Braavos

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

The Sea King ruled Braavos. Before Platinum Sand came along, the Iron Islands had done little business with him. Over the past two years, though, their dealings had gradually increased.

Yulon hadn't come as a supplicant, but as a trading partner with a scarce resource in hand. Their meeting took place in a chilly marble hall, flanked by statues of past Sea Kings whose piercing gazes looked down on everyone present.

Sea King Ferrego Antaryon chuckled. "Yulon Greyjoy, Son of the Drowned God. Only seven years old, and already sailing the seas alone and overseeing your family's most vital business. When I was seven, I was probably still running around naked, peeing in the mud..."

A joke, a tease, and a test.

Yulon didn't shy away. His lips curved slightly as he responded with composure, his tone carrying just the right amount of humility and unmistakable wit. "Your Majesty jests. It is in the soil that things take shape, and even a child's play can reveal ambition. The passion for shaping the world that you held back then may well have given rise to the kingdom on water you rule today."

Yulon soon turned to the matter at hand. His tone was even, but every word was clear and carried weight.

When he spoke of "Platinum Sand," he wasn't so much selling a product as describing an order—a set of rules, defined by him, for attaining the height of sensual pleasure. He wasn't in a hurry to boast about profits. Instead, he calmly wove them into a web.

Luxury goods. Products meant status.

The prospect of hefty tax revenues was certainly tempting, but what attracted the Sea King even more was Yulon's suggestion that this could forge a deep bond between the pleasures sought by Braavos's elite and the Iron Islands' fundamental interests.

It wasn't a one-time deal, but a dependency that would slowly seep into their veins. And Yulon confidently assured the Sea King that before long, the Iron Islands would have even more products worth far more than Platinum Sand to include in their trade.

When the discussion turned to port access, Yulon's terms were precise and restrained. He demonstrated his familiarity with Braavos's maritime laws, tidal patterns, and even the factions at the docks. He wasn't asking for special privileges, but for a stable, sustainable passage. This wasn't the haggling of a short-term merchant, but a strategist laying the first stone for a lasting trade route.

Sea King Ferrego Antaryon gradually stopped treating Yulon as a seven-year-old child, and began to see him as a business partner of Braavos. The entire meeting passed without raised voices or empty bluster, calm and courteous.

Though he couldn't put an arm around a woman and drink like Oberyn Martell, host and guest alike left satisfied.

Braavos's true power was divided between the Sea King's Palace and what lay hidden behind the massive stone walls of the Iron Bank.

If the Sea King commanded the armies and the law, then the Iron Bank controlled the lifeblood that flowed silently yet could decide a nation's fate: wealth.

The Braavosi Iron Bank was an international financial institution, capable of directly influencing the value of currency through its lending rates.

There was none of the Sea King's Palace's splendor or bustle here. Only seemingly endless, chilly corridors, towering shelves reaching up to the ceiling, and the scent of old parchment and ink in the air. The officials moved softly and slowly, their voices as hushed as confessions. Their eyes were sharp and restrained, as if they had long ago learned to calculate their emotions as interest rates.

Within this fortress built of numbers, Yulon wore an entirely different mask: no longer a sea-raider or silver-tongued diplomat, but a calm, precise business leader who spoke with purpose.

Yulon hadn't come to beg for a loan. He'd come to present a proposition. With clear reasoning, he laid out the financial future Platinum Sand could bring: not just enormous profits, but a stable, sustained, and ever-expanding stream of revenue. He discussed shipping costs and output, estimated market saturation and demand cycles, and explored the possibility of building Platinum Sand refineries in every port city. He even proposed a vision for deepening future financial ties with the Iron Bank, along with plans for jointly investing in new sea routes.

Yulon's words held none of the sea's fervor, only the precise logic of gears. Under the gaze of his heterochromatic eyes, even the most stubborn auditors seemed to glimpse a silent tide of gold coins surging behind the dull figures. He didn't need to beg for their trust. He only needed to show them order—and order was the only language the Iron Bank believed in.

In the end, Yulon exchanged the Gold Dragons he'd brought from Westeros for Braavosi Iron Coins, more commonly used across this continent.

The Iron Bank took away the gold coins that had once symbolized the power and faith of his homeland, replacing them with stacks of dull, heavy iron coins stamped with Braavos's crescent emblem. The coins were cold and plain, without a single ornate detail, yet they were widely accepted in every corner of the continent. Their value lay not in their shine, but in the credit granted to them by a republic with no king, only contracts and capital.

After leaving the Iron Bank, Yulon wandered through the bustling streets of Braavos.

He paused at a smoky stall by the canals to sample eel roasted with strange spices, savoring the slippery texture and the sharp kick on his tongue. He stepped into a crowded tavern and ordered a glass of locally brewed sour ale, listening to sailors and dockworkers boast of their adventures in a jumble of accents, and sifting the useful rumors and intelligence from their talk. He also sought out long-established eateries tucked away in narrow alleys, trying a secret shellfish chowder said to have been passed down for a hundred years and savoring the depth that time had given it.

These seemingly casual tastings were, in truth, his way of taking the city's pulse. The flavor of the food, the conversations in the streets, even the vendors' expressions—these were all more reliable sources of intelligence than any official report.

After spending several days navigating Braavos's web of power, only one stop remained on Yulon Greyjoy's schedule—the last, and the most symbolic of all: the Isle of Gods.

Located at the city's center and connected to the main districts by countless elegant bridges, this island embodied the unique soul of Braavos.

Every known deity could find a place here, from the Seven of Westeros to R'hllor, the Red God, across the Narrow Sea; from the Dothraki Horse God to the mysterious Black Goat. Even some long-forgotten sea gods, remembered only by a handful of sailors, had shrines and temples here, large and small. The Ironborn's Drowned God was worshipped here, too.

The very air seemed to tremble faintly with the jumble of faiths. Incense, prayers, and ritual chants wove together in a strange harmony, creating an unsettling yet somehow soothing drone.

Stepping onto the Isle of Gods felt like entering a miniature marketplace of deities. Yulon walked at an unhurried pace, his heterochromatic eyes calmly sweeping over each temple's distinct style. He saw solemn statues behind the painted glass of a sept of the Seven, and the leaping flames and deep-red-robed priests outside the Red Temple. He passed low stone alcoves dedicated to nameless beings of the deep, their entrances adorned with shells and salt offered by fishermen. He also caught sight of small shrines decorated with exotic symbols, their censers sending up unfamiliar scents of incense.

There was no single truth here, only faiths existing side by side. The freedom of Braavos was on full display: faith could be a tool, a comfort, or a trade. So long as it didn't interfere with the flow of gold or the running of the city, it could coexist here. The Sea King and the Council of Keyholders understood wisely that suppressing faith would only nurture hidden flames, while giving it a public place would bring it under control.

Yulon stopped before a small, seemingly abandoned shrine. Ancient runes were carved into its rough stone base, worn almost illegible by the weather. A rusted iron lamp stood beside it, apparently once used to hold oil or grease. There was no sign, no priest, not even any way to tell which deity it honored. Perhaps it was an ancient, forgotten offshoot of the Drowned God, or perhaps a relic of some lost civilization.

He stood silently for a moment.

In a way, the Isle of Gods' tolerance was a wiser form of rule than the sword. It allowed fervor to vent through controlled channels and made mysticism part of the cityscape. But what Yulon felt wasn't reverence. It was a deeper, cooler clarity. The gods competed for attention here and accepted offerings, but their power seemed confined to the island, reduced to harmless parts of Braavos's vast machine.

"Clever... very clever," he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling into an unreadable smile. The Braavosi seemed to have built something more powerful than any single faith: a secular, efficient system that allowed and managed them all.

His visit to the Isle of Gods hadn't converted him to any deity, but it had given him a deeper understanding of the true source of Braavos's strength—not any one god, but the ultimate practice of making "everything serve our purposes."

Yulon asked, "Lysa, what if I put one of the uninhabited islands in the Iron Islands to use and built something like the Isle of Gods there..."

Lysa thought for a moment, then shook her head decisively. "The Iron Islands aren't Braavos. The people of Braavos came from all across the Narrow Sea, bringing their different faiths with them. But the Iron Islands have only Ironborn."

Yulon sighed and agreed. "You're right!"

Daggmo scoffed, unconvinced. "We don't need so many gods. The Drowned God is all we need!"

Yulon nodded in agreement. "You're even more right!" He'd nearly forgotten—he was the Son of the Drowned God! Why stir up trouble for no reason?