Euron's second stop in Braavos was the renowned Palace of the Sealord.
The Sealord was the ruler of Braavos. Before the advent of White Gold Sand, the Iron Islands and the Sealord rarely had business dealings. Trade had only gradually increased in the past two years.
Euron did not come as a beggar, but as a trade partner holding scarce resources. The meeting with the Sealord took place in a cold marble hall, flanked by statues of past Sealords looking down with piercing gazes at those present.
Sealord Ferrego Antaryon clicked his tongue in wonder: "Euron Greyjoy, Son of the Drowned God. Seven years old, yet able to sail alone and manage crucial family business. When I was seven, I'm afraid I was still running around bare-bottomed, peeing in the mud..."
A joke, teasing, and also a probe.
Euron did not dodge. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he calmly took up the conversation, his tone carrying just the right amount of humility and unmistakable sharpness: "Your Grace jests. Only in mud can form be shaped; childish games can also reveal ambition. This aquatic kingdom you now command perhaps originated from that zeal to shape the world back then."
Euron then turned to the main topic, his tone flat but every word clear and weighty.
When discussing "White Gold Sand," he didn't sound like he was selling goods, but stating an order—a rule defined by him leading to a world of ultimate sensory experience. He didn't rush to boast about profits, but calmly wove it into a web.
Luxury goods. Product equals status.
Huge tax revenue was naturally enticing, but what attracted the Sealord more was Euron's implication that this was a bond deeply tying the hedonistic needs of Braavos' elite to the fundamental interests of the Iron Islands.
It wasn't a one-time deal, but a dependency slowly injected into the blood. Euron confidently assured the Sealord that in the near future, the Iron Islands would have more products far exceeding the value of White Gold Sand as part of their trade.
When the topic turned to port usage rights, the conditions Euron proposed were precise and restrained. He showed familiarity with Braavosi maritime laws, tidal patterns, and even dock faction distribution. He asked not for privilege, but for a stable, sustainable channel. This didn't sound like a short-term merchant's bargaining, but a strategist laying the first cornerstone for a long-term trade route.
Sealord Ferrego Antaryon gradually stopped treating Euron as a seven-year-old child and started treating him as a business partner of Braavos. The entire meeting had no loud arguments or bluffs; it was calm and polite.
Except for the inability to hug women and drink like Oberyn Martell, both host and guest were happy.
---
The true authority of Braavos lay half in the Sealord's Palace, and the other half deep behind the massive stone walls of the Iron Bank.
If the Sealord controlled soldiers and laws, the Iron Bank controlled the bloodline that flowed silently but determined the rise and fall of nations—Wealth.
The Iron Bank of Braavos was an international financial institution capable of directly influencing currency value through interest rates.
There was none of the grandeur and noise of the Sealord's Palace here, only endless cold corridors, archive shelves towering to the dome, and air filled with the scent of aged parchment and ink. Officials walked lightly and slowly, voices low as if in confession. Their eyes were sharp and restrained, as if they had long converted emotions into interest rates.
In this fortress built of numbers, Euron put on a completely different mask: no longer a sea madman or a glib diplomat, but a calm, precise, to-the-point business leader.
Euron didn't come to beg for a loan, but to present a proposition. He laid out the wealth prospect brought by "White Gold Sand" clearly: not just huge profits, but a stable, continuous, and expanding cash flow. He discussed transport costs and output, estimated market saturation and demand cycles, explored the possibility of building White Gold Sand refineries in every port city, and even proposed a vision of deep financial cooperation bound with the Iron Bank in the future, as well as joint investments in new trade routes.
Euron's language lacked wave-like passion, possessing only gear-like rigorous logic. Under the gaze of those mismatched eyes, even the most stubborn auditors seemed to glimpse a silent flood of gold coins behind the dry numbers. He didn't need to beg for trust; he only needed to display Order. And Order was the only language the Iron Bank believed in.
Finally, Euron exchanged the Gold Dragons he brought from Westeros for Braavosi iron coins, more commonly used on this continent.
Gold coins once symbolizing power and faith in his homeland were collected by the Iron Bank, replaced by stacks of dull, heavy iron coins stamped with the moon crest of Braavos. These iron coins were cold and plain, without ornate carving, but were widely recognized in every corner of this continent. Their value lay not in luster, but in the credit granted by the republic behind them—a republic with no king, only contracts and capital.
Leaving the Iron Bank, Euron lingered in the noisy markets of Braavos.
He stopped at smoky stalls by the canal to taste eels roasted with strange spices, feeling the mixed impact of slick flesh and stimulating taste buds. He walked into bustling taverns, ordered a cup of locally brewed sour ale, listened to sailors and dockworkers bragging about adventures in various accents, filtering out valuable rumors and intelligence. He also sought old establishments hidden in deep alleys, trying secret clam chowder said to have a century-old recipe, tasting the unique mellowness endowed by time.
These seemingly casual tastings were actually his way of measuring the city's pulse. The taste of food, market conversations, and even the eyes of vendors were sources of intelligence more real than any official report.
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After maneuvering in Braavos' power network for days, only one last, most symbolic stop remained on Euron Greyjoy's schedule: The Isle of the Gods.
This island in the city center, connected to the main districts by countless elegant bridges, was the concentrated embodiment of Braavos' unique soul.
Here, all known gods found a place. From the Seven of Westeros to R'hllor the Red God across the Narrow Sea, from the Horse God of the Dothraki to the mysterious Black Goat, and even minor sea gods remembered only by a few sailors—all had altars and temples large or small here. There was also the Drowned God worshiped by the Ironborn.
The air seemed to vibrate slightly with these diverse faiths. Various incenses, prayers, and ritual sounds interwove strangely, forming a disturbing yet incredibly harmonious background hum.
Stepping onto the Isle of the Gods was like entering a miniature pantheon bazaar. His pace was unhurried, mismatched pupils calmly sweeping over every temple of distinct style. He saw solemn statues behind the stained glass of the Sept, and the dancing fire and red-robed priests before the Red Temple. He passed low stone caves worshiping nameless deep-sea entities, with shells and salt grains offered by fishermen at the entrance. He also glimpsed small shrines decorated with exotic totems, strange spice scents rising from censers.
There was no single truth here, only parallel faiths. Braavos' freedom was displayed vividly: faith was a tool, a comfort, a trade. As long as it didn't affect the flow of gold coins and the city's operation, it could coexist here. The Sealord and the Keyholders wisely knew that suppressing faith only bred underground sparks, while giving them a public place brought them under control.
Euron stopped before a small, seemingly abandoned altar. Its rough stone base was carved with ancient runes blurred by wind and rain. Beside it lay a rusted iron lamp that seemed to have once held oil. No sign, no priest, not even knowing which god it enshrined. Perhaps a forgotten ancient variant of the Drowned God, or a relic of a lost civilization.
He stood quietly for a moment.
The tolerance of the Isle of the Gods, in a sense, was a ruling wisdom more powerful than swords. It allowed fanaticism to vent in controllable channels, incorporating mysticism as part of the urban landscape. But what Euron felt was not awe, but a deeper calmness. These gods competed for beauty here, accepting offerings, but their power seemed imprisoned on this island, becoming harmless parts of the giant machine that was Braavos.
"Truly... shrewd." He muttered to himself, lips curling into an elusive smile. Braavosi seemed to have built something stronger than any single faith: a secular and efficient system that allowed and managed all faiths.
The trip to the Isle of the Gods didn't make him convert to any god, but made him understand the true source of Braavos' power more deeply—not a specific god, but the ultimate practice of the concept "Everything can be used by me."
Euron asked, "Lysa, do you think if I utilize an uninhabited small island in the Iron Islands and build something like the Isle of the Gods..."
After a brief thought, Lysa shook her head decisively. "The Iron Islands aren't Braavos. Braavosi come from everywhere across the Narrow Sea, bringing different faiths. But the Iron Islands only have Ironborn."
Euron sighed, agreeing. "You're right!"
Dagmer snorted disapprovingly. "We don't need so many gods. Just the Drowned God is enough!"
Euron nodded in agreement. "You're even more right!" Almost forgot, I am the Son of the Drowned God! Why look for trouble!