Early the next morning.
Through the introduction of House Whent, a master stonemason known as "Gopher" Boyd was brought before Euron.
Boyd came from a family of stonemasons who had worked in the Riverlands for three generations. His knowledge of the local soil structure, stone characteristics, and underground water sources was as intimate as the lines on his own palm. His addition provided crucial information to the craftsman team from the Iron Islands, who were far more familiar with the ocean and reefs.
Working together, Boyd and the Ironborn masons proposed several detailed plans for Harrenhal's renovation.
In a side hall of Harrenhal temporarily used as a council chamber, several meticulously drawn parchment scrolls were spread across a long table, densely marked with various symbols and lines.
The masons and craftsmen stood solemnly to the side, their expressions a mix of nervousness and anticipation.
Euron carefully reviewed every scroll and description. He did not choose the grandiose blueprints that attempted to restore the castle to all its former glory—projects that would drain massive wealth and take lifetimes to complete. Nor did he choose the radical designs that called for tearing it all down to start anew.
What he finally selected was the most pragmatic plan, one that struck precisely at current needs.
The core of this plan was "repair and reinforcement," not "reconstruction and expansion." It cleverly utilized Harrenhal's existing, relatively intact structures, focusing on repairing the defenses and living functions of key areas, while efficiently clearing and utilizing vast sections of ruins.
This plan allowed Harrenhal to shed its dilapidated appearance at maximum speed, re-emerging as a fully functional, deterrent fortress. At the same time, its demands on Gold Dragons and manpower were the most restrained, perfectly aligning with Euron's current needs.
"Follow this line of thinking," Euron decided with a clap of his hand. "What I want is a Harrenhal that can function quickly, not a fantasy drawing that takes a generation to realize."
Though the plan was set, adjustments during implementation were inevitable. Euron delegated this authority to these professionals, stating he would not interfere further.
---
When Lord Euron's letter requesting a maester for Harrenhal reached the ancient Citadel, the request from the new lord of the Riverlands landed on the desk of Archmaester Theobald.
This Seneschal, known for his "academic attitude rigorous to the point of rigidness" and his "skill in coordinating between various factions," submitted the information to the Conclave, which held the real power, according to procedure.
In the Conclave, the gray-robed Archmaesters sat around a long table. They scrutinized the request not only focusing on the "lord's stated needs" but also weighing the "Citadel's own interests and positioning."
The letter mentioned that Harrenhal's most urgent need was managing a vast territory and reviving trade. Therefore, the requested maester should specialize in tax management and trade, with medicine and ravenry as secondary skills.
After a discussion full of sharp wit and balancing acts, the Conclave made their decision. They unanimously agreed that sending Maester Gormon to Harrenhal would best satisfy both the lord's needs and the Citadel's expectations.
Maester Gormon was a recognized financial expert within the Citadel. His chain bore a gold link representing mastery in economics and accounting. He had been deeply involved in formulating complex spice trade agreements between the Citadel and the Free Cities of the East, and was extremely adept at constructing and managing intricate financial systems. for Harrenhal, which had a thousand things to be done and urgently needed a new economic order, he was undoubtedly the perfect candidate.
Euron was also very satisfied with the Citadel's arrangement. He specifically held a welcoming banquet for Maester Gormon's arrival to show his appreciation.
---
For Tycho Nestoris, the envoy of the Iron Bank, his world had collapsed the moment those two million Gold Dragons sank to the bottom of the freezing sea along with the fleet.
His former shrewdness and power were gone. Like a shell stripped of its soul, he shed his once-purple finery and fled into the cheapest brothels and taverns of King's Landing. He numbed himself with rotgut alcohol, escaping the inevitable, terrifying end in a stupor of drunkenness.
He knew better than anyone the Iron Bank's cruel methods for dealing with failures. He knew he could not escape death.
When Lisa's agents, following a trail of clues, finally found him amidst the sewage and garbage of Flea Bottom, this once-arrogant Braavosi dignitary had long since spent his last copper. Thrown out of a tavern, he lay like the lowest beggar in a patch of mud, reeking and unconscious.
Tycho Nestoris was dragged like a dead dog to Harrenhal. When brought before Euron, the pride and nobility etched into his bones as a high-ranking official of the Iron Bank were completely gone.
All that remained were hollow, lifeless eyes staring blankly, like a dead fish baking on a mudflat.
Euron looked down at Tycho, who was curled up on the floor like rotting wood, and teased, "What? Afraid you're still alive but the money isn't spent... feeling shortchanged, unwilling to die just yet?"
Tycho Nestoris's cloudy eyes moved slightly but didn't focus. His cracked lips remained shut tight, uttering not a word, as if all his vitality had been extinguished along with the gold at the bottom of the sea.
Euron didn't mind. Like a conjurer, he pinched a golden key tied with a red cord between his fingers. The key gleamed with a unique, heavy luster in the dim light. He dangled the key before Tycho's eyes, swaying it gently. The red cord and golden key formed a tiny pendulum swinging back and forth in front of Tycho's face. "Do you still recognize this?"
That familiar gold stabbed into Tycho's eyes like a needle. His dead gaze finally rippled. His lips began to tremble uncontrollably, and a rattling sound came from his throat. Using all his strength, he lifted a filthy, shaking hand, trying to touch the token that was so close yet so far away.
Just as his fingertips were about to graze the key, Euron flicked his wrist, snatching the key back effortlessly. He laughed, "Looks like you aren't completely dead yet. At least you recognize what this is."
"Give it back," Tycho's voice was as raspy as broken bellows, filled with desperate pleading.
"Give it back to you?" Euron chuckled as if he'd heard an amusing joke. "What good would it do you? To you right now, it's nothing but a piece of metal with some sentimental value, completely useless." His tone shifted, becoming sharper and more realistic. "Besides, aren't you bent on dying? For a man seeking death to keep something representing status and the past... isn't that a waste?"
The word "waste" was the straw that broke Tycho's numb nerves. A glint of profound hatred erupted in his eyes, shooting straight at Euron.
If not for Euron, there wouldn't have been that additional loan of three million Gold Dragons!
For centuries, the Iron Bank had dealt with Westeros. Every time huge sums were transported, top experts would repeatedly survey the celestial phenomena and sea conditions, choosing the calmest, optimal time to sail. Such a catastrophic accident had never happened before!
A voice deep inside Tycho screamed madly. He was almost certain this "natural disaster" was connected to the man before him. Yet, whether it was the testimony of surviving sailors and guards or the subsequent on-site investigation, all evidence pointed flawlessly to an extremely unfortunate, pure act of nature.
According to the Iron Bank's cold, ruthless rules, this massive loss caused by "force majeure" would ultimately be borne entirely by him—the person directly responsible for the loan.
This hatred could not be proven, could not be appealed. It could only rot in his heart along with endless fear and despair.
Euron looked down at Tycho, curled on the ground, and tossed out a proposal in a flat tone:
"Tycho, I'm planning to open a bank in Westeros. I happen to be short of a manager proficient in the business. How about it? Want to work for me?"
Tycho let out a sound like a whimpering scoff, his voice hoarse. "Help you? A dying man already marked by the God of Death... is not worth your effort to recruit."
"What if I told you," Euron's voice carried a peculiar, seductive power, "I can let you live?"
"The Faceless Men's pursuit... no one can escape." Tycho's eyes were a dead gray, the despair of a man who believed his fate was sealed.
Hearing this, Euron hummed thoughtfully for a moment, then pulled an ancient-looking silver coin from his tunic.
It lay quietly in Euron's palm, gleaming strangely in the dim light. The coin bore the inscription "Valar Morghulis" (All men must die).
"Recognize this?" Euron showed it to Tycho. "This is a token personally gifted to me by the Kindly Man of the House of Black and White."
As a Braavosi, as a manager of the Iron Bank, as a Keyholder, Tycho naturally recognized this silver coin.
It had two functions. First, it could grant you the help of the Faceless Men. Second, it could remove your name from the Faceless Men's death list.
For Tycho right now, it represented the hope of survival.
Tycho's breathing became rapid. A near-mad light exploded in his dead eyes. He stared fixatedly at the silver coin, his voice hoarse with extreme desire: "Give... give it to me!"
Euron's fingers closed, leisurely withdrawing the coin into his palm. He smiled. "So you do recognize it. Then you must know what it represents and what value it holds." He looked down at Tycho, asking in return, "Give it to you? Unless... you can prove to me that the value you can create for me in the future far exceeds the coin itself."
"I can!" Tycho almost roared. He used all his strength to prop up his upper body, as if pouring out all his accumulated chips at once, gasping as he spoke. "My family were the earliest 'Keyholders'! I am a direct descendant of the twenty-three founders of the Iron Bank! I know countless secret operational methods, loopholes, and even the recording patterns of the core ledgers that no one else knows! I grew up in there, served as a bank manager for years—banking is in my blood! If you want to build a bank, I can absolutely help you establish a financial system that surpasses anything currently in Westeros!"
Listening to this desperate confession, Euron began to laugh slowly. "Sounds good. But, Tycho, you choose to turn to me now out of fear of death. In the future, wouldn't you betray me just the same out of fear of something else, or someone else's threat? Tell me, how can I trust a man driven by fear?"
Tycho was stunned by the question. Then, a clarity born of burning one's bridges flashed in his eyes. He stopped begging and answered with unusual candor, even a touch of self-mockery. "Yes, you cannot trust me. In fact, you should never fully trust me." He looked up, meeting Euron's gaze, and said solemnly, "But as long as you are eternally powerful—powerful enough to shelter me so I need not suffer other fears—then I will not betray you. All I want is to live, and to restore the tarnished glory of my family."
A deep resentment and unwillingness seeped into Tycho's voice. "The Iron Bank abandoned my family long ago, abandoned me! No matter how much effort I put in, even though the blood of a founder flows in my veins, I was always excluded from the core circle of power, like a perpetual outsider!"
Tycho knew his life and death were entirely out of his hands, so he gambled everything. "Lord Euron, I can see your ambition is vast, vaster than I can imagine... Even that so-called natural disaster was your doing, wasn't it? Even your purpose in opening a bank is to swallow the Iron Bank, isn't it? I am exactly the person who can help you achieve this goal. Only I know every weakness and crack beneath its glittering surface."
Euron's gaze pressed on Tycho's face like a physical weight, scrutinizing every subtle fluctuation in his eyes.
This brief silence seemed to last forever, until a faint smile ghosted across Euron's lips, turning into a barely audible scoff.
"Go take a bath," Euron turned around, his tone flat. "You reek right now."
He didn't spare Tycho another glance, walking straight toward the door. But the moment he turned, he casually tossed the silver coin—bearing the weight of life and hope—backward over his shoulder.
The coin traced an arc in the air, humming faintly with metal, and landed with a distinct ting on the rough stone floor right in front of Tycho.
Tycho's pupils contracted sharply. Almost the instant the coin hit the ground, he lunged forward like a starving tiger, using every ounce of his strength to clutch it tightly in his palm.
The cold metal touch made him shudder. Then, as if guarding the world's most precious treasure, he pressed his clenched fist and the coin hard against his heaving chest, curling up on the ground, unmoving for a long time.
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