Braavos

Yulon's second stop in Braavos was the renowned Sea King's Palace.

The Sea King was the ruler of Braavos. Before the appearance of Platinum Sand, the Iron Islands and the Sea King had very little business dealings. Only in the past two years had their interactions gradually increased.

Yulon presented himself not as a beggar, but as a trade partner possessing scarce resources. The meeting with the Sea King took place in a cold marble hall, flanked by statues of past Sea Kings, their gazes piercingly surveying everyone present.

Sea King Ferrago Antaryon sighed in admiration, "Yulon Greyjoy, Son of the Drowned God, at the age of seven, you can already sail the seas alone and manage your family's crucial business. When I was seven, I was probably still running around naked, peeing and playing in the mud..."

It was a jest, a taunt, and a test.

Yulon did not flinch. A slight smile played on his lips as he calmly took over the conversation, his tone carrying just the right amount of humility and unmistakable wit. "Your Majesty is too kind. From the earth, one can be molded; through childish play, ambition can be glimpsed. The maritime kingdom you now command perhaps originated from that same passion to shape the world."

Yulon then transitioned to the main topic. His tone was calm, yet each word was clear and measured, carrying weight without being overtly forceful.

When discussing "Platinum Sand," he spoke not as if he were selling merchandise, but rather as if he were stating an order – a rule, defined by him, leading to a world of ultimate sensory experience. He wasn't in a hurry to boast about profits; instead, he calmly wove it into a net.

Luxury goods, products equal status.

While the immense tax revenue was naturally tempting, what attracted the Sea King more was Yulon's implication that this was a bond that could deeply intertwine the pleasure-seeking needs of Braavos' elite with the fundamental interests of the Iron Islands.

This was not a one-time transaction, but a slow infusion into the very bloodline, creating dependence. Moreover, Yulon confidently assured the Sea King that in the near future, the Iron Islands would have many more products, far exceeding the value of Platinum Sand, becoming part of their mutual trade.

When the conversation turned to port usage rights, Yulon's proposed conditions were precise and restrained. He demonstrated familiarity with Braavos' maritime laws, tidal patterns, and even the distribution of dock factions. He sought not privilege, but stable, sustainable passage. This did not resemble the bargaining of a short-term merchant, but rather a strategist laying the first cornerstone for long-term trade routes.

Sea King Ferrago Antaryon gradually stopped viewing Yulon as a seven-year-old child and began to see him as a business partner in Braavos' trade. Throughout the meeting, there were no loud arguments or blustering; it was all calm and courteous.

Except for the inability to drink with women in his arms like Oberyn Martell, the host and guest enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

The true power in Braavos resided half in the Sea King's Palace and the other half, deeply hidden, behind the massive stone walls of the Iron Bank.

If the Sea King wielded the sword and the law, then the Iron Bank controlled the silent flow of wealth, the very lifeblood that could determine a nation's fate.

The Iron Bank of Braavos was an international financial institution capable of directly influencing currency values through its lending rates.

Here, there was none of the grandeur and clamor of the Sea King's Palace. Only endless, cold corridors, towering archive shelves reaching to the ceiling, and the pervasive scent of aged parchment and ink in the air. Officials moved with light, slow steps, their voices as low as confessions. Their eyes were sharp and restrained, as if they had long ago converted their emotions into interest rates.

In this fortress built of numbers, Yulon donned a completely different mask: no longer the sea rogue, nor the silver-tongued diplomat, but a calm, precise, and impeccably accurate business leader.

Yulon had not come to request a loan, but to present a proposition. He laid out the vision of wealth brought by "Platinum Sand" with clear logic: not just exorbitant profits, but a stable, continuous, and ever-expanding cash flow. He discussed transportation costs versus output, estimated market saturation and demand cycles, explored the possibility of building Platinum Sand refineries in every port city, and even proposed financial cooperation concepts for deep future integration with the Iron Bank, as well as joint investments in new trade routes.

Yulon's language lacked the surging passion of ocean waves; instead, it contained the tight logic of gears. Under the gaze of his mismatched eyes, even the most stubborn auditor seemed to glimpse a silent flood of gold coins behind the dry numbers. He did not need to beg for trust; he merely needed to demonstrate order, and order was the only language the Iron Bank truly believed in.

Finally, Yulon exchanged the Gold Dragons he had brought from Westeros for the more commonly used Braavosi Iron Coins on this continent.

Coin by coin, the gold coins that once symbolized the power and faith of his homeland were collected by the Iron Bank. In their place were stacks of dull, heavy iron coins bearing Braavos' crescent moon emblem. These iron coins were cold and unadorned, lacking any ornate carvings, yet they were widely recognized in every corner of this continent. Their value lay not in their luster, but in the credit bestowed by the republic behind them—a republic without a king, governed only by contracts and capital.

After leaving the Iron Bank, Yulon's figure could be seen lingering amidst the bustling markets of Braavos.

He would pause at smoky stalls by the canals, savoring eel grilled with strange spices, experiencing the mixed impact of slippery meat and tongue-tingling flavors. He would enter noisy taverns, order a mug of locally brewed sour ale, and listen to sailors and dockworkers boast of their adventures in various accents, filtering out valuable rumors and intelligence. He would also seek out old establishments hidden in deep alleys, trying century-old secret clam chowder, savoring the unique richness that time bestowed upon food.

These seemingly casual tastings were, in fact, his way of measuring the city's pulse. The taste of food, the conversations in the marketplace, even the expressions of the vendors, were more authentic sources of intelligence than any official report.

After navigating Braavos' power networks for several days, Yulon Greyjoy's schedule had only one remaining, and most symbolic, stop: the Isle of Gods.

This island, located in the heart of the city and connected to the mainland by countless elegant bridges, was a concentrated embodiment of Braavos' unique soul.

Here, all known gods found a place. From the Seven Gods of Westeros to the Red God R'hllor across the Narrow Sea, from the Dothraki Horse God to the mysterious Black Goat, and even some forgotten sea gods that only a few sailors remembered, all had shrines and temples, large or small. The Drowned God, worshipped by the Ironborn, was also present.

The air seemed to tremble slightly with these diverse faiths. Various incenses, prayers, and ritualistic sounds intertwined strangely, forming a disquieting yet harmonious background hum.

Stepping onto the Isle of Gods was like entering a miniature Pantheon bazaar. His steps were unhurried, his mismatched eyes calmly scanning each temple of distinct style. He saw the solemn statues behind the stained glass of the Sept of the Seven, and the leaping flames and crimson-robed priests before the Temple of the Red God. He passed low stone caves dedicated to nameless deep-sea entities, with shells and salt offered by fishermen placed at the entrance. He also glimpsed small shrines adorned with exotic totems, where unfamiliar spices rose from censers.

There was no single truth here, only parallel faiths. Braavos' freedom was fully displayed: faith was a tool, a comfort, a transaction. As long as it did not affect the flow of gold coins and the city's operation, it could coexist. The Sea King and the Sealord's Council wisely understood that suppressing faith would only breed underground embers, whereas granting them an open space would bring them under control.

Yulon 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, which seemed to have once held oil. There was no inscription, no priest, and it was unknown which deity it honored. Perhaps it was an ancient variant of a forgotten Drowned God, or perhaps a relic of some lost civilization.

He stood quietly for a moment.

The inclusivity of the Isle of Gods was, in a sense, a ruling wisdom more powerful than any sword. It allowed fanaticism to be vented within controllable channels, incorporating mysticism into the city's landscape. But what Yulon felt was not reverence, but a deeper, colder clarity. These deities competed for attention and offerings here, yet their power seemed confined to this island, becoming harmless components of Braavos' vast machinery.

"Truly... shrewd," he murmured, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. The Braavosi seemed to have constructed something more powerful than any single faith: a secular and efficient system that allowed and managed all faiths.

The visit to the Isle of Gods did not lead him to convert to any deity, but it allowed him to understand more profoundly the true source of Braavos' power—not any single god, but the ultimate practice of the concept that "everything can be used for my benefit."

Yulon asked, "Lysa, if I were to utilize one of the uninhabited islands in the Iron Islands and build something like the Isle of Gods..."

Lysa pondered for a moment before decisively shaking her head. "The Iron Islands are not Braavos. The Braavosi come from anywhere on either side of the Narrow Sea; they bring their diverse beliefs. But in the Iron Islands, there are only Ironborn."

Yulon sighed in agreement. "You are right!"

Daggmo, however, snorted dismissively. "We don't need so many gods. The Drowned God is enough!"

Yulon nodded in agreement. "You are even more right!" He almost forgot, he was the Son of the Drowned God! Why would he go looking for trouble?