The morning mist was like a grey veil, not yet fully retreated from the jagged coastline of Pyke, when the massive black sails of the Drinker caught the stiff northern wind. Like the wings of a giant bird, they pushed the slender hull resolutely toward the distant eastern horizon. Two escort ships followed closely, manned by the most loyal and battle-hardened Ironborn carefully selected by King Quellon.
Baelor Greyjoy had been called into his brother's room for a private chat the night before. They talked for a long time. When he came out, he became a member of this voyage.
Euron had no objection; another reliable blood relative was beneficial and harmless.
The voyage to the far shore began.
His first destination was clear and definite—Braavos, the Free City built on countless canals and secrets.
Choosing it was no accident. Over the years, through secret channels, clever investments, and undeniable "cooperation," he had rooted the most eyes and loyalty (or at least fear) in the complex veins of that water city. His foundation was deepest there, like an invisible, tough web quietly woven in the shadows of Braavos.
It was an ocean of information, a crossroads where merchant ships from all kingdoms gathered, exchanging goods and rumors. Every day, countless stories and secrets poured into those labyrinthine docks and taverns with the salty wind. To Euron, it was the beating heart of the world, and he was going there to listen to its pulse, and eventually... hold it in his hand.
But the city attracted him far beyond secular power and intelligence. He had long yearned for the city's soul—the mysterious forces hidden behind water mist and legends.
He longed to witness how priests whispered to the silent night sky under the massive silver dome of the Temple of the Moonsingers; to explore the ultimate mysteries of life, death, and devotion behind the unassuming doors of the House of Black and White; and even more, to glimpse a trace of the Faceless Men, the legendary messengers of the Many-Faced God, to understand their transcendent fear and power.
Braavos, to him, was both a huge strategic chessboard and an ancient tome written in mysterious symbols waiting to be discovered.
The sea wind was biting, blowing across his mismatched pupils. The Drinker would cleave the waves, sailing on this long journey of fully three weeks.
A three-week voyage was isolated time, but absolutely not boring, at least not for Euron.
The Drinker became his mobile academy. Two mentors—the battle-experienced Baelor and the skilled Water Dancer—lifted the curtain on the vast world across the Narrow Sea for him.
Decks, the captain's cabin, even the rocking forecastle became classrooms. Lysa spread out maps and scrolls. Her voice, calm and clear, systematically dissected the subtle political chessboard of western Essos: the power balance between the Sealord of Braavos and the Keyholders, the hereditary conspiracies of Pentos' Magisters, and how the suffocating slaver wheel of Volantis turned.
She explained the composition of people everywhere—from Braavos' keen merchant tycoons and proud bravos, to Pentos' spoiled noble sons, to Lys' slave masters indulging in sensual pleasures.
Water Dancer Raphael was responsible for more "grounded" teaching. He elegantly demonstrated the particularities of Braavosi dress—how to wear a simple robe to imply different statuses, how to judge a person's school or even character by their sword-wearing posture.
He described the food there, from salty oysters at seaside stalls to roasted peacock dripped with honey and poppy milk at noble banquets, emphasizing which table manners were taboos never to be violated. When the waves calmed, he sparred with Euron on deck, teaching sword skills and analyzing the different fighting styles and philosophies across Essos—the berserk Dothraki, the discipline of mercenary companies, and the chilling efficiency of the Faceless Men.
But these were just the overt lessons. In the deeper night, only Lysa accompanied Euron. By the dim whale oil lamp, he spread out the core roster of the intelligence network he had spent years building.
Parchments were dense with names, code names, positions, character weaknesses, leverage held, and prices. He had to brand every collaborator across the Narrow Sea into his mind—that greedy Braavosi customs clerk, the Pentoshi Magister's mistress with a fetish for Valyrian blood, the Lysene pirate leader whose family was firmly in hand. Similarly, he had to know the capabilities, loyalty, and contact methods of all subordinates he sent—accountants lurking in trading houses, assassins infiltrating mercenary groups, informants working as servants in the Moonsingers' temple—as clearly as his own fingers.
This was not just memory, but a drill. He needed to rehearse countless possibilities in his mind: how to use grace and might when meeting A, which sleeper to activate if B betrayed, how to cross-verify C's intelligence with D's news. The sound of waves was the only accompaniment. His mismatched pupils repeatedly scanned the names deciding his expedition's success under the flickering candlelight, transforming them from cold symbols into living pieces of his will's extension.
On the tenth day of the voyage, gale winds wrapped in hail smashed down.
The sea tore off its gentle disguise completely. Lead-gray skies pressed down heavily. The gale whipped up giant waves like countless dark green mountains collapsing and rising violently, trying to tear the tiny toy Drinker into pieces. The bone-chilling cold was no longer wind but solid entities, walnut-sized hailstones smashing madly on the deck and sails with heart-palpitating cracks. The world fell into chaotic roaring; the boundary between sea and sky blurred.
At the moment when the power of heaven and earth was most tyrannical, Euron, standing on the rocking prow, felt a completely different throbbing originating from the abyss.
Through the thick planks, through the churning cold water, an ancient, massive consciousness capable of making souls tremble crashed into his perception like an awakening undersea volcano.
The awakened bloodline of the Grey King roared! It was not sight or hearing, but a deeper resonance connected by blood. His consciousness seemed forcibly pulled downward, penetrating ten thousand fathoms of gloom, finally "seeing" the terrifying silhouette coiled on the endless seabed—
It was a Kraken so massive it defied imagination, its form identical to the Golden Kraken totem embroidered on the Greyjoy banner! Tentacles thick as castle towers slowly churned the cold water, each covered with terrifying suckers capable of snapping keels. Its torso was like a moving mountain, and in that shadow, huge, indifferent, inhuman pupil glows flickered faintly. It was the incarnation of the deep sea, the awe-inspiring totem of ancient Ironborn legends, now truly prostrating at his feet!
An ancient, desolate will surged back along the blood connection—cold, barbaric, yet strangely devoid of malice, more like a scrutiny, a confirmation of one of the same source.
Euron felt no fear, only an indescribable surge of power. Without words, a pure thought passed along this invisible bridge—Help me.
The next moment, the originally chaotic giant waves seemed combed by an invisible giant hand. An unusually stable, precisely directed undercurrent quietly supported the keels of the Drinker and the two escort ships, neutralizing the deadliest jolts. Like an invisible escort, it forcibly carved a relatively stable channel in the storm of destruction. Surrounding waters still roared with rage, but their ships alone were quietly sheltered by the totem beast's might.
This was not taming, but recognition; not magic, but a covenant older than magic, deep-rooted in blood and legend, being reawakened. Euron Greyjoy stood between storm and shelter. Beneath his feet were mortal warships; deeper below lay the mythical beast submitting to his bloodline.
When the wind calmed and waves settled, the Golden Kraken extended one immensely massive tentacle toward Euron. Euron reached out and lightly touched the tentacle. Then, the Golden Kraken slowly sank into the seabed, leaving only a cheer seemingly from ancient times drifting over the sea for a long time.
The Golden Kraken had always existed only in Ironborn legends. They never thought they would see it with their own eyes one day. Kneeling on the deck, watching the silent communication between Euron and the Golden Kraken, tears streamed down their faces, unable to calm their emotions for a long time.
Charm — The Golden Kraken appeared at your summons, viewed as a miracle by the Ironborn. 220 men are willing to offer their lives to you, loyal unto death.
Your Charm increases by 1 point. Charm: 15 points.