The morning light had yet to fully dispel the darkness of the Red Keep, but Euron was already awake when Cersei rose quietly.
Euron kept his eyes closed, but he could clearly perceive the subtle rustle of silk as she left, and the lingering, cold fragrance of the Queen in the air. He feigned sleep; perhaps it was more dignified for both of them.
Everything last night, amidst the blurred atmosphere of alcohol and power, felt more like a fiery, fleeting dream. It happened in Cersei's most fragile and sober moment—an accidental product born of anger, humiliation, and ambition.
There was no reluctance in Cersei's departing back. She never thought, nor needed, Euron to be "responsible" for this. Her world was built on colder, harder rules. Last night was merely a fierce retaliation against Robert's insult, a brief gasp for breath after breaking free from her shackles.
Euron felt the same. He opened his eyes, looking at the empty dragon pit, no ripples of responsibility in his heart. The blood of the Iron Islands flowed with more direct, pragmatic laws. This was a dalliance, unrelated to promises or the future.
Of course, both had found immense pleasure in that fierce battle.
When the morning light fully illuminated the dragon pit, everything from the night before was sealed away.
Cersei was still the noble, cold Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, walking the tightrope of power; Euron was still the newly minted Lord of Harrenhal, the Kraken Lord.
---
In the morning, the corridors of the Red Keep were bathed in pale golden sunlight.
Queen Cersei had risen. She wore a brand-new deep green velvet gown, her golden hair combed meticulously, jewels sparkling at her neckline. Her face was smooth, her eyes calm, as if the room filled with vomit, drunken ramblings, and humiliation last night, the disgusting groom, and everything that happened in the dragon pit were just a dream long dispelled by the sun. She was as elegant as ever, perhaps even more so, with an added touch of cold, queenly grandeur.
When her gaze met Euron Greyjoy walking towards her, a perfect, proper smile appeared on her face—elegant and distant, no different from how she treated other nobles.
"Lord Euron." She nodded slightly, her voice steady, betraying nothing.
"Your Grace." Euron stopped and bowed, his tone respectful, his expression normal.
No extra eye contact, no moment of hesitation. After the simple greeting, they passed each other naturally like parallel lines destined never to intersect again, each heading in their original direction.
Sunlight briefly brought their shadows close on the stone floor, then separated them quickly. A cold, unspoken understanding based on a shared secret was silently reached in the air, settling quietly beneath the ornate surface of the Red Keep as they moved apart.
---
Today, as the final part of the King's coronation and wedding celebrations, the tourney commenced on the fields outside King's Landing.
However, compared to the grandeur Robert had envisioned rivaling Harrenhal, this tourney seemed exceptionally hasty and shabby.
The event lasted only three days, with its scale and events significantly reduced.
In the most anticipated joust, there were few knights of renown. Jaime Lannister became the only true star worth naming. The events that usually ignited the crowd's bloodlust and excitement—the melee of seven and the individual melee—were cancelled outright, along with axe-throwing and horse racing.
The scope of participants was small; only knights and nobles from the Crownlands and surrounding areas received the rushed notice. Most embarrassing was the repeatedly compressed prize money—eight thousand Gold Dragons for the joust champion, four thousand for the archery champion, totaling a mere twelve thousand.
Compared to the massive fortune at Harrenhal that could buy a castle, this was a world of difference. It cast a grey shadow of penny-pinching and financial strain over a grand event meant to display the new King's magnificence.
Compared to the legendary spectacle of Harrenhal in Robert's dreams, the scene before him was indeed shabby and cramped.
The stands were constructed of rough hemp and temporary wooden scaffolding. Even the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan "The Bold" Selmy, did not take the field to show his skill. He merely stood like a silent snow-capped mountain, upright and solemn behind the thrones of the King and Queen, adhering to his highest duty of guarding the monarch.
Robert sat high on the main seat. His massive hands gripped the gilded armrests tightly, eyes wide with anger. During the opening ceremony, his face was terrifyingly livid. He was filled with resentment toward this tourney whose scale and prizes Jon Arryn had drastically reduced. Every shabby detail seemed to mock his predicament of being King yet unable to act as he pleased.
As the competition progressed, that anger seemed replaced by a heavy headache from last night's hangover. His burly body sank deep into the throne, eyes unfocused. Amidst the fierce collisions of knights and the clang of metal, he often drifted into drowsiness, as if ready to fall asleep at any moment, utterly out of place with the surrounding noise.
Cersei, sitting beside him, maintained impeccable queenly poise.
She wore a fitting, faint smile, applauding every victor as if fully immersed in the festive joy. However, that smile was like a mask carefully carved by an artisan, lacking a shred of real warmth. Occasionally, her gaze would sweep extremely quickly and imperceptibly over her listless husband. In that fleeting glance, impossible to catch, there was a clear contempt as if looking at filth, and a coldness that penetrated to the bone.
Euron made only a brief appearance at the opening ceremony. After symbolically fulfilling the etiquette of a Duke, he left his seat, followed by Tywin Lannister, the "Queen of Thorns" Olenna Redwyne, and Prince Oberyn of Dorne. They gathered in a council chamber overlooking the Blackwater Rush.
Here, there were no drunken ramblings, no hypocritical toasts. Only maps spread under candlelight, parchments filled with numbers, and calm calculations concerning massive future profits. The four powers gathered around a huge blackwood table, engaging in deeper negotiations on the specific details of the bank.
In this high-level meeting, what drew the most attention was Tyrion Lannister's active performance. Since receiving Euron's public recognition, the often-ignored "Imp" seemed to have shed an invisible shackle, his confidence soaring. He was no longer just listening but actively intervening in every topic.
"Regarding risk rating, I believe we can introduce a guild guarantee system..."
"For the ledger management of the Oldtown branch, perhaps we can improve it using the double-entry bookkeeping method from Dorne..."
Whenever he spoke, he offered unique ideas and constructive opinions that were both practical and forward-looking. His keen thinking and talent for numbers earned him scrutinizing yet appreciative glances even from the seasoned Lady Olenna. With his active participation and the balancing of the various magnates, many details such as the bank's structure, operational rules, and risk control were continuously supplemented, corrected, and perfected. The blueprint of a massive financial empire was becoming clearer and more feasible.
---
The three-day tourney concluded. The final champion was unsurprisingly Jaime Lannister. He was unstoppable in the joust, winning every match.
However, as he stood on the podium, receiving the champion's laurel wreath and the bountiful prize money from King Robert, there wasn't much joy on his handsome face, only a layer of faint, formulaic reserve. For the proud Jaime, the overall level of the participants was far below the star-studded Tourney at Harrenhal. The satisfaction from this victory was naturally greatly discounted.
A more humiliating moment followed.
King Robert had clearly not recovered from the wedding hangover and some deeper dissatisfaction. Laughing loudly, with a booming voice audible to the entire arena, he shoved the wreath into Jaime's arms and shouted, "Well done, 'Kingslayer'! Seems your sword is better at dealing with the living than the Mad King! Hahaha!"
The scornful title "Kingslayer," like a public brand, echoed through the venue again under the King's personal certification.
Instantly, suppressed low laughter and whispers erupted in the stands. Those gazes flickered with mockery and the excitement of watching a show.
Jaime's fingers gripping the wreath tightened slightly, knuckles turning white. Yet his face maintained that impeccable, slightly arrogant expression, as if the laughter had nothing to do with him. His sister Cersei stared coldly at her triumphant, laughing husband, then at her pale, humiliated brother. She gave a cold snort and pulled Jaime away from the scene.
In stark contrast, the champion of the subsequent archery contest, a young hunter from the Stormlands, knelt on one knee with a face full of excitement and glory. He respectfully received the reward from the King and accepted the olive branch Robert extended on the spot—recruitment into the royal household guard to serve the Iron Throne.
The pure, overwhelmed joy on the young hunter's face, juxtaposed with the humiliation Jaime endured while winning the championship on the same podium, formed an incomparably ironic picture.
---
The noise of the evening banquet still echoed in the Red Keep's hall, but Euron had left early.
Reaching a secluded room, Euron took out the golden Phone Snail. After a moment of shimmering light, Elia's familiar voice came from the other end. After a brief conversation confirming she was available, Euron put the snail away.
Ever since the awkward incident where he used the Door-Door Fruit to appear suddenly and walked in on Victoria breastfeeding Caesar, Elia and Victoria had issued a "ban"—if he wanted to use this unconventional method of visiting again, he must communicate via Phone Snail beforehand to get permission.
Euron complied readily. He raised his left hand, the ring with the Dayne sigil flowing with faint light. Using his fingers like a knife, he slashed casually at the air before him—a spatial rift with glowing edges appeared instantly. Euron stepped in, his figure vanishing into the night of King's Landing. The next moment, he stood in Elia's room in Sunspear, Dorne, filled with faint incense and warmth.
The night was deep, but the Dornish chambers were filled with rare domestic warmth.
Euron's relationship with Elia was progressing smoothly. At least Rhaenys could naturally call him "Papa," and Elia herself no longer rejected his intimacy, often showing reliance and tenderness instead.
Euron played with the energetic little Caesar and the lovely Rhaenys for a long while. Only when the two little ones finally rubbed their eyes and were taken to sleep by Victoria did he grin, turning to Elia for a good session of intimacy.
Afterward, Euron lay comfortably on Elia's soft lap, eyes closed, but a contemplative look on his brow.
Elia's slender, gentle fingers combed through his black hair. Keenly sensing his subtle mood, she asked softly, "What is it? Something troubling you?"
Euron kept his eyes closed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "A small matter. The bank is about to open. The framework is up, but I don't have a single person who truly understands how to run a bank or manage capital. Let alone talent capable of handling such a complex business independently." He sighed, opened his eyes, and looked at the ceiling. "The Seven Kingdoms had banks before, but they failed and closed. It's been many years without one. People who understand these tricks are rare as phoenix feathers. I really don't know where to recruit them."
Elia's fingers continued to stroke his hair gently. She pondered for a moment, then smiled. "Just because the Seven Kingdoms don't have them doesn't mean the lands across the Narrow Sea don't. The Iron Bank of Braavos controls its core personnel strictly; poaching from them is indeed difficult. But... Tyrosh is an option."
She leaned down slightly, her voice soft. "In that Free City, banks big and small stand like forests. Competition is fierce; banks collapse almost daily. Bankers are as common as ox hair. At the same time, there are often unemployed, bankrupt, even destitute bankers wandering the streets. If you wish, there are plenty of experienced candidates desperate for an opportunity..."
Before she finished, Euron's eyes lit up abruptly, like lightning splitting the dark. He sat up from Elia's lap with a start, startling her. Euron laughed loudly and tackled her onto the soft bed, shouting joyfully, "Yes! Tyrosh! Why didn't I think of that! Hahaha, my Elia, you are too clever! You solved my big problem!"
Elia, flushed by his sudden enthusiasm, spat at him with shame and annoyance, pushing his chest. "Pah! Who... who is your Elia! I am Elia of Dorne, of Martell!"
Euron buried his head in her warm chest, chuckling. "That was before. Now, you are my..."
Elia suddenly remembered something. Pushing Euron away, she spoke seriously. "There is one more person you might want to pay attention to!"
Euron asked, "Who?"
Elia said flatly, "Tycho Nestoris!"
Euron remembered. "The Iron Bank's key emissary to Westeros?"
Elia nodded. "Exactly! You should know the rules of the Iron Bank! That loan of two million Gold Dragons was overseen by Tycho Nestoris. Now that it's sunk into the sea, this debt will be recorded on his head. Hehe, a loss of two million Gold Dragons... besides death, he has no other path. Unless..."
Euron's eyes shone. "Unless I am willing to take him in! As a potential successor to the Keyholders, he knows many secrets of the Iron Bank. He would be very useful to me!"
Elia sighed. "That is true, but you must be clear on one thing—the relationship between the Iron Bank and the Faceless Men is closer than many imagine. It's not impossible they would hire Faceless Men..."
Euron laughed. "I should be able to handle the Faceless Men problem!"
Elia wanted to ask more, but Euron had already stopped her mouth.