The morning mist still hung like a gray veil over Pike Island's jagged coastline. The Hao Yin's great black sails had already filled with the strong northerly wind, spreading like the wings of a giant bird as they drove the long hull decisively toward the faint eastern horizon. Two escort ships followed close behind, crewed by Ironborn King Kolen had carefully chosen for their loyalty and fighting prowess.
The night before, Balv Greyjoy had been called into his brother's room for a private conversation. They talked for a long time, and when he came out, Balv had become one of the members of this voyage.
Yulon had no objections. A reliable blood relative was an asset, not a liability.
And so the voyage to the distant shore began.
His first destination was clear: Braavos, the Free City built atop countless canals and secrets.
He had not chosen it by chance. Over the years, through covert channels, shrewd investments, and even "partnerships" no one could refuse, he had planted more spies and loyal followers—or at least people who feared him—there than anywhere else. His foundations were deepest in that city, like an invisible, resilient web quietly spun through Braavos's shadows.
It was an ocean of information, a crossroads where merchant ships from every land gathered to trade goods and gossip. Every day, countless stories and secrets rode the salty sea breeze into its labyrinthine docks and taverns. To Yulon, it was the beating heart of the whole world. He was going there to hear its pulse—and, in time, to take hold of it.
But worldly power and intelligence were far from all that drew him to the city. He had long yearned for its soul: the mysterious forces hidden behind the water's mist and legends.
He longed to see with his own eyes how the priests whispered to the silent night beneath the great silver dome of the Moon Singer temple; to seek the ultimate mysteries of life, death, and sacrifice behind the unassuming door of the Hall of Black and White; and, more than anything, to catch a glimpse of the Faceless Men, the fabled servants of the Many-Faced God, and understand their otherworldly terror and power.
To him, Braavos was both a vast strategic chessboard and an ancient book, written in mysterious symbols and waiting to be discovered.
The biting sea wind swept across his mismatched eyes. The Hao Yin would cleave through the waves and set sail on a long journey that would take a full three weeks.
Three weeks at sea meant a lonely stretch cut off from the world, but it would not be boring—not for Yulon.
The Hao Yin became his mobile academy, and his two tutors—the battle-hardened Balv and the supremely skilled Water Dancer—pulled back the curtain on the vast lands across the Narrow Sea.
The deck, the captain's cabin, even the pitching forecastle became classrooms. Lysa spread out maps and scrolls, then calmly and clearly analyzed the subtle political maneuvering along the western coast of Essos: the balance of power between the Sealord of Braavos and its magisters, the hereditary schemes of the magisters of Pentos, and the suffocating machinery of slavery in Valantis.
She explained the peoples of each land, from Braavos's sharp-nosed merchant magnates and proud swordsmen to Pentos's pampered young nobles and the pleasure-loving slave owners of Lys.
Raphael the Water Dancer handled the more practical lessons. With elegant movements, he demonstrated the subtleties of Braavosi dress—how a simple robe could convey different statuses, and how a person's sword stance could reveal their school and even their temperament.
He described the food, from briny oysters sold at seaside stalls to roast peacock drizzled with honey and Milk of the Poppy at noble banquets. He emphasized which table manners were unforgivable breaches of etiquette. When the seas calmed, he sparred with Yulon on deck, teaching him not only swordsmanship but also the different fighting styles and philosophies across Essos: the Dothraki's savagery, the discipline of sellsword companies, and the chilling efficiency of the Faceless Men.
But those were only the lessons taught in plain sight. In the deeper hours of the night, with only Lysa beside him and a dim whale-oil lamp burning, Yulon laid out the core registers of the intelligence network he had spent years building.
Names, code names, positions, personal weaknesses, leverage, and prices crowded the parchment. He had to commit every detail about each contact across the Narrow Sea to memory as if branded there: the greedy Braavosi customs clerk, the Pentoshi magister's mistress with her taste for Valyrian blood, the Lyseni pirate captain whose family was firmly under his control. He also had to know every one of his own agents—their abilities, loyalty, and means of contact—as thoroughly as the back of his hand: the bookkeeper embedded in a trading house, the killer who had joined a sellsword company, the spy working as a servant at the Moon Singer temple.
This was more than memorization; it was rehearsal. He had to run countless possibilities through his mind: how to reward and intimidate A when they met, which hidden piece to activate if B betrayed him, and how to cross-check C's intelligence against D's report. The sound of the waves was his only accompaniment. In the flickering candlelight, his mismatched eyes repeatedly scanned the names that would determine the success or failure of his expedition, turning them from cold symbols into living pieces on a board, extensions of his will.
On the tenth day at sea, a gale swept in, pelting them with hail.
The sea tore off its gentle disguise. A leaden sky pressed low as the gale whipped up towering waves, like countless dark green mountains collapsing before surging back up to tear the Hao Yin apart like a child's toy. The biting cold became a tangible thing, hurling walnut-sized hailstones onto the deck and sails with a heart-rattling clatter. The world dissolved into a furious roar, and the boundary between sea and sky blurred.
At the height of this merciless fury, Yulon stood at the pitching bow and felt something wholly different—a tremor rising from the abyss.
Through the thick planks and the churning, freezing water, the awareness of an ancient, vast presence that made his soul shudder crashed into his senses like an undersea volcano erupting.
The Grey King's awakened bloodline thundered within him! It was neither sight nor sound, but a deeper resonance, a connection of blood. His consciousness seemed to be dragged downward, plunging through ten thousand fathoms of darkness until at last he "saw" the terrifying shape sprawled across the endless seabed—
It was a sea monster of unimaginable size, identical in form to the golden kraken embroidered on House Greyjoy's banner! Tentacles as thick as castle towers slowly churned the freezing water, each lined with monstrous suckers powerful enough to snap a dragon's spine. Its body was like a moving mountain, and within its shadow, enormous, cold, inhuman eyes glimmered faintly. It was the embodiment of the deep, a revered icon from the Ironborn's ancient legends—and now it truly lay beneath his feet!
A desolate will from time immemorial surged back along their blood connection, cold and imperious, yet strangely without malice. It felt more like an appraisal, a confirmation of kinship.
Yulon felt no fear. Instead, an indescribable force welled up inside him. He needed no words. He sent a single, pure thought across the invisible bridge: Help me.
In the next moment, the raging, chaotic waves seemed to be smoothed by an invisible giant hand. An unusually steady current, precise in direction, quietly lifted the keels of the Hao Yin and the two escort ships, countering the most dangerous pitching. Like an unseen escort, it carved a relatively calm path through the storm of destruction. The surrounding waters still roared, but the sea monster's might quietly sheltered their ships alone.
This was not taming, but recognition; not magic, but an ancient pact, deeper than magic, rooted in blood and legend, being awakened anew. Yulon Greyjoy stood between the storm and his protector. Beneath him lay the warships of the mortal world, and deeper still, the mythical beast that had submitted to his bloodline.
When the storm passed, the Golden Kraken extended one enormous tentacle toward Yulon. He reached out and gently touched it. Then the Golden Kraken slowly sank beneath the sea, leaving behind only a cheer that seemed to rise from antiquity, echoing across the waters for a long time.
The Golden Kraken had existed only in Ironborn legends. They had never imagined they might one day see it with their own eyes. Kneeling on the deck, they watched Yulon silently communicate with the Golden Kraken, tears streaming down their faces. For a long time, they could not calm their emotions.
Charisma—The Golden Kraken appeared at your summons and was seen as a miracle by the Ironborn. Two hundred and twenty people are willing to give their lives for you, their loyalty unshakable unto death. Your Charisma increased by 1 point. Charisma: 15 points.
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