As Euron prepared to leave the hall, a thought surfaced—sharp, opportunistic.
"Father," he said, his soft voice cutting cleanly through the murmurs of the Chamber, "among the captives taken by Silence, there is a merchant from Pentos."
Quellon's brows lowered, not yet speaking.
"His name is Marcos," Euron continued, fingers tapping lightly on the carved table. "He deals in spices, Myrish lace, and sits in the merchant guild. If turned to our service… he could be our eyes across the Narrow Sea."
Quellon exhaled slowly. "Eyes?"
"The Free Cities live and die by trade," Euron replied calmly. "Shipping routes, convoy schedules, armaments carried by escorts… that information is worth more than the plunder itself."
He glanced toward Maester Tymor, who stiffened slightly.
"But merchants never betray their city willingly," Euron added. "We must secure his loyalty."
Quellon leaned forward. "And how do you propose to do that? Threaten his life?"
"Threaten it," Euron answered, "and bind it."
His gaze slid to Maester Tymor. "Maester. You once told me of a substance brewed by the archmaesters of Oldtown—Siren's Kiss."
Tymor swallowed, fingers brushing his chain nervously. "It is… an alchemical tincture, my lord. Designed not to kill outright but to weaken the body over time. The flesh dries. The joints crumble. A month without the antidote and a man dies in agony."
Euron nodded once, as though he had expected no less. "Prepare a minimal dose. Enough to be held at the edge of death. Marcos will require you—and the antidote—every moon."
Quellon turned sharply. "You would poison a man simply to use him?"
Euron's mismatched eyes were steady as stone. "Men are loyal only when their lives depend on it."
Maester Tymor took a half-step closer, voice thin. "My lord… I can compound the base from my stores. Crushed sea nettle, refined widow's-blood resin, a trace of purple basilisk root… it will bind to his blood within hours. Without the antidote, decay begins."
Quellon's expression hardened. "And you are willing to administer it?"
Tymor bowed, low and trembling. "I serve House Greyjoy."
Quellon nodded, acceptance heavy in the air. "This matter remains between us. If the Citadel ever hears of this, you will be stripped of your chain."
"I understand, my lord."
Euron stepped closer to the firelight. "One Ironborn will guard him openly. Another will watch from Pentos—his ships, his coin, his family. If he betrays us, he won't die alone."
A slow, reluctant admiration flickered in Quellon's eyes. "Very well. Dagmer will be your hand. He knows when to strike and when to vanish."
Euron tilted his head. "So he's done claiming the Silence?"
"No," Quellon said with a small, tired smile. "But he'd rather be your shield than your captain. Take the help. You'll need it."
"Then I will not disappoint you, Father." Euron said, the plan now fully set.
---
[New Location Unlocked: Salt Pan Dungeons] (Pyke) — 15 EXP gained.
Deep in Pyke's dungeons, damp and despair clung to stone walls like living things. The smell of salt, mildew, and excrement fused into a choking haze.
Torches flickered, casting pale light on rusted iron bars behind which prisoners huddled like discarded rags. Groans, coughs, and dragging chains formed a grim symphony.
In a shadowed corner, one figure drew attention. Once finely dressed, his brocade robes were now tattered and stained, faint traces of gold thread still visible at the collar—evidence of a merchant of the Free Cities. Huddled on the cold floor, he had been captured by Silence over a month ago, now reduced to a trembling shadow of his former self.
Euron appeared at the corridor's end, cloaked in gray, hood concealing his youthful face. Only when he raised his eyes did his gaze gleam in the dim light—inhuman, predatory.
Dagmer stood beside him, hand on the sword hilt, as the cell door screeched open.
The merchant flinched.
"Still breathing?" Euron's voice cut through the damp air like a blade.
The merchant nodded, lips cracking, trembling.
"You know why you're alive?" Euron's tone was flat. "Because your tongue is worth more than your bones."
A spark of hope flared in the merchant's eyes.
"Work for me," Euron said. "Not as a slave, but as a tool. Speak. Transmit messages. Return to your silks, spices, and coins… Marcos, right? In the Pentos merchant guild?"
The merchant shivered violently at the precision of the name.
"But freedom has a price." Euron's gaze shifted to Maester Tymor, who stepped forward with measured calm. From a small leather pouch, he produced a dark red powder. A drop of clear liquid was added, forming a writhing deep-purple gel. With the precision only a maester could command, he applied a single drop to the merchant's throat. Pain seared him instantly—burning and freezing at once.
"Siren's Kiss," Euron said, voice like judgment. "A month. Every full moon, you receive the antidote. One day late…" His eyes cold, he described in vivid detail the agonies of failing to comply: skin decaying, blood boiling, bones crumbling.
"No… don't…" the merchant whimpered, collapsing in terror.
"The antidote is your mercy," Euron continued. "Your loyalty will be watched by the Ironborn of Pyke. Your shop, fleet, and loved ones—everything—is under their gaze. Any betrayal, and death comes, swift and absolute. Even the richest coin cannot save you from the wrath of the Iron Islands."
The combination of poison and Ironborn oversight formed a perfect net. Marcos, once proud, finally nodded—despairingly, heavily, and fully resigned.
"Good," Euron said, voice calm. "Maester Tymor will guide you on contacts, the antidote, and the first rumors to spread. You are our first nail in the web of ports."
---
📚 Author's Note:
Big thanks to Jai_Bradley for sending over the 2 Power Stones! Truly appreciate it!
🐧