Just as he was preparing to leave the hall, Euron suddenly thought of someone—someone potentially very useful.
"Father." Euron's voice was soft, but carried undeniable penetration. "Among the captives brought back by the Drinker, there is a Pentoshi merchant."
Quellon's brow twitched slightly, but he didn't interrupt.
"His name is Malyo. He deals in spices and Myrish lace, smuggling mostly, and carries some weight in the Pentoshi Merchant's Guild." Euron tapped the table gently, rhythm steady. "I want him to be our eyes."
"Eyes?" Quellon's voice was low as a deep-sea current.
"Shipping routes of the Free Cities, cargo manifests, escort details... this intelligence is worth more than the plunder itself." Euron looked up. His left eye was an abyss swallowing light, his right a polar ice cap freezing the storm. "But merchants don't betray their cities easily. So, we need to ensure his loyalty."
Quellon's knuckles rapped lightly on the armrest of his throne, his gaze sharp as a knife. "What do you plan to do?"
The corner of Euron's mouth lifted slightly, revealing a cold smile incongruous with his age. "Lysa has a poison called 'Siren's Kiss'." Back in the Maester's Tower, when discussing how to control those who might be disobedient, Lysa had volunteered this ability in addition to her linguistic talents.
"Poison?" Quellon's voice held a note of scrutiny. "You took in a dangerous and mysterious girl."
"Yes, but she is my handmaid now. I will trust her." Euron's voice was calm, every word like ice. "'Siren's Kiss' requires an antidote once a month. Otherwise... skin rots, bones weather away, and death is uglier than a salt slave's."
Quellon was silent for a moment, glancing at Lysa standing quietly in the shadows. The handmaid's emerald eyes were lowered, unfathomable as the deep sea.
"Poison is only the first shackle," Euron continued. "The second is the Ironborn blade."
"The Ironborn blade?"
"Two Ironborn. One acts as the merchant's guard in the light. The other lurks in Pentos in the dark, watching his shop, his ships, his family. If he dares betray us, he won't be the only one to die." Euron's voice was soft but carried unquestionable cruelty. "Merchants value profit, but fear death more. Under double shackles, he will be more obedient than the most loyal Ironborn."
A sharp glint flashed in Quellon's eyes. He leaned back slowly, fingers unconsciously rubbing the rim of his goblet.
"Intelligence is more valuable than brute force," Euron said in a low voice. "If we know in advance which cog carries Braavosi gold, which fleet has weak escorts, which port has lax defenses... our longships can hunt like krakens—one strike, certain kill, full load return."
Quellon's mouth tightened slightly, his gaze fixed on Euron like an iron anchor. After a long time, his low voice echoed in the stone hall:
"This matter ends here."
His gaze swept over Lysa and Maester Qalen in the corner. The grim pressure made the old Maester's Adam's apple bob involuntarily.
"Lysa, Qalen. You are the gatekeepers of this secret. If a whisper leaks..." He didn't finish, but the killing intent froze the air like a solid object.
Lysa bowed slightly, respectful and silent. Qalen turned pale, clutching his maester's chain as if it were his only talisman.
Quellon's gaze finally returned to Euron, his low voice carrying a near-cruel authorization: "Do it. Use your poison, use your Ironborn, weave this web."
"The men sent to watch him need to be flexible, clever, and loyal. Father must have such candidates." Euron nodded slightly, a cold edge flashing in his mismatched eyes. Quellon waved his hand, silent for a moment, then spoke slowly: "The Ironborn never lack such talent. Besides, Old Wick is better suited for fishing. Dagmer... he can be trusted. He will be your guard from now on! Instruct him, and he will arrange it properly."
Euron paused. "He doesn't want to be King of the Drinker anymore?" (Ironborn Tradition: Every captain is a king on his own ship.)
"He can be a king again anytime, but he prefers to be your shield and spear. And you happen to need him." Quellon smirked. "So, go raise your waves to your heart's content. Let your old man see what you can do!"
"Thank you for your trust, Father!"
The plan was approved, even more perfectly than imagined.
---
[Discovered Pyke: Salt Pan Dungeon. Reward: 15 Points]
Deep in the dungeons of Pyke, dampness and despair writhed on the stone walls like living things. The stench of brine, rot, and waste mixed into a nauseating, sticky atmosphere. The dim, flickering torchlight barely tore open the heavy darkness, revealing figures curled up like discarded rags behind rows of rusty iron bars. Groans, coughs, and the occasional drag of chains were the only music here.
In a relatively isolated, gloomy corner, one figure stood out. His brocade finery had long lost its luster, now filthy and tattered, covered in grime and suspicious dark stains. Several tears revealed equally expensive lining beneath. But the fine tailoring, the remnants of intricate embroidery, and a dull gold thread at the collar silently declared his former decency—a merchant from the Free Cities. Now, he curled on the cold stone floor like a frightened shrimp, stripped of dignity, replaced by bone-deep fear and numb despair. He was "prey" captured by the Drinker over a month ago, now just a blurred number on the salt pan roster, a low-class thrall likely to be swallowed by the sea at any moment.
Euron Greyjoy appeared at the end of the corridor like a ghost from another world. He didn't wear the identifying dark green kraken robe, but wrapped himself in a dark grey, heavy cloak that almost blended into the shadows. The hood was pulled low, hiding most of his young face. Only when he raised his eyelids did the mismatched pupils suddenly light up under the shadow, like inhuman cold flames ignited in the dark. Lysa, his silent shadow, stood half a step behind him, her emerald eyes obscure in the jumping torchlight, like unfathomable vortexes in the deep sea.
Dagmer stood beside Euron, one hand on his sword hilt, the other roughly opening the cell door. The harsh metal screech made the merchant on the ground shudder violently. Dagmer's split jaw made the merchant tremble in terror. When Dagmer stepped aside, revealing a child standing at the door, the merchant's cloudy eyes filled instantly with absurdity and deeper confusion. A child? Deep in the dungeon? No, he was on the ship... it's him, the Iron King's second son?
Euron didn't step into the filth. He stood at the door, his gaze under the hood like a precise scalpel, dissecting every line on the merchant's face: the bone-deep fear, the obliterated pride, the residual mercantile instinct, and the faint, almost instinctive craving for survival at the very bottom. This craving, like the last light in a drowning man's eyes, was fragile but exactly the fulcrum Euron needed.
"Pentoshi?" Euron spoke. His child's voice was clear but carried the penetrating chill of the dungeon. It wasn't a question, but a cold statement.
A vague whimper came from the merchant's throat. He nodded subconsciously, cracked lips moving but making no clear sound.
"Do you know why you're still alive?" Euron's voice was flat, as if discussing an object unrelated to himself. "Because your tongue is worth more than your bones."
A complex light—a mix of shock, confusion, and a faint hope—exploded in the merchant's cloudy eyes.
"Work for me." Euron was direct, no detours. "Not as a slave, but as... a tool. A tool that speaks and passes messages." He leaned forward slightly, the shadow under his hood deepening, only the mismatched eyes shining captivatingly. "I will let you go back. Back to your silk, spices, and gold coins. You will still be the respectable... Malyo of the Pentoshi Merchant's Guild, right?" He named the man precisely. The detail made the merchant shake violently, as if pierced by an invisible ice needle.
"But freedom has a price." Euron's voice turned cold as the northern wind. He tilted his head slightly, glancing at Lysa behind him.
Lysa stepped forward silently, taking a small, unassuming leather pouch from deep within her cloak. Her slender fingers moved with elegance and precision, as if performing a mysterious ritual. She poured a tiny amount of dark red powder, sticky as coagulated blood, onto her palm, then dripped a single drop of clear liquid from an even smaller crystal vial. The moment they touched, a faint but nauseatingly sweet, strange fragrance permeated the air. The powder dissolved rapidly in the liquid, turning into a deep purple, gel-like substance that seemed to writhe slightly with life. Lysa dipped a needle as fine as hair into it; the purple venom formed a tiny, eerily glistening dewdrop on the tip.
"Open your mouth." Lysa's voice was light as a feather, but carried an undeniable command.
The merchant was terrified, scrambling backward, throat making guttural sounds of resistance. Dagmer stepped forward roughly, his iron-pincer hand gripping the man's jaw, forcing his mouth open. The deep purple poison bead, glistening lethally in the torchlight, was flicked precisely deep into his throat by the silver needle. An indescribable agony, a mix of burning and freezing, spread instantly from his esophagus. The merchant coughed violently, retching, tears and snot flowing, as if trying to vomit up his insides.
"Don't waste your energy." Euron's voice was like a judgment. "'Siren's Kiss'. Lysa's masterpiece. It has now made a home in your veins. One month." He held up a small finger. "Before every full moon, you must appear at the designated place on time to receive that month's antidote. One day late..." He paused, looking at the merchant's face twisted by pain and fear. "You will watch your own skin turn dead-fish grey inch by inch, then peel off like rotting seaweed; you will feel your blood boil in your veins like molten lead; finally, your bones will become brittle from the inside out. A light touch, and they will shatter like weathered reef rock." Every detail he described was like a cold blade cutting the merchant's nerves.
"No... no..." The merchant collapsed, boneless, supported only by the instinctual fear that kept him breathing.
"The antidote is a mercy." Euron continued, voice returning to cold calm. "And your 'loyalty' will be supervised by Pyke's Ironborn. They will watch you like gulls watching dead fish on the shore. Your shop, your fleet, your mistress... everything you cherish is in their sight. Any disloyal move," his voice dropped to freezing point, "not only will you die in agony, but everything you have in Pentos, everything you cherish, will turn to ash in wildfire. Trust me, the Iron Islands' wrath is faster and more thorough than wildfire."
Naked poison control, plus the omnipresent shadow of the Ironborn, formed a double-insured web of death. The merchant looked at the child calmly inflicting torture in the gloomy dungeon. Those mismatched eyes held no ripple, only the coldness of control and indifference to humanity. He felt his soul freezing under that gaze. Refuse? Instant hell. Agree? Stepping into an endless abyss enslaved by poison and violence. Under extreme fear and the thirst for a sliver of life, that once-proud head finally nodded heavily, desperately.
"Very good." Euron's voice held no emotion. "Lysa will tell you the contact method, the location of the first antidote, and... the first 'whisper' you need to pass on when you return." He turned, his dark grey cloak drawing a decisive arc in the damp dungeon corridor, leaving the utterly hollowed merchant collapsing in filth, panting violently. The air remained thick with the sweet aftertaste of poison and the pungent despair of total submission, sharper than the smell of the sea.
The Free Cities. Malyo. He would be Euron's first nail, but not the last. In the near future, every major port would be filled with Euron's eyes.