kolen's bone-crushing rage. Only her deep-sea calm breathing proved her existence. Maester Craigon in the corner trembled as if struck by lightning, his emaciated body shaking like a sieve, his face as pale as a dead fish on a salt flat, his cloudy old eyes filled with extreme confusion and a fear that almost consumed him—clearly, he too was utterly shocked by Yulon's analysis, which surpassed his age and defied common sense, leaving him speechless.

"The messages brought by the ravens are backed up in the Maester's Tower," Yulon said with a childlike, yet cunning smile, skillfully deflecting his father's questioning. "Have you forgotten, Father? I was 'confined' there for a full month. The long hours were enough for me to pore over those scrolls and contemplate the past, present... and future of the Iron Islands." He admitted frankly, "I did ask Lysa some questions about the lineages and customs of the southern nobles, and I also consulted Maester Craigon about history. But the dream about the Drowned God last night, and everything I just said..." He pointed to his small head, his heterochromatic eyes clear as crystal, "it all started here. The more I think, the more I feel..."

He paused, then stated clearly in a tone bordering on philosophical, a sentence potent enough to shake the entire Westerosi nobility: "He who gains the Way gains much; he who loses the Way has little help! When all the nobles feel that the person on the throne... is unworthy of the position..."

"Silence!" Kolen's sharp command exploded like a tsunami, instantly drowning out Yulon's words and extinguishing the last spark in the fireplace. His voice, mixed with the suddenly intensified roar of the waves outside the window, carried the unquestionable absolute authority of the King of the Sea Stones: "You are not qualified to 'feel'! Nor are you qualified to express 'opinions' about the Iron Throne here!" His towering figure in the dim light was like a volcano about to erupt. "Everything you just said, every single word, keep it buried in your gut! Rot completely! And you two—" his icy gaze swept over Lysa and Craigon again, like tangible blades, "Lysa, Craigon! Every syllable heard in this council hall today, if even a fifth person finds out... even a whisper..." He did not finish, but the chilling killing intent and iron-blooded threat, like tangible ice, froze the air, conveying his meaning with perfect precision.

Lysa bowed slightly, her posture respectful and silent. Craigon, terrified, almost collapsed, only managing to nod frantically, making guttural sounds in his throat.

Silence descended again, heavier than before. Only the roar of the waves crashing madly against the rocks outside the window, like the panting of a giant beast.

After a long while, King Kolen's tense fingers finally relaxed slightly. He looked at this young son who stirred his emotions, filling him with both surprise and fear. He tapped his knuckles twice on the cold stone tabletop, producing a dull sound, as if making a difficult decision. "From now on," his voice returned to its usual low tone, but with an irrefutable command, "every Wednesday afternoon, come to my study." He paused, his gaze profound. "Learn... how to read those sealed letters."

As Yulon bowed and walked step by step out of the vast stone hall, filled with the lingering warmth of power and invisible smoke, he clearly heard his father's low, almost muttering voice behind him, mixed with the roar of the stormy waves outside the window, sounding like an ancient incantation:

"The dead do not die..."

The heavy oak door slowly closed behind him, cutting off the latter half of the sentence, but that maxim, filled with the unyielding will of the Ironborn, was imprinted on Yulon's heart like a brand.

In the shadows of the corridor, Lysa materialized silently like a ghost, holding a thick parchment scroll—it recorded the vital grain inventory details of Pike and all the islands. Her timing was as precise as calculated tides.

Yulon raised his small face, meeting Lysa's unfathomable emerald eyes. A glint of triumphant satisfaction flashed in his heterochromatic pupils. He winked at her, the corner of his mouth curling into an almost imperceptible arc—the plan was proceeding smoothly.