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Chapter Text

Bloody headache!

That was my first thought upon waking up. It felt as if one of the dwarves from The Hobbit had taken a hammer to my skull—probably Dwalin...

And almost instantly, as I began to open my eyes, I shut them again with a scream. The migraine had morphed into some sort of bloody hurricane, and I quickly understood why. A flood of memories—ones that weren’t even mine, or at least, ones I hadn’t lived through—came crashing into my head. They say migraines feel like getting run over by a car, but this? This felt like I was stuck on a motorway, getting smashed to bits by freight lorries.

Thankfully, the pain eventually stopped, allowing me to make some sense of what had happened.

Somehow, I had ended up in one of the few worlds I absolutely despised, and I had no idea why. Last night, I’d gone to sleep after popping a couple of tramadol pills for the high—yeah, I’m addicted, so what?—and now I found myself lying in a bed that could easily pass for a silk-and-satin-covered swimming pool, complete with down-filled pillows. Not some shabby old cot, either, but a bloody massive four-poster that could have cost me ten months’ worth of salary.

Fortunately, the memories started making sense. I was the only son of a wealthy merchant in Braavos. And when I say wealthy, I mean the kind of wealth that would make Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos green with envy. My father’s name was Atello Bardatto, and besides being a spice merchant, he owned part of the Arsenal of Braavos and a sizeable merchant fleet.

And the bonus? The Bardatto family was one of the twenty-three founding families of the Iron Bank. That explained why I lived in a gigantic villa overlooking the Purple Harbour.

The bad news? Well, for starters, judging by how I’d experienced these memories, the poor bastard whose place I’d taken was probably dead. Metaphysically, I mean. I’d seen the memories from a third-person perspective, so they weren’t mine. Ergo, my soul had replaced that of… Vincenzo Bardatto?

And to top it off, I had a crap name! Not that I’ve got anything against names with Italian, Spanish, or Latin-sounding origins, but surely, we could do better than that. Honestly, I’d have preferred a French name, considering I was French... or had been? This was getting complicated.

Second piece of bad news—or good news? Who the hell knows?

Anyway, padre was dead. Apparently, a week ago, he slipped on one of the countless staircases in this ridiculous villa and cracked his skull open like an egg. To be fair, when you build a house entirely out of polished marble—floors, walls, banisters and all—you shouldn’t be surprised when someone takes a fatal tumble.

Well, things could have been worse, I suppose. And to be honest, I’d always wanted to be reincarnated in another world. I’d read plenty of stories about it, and it always sounded like fun. That said, I would have preferred anywhere other than George R.R. Martin’s world. Of all the places to end up, it had to be one where people die faster than a hooker getting screwed in the Bois de Boulogne.

Deciding not to dwell on it, I forced myself to get up. It was a struggle leaving the bed—it was just too comfortable—not to mention all the silk drapes and sheets everywhere, fit for a king.

Still feeling a bit unsteady, I stumbled to my feet and nearly choked on my own saliva when I caught sight of my reflection. Because, of course, there was a bloody massive mirror covering the entire wall opposite the bed.

Wavy golden locks framed my face. My skin had a bronzed sheen, like polished, varnished bronze. But the most striking feature? The eyes.

Two dazzling sapphire-blue irises, ringed with molten gold, so deep and mesmerising that they looked almost divine. No wonder Vincenzo spent most of his time bedding anything that moved—people must have fallen for him like flies, faced with such ridiculous beauty.

And the rest of the body? Let’s just say Greek statues had nothing on me. It was as if this body had been sculpted by an artist. Thankfully, unlike those ancient Greek sculptures, everything was properly proportioned down there.

I took a moment to open a wardrobe and get dressed, slipping on a black silk shirt and matching leather trousers. Knee-high boots, finished off with a fine purple belt with a gold buckle.

Not the most colourful ensemble, but according to my new memories, colour was for the poor. The rich, on the other hand, preferred grey, purple, dark blue, and black.

A few knocks at the door interrupted my thoughts, followed by a voice.

"My lord? May I enter?"

I recognised the voice—my butler, or at least the equivalent of one.

"Of course, come in!" I replied.

The man entered, elderly and dressed in simple but elegant attire. According to my memories, he had raised me after my mother, Ezzali Bardatto née Valera, died in childbirth. The baby hadn’t survived either. My father had been so devastated that he became a shadow of himself, focusing solely on his business empire and barely paying me any attention.

"Are you well, my lord?"

I blinked a few times before looking at him properly. He must have noticed my momentary lapse. Definitely needed to stop making a habit of that.

"I was just thinking about my father’s passing. The funeral was beautiful yesterday, wasn’t it?"

It seemed Vincenzo had buried his father yesterday, only to drown himself in an entire barrel of wine afterwards. Maybe that’s why I had replaced him? He must have drunk himself to death, and I must have overdosed on my meds.

"A fine tribute, my lord. But if I may?"

"My father wouldn’t have liked seeing me drink myself into oblivion?"

Castar—that was his name—nodded, giving me a disapproving look. Hey! That wasn’t me, that was the previous tenant of this body—but, of course, he had no way of knowing that.

"I can assure you it won’t happen again, it was a one-off..."

"If you say so," he replied, his voice betraying his scepticism.

I sighed internally—convincing him wouldn’t be easy. My predecessor—I might as well refer to Vincenzo that way—had been a notorious party animal and womaniser. Well, womaniser… maniser… and whatever else—if my hazy memories were right, there was even a goat involved at some point...

"Shall I bring you a tonic?"

"A tonic?" I asked, puzzled.

For my hair? Because aside from that and Schweppes, I didn’t know many other tonics.

"For your headache, after all that alcohol," he clarified in a neutral tone.

Ah, so he couldn’t just say ‘Gueule de bois’ like a normal person? Then again, that phrase probably didn’t exist in this world as it’s French. Well, time to fix that.

"Ah, for the gueule de bois! No need, I’ll be fine."

"The… what?" he replied, raising an eyebrow.

Damn, he could raise his eyebrow just like Christopher Judge. That was badass.

"Yeah, I made that up! Gueule de bois is what you call the face of a man who drowned himself in too much ale. You know, because your mouth feels as dry as old wood. Like Hangover, posher though."

"By the Seven, that is quite the saying… In that case, I shall use it."

I flashed him a wide grin, which made him blush. Ha! I knew it—I was so damn good-looking that even men blushed like virgins in my presence. Though, well… this was an old man, so yeah, no thanks.

"You have also received some letters," he informed me.

"Anything interesting? More marriage proposals?"

Apparently, I was quite the catch across the Free Cities, and even beyond. Women flocked to my villa daily, clawing at each other like starving piranhas, while men fought duels over me. Every day, at least one person ended up injured—and occasionally, someone even died.

And when it came to letters, it was just as bad. A constant stream of marriage proposals—even Lys was begging me to join their ‘courtesans’ in exchange for a mountain of gold.

"You have received twelve new proposals. Among them, four from noble houses, three from wealthy merchants, and even one from a Triarch of Volantis."

I raised an eyebrow at that last one. If I remembered correctly, the Triarchs were among the rulers of Volantis—some of the wealthiest and most powerful individuals around. Not to mention, they were direct descendants of old Valyria, often referred to as the Ancient Blood.

I might not like Martin’s world, but I knew it inside and out. Once a geek, always a geek.

"I see. I’ll read them later. Anything else of interest?" I asked, smiling slightly.

"The Triarch has sent a gift—rare spices and silks. He also promised you a villa within the Black Wall if you agreed to spend a night with him. And a Magister of Pentos has gifted you a ship in the hopes of securing a dinner."

I let out a short laugh. "So, I have the chance to become one of the rulers of Volantis, I can get a villa for a single night of debauchery, and I’ve won myself a boat. I hope it’s a nice one, at least?"

"Very nice, but it is not designed for cargo transport. It has clearly been customised for leisure on the canals."

"Interesting… very interesting…" I mused.

Well, I wasn’t about to turn down a free gift. Stretching slightly, I heard my bones crack—a habit I seemed to have retained from my previous life.

"I’d like to have breakfast. I’ll go through these so-called proposals at the same time."

"At once, my lord."

He swiftly left my chambers, leaving me to my thoughts.

To summarise—I was rich, powerful, and influential. I had a fleet of merchant ships and a seat at the Iron Bank’s meetings, giving me even more sway. The only problem? I had absolutely no clue about the full extent of my commercial empire. My predecessor had never bothered to follow his father’s affairs—never even glanced at the account books or business records.

That simply wouldn’t do. If there was one thing I’d learned in my past life, it was that you should always know what you own—especially when it comes to business.

I’d deal with that. After breakfast, of course.

I didn’t waste a single moment in the days that followed, deciding to take full stock of my possessions.

After all, knowing exactly what you own is the absolute basics of investing. I silently congratulated myself for having chosen the economics track in secondary school, not to mention taking the PFEG class back in my first year.

My assets were, quite frankly, impressive, and I wasn’t about to complain.

To start with—and arguably the most important—I owned 60% of the Arsenal of Braavos. I had always assumed that this fortified island belonged to the Sealord, but that wasn’t the case at all. He owned 20%, while the remaining 20% was divided among other investors. In reality, the Sealord’s 20% represented Braavos’ naval fleet, whereas my 60% comprised the docks and shipbuilding companies.

On top of that, I had a merchant fleet of about twenty ships, used to transport goods to all the coastal and riverine cities of Essos. Another flotilla of ten ships was dedicated to trade with Westeros, primarily King’s Landing, Gulltown, Sunspear, and White Harbour.

I also owned several farms producing thyme, marjoram, dill, and wild mustard, which were traded for saffron and chilli in Volantis, and black pepper and cloves in the Summer Isles. Additionally, I had salt marshes providing me with a steady supply of salt.

But the most surprising asset? Three mines. A copper mine, a silver mine, and an iron mine. The only downside was that I had no records detailing how much remained in these mines. No geological surveys, no prospecting reports—nothing.

The last thing I wanted was to start making business plans only to find out the mines had already run dry. I needed to figure out a way to conduct proper prospecting, considering this world’s ridiculously backward technology.

I’d have to summon the Master Miners and request a full report. They should be capable of that much, at least. Though, given the mines’ remote location further south, nestled in the mountains separating us from the rest of Essos, those reports would take time to arrive.

Speaking of which, since the mines were relatively close to one another, I also happened to own an entire town built around a river that fed into the Braavosian sea.

Next, I turned my attention to my assets within Braavos itself—about ten warehouses, though two were in need of renovation, my own villa, of course, and several houses that were rented out. Not bad.

I also had several trade contracts—many with Lorath, Pentos, Myr, and Lys. But none with Tyrosh. Why? I had no idea, but it made me curious. There were also contracts with Volantis, Qarth, and a prince from the Summer Isles, mostly revolving around spices and, occasionally, minerals.

Unsurprisingly, there were no trade contracts with Westeros—just basic exchange deals.

The real problem emerged when I found a ledger recording the “debts” owed to my father by various individuals. These debts were only recorded in this damned book—no contracts, no official documentation, nothing.

I knew that in Braavos, a person’s word held legal weight, but to me, words were just empty air.

Worse still, I quickly realised that many contracts, agreements, and debts had been sealed with nothing more than a handshake.

That was not going to work. Not at all. If there was one thing I had learned in my previous life—especially in France—it was that everything needed to be written down and documented.

The second problem? The bloody Imperial system!

I had completely forgotten that in Martin’s world, everything was measured using this outdated nonsense—inches, feet, leagues, and other ridiculous units. And it wasn’t just distance; drinks were measured in gallons, quarts, and pints, and weight was recorded in stones and pounds.

An absolute nightmare.

Fortunately, I’d done an English degree, and the first lessons had been all about converting to the metric system.

But I had nothing to help me here. No rulers marked in centimetres, no measuring jugs with litre markings. And as for weight? I didn’t even want to think about it.

That was going to be one of my long-term projects, but first, I needed to deal with the lack of written contracts.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. This is going to be a headache.

I would send messengers to collect outstanding debts—some of which were long overdue, but my father had let them slide.

For future contracts and loans, I would draft a standard contract template to put everything in writing. No more verbal agreements—everything would be documented.

Then, I would “invent” the metric system, using what I remembered to create a proper measurement standard.

I could also “introduce” some basic measuring tools—like a right-angled set square or a protractor.

Nothing too complicated, as long as I had the first and most essential tool: a ruler.

I was pulled from my thoughts by a knock at the door.

"My lord, a message from the Iron Bank."

Castar handed me the sealed parchment, which I eyed with disdain. Yet another thing I need to change—these bloody parchments. I missed proper white paper so much… Fortunately, I knew how to make it, or at least the basics. Thank you, Arte and C’Pas Sorcier.

I unsealed the damned thing and let out a breath. One of the bank’s representatives wanted to meet with me—likely to discuss my situation following my father’s passing.

"See to it that a lavish dinner is prepared for this evening. We’ll be hosting an important guest."

"At once, my lord. Shall I have a cask of fine wine opened?"

"Yes, and bring me a glass. I’ll see if it needs decanting."

He gave me a strange look before leaving. Don’t tell me… They don’t know what decanting is?

Searching through my memories, I quickly realised—of course they didn’t. They didn’t even have proper decanters, serving everything in metal jugs. The horror! Luckily, my villa had crystal carafes.

I quickly grabbed a piece of blank parchment. With a quill and ink, I sketched a carafe with a wide base and a slender neck, complete with an elongated pouring spout and a handle. Nothing like the ones used in this world.

Castar soon returned with my glass—thankfully, a crystal one.

"If I recall correctly, a master glassmaker recently arrived in the city, didn’t he?" I asked, eyeing the wine suspiciously.

The colour was lovely, no doubt, but the scent was slightly acrid. I took a small sip without swallowing, closing my teeth and curling my lips to draw in oxygen with a loud slurp—nothing better for aerating the wine in the mouth and tasting all its nuances.

It wasn’t bad at all, but it must have looked incredibly inelegant, judging by the look Castar was giving me.

"Indeed. Master Saliori arrived last week to start his own business. He’s looking for investors, but many are wary of Myr’s retaliation."

Ah, right. I had forgotten that Myr held a monopoly on glassmaking—and that they weren’t above assassinating the competition.

"Give him this drawing. Tell him that if he can craft me a glass carafe that meets my specifications, I will become his investor."

"Is it wise to provoke Myr?" Castar asked, his gaze wary.

"They wouldn’t dare touch me. I’m too rich and powerful for that. I can’t say the same for Saliori, though..."

"As you wish."

He left with the parchment, leaving me to return to my preparations for reclaiming all those debts.

Several hours later, I was woken up. I had dozed off at my desk after successfully drafting the first version of a ruler in centimetres. I had used barley grains that had been brought to me, remembering that a single grain measured approximately 5mm. For the base, I had taken another piece of parchment, folded it in half to create a straight edge, and carefully marked lines at each barley grain’s length. The result? A twenty-centimetre paper ruler.

"My lord, the representative from the Iron Bank has arrived. Dinner will be served shortly."

"Already? Then let’s not keep him waiting. Also, could you find me a carpenter capable of replicating this in wood? It must match these measurements exactly."

I handed him my makeshift ruler. He studied it with interest, clearly wondering what it was, before giving me a nod.

A few minutes later, I met the esteemed representative. I nearly choked when I recognised him. Mark Gatiss? Just what version of Martin’s world was I in—the books or the TV adaptation?

"Lord Bardatto," he said smoothly. "I am Tycho Nestoris, representing the Iron Bank."

"A pleasure," I replied, shaking his hand. "Wine? It’s rather good."

He nodded, and I poured him a glass. I could have asked a servant, but I still wasn’t used to that level of service.

"What can I do for you?" I asked as I took a seat opposite him.

The servants had already begun filling our plates.

"As a representative of the Iron Bank, it is my duty to ensure the seamless transition of your assets. Your late father, Atello Bardatto, was a respected man and a long-time associate of our institution. His ventures were highly successful, and we wish to see that prosperity continue. Moreover, as heir to your family, you now take your place among the Keyholders of the Iron Bank."

I nodded, pouring myself a glass of wine, taking a moment to observe its colour before responding.

"I appreciate your diligence, Master Nestoris. My father was not just a merchant; he was a builder of commercial empires. And if we are to speak of continuity, then let me assure you—my ambition is no less than his."

Tycho gave a polite smile, raising his glass in a small nod before taking a sip.

"That is precisely what we hoped to hear. The Iron Bank holds your family in high regard for its contributions to Braavosi commerce. Now, as a Keyholder, you will have a seat at the Bank’s council. You will be expected to participate in the strategic decisions of our institution. We are here to discuss future opportunities and how we might continue to work together. Your influence and position are assets we would like to see flourish."

I took a bite of my meal, considering the situation. My father had been a shrewd businessman, and I knew that his relationship with the Iron Bank was built on trust and long-term vision.

"My father always knew how to seize opportunities and form the right alliances. I intend to do the same—and even go beyond. I have expansion projects that may interest the Iron Bank. Are you familiar with Master Saliori? A skilled glassmaker looking to establish himself in Braavos. I wish to fund his business to produce glass of unparalleled quality, particularly decanters that could revolutionise wine consumption."

Tycho raised an intrigued eyebrow.

"A bold investment, especially considering the potential retaliation from Myr."

"Myr wouldn’t dare move against me directly," I said with a smirk. "And with your support, this venture could quickly become a highly profitable enterprise—not just for me, but for the Iron Bank as well. After all, why rely on Myr when we could establish a monopoly right here in Braavos?"

Tycho took a moment to consider, tapping his fingers lightly against his glass.

"Interesting. The Iron Bank only invests in ventures that are both promising and well-secured. If you can prove the viability of your project and its profitability, we might consider additional funding."

I smiled, satisfied with the opening he had just given me.

"Then we have a preliminary agreement. I will send you a detailed report of my plan by the end of the week. In the meantime, we can explore how our mutual interests might align in other areas."

Tycho nodded, his smile still measured, but I could see that he was intrigued.

"Very well, Lord Bardatto. We look forward to your report. In the meantime, please accept our condolences for your father. His presence is already missed."

I raised my glass in response.

"To my father—and to the prosperity to come."

Tycho did the same, and we clinked our glasses together, each of us undoubtedly contemplating our own ambitions. The game had only just begun.

As we finished our meal, a servant discreetly approached and murmured in my ear.

"My lord, Master Saliori has sent a message. He wishes to meet with you tomorrow morning to discuss your order—and some potential complications."

I nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across my lips, before turning back to Tycho.

"That is rather convenient. If you’d like to see just how profitable this investment could be, I invite you to accompany me tomorrow to discuss matters with our glassmaker."

The banker raised an eyebrow, but his smile grew slightly.

"I may indeed be curious to see how you plan to challenge Myr. Very well, Lord Bardatto, I shall accompany you. But be cautious—Myrians are not known for their mercy towards those who encroach upon their business."

"Don’t worry—I have no intention of ending up like my father." I took one last sip of wine, meeting Tycho’s gaze with confidence. "But sometimes, one must be willing to rewrite the rules of the game."

The game had truly begun.

Chapter Text

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I was young…

It took me a while to realise it—memories messing with my head, my body not matching my age—but yeah, I was young. And when I say young, I mean a bloody teenager.

Well, a teenager by Earth’s standards, anyway. Because apparently, being fifteen in Martin’s world was the equivalent of looking twenty and having all the perks of adulthood. I had to admit, it was weird—being so young but looking so grown-up. But then again, this world was basically medieval. Kids got married at thirteen—sometimes even eleven—and went off to war at ten. So yeah, bodies probably aged faster here.

And on top of that, in my rush to “discover” the metric system and collect my debts, I’d completely forgotten to check the date. For once, that turned out to be a stroke of luck.

786 YB—Year of Braavos. Made sense that Braavos had its own calendar, counting from the city’s official founding. Of course, I had to convert it, since the books and TV series used the Westerosi calendar, which started with Aegon’s Conquest. That put us in 285 AC—four years before the wannabe pirates kicked off their rebellion and roughly fifteen years before the undead apocalypse.

Which was great news for me. It gave me time—time to prepare, and more importantly, time to enjoy life. Plus, knowing what was coming gave me a serious advantage. All I had to do now was—

“My lord? Master Saliori has arrived.”

I snapped out of my thoughts at the sound of Castor’s voice. I had a habit of zoning out, especially when I was deep in my plans…

“Let him in.”

With that, Castor left, presumably to fetch the master glassmaker.

It had been a week since I’d commissioned a proper decanter from him, and I hadn’t heard a thing since. At first, I figured he either couldn’t pull it off or had found a better-paying patron. But if he was here today, then he must have been working on my request after all.

A few moments later, Castor returned with an older man—bald as Dwayne Johnson, but with a long, well-kept goatee. He carried a closed box in his hands.

“My lord Bardatto, I am SALIORI Belenhor of Myr, master glassmaker in search of a worthy patron. I bring you your order.”

I had to hold back a grin—for once, someone who got straight to the point.

“A pleasure, Master Saliori.”

I gave him a small gesture, inviting him to open the box. Carefully, he lifted the lid, revealing a beautifully crafted crystal decanter—with an ornate handle, a delicate spout, and, most importantly, a wide, stable base.

I didn’t need to inspect it closely to know it matched my design. The real question was—would it do what I needed it to?

“Castor, open a cask and fill the decanter halfway. Then bring it back with two full cups.”

My steward gave me a curious look but quickly left to follow my instructions. I turned back to the glassmaker, who was eyeing my wooden ruler with interest.

“I have to say, the craftsmanship is impressive—but we’ll know for sure in an hour or two.”

“An hour, my lord?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ah. Right. They didn’t use hours here. Time was measured in broad strokes—dawn, morning, midday, afternoon, dusk, and full night—or by bell tolls marking shifts and important events.

I pointed to one of my “inventions”—nothing groundbreaking. Just a sundial, placed in the corner of my desk. Luckily, this room didn’t have a proper ceiling, just a glass dome that let in plenty of sunlight. And today, the weather was on my side.

I’d drawn up the design myself before hiring a goldsmith to make it. Of course, I had him sign a contract first—strictly forbidding him from talking about, copying, or reproducing my design in any way. And just to be safe, I bought out his entire workshop.

I could have used an hourglass, but flipping it over constantly would’ve been a pain. Same with a water clock—not exactly practical. To be fair, only the hourglass existed here, and I’d never actually looked into how water clocks worked.

Anyway, six days later, I had a sleek bronze sundial. I had to make a few adjustments, though—I knew from the maps that we were in the Northern Hemisphere. To get the angle right, I brought in one of my sailors (perks of owning a fleet). He used an astrolabe to measure the latitude—proving in the process that he actually knew his stuff—and came up with an angle of 47°.

We made the final tweaks, and boom—fully functional gold-plated bronze sundial. It showed the hours, half-hours, and quarter-hours. Anything more detailed would’ve needed a much bigger dial…

“As you can see, it’s currently eleven o’clock,” I said, pointing at the 11. “When the shadow reaches twelve, it’ll be noon—meaning an hour has passed.”

“This is incredible! Where did this sundial come from? How does it work? What is—”

“It’s one of my inventions, and for now, it stays a secret,” I cut him off. “As for how it works—not your concern right now. We’ll talk more once the decanter has proven itself.”

He shut his mouth and nodded. I saw him swallow, his throat making an audible gulp.

Castor returned to the room carrying the decanter and two glasses, all neatly arranged on a tray. I took one of the glasses and handed it to the glassmaker.

“We’re going to taste this wine first, drinking half the glass. In an hour, we’ll finish them before trying the wine from the decanter.”

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass. “But what exactly are we testing?”

“If you’ve done your job right, you’ll notice soon enough.”

He nodded before taking a sip, and I did the same.

“In the meantime, have a seat. Might as well read a book while you’re at it,” I added, downing half my glass in one go.

The wine was heavy, way too tannic—no aeration at all. The perfect test for the decanter. Saliori followed suit, then sat on one of the chaise lounges, picking up a book on Braavosi poetry. Not exactly my thing… I went back to my desk to admire my latest creation.

I’d hired a master carpenter to ask how they ensured straight angles in buildings. He showed me a builder’s square, an old-school tool I’d actually seen before in a documentary about medieval construction. I bought it off him for a bronze shield.

That bastard had tried to charge me three shields for a simple wooden tool, but I gently reminded him there were plenty of other craftsmen in the city… ones I hadn’t yet threatened. So, one bronze shield it was.

Judging by how tightly he clenched his jaw, it must have stung. Not that I cared—I was rich, and I intended to stay that way. As my gran always said, you get rich by watching every penny.

Oh yeah, Braavos had its own currency—something Grimm never mentioned in his books. I’d quickly learned that their monetary system was refreshingly simple, which was a relief.

From smallest to largest, they had:

• The Wretch
• The Copper Shard
• The Iron Mark
• The Bronze Shield
• The Silver Mark
• The Golden Ducat
• The Crown of Braavos (pure gold)

Ducats were worth the same as Westerosi Gold Dragons (roughly 210 Silver Stags), but the Crowns were even more valuable and used only by the wealthiest families—like mine. My fortune was estimated in the hundreds of thousands of Crowns, so I wasn’t about to convert it into Dragons anytime soon.

And thankfully, unlike Westeros, Braavos used a proper decimal system—each coin was worth exactly ten of the previous one. A miracle of financial intelligence. No wonder they had the Iron Bank.

Anyway, as I was saying, I’d bought a builder’s square to get perfect right angles. Using that and my wooden ruler, I drew out a triangle on parchment, then had a carpenter make it into a proper wooden set square.

And now, I was admiring it with a massive grin. The proportions were perfect—24 centimetres along the base, 32 centimetres high, and a 40-centimetre diagonal.

With my set square and a basic compass, I was ready to tackle my next essential project—the bloody protractor.

I started by drawing a 10 cm straight line using the set square. Then, I drew a perfect right angle at the centre, marking 90° at the top, 0° at the start, and 180° at the other end. So far, so good.

And then, I hit a problem.

A big problem.

How the hell was I supposed to divide this right angle properly without a modern protractor?

I had an idea, but no way was I going to eyeball it—I didn’t want to end up with a wobbly mess on my parchment.

I grabbed my compass and placed the point exactly at the intersection of the two lines—dead centre of my right angle. I opened it up roughly (but not too randomly—precision mattered) and drew an arc that cut through both lines.

Two points appeared. Perfect.

Next, I placed the compass point on one of those marks and, without changing the radius, drew a new arc inside the angle. Then I did the same from the other side.

And BAM! The two arcs intersected.

A quick flick of my charcoal pencil, and I connected that point back to the origin—TADAA, a perfect 45° angle!

Easy.

An eight-year-old could do it. But I’d bet my entire fortune that not a single bastard in this world had figured it out yet.

Maybe the Maesters? I didn’t trust those book-hoarding rats, hoarding knowledge like a squirrel hoards nuts. And if you dared take one, they’d go feral.

Right, with my 45° sorted, next up—30° and 60°.

Thankfully, maths was on my side.

An equilateral triangle has three 60° angles, so if I could draw one, I had my reference.

1. I drew a big circle from the centre of my right angle.
2. I placed the compass point where the circle met the horizontal line.
3. Without changing the radius, I made another mark on the circle.
4. Connected that mark to the centre, and BOOM—one perfect 60° angle!

And since the vertical line split the 60° angle in half, that automatically gave me a 30° angle on the other side.

Well done, me. Some people are just born with talent.

But the work wasn’t done yet…

Now that everything was drawn out, I had to mark the divisions properly.

• I made long, clear marks every 10°.
• Small ticks for each individual degree—because I was a precision freak.
• Neatly numbered everything, so I wouldn’t have to squint at a mess later.

And because I had style, I took my charcoal and carefully labelled the key angles. A masterpiece. Well, my masterpiece, anyway.

I looked up, checking the sundial. Half an hour? Bloody hell, that took longer than I thought. And when I glanced at the chaise lounge, I noticed Saliori watching me, practically hypnotised. He was probably wondering what the hell I was doing.

I refocused on my work.

It was beautiful—really well done—but I needed a proper version.

“Cas—” I started.

“Right away, my lord.”

I’ll deny it to my grave, but I nearly screamed like one of those girls getting slaughtered in Scary Movie. My steward had clearly picked up on my habits because, without missing a beat, he grabbed the parchment I’d just finished and left, no doubt heading straight for the carpenter.

Good thing that carpenter worked for me. He could have made a fortune off my ideas… but that fortune was mine.

And with a nice thirty minutes left, I could tackle my fourth major issue.

See, I’d introduced the graduated ruler and nailed down a proper protractor. But there was still a crucial problem—

Volume.

Because in this world full of amateurs, no one had thought to standardise their units.

A Myrish merchant would talk in pints, a Reach farmer in bushels, a Dornish noble in amphorae, and even barrels varied in size depending on the region. The reports were clear—everyone used their own damn system, and none of them matched up.

Absolute chaos.

How the hell do you trade properly with standards like that? How do you set stable prices? You don’t. Not in this mess.

So, I was going to fix it.

The solution?

1. Standardise everything.
2. Create a precise, reproducible, transportable one-litre container.

I already knew a litre was 1,000 cm³—a cube measuring 10 cm on each side. Easy to make, sure. That was part of why I’d created my ruler in the first place. But as simple as that was, it was completely impractical. A cube was shit for transporting liquids. I mean, I’d never seen wine or oil sold in cubes.

So, I needed a cylinder—way better for liquids.

Luckily, I was reasonably intelligent, and school had drilled enough maths into my head. I knew that the volume of a cylinder was calculated using pi, the radius squared, and the height.

With all the basics sorted, I scribbled down the equation on parchment:

V = π r²h

I needed 1,000 cm³ (one litre), so:

π r²h = 1000

Since I was sketching everything in centimetres, I needed a simple, practical diameter. I went with 10 cm, making the radius 5.

Then, the calculation:

π (5)² h = 1000
So, 25πh = 1000
Divide both sides, and I got:

h = 1000 / 25 π

With π ≈ 3.14, that gave me:

h = 1000 / (25 x 3.14)
h = 1000 / 78.5
h ≈ 12.73 cm

Perfect. Well-measured and easy to sketch. So, I grabbed a fresh parchment and started drawing it out in charcoal—a cylinder, 10 cm in diameter, 12.73 cm tall. Didn’t give a damn about the material.

On a separate sheet, I sketched a graduated measuring bowl—like the ones used in kitchens or chemistry labs. I marked lines every 1.27 cm for 100 ml increments.

“One hour has passed, my lord.”

I looked up at Castor’s voice. He had returned and was pointing to the sundial—twelve o’clock.

Damn. Time really flew.

I rolled up the first parchment and handed it to him, along with my ruler.

“Find me a potter, a blacksmith, or any craftsman who can make this exactly to measurement. The ruler stays with you, and keep this project confidential.”

Castor hesitated for a moment, clearly thinking.

“You are the patron of a potter, my lord. I’ll take it to him immediately.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with Saliori.

“Well, an hour’s up,” I said.

I turned my attention to the decanter. The wine had already lightened, showing a more vibrant colour. I’d done similar tests with the decanters I already had, so I could tell there was a clear improvement.

We finished the wine already in the glasses, then I poured us both a glass with the decanter.

“One sip will tell us if your work is a success.”

“I… see. I suppose we’re comparing it to the first glass?”

I just nodded.

Gently swirling the wine, I brought the glass to my nose and took a deep breath. There were woody, slightly floral notes—just from the scent, the difference was obvious. I took a sip.

And I smiled.

The wine tasted so much better—properly aerated. Not perfectly oxygenated yet, but the improvement was undeniable.

“This is incredible! But how?” Saliori asked.

“Wine needs air to bring out its flavour. Being bottled up dulls it. The decanter I had you make is designed to let it breathe over time—while also making it easier to pour.”

I pointed at the glass rims—clean, no stray droplets. The spout had done its job perfectly.

“You’ve met my expectations. So, as promised, I’ll fund you. Sit down—we have terms to discuss.”

Saliori sat down across from me, still holding his glass, his gaze shifting between the decanter and me. He had the look of a man who’d just witnessed a bloody miracle. And in a way, he had.

Me? I was just showing him that the world could be better… as long as it was under my control.

He wetted his lips, hesitating.

“I must admit, Lord Bardatto, this decanter exceeds all my expectations… But this isn’t just glasswork. This is… engineering.”

He was starting to get it.

Finally.

I swirled my wine between my fingers.

“You think I brought you here just for a bloody decanter?”

Saliori shook his head slightly.

“I’m beginning to think not.”

Good answer.

I set my glass down and leaned forward slightly.

“I want to make you the most influential glassmaker in Braavos. Not just some craftsman selling goblets to half-dead drunks. No, no. You’re going to create objects that everyone needs.”

He frowned slightly.

“Everyone?”

“Exactly.”

I picked up the second parchment from my liquid measurement project—the one with the graduated bowl I’d drawn earlier.

I tapped the sketch with my finger.

“This right here? This is the future.”

Saliori squinted and leaned in to examine the drawing.

He didn’t speak immediately, which was already a good sign. He was trying to understand.

I took a breath before explaining.

“You know what pisses off every spice merchant, wine dealer, perfumer, or even the cooks in noble households?”

Saliori shook his head. I grinned.

“They don’t have a single bloody standard for measuring anything. They just guess.”

I pointed at the small markings inside the bowl.

“This? This is a scale. A proper, precise system. We’re going to standardise liquid and solid volumes. A bowl of this size will always hold exactly one litre, with clear markings for 100 ml, 200 ml, 300 ml, and so on.”

I let that sink in.

Then, I continued.

“We’ll make them in different sizes—one for half a litre, another for 250 ml, maybe even a smaller one for finer measurements. We can even produce metal versions for artisans and alchemists.”

Saliori was on the edge of an epiphany.

“You… want to give liquids a standard unit of measurement?”

I snapped my fingers.

“Exactly! And guess what? Anyone who wants to work with precision will have to use our bowls, our system.” I smiled. “But before we go any further—let’s talk business.”

Saliori nodded, placing his glass carefully on the table.

“I’m listening, Lord Bardatto.”

I smirked slightly. He was already in financial submission mode. A good start.

I tapped the base of the decanter.

“Here’s the deal. You’ll work under my exclusive patronage. No other sponsors, no other investors. You make glass for me, and in return, I provide you with a workshop, funding, workers if needed. In exchange, 80% of the net profits go to me.”

I laid it out bluntly—direct, sharp, no hesitation.

Saliori visibly paled.

“Eighty percent?” he repeated.

“Yep.” I took another sip of my wine, enjoying the now perfectly aerated aroma.

He swallowed hard. He wasn’t stupid—he knew this was a golden opportunity. But at the same time, 80% was brutal.

I waited. Negotiations were a psychological game. The first to speak usually lost ground.

Finally, he went for a counteroffer.

“I… could agree to 60% in your favour.”

I raised an eyebrow. Interesting. He had the guts to negotiate. That was a good sign.

I put my glass down.

“Seventy percent. And I guarantee Myr won’t give you any trouble.”

He flinched.

Bingo.

Myr was the biggest problem for glassmakers. They had a monopoly on the craft in this region and weren’t shy about sending assassins to eliminate competition.

But me? I had influence in the Iron Bank. I had men. I had resources. And most importantly, Myr wouldn’t dare make a move against a Bardatto.

…At least, I hoped not.

He thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Alright. Seventy percent.”

Bloody brilliant.

I opened a drawer in my desk and pulled out a contract I’d already written up, leaving space for the percentage. Always be prepared—that was my motto.

He read through it carefully before signing. No surprise, his eyes flicked back to the sketch of my measuring bowl.

“You already have a plan for production?”

A smirk crossed my face as I signalled to Casper. He knew exactly what that meant—we’d discussed this days ago.

“Everything is ready, my lord.”

I gestured for Saliori to follow me. I led him to one of my private docks, near my warehouses by the Arsenal—just two kilometres across the water.

I pointed at a construction site.

It was a bloody factory.

Workers were swarming over wooden structures, furnaces were already being assembled. My steward, Castor, was deep in discussion with a foreman.

I turned to Saliori.

“Welcome to what will soon be the largest glass production centre in Braavos.”

He looked around, then fixed his gaze on me, a mix of admiration and disbelief in his eyes.

“You… started building this before I even signed.”

“Of course. Because I knew you’d accept.” I flashed him a wide grin. “We’ll start with fine glass—decanters, luxury goblets, polished mirrors. We’ll dominate the noble market, show them Myr is yesterday’s news.”

I took a deep breath before continuing.

“Then we move on to glazing. Glass windows, lanterns, anything that can use crystal. And after that…”

I smirked, thinking back to my past life. I had pretty common vision problems—easily fixed with…

“Lenses.”

Saliori frowned.

“Lenses?”

I nodded.

“Glass, shaped to magnify objects. To help vision. To… let’s say, improve certain astronomy tools. But that’s not all.”

Saliori caught on instantly.

“The Maesters would pay fortunes for that.”

I nodded again.

“Exactly. And let’s not forget merchants, lords, and scholars whose eyesight is getting worse by the day. We’ll need to refine the whole convex and concave lens thing, figure out prescriptions—but we’ll get there.”

Silence fell. He was thinking, weighing the true weight of my proposal.

Finally, he placed both hands on the table and gave a slight bow.

“Lord Bardatto… I’m honoured to work under your protection.”

And just like that, another skilled man under my command. That was satisfying.

I let Saliori leave with his contract and gave orders to speed up construction.

As always, Castor was on top of things.

“I’ll have high-quality timber and specialised glassmaking tools delivered. I’ll also push for faster production. At this rate, the building should be complete in another week.”

“Good. Also, add more guards—we don’t want Myr’s spies poking around in our business.”

He nodded.

I stretched, pleased. I’d been surprised at how fast they were building, but with my wealth—and zero labour laws—hiring thousands of workers on short notice wasn’t an issue.

But there was still a lot to do. Producing was one thing.

Selling was another.

And more importantly…

I needed to meet Tycho Nestoris.

Because if the Iron Bank officially backed my projects, nothing would be able to stop me.

I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of Myr…

I’d told Saliori he had nothing to worry about. But honestly?

I had no idea if that was true.

Chapter Text

One month.

One month since my decanter had become a must-have for Braavosi nobles, wealthy merchants, and even some Westerosi lords. One month of booming business, overflowing coffers. One month of silence from Myr.

And that was suspicious.

Myr wasn’t the type to forget. Or forgive.

I’d met Tycho Nestoris several times before, but this was the first time we’d be speaking as equals. The last time didn’t count—he’d merely informed me of my new status. But now? Now, I was meeting him officially as a Keyholder of the Iron Bank.

The room we were in was refined yet understated—one of the Bank’s private chambers, reserved for conversations that were never meant to leave these walls. I had to admit, the décor was impressive. Marble everywhere, massive Myrish carpets, even a few stuffed animals mounted on the walls. If the Faith of the Seven had a department for animal rights, they’d be having a meltdown right now.

Tycho sat across from me, swirling his wine glass between his fingers, as if the motion alone would unlock the drink’s secrets.

“You’ve made quite the impression this past month, Lord Bardatto,” he said in that calm, measured tone of his.

I couldn’t help but admire the man. Not in a physical way, but he had the same aura as Mycroft Holmes from BBC’s Sherlock—cold, calculating, and dangerous.

“Just an impression?” I replied with a smirk.

He gave the faintest hint of a smile. He could pull that off with his pale lips—I couldn’t. Mine were naturally full, no artificial enhancements here. Not like those pleasure house workers with their wax-filled lips…

“Let’s just say, a man’s rapid rise always attracts attention. Your success with these decanters is undeniable. The quality, the ingenuity… and the audacity.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Audacity?”

Tycho set his glass down, folding his hands over his lap.

“You challenged Myr. And yet, you’re still alive.”

I let out a small laugh.

“Myr is pragmatic. They need time to weigh their options before making a move.”

That was a lie.

Myr wasn’t pragmatic. They were vindictive. They were cruel. And above all, they never left loose ends. I wasn’t stupid—I knew they’d come for me eventually. My decanter was too successful, and Saliori’s talent was too valuable for them to kill him.

Which meant the target was me.

Tycho tilted his head slightly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

At that moment, a servant approached, carrying a silver tray. Two perfectly poured glasses of wine rested on it—one for me, one for Tycho.

I smiled when I saw the decanter. Straight out of my workshop.

They were selling like wildfire. Even the most basic models went for five Silver Pieces—about fifteen Silver Moons (or 105 Silver Stags in Westeros). The luxury ones? Some sold for ten ducats—that’s ten Gold Dragons (a hefty 2,100 Silver Stags).

So, without a second thought, I took my glass and slowly raised it to my lips, ready to take a sip.

And then, the servant spoke.

“I am sorry, my lord.”

The glass froze just millimetres from my lips.

Sorry.

That word detonated in my brain like a thunderclap. My instincts screamed danger, but my mind took a fraction of a second to connect the dots.

Sorry. The Sorrowful Men.

My blood ran cold.

Oh, fuck.

The Sorrowful Men. They were a whispered legend. The kind of assassins you read about in old Braavosi texts or heard about in merchant gossip. A guild of killers who always apologised before they struck.

I went white as a sheet.

Myr had made its move.

And they’d sent professional assassins.

My grip on the glass loosened ever so slightly. Instead of drinking, I threw the wine straight into my attacker’s face. The glass hit the floor with a sharp crack as the assassin squeezed his eyes shut, instinctively flinching from the liquid.

Then, he moved.

Not like a servant—like a trained killer.

His hand shot under his apron, and in a flash of steel, a thin, deadly blade appeared.

I sprang to my feet, narrowly dodging his strike. But that’s when I realised—

I’d made a mistake.

There wasn’t just one assassin.

There were two.

And the second one?

He wasn’t coming for me.

He was going for Tycho.

The assassin’s blade shot straight for the banker’s heart—a clean, precise strike that would have ended him in an instant.

Tycho Nestoris, ever composed, didn’t even have time to react.

But I did.

I grabbed the first thing within reach—a full decanter of wine—and hurled it with all my strength.

The glass smashed against the assassin’s temple, knocking him just off course. His blade missed Tycho’s chest by a hair’s breadth. The banker stepped back, avoiding death by the slimmest of margins.

Didn’t even flinch. Did anything rattle this man?

The first assassin tried to use the distraction to attack me again, but I saw it coming. I twisted and slammed my fist into his throat. He staggered back, choking.

Before he could recover, my guards burst into the room, weapons drawn.

The first assassin was immediately tackled to the ground, a knee driven into his back, his dagger ripped from his grasp and sent skidding across the floor.

The second one tried to flee.

Not a chance.

He’d just tried to kill me.

I lunged, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him onto the table. He tried to stab me, but I caught his wrist and twisted it until the knife clattered to the floor.

In seconds, the threat was neutralised.

Just to be sure, I smashed my fist into his face, breaking his nose. He deserved it.

The two Sorrowful Men lay on the ground, bound, beaten, and completely incapable of finishing their mission.

My heart pounded like a war drum. I took a slow breath, forcing myself to calm down.

A heavy silence filled the room.

Tycho, ever unshaken, casually adjusted the folds of his robe before glancing at me, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Well… that was rather entertaining.”

I exhaled, brushing a few stray wine drops off my sleeve.

“Entertaining isn’t the word I’d use,” I muttered. “But I suppose that depends on your perspective.”

Tycho studied the two prisoners, then turned back to me.

“I imagine you’re not simply going to execute them?”

I smirked. He was getting to know me.

“That would be a waste of resources. Myr invested in these men—it would be a shame not to… reallocate their talents.”

Tycho’s gaze gleamed with curiosity.

“I look forward to seeing what lesson you intend to teach them.”

I turned to my guards, my voice calm.

“Take them away. I’ll show them what it really means to be… sorry.”

Slowly, I picked up another glass—one that wasn’t poisoned this time—and raised it to my lips.

Tycho watched me, then, with an enigmatic smile, did the same.

We clinked our glasses.

The war against Myr had officially begun. And I intended to end it. Quickly. Brutally.

It was time to let my repressed sadistic instincts take over…

(Two Hours Later)

One month.

One bloody month since my decanter had become an essential item among nobles and wealthy merchants. One month since my fortune had been growing faster than I could count. One month of silence from Myr.

And that was exactly what scared me.

Because Myr doesn’t forget. Myr doesn’t forgive. Myr doesn’t tolerate competition.

So when they sent two Sorrowful Men to kill me—in the middle of a meeting with Tycho Nestoris—I knew the game had truly begun.

But here I was, still alive.

And they were in my cellar, tied firmly to wooden chairs.

It was time to teach them the real meaning of being "Sorrowful."

I made my way down to the least-visited part of my villa—the dungeon.

Why? Because it was perfect for what was about to happen.

1. It was cold—pain felt sharper that way.
2. It was dark—no sense of time.
3. It was huge, with the kind of acoustics that made screams really carry.

Caspar had already inspected them and confirmed there was one older and one younger, likely a mentor and his apprentice. So I had them separated.

The older one was about to be handled, while the younger one?

He was going to watch.

Because that part was important. Very important.

Why? Because physical torture is fine…

…but psychological torture? Now that is a fucking art form.

Yeah, alright, maybe I was a bit unhinged. But they’d tried to kill me, so—goodbye morality, hello Ramsay Bolton mode.

For once, all those books on medieval torture and those YouTube videos were going to come in handy.

I let them wait before stepping inside. Psychological torture starts before you even touch them—let them sit in fear, wondering what’s coming.

Then, I entered.

The older assassin locked eyes with me, his expression screaming: Do your worst, bastard. I won’t talk.

Alright then. Challenge accepted.

I gave him my best smile.

Casually, I walked behind the younger one—who had his back to me—and ran my fingers lightly over his neck. He stiffened under my touch.

I suppressed a chuckle. They were completely naked—not even a cloth to cover themselves.

Good. He was scared.

I could even see his fingers trembling.

And to think, these were meant to be professional assassins. Right now, they had all the courage of wet kittens.

I pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the older one, close enough that he could feel my breath.

“So… you tried to kill me.”

Silence. Slow, measured breathing. Almost mocking.

“They say the Sorrowful Men are professionals. Artists of death. I can respect that, truly…” I smiled lightly. “But a contract means someone paid to see me dead. And that is a problem.”

Nothing.

No reaction.

“I’m a generous man, though. So I’ll give you one chance. One.” I let out a soft chuckle. “You talk, and I’ll let you live. Well—live might be a stretch.”

Then, I heard it.

A drip.

I turned my head slightly—

And saw that the younger one had pissed himself.

I turned back to the older one, who still hadn’t spoken.

“Nothing? Really?” I sighed, lifting my hands. “Fine. We’ll start slow. Who knows, maybe your friend here will learn a few things.”

Ah.

That got to him.

His face paled.

Very good.

I glanced at the side of the room, where an array of torture instruments had been prepared. A pitcher of water. An empty barrel. Another barrel filled with salt. And a few other lovely tools.

There was even a caged rat.

My men had done exactly as I instructed.

Caspar stood beside me, ever loyal. My father in this world had never shied away from torture, and my servants were used to it.

I was about to prove that I was better at it than he ever was.

With a simple gesture, I ordered my men to begin.

[Trigger Warning – Skip to end if you don’t feel like it, torture ahead!]

They lifted the older assassin from his chair and strapped him onto a wooden bench. His body was tilted, head back, legs elevated.

I stepped forward, gently laying a cloth over his face.

Then, I picked up the pitcher.

And I poured.

The effect was instantaneous.

His body jerked violently. His chest heaved, panic setting in. He tried to hold his breath, but the water invaded everywhere.

His breathing turned ragged. Uncontrollable. His body convulsed in desperate, instinctive spasms.

I waited.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Only when he started thrashing violently did I pull the cloth away.

He gasped for air, coughing hard.

“It’s a horrible feeling, isn’t it?” I murmured, crouching beside his ear.

Silence.

I let him catch his breath.

Then, I did it again.

This time, he screamed into the fabric after five seconds. His legs trembled. He fought, fought… until his body began to slowly lose the will to resist.

I stopped just before he lost consciousness.

“Still nothing to say?”

He shook his head again.

Well, I was only just getting started.

So, we went again.

Once. Twice. Three times. Each time, the screams grew louder. He struggled, digging his nails into the wood so hard I thought they might break. But still—not a single word.

Unless the water was stopping him from speaking?

Chinese water torture. A psychological nightmare.

But that wasn’t enough for this bastard.

If he wanted to play tough, then I’d be delighted to play his partner.

I gestured for my men to remove the cloth, while Caspar handed me a blade—Valyrian steel.

My late father’s favourite dagger.

We didn’t have a Valyrian steel sword, but our family owned three daggers and a few pieces of jewellery. I’d considered melting them down for a blade, but honestly? I was rich enough already.

My men shifted the assassin onto a wooden table—easier for me to work with.

I glanced at the younger one.

He was ashen, surrounded by a puddle of his own piss.

The little shit had closed his eyes.

I gestured to one of my men, who stepped behind the boy and forced his eyelids open with his fingers.

You watch this.

I turned my attention back to the older man.

“Let’s see how long you last before you start screaming.”

I made a cut.

Thin. Shallow. As fine as paper.

Valyrian steel was razor-sharp—a mere flick of the blade was enough to slice through skin.

Then another.

And another.

By the time I was done, there were over forty, spread across his arms, legs, chest. Even one across his face.

And, for the final touch?

A very light one across his cock.

He whimpered. His jaw was clenched so tight he was practically grinding his teeth.

“So much stubbornness… all for a contract?” I scoffed. “Tell me—is it really worth it?”

“No matter what you do… Myr won’t forget you,” he rasped. “They’ll send more men. And more after that. You can’t kill us all.”

“Oh, but I don’t need to kill everyone.” I smiled. “I just need to make Myr too afraid to try again. And trust me—they will be afraid.”

Silence.

I signalled Caspar.

He stepped forward with a pot of salt.

I grabbed a handful.

And pressed it firmly into his wounds.

The assassin screamed.

Not just a yell.

A piercing, bloodcurdling howl.

The kind that echoed off the stone walls.

I was almost impressed he’d lasted this long.

A distant part of me wondered why I wasn’t disgusted by this.

Was it the change of body? Or had I just not fully processed my situation yet?

Didn’t matter.

As long as it didn’t stop me from sleeping at night, I didn’t care.

The old man was close to breaking.

I could see it.

It had been hours.

Time to finish this.

Caspar handed me a small iron bowl.

Another guard approached, carrying a cage.

Inside? A rat.

Not a big one, no. A small, starving thing. Malnourished. Desperate.

Perfect.

The assassin’s eyes widened in horror.

Gods, that expression was beautiful.

“I see from your eyes that you know what’s coming, don’t you?”

He said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

I nodded to Caspar, who placed the rat on the man’s bare stomach.

I slammed the iron bowl down over it, trapping the creature.

A guard, wearing thick leather gloves, held the bowl firmly in place.

I walked over to the wall, grabbed a torch, and stepped back toward the table.

Without hesitation, I heated the bowl.

Slowly.

The old man broke immediately.

“No… No, not that—I’LL TALK! PLEASE!”

“Too late, mate.” I grinned. “Shouldn’t have played tough. Now? You suffer.”

The rat scratched frantically against the bowl.

I turned to the younger assassin, who was on the verge of passing out.

“Do you know what a trapped rat does, boy?”

He swallowed thickly.

“N-no?”

“It digs.”

I kept heating the metal.

The rat freaked out.

It tried to escape. But the bowl was held tight.

Then—

The scratching stopped.

I didn’t need to be some Citadel-trained genius to know what was happening—the assassin’s screams painted a perfect picture.

The rat scratched. Bit. Dug.

The old man howled. Begged.

Then suddenly—

A sound.

Not human. Animalistic.

His voice had changed.

I glanced back at the boy. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly open—completely paralysed by terror.

He’d snapped.

And judging by the way the old man was screaming, so had he.

[Trigger Warning End – Safe to read!]

I lifted the torch as the assassin panted, his chest rising and falling in erratic gasps.

But the real prize? His eyes.

Utterly defeated.

“I’ll talk… Please… Stop. Mercy.”

I smirked.

“See? Told you you’d talk.”

I gestured to my guard, who removed the bowl.

The sight was… well, rattling. (Pun intended.)

Blood. Scratches. A frantic rat.

I waved my hand dismissively, and my men yanked the creature away. It would be killed and tossed into the sea—no vermin in my house.

They pulled the assassin upright, strapping him back to his chair.

I crouched in front of him, my voice almost friendly again.

“Who? Why? How?”

And just like that, he spilled everything.

This was the work of the Magisters’ Council in Myr—specifically Magister Vaelmir, the most powerful of them all.

Made sense.

Vaelmir was also the head of the Glassmakers’ Guild. Of course he was the one behind this.

His workshops—the Sun Forges—were renowned for their craftsmanship. A man like him wouldn’t tolerate competition.

The old man explained that the contract on me was massive.

100,000 golden honours.

That was 2,000 Gold Dragons.

Or 200 Braavosi Crowns.

A ridiculous amount of money. Enough to buy a fleet of twenty ships.

And Vaelmir? He wasn’t alone.

There were at least ten others in Myr who wanted me dead.

Which meant… killing him wouldn’t stop this.

I needed a better plan.

And then, an idea.

I turned to the younger assassin—still locked in shock.

A slow smile spread across my lips.

I didn’t need to send assassins.

Didn’t need to bribe, blackmail, or intimidate anyone.

No.

I had something better.

A broken witness.

I was about to become very well-known in Myr. And this time, it wouldn’t be for my good looks.

I gave my men a simple order.

“Kill him.”

The old man’s fate was sealed.

Then, I stepped toward the boy. Leaning in close, I whispered in his ear:

“Myr sent you here to die. I’m letting you live.”

I let that sink in.

“When you go back, you make sure they know that. Because from now on?”

I grinned.

“I’m the one writing the story.”

And with that, I walked away, ordering my men to send the boy back to Myr.

I should have felt guilty.

I should have felt something.

But no.

Nothing.

Just the thrill of the game.

And honestly? That should have worried me. If it weren’t so damn exhilarating.

Hell, I was hard as a rock.

Good thing I’d find someone to take care of that.

Heh.

Chapter Text

285 AC (One week later, in Myr)

The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating, oppressive.

Vaelmir stared at the boy kneeling before him. No—not a boy. A rat. A miserable, trembling rat in his soiled rags.

The child had returned barely an hour ago, delivered by a Braavosi messenger. No one had understood what was happening until the emissary delivered Bardatto’s message:

"Myr sent me two assassins. I return this one. Love from Braavos."

A fucking gift.

Vaelmir burned with rage, his nails scratching lightly against the lacquered armrest of his chair. He had sent two men. Two Sorrowful Men. The best. They had never failed. Never. That’s why they were paid so well—because failure was almost unheard of. Aside from the Faceless Men, there was no one better. And yet, before him, there was only one survivor.

"Speak."

The boy flinched violently. He didn’t even lift his eyes. His body shook from head to toe. Not from fear. From pure terror.

What did they do to you? wondered Xerathio Vaelmir.

The boy opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Vaelmir inhaled slowly through his nose, already losing patience.

"I said, speak."

This time, the boy muttered something, his voice raw, strangled, as if his vocal cords had been scraped raw.

"Monster… a monster…"

Vaelmir narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Explain."

The boy swallowed with difficulty, every breath wheezing, every word seeming to cost him unbearable effort.

"He didn’t… know we were coming. He didn’t guess. He just…"

He swallowed wrong and started coughing.

"He just reacted… He crushed us… Fast… Not normal… Not human…"

Vaelmir didn’t move, but something inside him tensed. Bardatto hadn’t been informed, hadn’t known about the assassins. And yet, he had defeated them, without hesitation, judging by the state of the survivor before him.

A stroke of luck? Impossible. No one survives an attack from the Sorrowful Men by chance. But how? How had he done it? Vaelmir didn’t like this. Not at all.

The boy continued, head bowed, gaze locked on the floor, unable to meet the Magister’s eyes.

"He captured us."

His voice was barely a whisper.

"He took us… and he… he began."

Vaelmir raised an eyebrow.

"Began what?"

Silence.

A thick, suffocating silence, during which the boy even stopped breathing. Then, without warning, he began to shake uncontrollably. Not from fear. Not from panic. Something worse.

A violent tremor ran through his shoulders. He sobbed.

A Sorrowful Man. Crying.

The Magister’s muscles tensed ever so slightly.

"What did he do to you?"

His voice was now lower, almost soft.

The boy opened his mouth. He tried. But no words came. His bloodshot, hollow eyes stared into nothingness. Vaelmir could see his lips moving, trying to form words, but nothing came out.

The boy was broken.

Vaelmir had seen this before. In slaves who had suffered too much. In prisoners who had begged for too long. In men who would never recover.

He understood the message.

Bardatto hadn’t just tortured the old assassin. He had made him scream. For hours. Maybe days. And he had forced this boy to watch.

Watch.

Watch.

Watch.

Without being able to do anything. Without being able to close his eyes. Without being able to escape the screams.

Vaelmir inhaled deeply, placing his elbows on the desk.

"Last words."

The boy flinched as if a blade had just been plunged into his gut.

Vaelmir repeated, calm and steady.

"What were his last words?"

The boy let out a ragged, broken breath. Then, forcing the words from his ruined throat, he whispered:

"Myr sent you here to die. I let you live. When you return, tell them this—because from now on, I’m the one writing the story."

Vaelmir didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His face remained impassive. But inside, a cold, boiling rage surged through him.

Bardatto hadn’t just survived.

He had humiliated Myr.

He had turned the assassination attempt into a spectacle. A statement.

When the boy arrived at the docks, he had been weeping, sobbing, while the other assassin’s body was nailed to the prow of the ship like a marionette.

He had sent back a living warning.

And now, all of Myr was talking.

The servants. The merchants. The guards. The whores.

Everyone knew.

Everyone knew that someone had tried to assassinate Vincenzo Bardatto—one of the most powerful men in Braavos.

Everyone knew that the order had come from Myr.

And most of all—

Everyone knew the assassins had failed.

Vaelmir studied the boy more closely.

"And now?", He whispered.

The boy’s lips quivered. Then, a violent tremor overtook him, and he collapsed into sobs.

Vaelmir closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Bardatto had utterly broken him.

He rose from his chair, moving smoothly to face one of his guards—a hulking man with a blank expression.

"Get rid of him."

The guard hesitated.

"What do you mean, Magister?"

Vaelmir’s patience was thin.

"You saw him. He’s finished. A Sorrowful Man, destroyed. A witness who can do nothing but cry. He’s useless."

The guard gave a silent nod and stepped toward the boy.

But the moment he grabbed his arm—

The child screamed.

A wail of pure, unfiltered terror.

He fought and thrashed like a trapped animal. scratching. Biting. Gasping.

Then—

In a single, sudden motion, He snatched the guard’s blade.

And killed him.

Vaelmir froze.

Then, the boy laughed. Not with amusement. Not with mockery. No—a hysterical laugh.

The laugh of a mind that had shattered.

Vaelmir turned toward his other guard so he may order him to attack.

Only to find a blade plunged into his chest.

He barely had time to process it.

"What… h-how…?"

His own guard stood before him. Smiling.

"A name was given to the Many-Faced God. The Iron Bank did not appreciate your attempt."

And that was when he understood his mistake.

He had thought the Bardatto family’s ties to the Iron Bank were just a legend.

He had been wrong.

"Myr… will… avenge me," he gasped, blood bubbling past his lips.

The Faceless Man simply smiled.

"A man need not worry. An example will be made. Myr will not dare."

Vaelmir tried to curse Vincenzo Bardatto—

But his voice failed him.

His body slumped to the ground.

And just before the darkness swallowed him—

He saw the Faceless Man gently slit the boy’s throat.

Finally—

Nothing.

(Three hours later)

The Council of Magisters was in turmoil. The grand hall of onyx and gold, usually a sanctuary of power and cold calculation, now resembled a den of panicked rats.

Twelve men sat around the circular table, but one of them was missing. Vaelmir was dead. And not in his bed, nor by the hand of a traditional rival. No, he had been eliminated by a Faceless Man—an instrument of the Iron Bank.

A hushed, anxious murmur spread through the assembly.

"This isn’t possible… They wouldn’t dare!" hissed Magister Callidar, a bald man with a face as dry as parchment.

"They did." Jhovan’s voice was flat, broken. He stared at the dark wood of the table, as if his own fate was carved into it. "Vaelmir is dead." He swallowed. "And they left the body of the Sorrowful Man nailed to a ship for the whole city to see. The people saw it. Our merchants saw it. Our warriors saw it. All of Myr knows that we have lost."

The murmurs grew louder, tension rising.

"You don’t understand!" a greying Magister burst out. "The people are afraid! Ever since the news broke, the streets are roaring with it! The artisans, the traders, even the small merchants—this is all they talk about!"

He shot to his feet, wild-eyed.

"They say we defied Braavos… and that we were crushed. They speak of Bardatto’s vengeance, of the exposed corpse, of a Magister dying by the hand of a Faceless Man. Do you know what that means?! They understand!"

A heavy silence followed his words.

They had sent a message. Bardatto had answered with a roar.

And the people of Myr had heard it.

And they were afraid.

The silence lingered, cold and suffocating.

"What can we do?" Callidar finally asked.

That was the real question…

If Myr retaliated, the Bank would respond. And not with just one Faceless Man. No. An economic war, a slow strangulation of their resources, the closing of their credit lines, and worse… the collapse of their influence over Essos.

"We sent assassins, and we received a warning in return." Callidar’s voice was low, grim. "A broken assassin and a dead Magister." He exhaled. "We have lost."

Those words set off an explosion of furious murmurs.

"Never!"

"That Bardatto must pay!"

"We still have the military option, we could—"

"You propose open war against the Iron Bank?!" Jhovan cut in, his face pale. "Are you mad? We don’t have the gold, nor the allies for an economic war against them! They control our credit, our finances, our transactions! Do you really think we stand a chance?!"

Silence fell like an executioner’s axe.

Myr was rich.

But Braavos was a titan.

Then, Callidar’s voice, still calm, sliced through the silence.

"I’ve received reports…" he said, his voice weary. "Mercenaries are refusing our contracts. Some merchants are speaking of leaving for Volantis or Lys. Others are openly saying we’ve dug our own grave."

"They believe Braavos will punish us."

The words landed like a death sentence.

Vaelmir was dead, but perhaps the worst was yet to come.

And if Bardatto didn’t stop here?

"Maybe he’ll demand reparations." Callidar murmured. "Maybe he’ll demand our heads."

A collective shiver ran through the room.

"What are we going to do?"

A long silence stretched.

None of them had an answer.

Finally, Rhovan, the oldest of the Council, straightened slowly. His vacant gaze swept across the room, lingering on the defeated faces of his peers.

Then, in a tired, resigned voice, he exhaled:

"We will do what the defeated always do. We will remain silent."

No one protested.

Myr, the proud, had just surrendered—without even a fight.

(Three days later, in Braavos.) (P.O.V SI)

"…from our informants."

I nodded with a slight smile. Hard to keep my lips from curling as I heard the news. Caspar had just finished updating me on the Myrians’ reaction—and those idiot Magisters’.

Caspar hesitated before adding in a neutral tone.

"A merchant from Myr arrived yesterday. He tried to buy your decanters, insisting that he was ‘just doing business, nothing more.’ He was sweating buckets."

I let out a chuckle. Cowards. They had shat themselves so badly they’d already surrendered. I was almost disappointed. I had expected more of a fight. Had I been too brutal? And what was this whole assassination thing about?

"We also received this letter from Master Nestoris." Caspar handed me a sealed envelope.

I broke the seal of the Iron Bank. And suddenly, I understood.

It was them. The assassin.

They must not have liked the attack on Nestoris… or maybe they were defending both of us? After all, I was a member of the Iron Bank.

Either way, the assassination combined with my little message had worked perfectly. They wouldn’t be bothering me anymore. At least, not for now. They’d probably try again. But not now. Maybe in a few years?

Bah, I didn’t care. I had more important things to do.

"Well, well… at least they won’t be pissing me off anymore." I sighed in satisfaction, sinking deeper into my bath.

Yeah, I was lounging in a steaming hot bath. And damn, it felt good.

"Doesn’t it hurt?" Caspar asked as he took back the letter. "The water is boiling, my lord."

Oh? I glanced around. And yeah, there was steam everywhere. Even the letter had gone soft in my hand before I gave it back.

Weird.

According to my predecessor’s memories, he wasn’t particularly resistant to heat.

Come to think of it, there had been other little things… Like how I hadn’t felt pain when fighting those second-rate assassins. Or how the cut I got yesterday with a letter opener had vanished. Completely. Not even a scab, not even a scar.

Either my skin was made of Valyrian steel… or something was happening that I hadn’t accounted for.

And considering how my life was turning into a cosmic shitstorm… I was betting on the second option.

"Not at all, it’s actually quite pleasant!" I grinned. "Who knows? Maybe I’ve got Valyrian blood?"

But we both knew that was bullshit. The Bardattos had no Valyrian blood. Like most Braavosi. We hated the Valyrians on principle—those who had once enslaved our ancestors.

Something told me I’d handle cold just as well… People always said Isekai protagonists got some kind of advantage, like magic or superpowers.

Well, I was rich.

But maybe that wasn’t my advantage.

Maybe… a perfect body was.

That was something to think about.

"Any response from the Merchants’ Guild?"

After the success of my decanters, I had rushed to complete my metric system. I had liquids. I had meters. All that was missing were masses. And that was the easiest part.

I knew one litre of water weighed one kilogram. Scales already existed, so all I had to do was place a full one-litre pitcher on one side, after balancing it with an empty one.

The result?

Two pounds and three ounces.

So I had a blacksmith forge a metal weight exactly equal to those two pounds and three ounces.

Not exactly one kilogram, but nothing a little shaving down couldn’t fix.

I repeated the process with 500ml, 100ml, and 50ml to get 500 grams, 100 grams, and 50 grams. We even managed to get a 10-gram weight. Anything smaller was impossible—unless we used seeds.

The fact that I had tackled meters and litres first had made discovering mass easier.

I was pleased.

More importantly—I had finished my metric system.

And of course, I needed it adopted.

I had ordered all my trade ships, shops, and merchants to use the new measurements. But for it to really take hold, I had to aim higher. Bigger.

In three words?

The Merchants’ Guild.

It lived up to its name.

It stretched from the Blue Lantern in the north to the Fishmarket in the south, from the Drowned Town in the west to the mouth of the Green Canal in the east.

And as a wealthy Braavosi businessman—owner of multiple ventures, including my famous glassworks—I was one of its most influential members.

But not the most influential.

The richest? Maybe.

But the most influential wasn’t necessarily the wealthiest. No, the most influential was the one who owned the most businesses.

And that title belonged to Aziela Valera.

My aunt.

She was a wealthy, powerful woman. Her fortune had soared after my parents’ marriage—the union of House Bardatto and House Valera had created an unprecedented commercial alliance.

But I also knew she hated change.

So her response?

I had no fucking idea.

And I was dying to find out.

"The Guild sees your proposal for a metric system in a very positive light…?"

I nodded, encouraging him to continue. He still wasn’t used to the new terminology, but I trusted him to adapt.

"However, they wish to negotiate…?"

Should’ve seen that coming.

My system would force them to change a lot—and more importantly, buy the tools for measurement. Rulers, squares, protractors—but also jugs, weights, and scales. A fortune.

And of course, I hadn’t offered them a discount.

"Just as I expected." I smirked. "What’s their offer?"

"Your aunt is inviting you to dinner to discuss it."

Huh? Since when did that old hag invite me to dinner? There was something fishy going on, and my expression must have given me away, judging by Caspar’s reaction.

"May I speak frankly, my lord?"

I gestured for him to go on—such a rare occurrence.

"Rumours are circulating in Braavos," he began as I tensed up in my bath. "People are whispering that Redrasi Vadremino is eyeing the leadership of the Merchants' Guild, and that his son would take over the Goldsmiths' Guild if that happens."

Oh… This was shaping up to be a proper headache. The Vadremino were rivals of the Valera, but not of the Bardatto. Well, not originally. My parents’ marriage had changed that.

The Vadremino had controlled the Goldsmiths' Guild for over a hundred years, having taken it from the Valera, who had ruled over it for three centuries before that—hence the ongoing feud. They were wealthy, but unlike our families, they weren’t keyholders. Half of Braavos' jewellers were under their influence, while the others remained independent members of the guild. Only one jeweller was under the Bardatto’s banner, while two belonged to the Valera.

But even together, we couldn’t match their power. There were, after all, fourteen jewellers in Braavos…

"And I suppose that old crone wants my support?"

Caspar nodded, serious.

"Between the two of you, you control the Merchants' Guild. She cannot do without your backing, my lord."

I let out a sigh, rolling my eyes towards the ceiling.

Of course.

The old hag had never invited me to dinner before, and now, suddenly, she wanted to have a private discussion? No, this wasn’t just a family meal. It was a negotiation. A request. A deal in the making. In short, nothing new—just trouble brewing on the horizon.

I was well aware that I was the second most influential member of the guild. My control over the Arsenal made me master of the Shipwrights' Guild. I had established the Glassmakers' Guild as a major player in Braavos thanks to my trade, and with my mines, I was on the verge of seizing control of the Miners' Guild as well.

In fact, recent reports had only reinforced my ambitions: the veins ran deep, they were rich, and, most importantly, we had just located a fourth mine on one of my mountain estates. A gem mine, ready for exploitation to begin shortly.

In short, Aziela Valera did not like being indebted to anyone. But she needed me.

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the bath. Water streamed down my torso, scalding hot, but I barely felt it.

I liked having the upper hand in a negotiation.

Caspar followed me with his eyes as I left the water. I took the towel he handed me while he continued.

"And concerning Project C?"

"The prototype will be ready soon."

I grinned. Broadly.

"The sailor?"

"He won’t say a word, my lord. As planned, he’s working with Master Beroni and has signed a non-disclosure agreement."

Everything was proceeding exactly as expected. I draped the towel over my shoulders and looked at myself in the mirror. Damn, I looked good…

"In that case, let’s get me ready for this dinner."

Project C… If it worked, the world would change. Radically.

And if it failed? Well… that would be disappointing, but hardly disastrous.

I couldn’t wait.

"You have also received an invitation to the Palace, my lord."

My day just kept getting better! I wondered what the Sealord of Braavos wanted with me. Something about Myr, no doubt. Hehe.

Honestly, even when I did nothing, everyone wanted me at their table.

Chapter Text

I had to admit—my aunt’s villa had style. Just as lavish as mine, with its perfectly manicured gardens, a fountain out front, and that façade that screamed “look how filthy rich I am.”

Honestly, I kept forgetting I was in Martin’s world.

Because let’s face it: in the books and films, cities are giant shitholes—overflowing with piss, rats, and the lovely stench of rotting corpses. King’s Landing? A cesspit where even the king probably reeked of stale ale and armpit sweat. Myr, Volantis, Qarth? No better.

And me? I lived in a bloody Venetian palace. So did my aunt. And every rich bastard I knew. Braavos was like Renaissance Venice on steroids—paved streets without human waste flying out of windows, clean canals full of gondolas, and locals draped in colour like a walking festival.

Bottom line: the place was gorgeous. But I couldn’t help thinking it was all for show. Flashy as hell, but considering who owned the place, I wasn’t exactly shocked.

We were greeted by a small army of servants who escorted me straight to the dining hall. I was alone—well, as alone as one can be with four guards and a butler in tow. They stayed outside the hall though, ready to jump in at the slightest “thought,” bless ’em.

I let out a sigh of relief when I saw there were no other guests. Just confirmed what I’d suspected: the old hag wanted something from me. Funny how I kept calling her “the old hag” and taking jabs at her when, truth be told, I didn’t actually know her. I only had my predecessor’s memories.

And he hadn’t been a fan. That much had clearly rubbed off on me.

“The mistress will be with you shortly, my lord,” one of her little lapdogs announced.

He bowed and buggered off before I could even blink. I took a moment to look at the table and barely kept a grin off my face.

Three ornate decanters, all from my glassworks. The one in the middle was a gift—bit of a family gesture on my part. Blood ties and all that.

Two place settings too, so it was definitely just us. I had to admit, the cutlery was exquisite—engraved silver with carved ivory handles. The plates were porcelain, the tablecloth woven silk straight out of Yi Ti.

With all the deals I’d made lately—and thanks to my handy backlog of memories—I’d gotten pretty decent at spotting where things came from. There were Qohorik candelabras, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the chairs were Asshai-made. Don’t ask me how, but apparently they’re bloody good at woodworking over there.

“So here you are, my dear nephew. Thank you for accepting my invitation to dine.”

“Bloody h— Aunt Azalea, what a pleasure. So much beauty, I’m utterly dazzled.”

Yeah, I nearly let slip an insult. Her stealth entrance was terrifying—silent as a panther. Or maybe a cougar, considering her age. Ugh.

She was fifty-six, looked sixty-five, but her gaze? Still sharp enough to slice through Valyrian steel. Two piercing blue eyes—gorgeous, if you ignored the rest of the ensemble.

Not sure she caught the sarcasm in my words, but she gave me a polite smile.

“Such compliments warm the heart, Vincenzo. Shall we sit?”

No jab? No snide remark? No passive-aggressive barb? Yeah, if I still had doubts about her motives, they just evaporated faster than piss on a smith’s anvil.

Still, I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Big mistake.

She sat down and flashed another smile—dry as her skin.

“I’m delighted to have you here, Vincenzo. We don’t see each other often... Perhaps I ought to start knocking on your door instead?”

I took a sip of wine, freshly poured by one of her minions.

“That bad? Did I miss a Guild meeting, or is this just nostalgia creeping in with age? We saw each other, what, two weeks ago?”

Her smile twitched, and she shot me a look that could've curdled milk.

“Oh, dear nephew… Still the same charming insolence. I see your rise has made you bold.”

Couldn’t help myself.

“My rise? Not quite. But surviving assassins and making them cry like little girls? That might’ve given me a bit of boldness, sure. And we both know boldness is the mother of success, dear aunt. You should try it sometime—might do wonders for your complexion.”

Her fingers tightened on the cutlery, but she didn’t bite. I noticed one of the servants stifling a laugh. Poor bastard...

Eventually, the food started rolling in, and she began chatting about... well, everything but the reason I was here. As if I gave a toss about the latest auction she won, or how some Magister from Pentos got even richer off cheese.

Cheese? I paused mid-thought. Wasn’t that that twat Mopatis?

Filed it away for later.

The courses kept coming—vegetable soup, braised fish in white wine. All of it delicious, all of it fancy as fuck... and at least three-quarters of it would go to waste.

Unless, of course, she ran things the way I did at my villa.

I’d made it very clear—no waste. Anything I didn’t eat went to the servants and guards. Earned me a few extra popularity points, that did. I mean, come on, it’s just common sense. Why the hell would you chuck perfectly good food into the bin or the sea?

Eventually, the meal wound down. The old bat was still eyeing me, having barely pecked at her plate like some proud little bird too posh to admit it was starving.
I wasn’t fooled. I knew she was waiting for me to bring up the real reason over dinner. But I’d done the opposite—played along, humoured her small talk.

She gently set down her cutlery, shoulders sinking just a little. The act was over.

“No more pretence, Vincenzo,” she said, fingers steepled beneath her chin. “We both know why you’re here.”

“Indeed. I understand you want to negotiate... about my proposal.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze hardened, and I could almost hear her thoughts grinding like the gears of a machine forced in the wrong direction.

She’d expected me to hand her the reins, to let her lead the conversation. But I had no intention of talking about the bloody Vadremino power squabble until my metric system was locked in.

I hadn’t gone through all the trouble of developing it, sending out proposals, laying the groundwork for a complete reform—just so Lady Valera could decide her petty turf war mattered more. I didn’t give a toss about her fear of being unseated.

If she wanted to negotiate, it was going to be on my terms.

She crossed her legs slowly, fingers brushing the silk of her robe. A little nervous tick of hers—a rehearsed gesture to make it look like she still held the upper hand.

“I see you’ve become quite... demanding, Vincenzo.”

She sipped her wine, those hawk eyes of hers scanning for a crack in my posture.

I just smiled. She could dig all she wanted—she’d find nothing. She knew Vincenzo Bardatto… but me? I was something else entirely.

“Not demanding, aunt. Realistic.”

She raised a brow.

“Realistic, you say?”

She twirled the wine in her glass, pretending to mull things over like some contemplative matriarch.

“A single measuring system… it sounds clever on paper. But you’re asking the entire Guild to change their weights, swap out their amphorae, their barrels, and purchase these... tools you’ve dreamed up.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“These... engraved rulers, those angle-discs, and that…”

She paused, struggling with the words as if merely naming the thing offended her.

“...number bowl?”

I bit back a smirk. Was the word itself that hard to say, or was it the change that chafed her so? One thing hadn’t changed between Earth and Essos: old people hate change.

But it wasn’t that she didn’t understand. No, she got it—she just didn’t like it. And I had a feeling she didn’t like it because it hadn’t come from her. Vain, narcissistic cow.

“Right-angle set square, aunt,” I corrected lightly. “Protractor. Measuring cup. Instruments of precision.”

She pursed her lips.

“And we’re supposed to adopt these… novelties?”

She rested her elbows on the table, fingers still entwined.

“Why should we accept such a disruption? You’re asking the merchants of Braavos to throw out their tools, to relearn how to measure like bloody apprentices—all for some... intellectual whim?”

Ah.
There it was.

I slowly leaned my elbow on the table, resting my cheek in my palm like I was already bored to death.

“Really, aunt? You think I haven’t thought this through?”

She didn’t flinch, so I pressed on, tone dry and edged.

“First off, it’s not a whim. It’s a reform. One that’ll save everyone money.”

I took a sip of wine, letting the words sink in.

“No more confusion when a merchant from Qarth sells in amphorae, a Volantene trader deals in bushels, and a spice dealer from Yi Ti uses local ounces. One unit. One method. No scams, no vague deals. Just clarity.”

She didn’t reply right away, but I saw it—the flicker of interest in her eyes. The old witch knew. She was just waiting to hear me say it. Well, she was going to get an earful.

I kept going, smile widening.

“Secondly, I’ve already had standardised metal weights produced. Barrels calibrated. Amphorae made to match the new units. And I’m ready to trade them at a preferential rate for the old stock.”

Her eyes narrowed at the mention of a preferential rate. Just as I thought—she’d been interested from the start. All that posturing, the smugness, the scepticism? Smoke and mirrors. What she really wanted was to haggle. In the end, we were family.

I leaned back in my chair, arms folded. I wasn’t about to make it easy for her.

“As for the new rulers, set squares, and protractors…” I let the silence linger a moment, then added with a hint of amusement, “They’ll be just as useful. And where there are merchants, there are artisans. I can promise you—they’ll be very interested in these tools.”

Her gaze darkened.

Bullseye.

She set down her glass, lips moistening slightly, that look flickering between contemplation and irritation.

“I imagine you’ve already planned a demonstration for the Guild?”

I nodded.
“Obviously.”

She exhaled softly.

“You really are your father’s son.”

I let out a short laugh. My father? He’d had ideas, sure—but compared to me, he was a bloody amateur. Like comparing some hobbyist tinkerer to Leonardo da Vinci.

“I intend to do better.”

Her wrinkled lips stretched into a smile—thin, a little too wide, flashing teeth far too white for someone without access to whitening treatments. How did she manage that? Seriously, where the hell did she get those done?

“You’ve convinced me.”

She placed her hands back on the table, and this time, I could tell she meant it. But I also saw it in her eyes—now came the real discussion: the price.

“However, Vincenzo…”

Her tone softened, even took on a hint of warmth. Yeah, right.

“It would be a poor decision to impose such a sweeping change on the merchants without offering some form of compensation.”

I stared at her flatly. For fun, I raised one eyebrow—yep, mastered that little trick from my butler.

“Compensation?”

“A discount. Let’s say… 30% off on the new measuring tools and the exchange fees for barrels, amphorae, and weights.”

Thirty percent? Bloody cheek. I was all for compromise, but I wasn’t about to let her take the piss.

I let silence settle in, slowly turning my gaze toward my glass. No—way too steep a discount.

“Too much.”

She looked surprised. You weren’t seriously expecting me to just say yes, were you? What do I look like—some doe-eyed charity case?

“Too much?”

“Yes. Too much.”

I rolled the glass between my fingers, then looked her dead in the eye.

“But let’s say… 25%. In exchange for a small… favour.”

Her brow arched, curious now.

“What kind of favour?”

I straightened a little, taking my time. If I played this right, I stood to gain big.

“The Merchant’s Guild must officially endorse the metric system as the required standard for all contracts under its authority. My system becomes the system.”

She studied me for a few beats, weighing the offer, calculating the fallout.

Then, slowly, she eased off the table and settled more comfortably into her chair.

“Very well. 25% off, in exchange for official Guild endorsement.”

My lips betrayed me—couldn’t help but smile. At this rate I’d pull a bloody muscle in my face.

“Perfect.”

And just like that—bam.

I’d imposed my metric system with the full backing of the Merchant’s Guild.

I’d ensured that every major merchant in Braavos and beyond would be forced to adopt it.

Done and dusted.

Now… I could finally turn my attention to what she really wanted to talk about. Judging by the way she straightened her back, it was time for her to offer something in return. She twirled her glass between her fingers, eyes lost in the amber liquid like she was still hesitating. Suspense, suspense…

Then, with a carefully measured smile, she finally said:

“Redrasi Vadremino wants my position.”

Ah.
There it was.

So I was right all along.

All that dancing around, the dramatic dinner, the pretense—it had all led to this. What a monumental waste of time. Didn’t she know time is money?

Speaking of which, I really needed to finish that electric pulse clock diagram. I’d already sketched the fundamentals and knew how to build a galvanic battery. With my mines and salt flats, I had all the components—I just needed to polish the design and start testing. I wasn’t an idiot—I knew it’d take months to get a stable, functional electric clock.

I also had a second clock design in the works—a weight-driven version with optional electric assistance. Something that could run without a battery if needed, though the weights and pendulum meant it would only work well on solid ground. Unlike the first one, which I already pictured mounted in a captain’s cabin.

I shook off the thoughts and returned to the present situation.

“I know.”

A heavy silence fell.

She pursed her lips, and for the first time since dinner had begun, I saw something almost imperceptible in her eyes.
The anger and irritation were gone.
What remained was… worry.

She hadn’t expected me to already know. Now that—that was interesting.

She slowly set down her glass.

“I suppose you’re aware of his son as well?”

I just nodded.

Of course I knew, Auntie. My good old Caspar was basically a master spy.

Redrasi Vadremino was eyeing the leadership of the Merchant’s Guild, and if his little scheme worked, his son would take over the Guild of Goldsmiths.

A tidy little coup.

And her? Kicked to the side like an old boot.

She let out a soft sigh before continuing, her voice calmer now—almost… humble.

“You know better than most that the Merchant’s Guild must be led by someone with influence. I don’t fear Vadremino alone. But he’s drawn close to several factions within the guild.”

She began ticking them off on her fingers.

“He’s aligned himself with the Velkhars, the Domvannos, and the Meronos. Three families, three Guilds, all part of the Merchant’s Guild.”

Ah.
Now I saw the real issue.
No wonder she was starting to shit bricks. Especially with the Meronos involved…

The Velkhars were headed by Volo Velkhar—a walking corpse, basically. The man was on his last legs, and his son was set to take over. Lorano was a dumb bastard, but he was ambitious. More importantly, he currently led the Miners’ Guild—his family owned two iron mines and two lead ones.

The Domvannos were a bit different. They controlled the Guild of Weavers and Embroiderers, but Elia Domvanno had appointed her sister-in-law, Elyna Porrimo, as the public face. A proxy. Smart move—Elia spent most of her time flitting between Qarth, Norvos, and Lys, brokering deals and keeping the family name shining. The Domvannos were actually a cadet branch of one of the extinct founding lines of the Iron Bank.

And the Meronos? They ran the Guild of Vintners and Distillers. Saelios Merono was a charming shark—lethal, but with a winning smile. Like us Valeras and Bardattos, he held a Key to the Iron Bank. He owned most of the land stretching from Braavos to the mountains, along the river and its tributaries. Their wine had a reputation strong enough to reach the slave cities—and even the Reach.
Unofficially, of course.

Together, those three could rival me.
With Vadremino in the mix?
I didn’t stand a chance.

“And with your growing influence,” she added, “I fear he may try to court you as well.”

Strange—I hadn’t heard anything about that. Unless… if he hadn’t come to me yet, maybe he didn’t see me as an enemy. Which meant he wasn’t aiming at the Valeras after all. No...

“What did you do?” I asked, setting my wine down.

“What do you mean?”

Her fingers tightened slightly. She was hiding something. And I wanted to know exactly what.

I raised an eyebrow—patiently.

Eventually, she sighed.

“He wanted his son to enter the Iron Bank.”

“Dorio Vadremino?” I straightened up slightly.

This was going to be juicy. I could feel it. And I loved this sort of twist.

She nodded, took another sip of wine, and continued.

“He’d submitted his application. Everything was in order—solid preparation, trained in commerce, letters of recommendation from internal scribes. On paper, he was the perfect candidate to join the bank as a Scribe-Apprentice.”

She shrugged and set her glass down.

“But he belongs to none of the founding families. Not even distantly. A social climber, son of climbers, from a family of bloody climbers. That’s what he really is.”

Couldn’t argue with that. Access to the Iron Bank needed to stay tightly controlled. It was incredibly rare to get in without lineage. Even the Nestoris were descended from one of the extinct founding lines.

I gestured for her to go on, though I already had a hunch. Which she confirmed.

“I used my veto.”

She looked me straight in the eye.

“As a Keyholder and Council member, I invoked the Founders’ Decree at the session. No new bloodline may be admitted into the Bank without an official sponsorship by a Keyholder of direct Founder descent. And naturally, none of them were willing.”

She paused.

“And I made sure no one forgot that.”

That must’ve been before my father died—I didn’t recall that meeting. Still, I couldn’t help but let out a low whistle.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

She’d basically slammed the Vadreminos into the dirt—and done it cleanly, legally. It was… beautiful.

“I suppose you didn’t consider an alternative? A softer option?” I asked, raising my glass again. “You must’ve known there’d be backlash.”

She shot me a glare like I’d just called her a whore.

“Of course not. You think I’d let those vermin—or any upstart bloodline—waltz into the Bank’s decision-making circles?”

She tapped the table twice.

“They don’t understand what the institution represents. This isn’t a wine shop or a brothel. It’s the cornerstone of Braavos—and more importantly, it’s our legacy.”

I was speechless. I’d always known my aunt was a piece of work, but damn.
In terms of cold-blooded bitchcraft, she was right up there with Cersei Lannister.

I clapped my hands together. She jumped slightly.

“I see we share the same principles, Auntie.”

She arched an eyebrow.

I took another sip.

“I mean, you could’ve just tripped him up. A little rumour, a ‘failed’ test. But no—you showed up, Key in hand, and slammed the doors of the Iron Bank in his face in front of everyone.”

I shrugged, grinning.

“Honestly? Magnificent.”

She didn’t reply immediately, but I saw it—her chin lifted just a touch. She hadn’t expected me to get it. And certainly not to approve.

But me? I had no shame. Just interests. And I knew a clean, brutal power play when I saw one.

I set my glass down.

“So now he wants your head on a platter. Makes sense. They say eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.”

She nodded slowly.

“He wants to wipe the insult clean with public humiliation. Topple me inside my own stronghold and make a show of it.”

She locked eyes with me.

“And don’t think you’ll be spared if he succeeds,” she said. “If Vadremino takes control of the Guild, he’ll place his son over the Goldsmiths and make sure every artisan and merchant tied to that trade follows his rules. You’ve got interests in glassmaking and mining, haven’t you?”

I gave a slow nod.

“Now imagine a world where every master goldsmith in Braavos is forced to source their gold, silver, and gemstones from the Vadremino family alone. As head of the Merchant’s Guild, with his son leading the Goldsmiths, he could make it happen. And knowing him, he absolutely would. You’re a Valera too—and he knows it. He might try to rope you into backing him to oust me, but once I’m gone… you’re next.”

Ah.
Now that was interesting. And she wasn’t wrong.

She knew exactly where to push to make me think. Crafty old witch.

I took my time, then replied with a slow smile.

“I might help you… But…”

Her expression darkened.

“But?”

I drew in a deliberately theatrical breath and raised a finger.

“One. I want the Merchant’s Guild to back me on my upcoming projects.”

A small twitch crossed her face.

“You want the Guild to back you? And what kind of projects are we talking about?”

“Oh, you’ll see. Let’s just say the metric system was only the teaser. And besides, when you eventually kick the bucket—no offence—you’re not exactly springtime fresh… I’ll most likely end up leading the Guild. Might as well save time.”

Her lips tightened.

“Go on.”

I raised a second finger.

“Two. I want the Merchant’s Guild to enforce my measurement system not just in Braavos, but in every trading post it controls across Essos. Lys, Pentos, Volantis… anywhere the Guild has influence.”

This time, I saw her fingers tighten slightly on the table.

Bingo.

The idea of forcing every merchant under Braavosi influence to adopt my metric system clearly grated on her.

But she knew I wouldn’t budge.

She took a breath and set her glass down.

“Very well. We’ll support your future projects. And we’ll impose your metric system in our trading posts.”

A satisfied grin spread across my face.

Done deal.

“Glad to see we understand each other.”

She shot me a brief glare before sighing.

“Now that that’s sorted… how do you plan to handle Vadremino?”

I set down my glass, smoothed an imaginary crease on my sleeve, then looked her square in the eye, calm as anything.

“I don’t need to handle him. He’s digging his own grave.”

Her eyes narrowed. She was torn between irritation and curiosity. I beat her to it, as usual.

“Redrasi already leads the Goldsmiths’ Guild, right? And now he wants the Merchants’ as payback.”

She nodded slowly.

“He plans to hand the first over to his son so he can seize the second. With those three families backing him and all his political manoeuvring, I’ve lost ground.”

I gave her a slow, deliberate smile. Calculated. Not mocking—but close.

“And that’s where I come in.”

I sat back, spine touching the chair, voice calm—almost administrative.

“You see, I may not officially lead the Miners’ Guild yet, but we both know that’s just a matter of time. I already own three operations, and a fourth is in development. The votes are lined up. All it’ll take is a trip or two, a signature in the right place…”

I rolled the empty glass between my fingers.

“Two, three weeks tops, and the Velkhars will be out. The Bardattos will run the Miners’ Guild.”

I caught the way her eyes widened just a fraction. She understood. She saw it.
Vadremino was about to lose one of his three key allies.
And I wasn’t stopping there.

Her little speech about exclusive suppliers had just sparked another idea.

“Vadremino’s son hasn’t officially been named Guildmaster of the Goldsmiths yet, has he? Still up for debate?”

She nodded slowly.

Of course. I only had one goldsmith under my banner—wasn’t exactly invested in their meetings. Honestly? Couldn’t care less.

“Now picture this… a young Guildmaster with no regular access to gold, silver, or gems. How long do you think he’ll last against the independents? Or even against workshops backed by my Glassmakers’ Guild, where I’m the sole supplier?”

She gave me a questioning look, but she didn’t need to speak.

“As head of the Miners’ Guild, I can impose quotas. I can implement safety checks, enforce compliance. I’ll regulate contracts—just like I’ve done with every single one of my ventures. And by the time they adjust to the new system? Months will have passed. And Vadremino will be left standing there with his cock out.”

I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table.

“You know what happens to a goldsmith with no precious metal, dear aunt?”

She didn’t reply.

“We forget him.”

A long silence followed.

She picked up her glass again, took a slow sip. I saw her shoulders relax.
When she set it down, she wasn’t looking at me with concern anymore.

She was looking at me with a cold, distant respect.

Earned respect.

I stood, slowly, reaching for the cloak draped over the back of my chair.

“You wanted my support, Aunt. You have it. But don’t forget one thing.”

She looked up.

“Redrasi isn’t the dangerous one. It’s what I’m willing to do to make him lose.”

I gave her a curt nod.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting at the Palace tomorrow. Invitation only, of course. But I’m sure you knew that already, didn’t you?”

And with that, I left the room. Didn’t look back.
Didn’t wait for a reply.

I needed my beauty sleep.
After all, one doesn’t maintain a complexion like mine without a proper night’s rest.

Chapter Text

I couldn’t stop thinking about last night’s dinner with my aunt. That bloody old cow might not have been the warmest or most likeable person out there—but she was still my aunt. And the more I thought about the whole Vadremino situation, the more I got where she was coming from.

Back in my old life, I’d have never thought or acted this way. But I’d changed here...

It took me a while to notice, but despite the memories feeling like someone else’s life on playback, my personality had shifted. And when you think about it, it makes sense—I was in someone else’s body, with their memories and baggage. Obviously, that was bound to rub off on me.

It was subtle, but it was there. More elitist, used to having things done for me, more sadistic too. Fewer inhibitions—I had tortured an assassin, after all. Something I’d never have done before… except maybe in my darkest, most twisted dreams. So yeah, I’d changed.

And my aunt’s snobbish, holier-than-thou attitude? I found myself thinking the same way—though with a bit more nuance. I came from a world of meritocracy and innovation, after all. So I didn’t look kindly on people who aimed higher than their station without putting in the work.

And the Vadreminos? They hadn’t lifted a damn finger. At least, not anything honourable. Just backdoor deals, scheming and posturing. So yeah, I was going to tear them to shreds.

Why? Because they dared to threaten my aunt.

And threatening my aunt?
Was the same as threatening me.

“We’ve arrived, my lord.”

I glanced at Caspar, resisting the urge to jump. No matter how hard I tried, I kept drifting off into my thoughts. He probably thought I was losing my mind by now…

“So I see… Third time here, and it’s still just as stunning.”

I stepped down from the carriage—yes, we were in a carriage… for less than two bloody kilometres. The perks of wealth, eh?

And for the first time—not counting my predecessor’s memories—I laid eyes on the famed Sea Lord’s Palace.

And now I understood why they called it the Jewel of Braavos…

The Sea Lord’s Palace wasn’t just an administrative building. No. It was a full-blown architectural flex. A towering declaration of power planted right on the edge of the Black Canal, screaming to the world: Braavos is richer than you, stronger than you, and way more fabulous than you’ll ever be.

Black marble columns held up a vault of pristine white, carved with intricate scenes of trade, war, and dragons drowning in gold. Dragons, yes—just to remind Valyria who had the final word. There was even a crystal dome, because of course there was.

At the entrance, two colossal statues of masked guardians—tall as towers—flanked the great onyx doors. Their empty stares seemed to weigh your ambitions… or your debts. And let’s be honest, most people came here hoping to weasel their way out of debt with the Iron Bank.

Idiots, all of them. The Sea Lord, like me, was a Keyholder… So a debt to the Iron Bank? Might as well be a debt to him directly.

I paused a moment, admiring how sunlight danced across the polished glass tiles. Yes, glass tiles. Not stone. Not marble. Glass. Tinted, treated, and tough as Braavosi pride. And not Myrish glass either. No, this was mine. A recent development, and hands down the biggest commission my workshop had ever landed.

Well, “workshop” might be a bit outdated by now. Saliori had already hired over fifteen apprentices, all on lifetime contracts with structured promotion for when they finished training. Naturally, the workshop had expanded into a full-blown factory.

I smiled.

“Subtle as always,” I muttered to Caspar with a smug tone.

He didn’t reply, but I caught the flicker of a smirk. He was starting to get used to my rich bastard sense of humour.

Two ceremonial guards approached. One more adorned than the other—probably the captain, or just a man with delusions of grandeur—gave a shallow bow.

“Lord Bardatto, allow me to welcome you to the palace of His Excellency, Sea Lord Ferrego Antaryon.”

He opened the doors, and I stepped inside.

It was magnificent… Even my villa looked like a bloody cottage in comparison. Funny to think my family had once lived here two hundred years ago.

Yeah, the Sea Lord wasn’t a hereditary position. It was elected. Votes came from a council of Great Families, the Iron Bank, and the Founding Families.

Now don’t confuse the lot—those weren’t the same. Great Families owned land and businesses. The Iron Bank, well, goes without saying. And the Founding Families? They’d built the Bank. They’d built Braavos. Most Great Families were just offshoots of now-extinct Founding lines. And the voting power? Far from equal. Only Founding Families could stand for the Sea Lordship. And in the vote tally? Founders got five votes. Great Families, one. Iron Bank reps, three each.

So yeah, complete mess.

The Bardattos had snagged the title after Belogore Reyaan croaked from a heart attack. Not shocking, really—they say it took six men just to lift the bastard.

Back to the inside of the palace—damn, it was beautiful. Fucking beautiful. Marble as far as the eye could see, statues in silver and gold, opulent chandeliers, and tapestries bursting with colour. Even the plants looked like they’d been told to behave.

“There are a lot of guests,” Caspar noted.

And he was right. We were standing in what they call the Grand Vestibule—basically a glorified holding pen for the wealthy and powerful. And it was packed. Easily a hundred people, all of them somebody.

“Isn’t that your uncle?”

Huh? I followed his finger and—oh bloody hell…

“Vincenzo! My favourite nephew!”

Didn’t even have time to brace myself before I was caught in a bear hug by a pair of meaty arms. Bloody bastard was strong.

“Uncle… Caron… too tight… too tight…”

“Oops! Hehe, didn’t realise my own strength!” he said, finally releasing me. “You’ve grown, I swear!”

Grown? Maybe. But next to him, I still looked like a shrimp. Sure, my body was stronger, more muscular than back on Earth, but he’d crushed me without even trying. No surprise really—the man stood over two metres tall.

Caron Bardatto, my father’s older brother. A bloody giant. Built like a demigod with eyes that burned like embers. If he weren’t my uncle, I’d probably have jumped him—gender be damned.

And why not? Blond, blue-eyed, bronzed skin, and a body sculpted like a hero from a myth. The kind of man who’d have made Hollywood wet itself. I was half-convinced he had some form of gigantism. Average male height in our family was around 180 cm, but him? He had to duck through most doorways. Three heads taller than me, easy.

“I know, I know… and just a reminder—I’m your only nephew.”

His grin widened.

“That’s why you’re my favourite!” He winked. “Now come meet my colleagues!”

And he dragged me over to a group dressed entirely in black, each one wearing a tiny key around their necks.

Uncle Caron had declined the Bardatto empire, said it was too much of a burden. And fair—he did spend most of his time in brothels. But the man was a bloody genius with numbers. A legendary accountant, if such a thing existed. He wanted something less restrictive, but still useful to the family. So, he joined the Iron Bank as a scribe.

He was so damn good, he rose to Master-Scribe—answering directly to the Council. Which made him an official Iron Bank Representative. Just like my new bestie, Tycho—who, naturally, was standing right there.

“You two know each other, don’t you?” Caron asked, motioning toward Tycho.

“We’re quite well acquainted, yes,” Tycho replied, lifting his glass with his usual subtlety.

I caught a glint of amusement in his eyes. Bastard was laughing at me. I couldn’t blame him, though. Watching Caron manhandle someone was always good entertainment… unless you were the one being manhandled.

“In that case, let me introduce Leliana Corres and Valentina Sokera. They work with me.”

“A pleasure, ladies.”

“The pleasure’s ours, Keyholder Bardatto,” one of them replied smoothly. “We’ve been following your rise with great interest.”

Yeah, I bet you have. What with Myr, the assassination fallout, and the mountain of gold I was piling up through my glassworks and mines, I probably looked like a golden goose wrapped in silk. And they weren’t wrong.

“I’ve never seen you at Council meetings,” I said, a little curious.

“We prefer to stay in the background, unlike your uncle,” the other woman replied with a sly smile.

“And quite right too!” Caron barked. “Those meetings lack flair, no pizzazz! They’re bloody—”

“Caron!” Tycho snapped, casting a sharp glance at him.

“I meant to say…” Caron paused, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “They can be… a bit tedious?”

I couldn’t help but snicker, and the others joined in. Even Tycho let out a faint smile, shaking his head as Caron burst into booming laughter.

People often assumed Iron Bank members were a bunch of uptight, constipated bureaucrats—but that was just the customer-facing façade. For Keyholders and internal staff? Entirely different story.

“So… any idea what the Sea Lord’s got planned?” I asked them.

They had to know something. And judging by the amused glint in my uncle’s eye, I’d hit the mark.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said with a grin and a cheeky wink. “All I’ll say is—your actions have had a… very interesting impact.”

A very interesting impact, huh? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

To be fair, I’d stopped paying attention to Myr after their little “surrender.” I had bigger things on my plate—Project C, the clockwork blueprints, and all the rest. The only ripple I’d really noticed? My vaults were overflowing. Hehe.

“But I won’t say more. The doors to the hall will open soon.”

I let out a deliberately loud sigh, which only made his smile grow wider. Classic Caron. I turned my attention elsewhere.

My aunt stood not far off, flanked by Merchant Guild members. She locked eyes with me and gave a slight nod. Probably discussing the metric system. Typical of her—wasting no time.

Then my gaze fell on a small, unpleasant group.

Redrasi Vadremino and his darling son Dorio, standing alongside Volo Velkhar, Elyna Porrimo, Elia Domvanno, and Saelios Merono. The very gang plotting to oust my aunt.

I couldn’t wait to crush them—and it looked like I’d get to do it sooner than expected.

I’d received a letter that very morning from Mineville—that’s the name I’d given the town near my mining operations. The new mine was already delivering, and the news had me grinning from ear to ear: veins of sapphires and rubies (same mineral family, makes sense), plus spinels and garnets. They even found a shallow emerald deposit… and a whole lot of quartz variants—amethysts, citrines, the works.

Thing is, the mine was massive—so more was probably waiting further down. Hehe.

With a mine that rich, I had everything I needed to seize control of the Miners’ Guild. And thanks to Caspar, who’d handled the negotiations, we’d just acquired a dying iron mine from a landowner with no heir.

Five mines.

Velkhar was going to regret ever backing Vadremino. And judging by the look he just shot me… he already knew it.

Then I heard the chime of a bell.

That was the signal—the Reception Hall was opening. I stepped forward, the doors now wide open.
The Iron Bank entourage accompanied me at first, then peeled off to take their places in their reserved row. Only Caspar stayed by my side.

A servant approached me promptly.

“Lord Bardatto, if you’d follow me, please.”

I didn’t need much convincing. I followed him toward the centre of the room, walking down the carpet that led straight to the Sea Lord’s throne. Everyone else had lined up along the central aisle, standing before benches and seats.

But one thing was off—no one was seated on the throne.

He was going to make an entrance.

And oh boy, did he ever.

No music. No heralds. No trumpets or pomp.

Just silence. Heavy, stifling, absolute.
The massive doors opened slowly, soundless.

Enter Ferrego Antaryon.
The Sea Lord of Braavos.

He moved with unhurried precision, robed in deep purple threaded with black and gold. His silhouette cut through the air like a blade. No jewellery. No gaudy emblems. Just a single symbol: a fine chain of white iron bearing a key. An old key. One of the originals, they said. The kind only the Sea Lords wore on solemn occasions.
I had one locked away in my vault—never saw the light of day.

There were only twenty-eight in existence. One for each founding family. And each one opened one of the Iron Bank’s primary vaults—the ones holding its greatest treasures.

Ferrego climbed the three steps to the throne. No glances. No gestures. Nothing.

Just the embodiment of power ascending.
He might as well have been Palpatine—minus the yellow eyes and lightning bolts. Probably…

Then he turned.

His voice cut through the air like a verdict.

Calm. Precise. Razor-sharp.

“Braavos has never needed to proclaim its strength.”

First punch landed.

I could see backs straightening, hands tightening on chair arms. Even Caspar behind me shifted by half a millimetre—and that was saying something.

Ferrego descended one step.

“Our ships speak for us. Our treaties. Our letters of credit. Our contracts. Our silence weighs more than the cries of a hundred kings.”

A beat of silence.

Then, lower. Graver.

“But today… Braavos speaks.”

And I knew then—the bloodletting was about to begin.

He raised a hand.

An attendant stepped forward and handed him a vellum scroll. Ferrego didn’t read it. Just stared at it.

“This year, Myr sought to challenge Braavos.”

Boom.

No one dared breathe. I glanced at Vadremino—stiff as a statue, eyes locked on some imaginary void. Yeah, mate. They were about to sing songs about me, and your clan? You’d be lucky to get a footnote.

Ferrego went on.

“Not through war. Not with ships. But with two blades. Two shadows. Two men sent to assassinate a free citizen of Braavos.”

A wave of feigned shock rippled through the crowd. Calculated. Controlled. No one was truly surprised—but everyone played their part. Politics at its finest.

Ferrego continued:

“Two men, paid in whispers, sent to silence a man whose only crime… was to do better. To innovate. To challenge their monopoly on glass.”

And just like that, every eye turned to me.

“All while failing to succeed.”

He paused.
This time, his gaze found mine.

And let me tell you—when a man with the face of Palpatine stares into your soul, it’s not a vibe. I half-expected him to croak out “I am the Senate!”

“They failed because they faced more than a man. They faced a will. A reflection of our city’s spirit.”

He lifted his chin slightly.

“This man survived. And not only did he survive—he struck back. He shook Myr to its foundations.”

Silence.

Then he unrolled the scroll.

And this time, he read.

“Closure of forty-seven workshops in Myr. Suspension of thirty-two trade agreements. Collapse of sovereign debt. Capital flight. Asset freeze by the Iron Bank. Termination of three mercenary contracts.”

He snapped the scroll shut with a crisp thwack.

“That is the result.”

A long pause. But he wasn’t finished.

Ferrego descended another step.

“For this attack was not simply a mistake. It was a turning point. A revelation.”

He looked to the crowd.

“Myr tried to defend its glass monopoly. But it forgot—Braavos does not buy what it can create.”

And then he delivered the killing blow.

“This year, the Guild of Glassmakers of Braavos has been founded.”

A collective shiver. Even from those who already knew.

“In a few short months, it has generated more profit than three guilds combined. It has supplied glass to Essos, to Westeros, to the Iron Bank itself. The Palace of Braavos is adorned with Braavosi glass. We drink from Braavosi glass!”

Then he looked at me again.

“And meanwhile, Myr collapses. Their monopoly shattered, their vaults bled dry. They now beg Volantis for aid.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Myr has been crushed by a single man. Proof that it doesn’t take an army to destroy an empire. That is the fate of all slavers.”

Around me, heads nodded in silent agreement. We traded with them, sure—but we all shared the same long-term goal: the end of slavery.

Then he raised a hand.

Another box was brought forward.

Black. Unadorned. But carved with the Titan’s seal. That iconic helm—you couldn’t mistake it.

Ferrego opened the box.
Inside was a key I’d never seen before.

Larger than the one I wore. Forged from black steel, etched with ancient runes, and streaked with a line of molten red glass running through its length.

Torchlight danced in it like congealed blood.

Ferrego stepped toward me.

“Vincenzo Bardatto.”

I straightened.

“You did not simply survive. You took the blade meant for you and turned it back on those who threw it.”

He raised the key.

“You did not flinch. You did not retreat. And like our Titan, you stood tall in the storm.”

He placed the key in my hands.

It was heavy. Heavier than gold. Heavier than lead.
It carried the weight of a bloody state blessing.

“Before the Keyholders, before the Founding Families, before all of Braavos…”

He stepped aside, so all could see me clearly.

And declared:

“I name you Hand of Glass, Witness of the Titan, Architect of the New Era.”

I didn’t smile.

But gods, I wanted to.

Ferrego continued, more solemnly now:

“This title is not just an honour. It is a burden. You are now a member of the Council of Braavos. You will sit at my side, and your voice will carry the weight of your key.”

Then he turned to the crowd.

“Let Myr hear it. Let Volantis hear it. Let Lys, Norvos, Tyrosh, and Qohor hear it.”

“Braavos is not a city of merchants.”

“Braavos is an idea.”

He raised his hand, palm open.

“And that idea—cannot be killed… nor bought.”

He let the arm fall.

Then he sat.

“Braavos rises.”

For a few seconds, silence. Then, the hall erupted in applause.

An ovation.

And I was its rightful recipient.

It was ecstasy. I glanced at my aunt—she was smiling.
My uncle? A cheeky wink.
Even Tycho inclined his head, the faintest of smiles playing on his lips.

But the cherry on top?

The disgust on Vadremino’s face—and even better—the way Saelios Merono had taken a step away from him.

As Keyholders, we were meant to stand together, yet he helped Vadremino. But with my popularity where it was? He couldn’t afford to oppose me.
Not when I had just become the second most powerful man in Braavos.

And without lifting a bloody finger!
The Magister’s assassination? Iron Bank.
The decanter? Just a sketch on parchment.
Only the assassin’s torture was truly mine to claim…

Still—not complaining.

Once the applause died down, Ferrego stood again.

“Now, I invite you all to enjoy this evening. Drink, feast, and celebrate! For today, Braavos honours its people and its greatness!”

The ballroom doors opened.

Everyone began to file in—though most made a detour to greet me first. Quick congratulations, subtle grovelling.

And I gave them all my best smile, each time the same:

“Thank you.”
“It’s an honour.”
Blah blah. Classic boot-licking.

Then I stepped into the ballroom.

It was stunning.

Black marble columns, crimson drapes, silver platters, and an army of perfumed nobles—all here to fawn over power, prestige… or just to show off who’d dropped the most coin on their outfit.

At the far end, on a modest gilded platform: a quartet of musicians—harp, flute, lute, tambourine.

They were playing.

Well… trying.

I watched the scene with the same fascination one might have for a carriage crash. You don’t want to look—but you can’t look away.

The harp screeched. The flute stumbled. The lute had an existential crisis about whether it was leading or improvising.

And the tambourine? It had clearly decided rhythm was just a polite suggestion.

“Is it just me, or did that harp just violate my eardrums?” I muttered to Caspar.

“I fear… it is intentional, my lord. A Pentoshi composition. Very… contemporary,” he replied in his usual monotone.

Too monotone. I looked at him—he was suffering just as much as I was. Poor bastard.

“Contemporary, my arse. Sounds like someone strangling a goat inside a copper pot,” I grumbled, snatching a wine cup from a passing servant.

My jaw clenched reflexively. This music was actual torture.

A woman passed by and gave me a smile.

“Isn’t it lovely, Lord Bardatto? So melodic…”

Was she deaf?

“Oh, absolutely. You can feel the composer’s anguish. Probably hated humanity.”

She beamed vacantly before trotting off. Bleached-blonde with amethyst eyes—Valyrian blood, clearly. Probably too inbred to count her own fingers.

Another dissonant note stabbed through the room. That’s when I realised what the problem was.

They weren’t in sync! Their fingers faltered, the sound was staggered… they had no sheet music!

“That’s it!” I said, turning to Caspar. “There’s no standardisation. No coordination. They’re playing from memory—like morons. And look at these instruments! Where’s the harpsichord? I’m not asking for a piano, but at least a bloody harpsichord!”

“Sheet music? Harpsichord?” Caspar frowned.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. They didn’t exist in this world.

There was no way I was subjecting myself to this screeching, off-rhythm rubbish made by peasants with tambourines and glorified spoons.
God, I missed Spotify…

“My dear Caspar,” I said, idea forming already, “do you know if our goldsmith can craft fine copper or silver wires?”

He gave me a wary look.

“Another of your ideas, my lord?”

“If I may?” he added, hesitating.

Oh? He’d finally caught on. I gestured for him to speak, ensuring no one was eavesdropping.

“You’ve changed, my lord,” he said. “Since your father’s funeral. You’re… sharper. More inventive. You used to ignore business entirely, and now you’re a master trader. You never had the drive to innovate, yet you churn out ideas weekly. If I didn’t know you so well… I’d think you were a Faceless Man.”

Good thing I’d planned for this.

“You’re right,” I admitted, watching his eyes widen slightly. “Noticed the physical changes too? Don’t I look like I’m glowing? Stronger? And yesterday’s cut—look.”

I showed him my hand—flawless. No scar. Just perfect skin.

He nodded slowly.

“After the funeral,” I began, weaving the lie with flair, “I… dreamt. I met someone. A god, I think. I don’t know who. But they told me I couldn’t go on like before. They gave me a gift. Intelligence. Vision. They said the world needed preparing—for the White Walkers.”

I was talking absolute shite—but judging by his expression, he was buying every word.

“I see… You’ve been blessed, my lord?”

“Exactly, Caspar. And it’s changed me. I know I act differently. No more courtesans in my bed, I watch what I eat, I track every coin. This gift—it sharpened me. And it’s why I speak oddly sometimes. I’ve realised words waste time. Look at them—trading veiled threats and double meanings. Pointless.”

“I understand,” he said, nodding again. “Then I thank the gods for not… breaking you. Their gifts are rarely so kind.”

I smiled.

“Now, about that goldsmith?”

He pondered briefly.

“I believe so, my lord. I recall brooches made with fine wire.”

Perfect. All I needed now was a proper musician. I asked.

“In that case, I need a talented one. Obsessive. Precision-obsessed. Preferably someone who plays strings…”

“There is Master Giovanni, considered the greatest bard in Essos,” he replied. “Though he’s retired and—”

“And?” I asked, tone sharpening.

“His retirement was… forced, my lord. There was a duel with Master Selvo last year. Giovanni said Selvo’s wife was as beautiful as the mud of King’s Landing, and her scent rivalled Flea Bottom.”

Oof. Comparing someone’s wife to the slums of Westeros? That took balls.

“He lost. Selvo made him swear never to play lute or harp again… and took his leg.”

Ouch. Still—not a problem.

“Doesn’t matter. He won’t be playing lute or harp. I need him for something else. I want him summoned, along with our goldsmith and a master woodworker. The usual one.”

“May I ask which project, my lord? You have… many.”

I flashed him my most charming grin.

“Let’s just say I’m going to revolutionise music. Harpsichords and sheet music mean nothing to you now—but soon, they will. I refuse to be aurally assaulted again at my own reception. And while I’m at it, I might as well change the face of music forever.”

Good thing I remembered how harpsichords work. Thank you, YouTube music channels.

Now I just had to find musicians talented enough to rival Bach or Mozart.

Glass in hand, I turned to rejoin the guests.
Time to enjoy the evening—my evening.

Chapter Text

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

286 AC
(One week later)

The ceiling was too low.

That was the first thought that crossed my mind as I stepped into the Council Chamber of the Miners' Guild. A vaulted ceiling of black Volantene stone, with grooves carved into the rock to mimic mineral veins. A pathetic attempt to evoke the grandeur of the earth's depths. They thought they were doing Erebor—what they got was more Lascaux cave than dwarven kingdom.

These idiots loved their symbolism—Braavos had a thing for it. But all I saw was damp stone and terrible acoustics.

Still, I wasn't here to critique the interior design.

I was here to take control—and fulfil the promise I'd made to my aunt. She'd kept her end of the bargain, after all, and most of the shops in Braavos were already equipped.

I'd even received a few polite congratulations from Brucaro Uomel, master of the Guild of Smiths & Refiners, and from Ilarina Lendrio, Mistress of the Grocers & Importers Guild—and a Keyholder, no less.

Caspar followed me in, flanked by two scribes carrying my ledgers and four house guards. Purely symbolic, sure—but effective. Their armour was brand new, marked with the Bardatto crest, and more importantly, they were tall. Imposing. Just enough to make these mining rats realise this wasn't a friendly get-together.

The room was packed.

Twelve seats. Twelve mine owners. And for once, they'd made an effort. No rags, no mud-caked boots. Some had even dabbed on perfume, pressed their tunics, and attempted hairstyles that would've made a Lyseni barber cry. If they'd had a decent mirror in this bloody room, they might've noticed that a twisted collar or a half-shaved beard doesn't exactly scream "respectability."

But they'd tried.

And I'm generous. I gave them that—the attempt.

Still, no amount of powder could hide the mines. The details always gave it away.

A blackened nail here. A missing finger there. Scars across arms, a limp hidden under the table. Even those who'd never set foot in a shaft had the air of men who knew what it cost when a mine collapsed.

And they were all staring at me.

Not exactly hostile. More like wary curiosity. The kind you reserve for a well-dressed wild animal. I was the new blood. The arrogant upstart with the mines, the noble's face, and that damn black key dangling around my neck like a threat.

The gold torque I'd had commissioned to hold it gleamed just enough—bold without being gaudy. Heavy, solid, perfectly balanced. The kind of accessory that said: I'm rich, I'm powerful, and if I crush you, it'll be entirely by accident.

I noticed eyes drifting toward the back of the room.

Volo Velkhar.

The relic. Current Master of the Guild, and a wheezing sack of bones swaddled in a scratchy wool blanket. He looked like a dying crow. Dull eyes, pale lips, breathing like a ghost. He clung to his cane like a shipwreck survivor to driftwood.

And yet, there he was. Still sitting in his chair, centre stage. Alive—technically. Still in office—for a few more minutes.

I walked calmly to the table. Took my seat without being invited. And when I sat, the wood groaned a little. Or maybe it was just the collective ego in the room straining under pressure.

I looked each of them in the eye, one by one. Some met my gaze. Others blinked or pretended to consult imaginary documents.

Volo slowly raised his… well, chin. What was left of his neck.

"Lord Bardatto… your presence honours us."

His voice was dry, dusty—practically a eulogy already.

I replied in a neutral tone, laced with just enough irony:

"And you, Lord Velkhar, honour me with your resilience."

Translation: Still not dead, you old fossil?

A couple of eyebrows lifted. A few faces tightened. But no one dared laugh.

I stood slowly, no rush. Pulled a scroll from my sleeve and unrolled it in front of me.

My voice carried without effort.

"According to Article 3 of our Charter, the position of Guildmaster belongs to the one who holds the greatest number of active mines within the territory of Braavos and its provinces."

I let that hang in the air.

"As of today, I possess five active mines: two iron, one silver, one copper, and one gemstone. All certified. All productive."

I placed the documents on the central table—official seals, foreman signatures, production logs. My file gleamed brighter than Velkhar's bald head under torchlight.

"I am therefore entitled to claim the position of Guildmaster."

This time, the reactions were less subtle.

A frown here. A sharp breath there. A muttered protest from a southern merchant too quick on the tongue.

"That wasn't on the agenda…" muttered one Torgio Marreno, proud owner of a lead mine as lazy as his labourers.

I turned to him slowly, smiling faintly.

"Article 7. Any request regarding the Guild's leadership may be added without notice, provided it is based on the aforementioned articles."

A beat of hesitation.

I placed my palm flat on the table—rings glinting in the light.

"Let's vote, then."

Silence. Heavy. Dense. Like the stone itself had stopped breathing.

I saw the glances exchanged. Marreno squinting like a card player without his specs. Poros Daltien—whose salt mine was as useless as his sausage fingers—tapping the table anxiously. And of course, Lorano Velkhar, the old man's son, looking like he might burst a blood vessel.

He clearly hadn't seen this coming.

Poor fool. Probably thought I'd show up begging for a seat. Offer an alliance. Maybe throw in a discount on copper ingots.
Not walk in with five mines, a black key, and a bloody invisible crown.

Only the mummy looked unsurprised. That stare told me he already knew how this would end.

I sat again, and snapped my fingers.

Caspar stepped forward with a carved wooden box. The vote.

Old tradition. Each member dropped a stone in the box—white for "yes," black for "no." No debates. No speeches. They called it "the weighing of stones."

Gods, I love Braavos.

One by one, they came forward. No words. Just the soft clack of stone on wood.

Clack.
Clack.
Clack.

I savoured each sound like a conductor hearing the first notes of his overture.

Then it was Lorano's turn. He hesitated—just a second. Then reached into his pocket and dropped in a black stone, lips pressed tight.

I raised an eyebrow.
"You do realise a single black stone won't change a damn thing, don't you?"

He said nothing. But I saw the faint flush in his cheeks. Shame. Humiliation. The boy thought he was playing with the big dogs. But in this yard, I was the one holding the leash.

Caspar closed the lid.
Then opened it again—slowly—like a treasure chest. Twelve stones inside.
Ten white. Two black.
Not even close.

I stood.
Took a deep breath—purely for effect—then declared, clear and unwavering:
"By vote and by Charter, I hereby assume leadership of the Braavos Miners' Guild."

I walked towards the central seat. Velkhar's throne. The old man didn't move right away.
But his eyes fixed on me. Sharper now. A flicker—brief, but unmistakable—of lucidity.

"You think you know what it means to hold this seat?" he whispered.

I leaned in slightly, voice low.
"No. But I know exactly what I'm going to do with it."

And I smiled. Not a mocking grin. A mortician's smile.

He rose—slowly, painfully—then stepped aside without a word. His son moved to help him, but Velkhar batted him away with a sharp, prideful gesture.
The dying man's dignity. Almost admirable.

I took his place, as the old lion slumped into the chair I'd just vacated.
And damn, it was comfortable.
Worn leather, moulded perfectly to decades of arrogance. I laid my hands on the armrests, and closed my eyes for just a second.

Another guild had fallen to me.
Call me the Napoleon of commerce, ha!

I laced my fingers together and let silence do what silence does best. Every eye in the room was on me. Some admiring. Some cautious. A few downright terrified. And I loved it.

"Gentlemen," I said at last, voice calm and steady.
"Today, you voted. And in doing so, you sent a clear message to all of Braavos: the Miners' Guild isn't stuck in the past. It adapts. It evolves. It moves forward."

I scanned their faces. Some sat up straighter.
Hope is contagious. And incredibly useful when you hold the syringe.

"I'm not here to raze it all to the ground. What you've built is solid. Braavos stands tall thanks to your tunnels, your metals, your labour."

A pause.
Flattery smooths the edges before you start grinding them down.

"But solid isn't the same as eternal. Times change. Markets shift. And if we don't shift with them… we'll be left behind. Forgotten. Replaced."

I let that sit. Then rose slowly to my feet.

"As Guildmaster, my duty is to ensure prosperity. Not just mine. Not just that of my mines. Yours. Ours."

I paced slowly around the table.

"I promise you this: under my leadership, the Guild will become stronger. More influential. Respected. We won't be seen as mere peddlers of stone and dust. We'll be the architects of power. The very foundation of Braavos' economy."

I stopped behind Velkhar's chair. His son was still glaring at me. I gave him a small, withering smirk. He nearly exploded.

"But for this Guild to grow… some adjustments will be necessary."

A pause. Sharper now. Calmer, but cold as steel.

"Not in a year. Not in six months. Not when your heirs inherit your shares. No. Now."

I returned to my seat, placed both hands flat on the table, and stared each of them down.

"Because if you chose me today, it wasn't to cling to old habits. It was to survive in a world that no longer waits. And I've no intention of watching the dust settle."

I gave a discreet nod. One of my scribes stepped forward and placed a thick, black leather-bound file in the centre of the table. Stamped with the Guild seal.

I smiled.
"And as the saying goes… don't put off to tomorrow what you can do today."

I placed a hand on the file.

"Listen closely… because this is how we'll be doing things from now on."

Caspar opened the dossier with his signature ceremonial precision. Half priest, half accountant. He laid out the first page gently across the table, then stepped back. No sound, save maybe the creaking of a few chairs.

I glanced around, and I wasn't disappointed. Every pair of eyes was locked in. Some tried to look neutral. Others were clearly struggling not to frown. One or two, like Daltien, were already going pale.

Good.

"First decree," I said, not raising my voice. "All mines will be brought into compliance with the Bardatto Metric System."

A soft gasp rippled through the room. Barely audible—but I heard it.

"Effective immediately, traditional units are banned. No more baskets, no more vague 'loads', no more regional guesswork. All measurements will be expressed in standardised units: metres for distance, kilograms for weight, litres for liquid volume. I don't want to hear about carts or crates of ore—I want precise figures."

I raised a finger.

"Initial certified measuring tools will be distributed to each operation, along with a calibration register. It will be your responsibility to acquire additional instruments—my businesses will be more than happy to supply them. A discount, of course, for Guild members."

Marreno parted his lips to speak.
I didn't give him the chance.

"Second decree: mandatory monthly production logs, in the official format provided by the Guild. Each mine must record its output by tunnel, ore type, extraction method, and estimated losses."

I slid a sample ledger into the centre of the table.

Black. Austere. Numbered. And with my bloody sigil watermarked on every page. An administrative masterpiece. A bureaucratic nightmare for those who barely knew how to read. Which was why I'd standardised the reports. These ledgers had been printed just two days ago—on my prototype printing press.

I'd only had to pitch the idea to the Iron Bank, and they jumped on it. "Saves time and money," the other directors said—so a good investment. I now owned 60% of the first press (40% for the Bank), and had started with these ledgers and account books for the Bank itself. I'd deal with actual books later… Once the population could read, that is.

"Third decree: quarterly audits. Inspectors appointed directly by me will visit sites to verify installations, methods, and figures. Any attempt at falsification will result in immediate suspension of your mining licence. This decree has already been ratified by the Braavos Council. We must ensure there is no fraud damaging the city's reputation."

This time, I felt the shift.
Gone was polite surprise—now came the quiet dread.

I pressed on.

"Fourth decree: mandatory safety regulations. Wooden or metal supports every six cubits. One gallery overseer per ten miners. A compulsory break every three hours. And above all: helmets. The lives of our workers are not expendable."

Poros Daltien raised his hand.

I ignored him.

"Fifth decree: commercial quarantine. While mines are brought up to standard—which, according to my estimates, will take approximately three months—all exports outside Braavos are suspended.
Unless expressly approved by the Guildmaster."

I saw Lorano Velkhar twitch. The lad had just realised he'd have to beg to offload his worthless lead.

And now… the cherry on top.

I took a slower, more deliberate breath.

"Final decree."

Pause. Just long enough to make them wonder if they'd misheard the word final.

"All sales of ore or metals to any artisan, founder, or goldsmith affiliated—even loosely—with House Vadremino are strictly prohibited."

Explosion.

Marreno nearly leapt from his seat. Daltien stammered. Someone else outright blurted "What?!"

I raised a hand, palm open.

"Silence."

And like a conductor, I continued—softer now.
Colder.

"This decision is based on security concerns. Following recent events—which you all know—it is no longer acceptable that a family with links to the attempted assassination of a Guild member should benefit from the fruits of your labour."

I let the threat linger.
It was a lie, of course—but the Iron Bank and the Council of Braavos had my back. Vadremino had made more enemies than allies lately, and worse—he sold most of his stock to Myr.

When I found that out, I understood his hatred.
The fall of Myr meant the collapse of his profits.

And now, I delivered the killing blow.

"They're not here to defend themselves, true.
But I'm still alive.
And I intend to stay that way."

I closed the dossier with a sharp, final snap.

Lacing my fingers, striking a confident pose, I leaned forward with the faintest smirk.

"You have three months.
After that, every infraction will be fined two ducats per day."

I straightened.

"Session dismissed."

And I left the chamber like a king walking off a battlefield: victorious, a little dirty… but draped in trophies. I'd already done the math—less than three months, and Vadremino would lose everything.

I could already taste the sweetness of his downfall.

And I'd even prepared a contract to generously acquire his businesses afterwards…

So much generosity—it was almost disgusting.

(One month later)

I could hardly believe it—but there it was. A bloody harpsichord, right in front of me.

Sure, it wasn't the most beautiful or the most extravagant thing I'd ever laid eyes on, but I couldn't have cared less. The aesthetics, the fancy details—they could come later.

"I must admit, I'm impressed with your speed," I said, glancing at the four people standing around me.

The first—and undoubtedly the keystone—was none other than Ilario Giovanni, the famed bard who'd lost that duel by the sword. A man of seasoned age, with a finely waxed handlebar moustache and a bald head that gave him the look of a distinguished Italian noble… until his crooked leg shattered the illusion. He stood with the aid of an ornately carved cane.

To his left was Tobho Zanero, a master blacksmith in my employ. Massive arms matched his broad frame—years of forging had clearly reshaped his body… and scorched off any hair. He was completely bald, possibly from too many close calls with the forge.

Master Coran Veltoro stood in stark contrast. Tall and lean, his calloused fingers toyed with a small linen cloth. As Master Carpenter, he officially ran the Carpenters' Guild on my behalf—because frankly, I had better things to do. At least he had hair. A tangled mess, sure, just like his beard, but it was still hair.

Lastly, there was Olara Bellasege, my Master Goldsmith. She stood out—not because she was the only woman, but because of her striking beauty. Petite, with long, wavy brown hair and intelligent green eyes. Her dress hugged a frankly absurd bosom, and she kept casting suggestive glances at Tobho, who was wearing nothing but a leather apron. His chiselled physique was very much on display.

"Your instructions, along with your sketch, were immensely helpful, my lord," said Giovanni, bowing slightly.

"It's true, they were quite useful," Coran added with a nod from the others, "but we mustn't overlook your own work, Master Giovanni. You tuned this instrument with remarkable care."

"Absolutely," Tobho chimed in. "Your obsession with precision was what let us keep going."

I could see it in their eyes—they genuinely respected Giovanni. According to Caspar, who'd kept an eye on the project, the man had become utterly obsessed. This was his chance to play again, and he'd clung to it.

"We worked together," Olara added with a sly smile. "And that's the real secret to our success. Though I suppose it wouldn't have been possible without the same… patron."

Oof. "Patron" was a nice way of saying "owner."
Still, "patron" had a better ring to it than "master." I really needed to work on a new lexicon…

"Master Bardatto?" Coran asked. "You haven't told us the name of this… instrument."

"Before I name it, I want to see if it works," I replied. "Giovanni—you're the only true musician here. Would you do the honours?"

The crippled bard looked at me, nodded, and approached the harpsichord. He sat on the plain stool set before the instrument. I could see his fingers trembling over the walnut keys. They were raw—oiled, but undecorated, unpolished. It was a prototype, after all.

He inhaled deeply, as if to still his heart… or hold something back. Then, his fingers touched the keys.

A note rang out.
Clear. Audible.

Not as refined as a grand piano, but cleaner than I'd expected. It sounded… like a harpsichord. A real one.

Giovanni said nothing. He followed with a second note. Then a third. A simple chord.

His shoulders loosened—his body recognising something it thought it had lost.

Silence fell over the workshop, thick and solemn. Even Tobho—who wasn't exactly known for his sensitivity—was frozen.

Giovanni began a short scale. Slow. Precise.

And in that moment, it became real.

This wasn't just wood and strings anymore. This was a bloody instrument. The notes rang out—not perfectly balanced yet, but beautiful. Gone were the strangled cats (also known as lutes), and the diarrhoea of sound that passed for drumming.
At last—a real instrument, with a halfway-decent tuning.

I said nothing. Just listened. For once.

Giovanni played something more complex. Not a full piece—but a structure. Almost mathematical. The internal hammers clicked with rhythmic precision. Each note rang out distinctly—no overlap, no smudging.

You could tell he was trying to recall one of his older compositions. But the harpsichord wasn't a lute. He'd have to write new pieces—and adapt to its strength: speed.
Because yes, the harpsichord's true power was speed.

Olara leaned forward slightly, a subtle smile on her lips. Coran blinked several times, staring at the keys like they might transform. And Tobho… Tobho was slowly nodding, finally accepting that the damn thing wasn't just making noise.

Giovanni stopped playing. Rested his hands on his knees. He didn't turn immediately.

But when he did, his eyes were brighter. I could see it—he was pleased.
The musician in him was alive again.

"It works, my lord," he said simply.

I nodded, expecting a bit more.

"And?"

He paused.

"This instrument isn't finished yet. It needs refinement. The touch is stiff. The mechanism still rough. But it has a soul."

A soul. Imagine that.

I stifled a smirk.

"Very well. In that case, we can move on to phase two."

All eyes turned to me.

I rose from my chair and walked over to the harpsichord, circling Giovanni as I spoke.

"We're ready to begin production. We'll start with ornate, decorative models—true works of art. The soundboard? I want frescoes. The keys? Polished and made from precious materials. Even the casing will be inlaid and marqueted…"

I caught their intrigued expressions—and they hadn't even seen the half of it.

"And that's just the basic version. I've already designed another with two keyboards that can be played together, and even a mechanism that mimics the sound of the lute."

That got Giovanni's attention. The idea of playing a lute without actually touching one? A perfect loophole around his ban. His eyes sparkled. But it was time for the coup de grâce.

"Most importantly, we'll be introducing sheet music."

Coran furrowed his brow slightly.
"Sheet… music?"

"Exactly. A method to encode music. Anyone who can read will be able to play. No need for perfect pitch—hell, no need for any pitch. Just training and discipline. Don't worry, you won't be involved in this part, except Giovanni, of course."

Tobho grimaced. Sure, he'd nodded along while Giovanni played, but it was clear music wasn't his thing. After all, if you spent your life hammering metal, I suppose silence became your idea of a melody.

"So even a one-eyed man could be a musician now?"

"A one-eyed man, a one-armed man—close enough. Let's not forget that the man standing here plays better with one leg than all the bards at the Sealord's court combined."

Giovanni gave a slight bow, silent but clearly pleased.
Alright, maybe I'd exaggerated a bit—one-armed might be pushing it…

I turned to Caspar, ever-watchful in the background.

"We'll need scribes, a copyist, high-quality paper. And musicians. Real ones. Not those idiots who think a tambourine is a political statement."

He nodded, jotting mental notes as always.

Then I addressed the group:

"Thanks to your efforts, the world of music is about to change. I'll need your apprentices—the ones with artistic flair and musical curiosity—to specialise in instrument crafting."

Blank stares. I rolled my eyes. Was it that hard to grasp?

"I'm setting up a dedicated workshop for musical instruments. That way, you won't clog up your usual order books. You've got other projects, remember?"

And bam. The lightbulbs went on. They couldn't seriously have thought they'd handle their standard work, all my pet projects, and churn out harpsichords en masse?

Let's not forget Project C—prototype ready and waiting to be tested—and the clockworks, which were non-negotiable. No, they had more than enough on their plates without adding instruments.

"You still haven't named the instrument, my lord," Caspar chimed in, silent until now.

Ah, my trusty majordomo. A living, breathing calendar.

"Thank you for the reminder," I said with a broad smile. "This instrument shall be called… the Bardatto Clavichord."

Alright, technically a clavichord is something else—but they didn't know that. And I had no intention of making one anyway. My endgame was the grand piano… but that was still far off.

First, I'd need to finish developing the sheet music, normalise the harpsichord's use, and push widespread adoption. Not before 295 AC, at the earliest.

But I had time.
Plenty of time.

I left the room, not without ordering the harpsichord to be gifted to Giovanni so he could "compose."

Ah, such generosity. It'll be my downfall.

Nah. I was joking. The poor bastard was under contract—every note he wrote was mine.
Thank the gods copyright didn't exist here.

Chapter Text

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

286 AC
(One month later)

The time had finally come to test the prototype of Project C. Well, technically, it was the seventh test... The previous ones had gone up in smoke—quite literally, thanks to a delightful cocktail of flaws. I’d even lost a guy. May the poor bastard rest in peace.
His widow had wept when I broke the news—at least until I handed her ten gold crowns in compensation. After that, she looked about ready to drop to her knees and thank me with a blowjob.
Where I came from, people said money doesn’t buy happiness. Here? It bought gratitude and then some.

Anyway. The sky was clear. Not a cloud in sight. A perfect day to change the world.
Or blow myself to bits and get scattered across the coastline.
Project C was never subtle about what it really was. And while I'd hesitated to bring gunpowder into this world, I needed it. Nothing better for ruling the seas. And I lived in Braavos.
Besides, the image of a White Walker taking a cannonball to the chest? Delicious.

The testing grounds were a few kilometres southeast of Braavos, on the mainland. We were perched by the sea, facing an island that shielded us from the city. To the left, jungle. To the right, bald hills. All perfectly chosen—out of sight, out of earshot. With all the urban racket, no one would hear the cannon. Hopefully.

The target? A massive boulder across the shore.

I'd even set up a pavilion with chairs for my guests. This wasn’t just a test. It was a fucking show. And the audience? VIPs only. This project was too big to keep in the shadows.

The Sealord himself, Ferrego Antaryon, was there, stoic as ever in his ink-black robe embroidered with gold. At his side, his First Sword: Syrio Forel. Yes, that Syrio. The man who could lop your head off and call it a scratch. One hand rested lazily on the pommel of his rapier, but those eyes were everywhere. No surprise he'd once bested knights with a wooden sword.

Behind them stood the Iron Bank’s representatives: my dear uncle Caron Bardatto—who’d swapped his scribe’s robes for something vaguely militant—and Tycho Nestoris, ever the same: smiling faintly, cool and detached, probably already calculating just how profitable a war would be with this thing on our side.

“Impressive, Vincenzo,” Caron said, eyeing the cannon. “Is that… a giant smoking pipe?”

I rolled my eyes.

“It’s the future, uncle. But sure—load it with enough powder and you might just smoke a dragon.”

The cannon—affectionately named Clémence, for the exact quality it lacked—was a monster. Two and a half metres of solid bronze. The barrel had been cast in my workshop, with Tobho’s help and a generous amount of cursing. The muzzle flared slightly, the breech reinforced with thick metal bands. It sat atop a reinforced wooden carriage, wheeled, of course.

Eight hundred kilos of mayhem, with a voice that could rattle a castle. I’d already chosen the production name: The Bronze Thunderer. I had plans for sleeker field guns, a Braavosi cannon equivalent to the imperial model, even a Double Bronze variant with twin barrels. For coastal defences? Nothing better than bombards or a whole line of Thunderers.

“You’re sure it won’t blow up like last time?” muttered Caspar, at my right, clearly ready to dive headfirst into the nearest ditch.

“Statistically? Not a chance,” I replied with a wolfish grin. “We reinforced the chamber, adjusted the powder, calibrated the shot… and this time, no one’s smoking nearby.”

I turned to the engineers. All were in makeshift protection—leather helmets, forge gloves, and one poor soul in full plate. Traumatic flashbacks from the fourth test, no doubt. Watching your mate turn to mince would do that to you.

“Load it.”

They obeyed. The iron ball slid in with a satisfying thud, followed by a hefty dose of black powder, rammed down tight. Then the fuse was prepped.

I faced Ferrego.

“Sealord, Master Nestoris, dearest uncle… this demonstration is for the prosperity of Braavos—and the downfall of its enemies. And mine, naturally.”

Ferrego gave a solemn nod. Tycho smiled faintly. Our relationship had been thawing lately, and it showed.

“Make it spectacular, Vincenzo.”

Oh, don’t worry, my friend. You’re about to get your money’s worth.

I raised a hand.

“On three. One. Two…”

I winked at Caspar. He leapt back.

“…THREE!”

The fuse sparked. Hissed. A heartbeat’s silence.

And then—
BOOOOOOM.

As I raised my arms like a conductor basking in his crescendo, a jet of black smoke burst from the muzzle. You could see the shockwave ripple across the water.

The ground shook beneath my boots. The cannon kicked back hard, despite its wheels being locked.

And the target—our boulder, 150 metres away—shattered. A chunk of stone sheared off, crashing into the water with a monstrous splash.

Silence.
Then a low whistle of appreciation. Syrio Forel, arms folded, nodded slowly.

“Fast. Strong. Dangerous. I like it.”

Ferrego didn’t budge, but I saw his fingers drumming against the armrest.

Tycho turned to me, eyes alight.

“How much?”

I grinned.

“Too much for imbeciles. But perfectly reasonable for the Bank—and Braavos, of course.”

Caron laughed aloud.

Caspar turned to me, wide-eyed.

“My lord… it worked.”

I nodded.

“Project C: approved.”

While the engineers high-fived, the guards finally unclenched, and my guests processed what they’d seen, I was already miles ahead.

Coastal batteries. Cannons mounted on the decks of my future carracks. Modernised fortresses. Trade bastions with fiery mouths at the gate. I wasn’t stopping with a name. Designs for advanced warships were already in the works—from nimble frigates to imposing ships of the line, with a few galleons in between.

It would take time—plenty of it, especially for the big ones.
But I was going to build a maritime empire.

And while the engineers were patting each other on the back, the guards finally let the tension bleed out of their shoulders, and my guests digested the shock of what they’d just witnessed… I was already looking ahead.

Coastal batteries. Cannons mounted on the decks of my future carracks. Modernised fortresses. Trade bastions with fire-breathing mouths at their gates. I wasn’t stopping with a bang and a name. Advanced ship designs were already underway—from frigates to ships of the line, galleons in between. It would take time, a lot of time—especially for the ship of the line—but I would build a maritime empire.

I was no longer just a merchant.

I’d just proven I could forge thunder, wield it, and wrap it up with a nice bow for sale. Or, as dear Tony Stark would say:
I’d become the Merchant of Death.
Only, I was better looking. Obviously.

After a few murmurs and whispered calculations between them, the men approached, eyes still locked on the shattered boulder.

“Impressive. Truly. But…”
Tycho turned slowly to me, hands clasped behind his back.
“How exactly do you plan on moving these… devices? Not exactly built for a donkey cart, are they?”

Ferrego, as composed as ever, added in his calm, weighty voice:
“And more to the point… what for? Braavos is not at war.”

I smiled.
Ah yes. There it was. The real question. Not “how,” but “why.”

I turned slowly to face them, hands behind my back, posture impeccable. I let the silence linger—just long enough to reel them in.

“These cannons, gentlemen, aren’t meant to be dragged through mud or paraded like trophies.”

I strolled towards the edge of the bluff, overlooking the sea.

“They’re meant to be deployed. On rivers. On oceans. Mounted on ships—or planted on walls to guard our ports with rows of steel and fire.”

I turned back to them, locking eyes first with Tycho, then Ferrego.

“I’ve commissioned new ships. Not Braavosi galleys. Not your standard trade caravels. No…”

A slow smile crept across my face.

“Carracks.”

Caron raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Carracks?”

I nodded.

“Massive vessels, reinforced hulls, built to carry weight. With a forecastle and an aftcastle. Three masts. A deck of fire. Better handling. And most importantly…”

I extended an arm toward the sea.

“…the capacity to mount ten cannons on each side.”

The effect was instant.

Even Ferrego, that robed glacier, lifted his head slightly. Syrio narrowed his eyes, visibly intrigued. Tycho blinked slowly, as though mentally recalculating every economic model he'd ever drawn.

I turned to Caspar.

“Send the signal.”

He gave a sharp nod and raised a polished mirror toward the sun. A single flash arced across the bay.

Minutes passed. Then came the low, deep rhythm of creaking timbers and distant sails. A beat like the slow drum of fate. And then he appeared.

he emerged from the morning mist like a mahogany and iron titan: the first carrack. My prototype. The Titan of Glass.

Twice the height of a galley. Broad. Imposing. His hull was a dark, almost black wood, reinforced with bands of iron. His masts were bare for now, but ready to receive their sails. Most striking of all—his gunports. A perfect row of ten yawning mouths along his starboard flank. Empty, for now. But they looked hungry. Ready to vomit fire and iron.

Even without his cannons, he had presence. He inspired fear. And that was entirely the point.

“This is the first model,” I said coolly, hands still behind my back.
“Others will follow. Within two years, I’ll have a fleet. And those ships won’t be carrying barrels of wine or crates of spice. They’ll carry something far more valuable.”

I turned back toward them, voice low but firm.

“The fear of Braavos.”

They watched the ship glide forward, slow and majestic, pushed by low sails and a gentle breeze. But it was when the ship moved fully into the light that the whispers began.

The hull… shimmered.

Not like varnished wood. Not like lacquer or polish. No—this was a dull, reddish sheen. Metallic. Alien on a ship. Unnerving.

Caron frowned. Tycho squinted, leaned forward slightly, uncertain.

“Wait…” he murmured. “Is that…?”

He moved closer, trying to trust his own eyes.

“Is the hull… copper-plated?”

I smiled.
Ah. There it was. I’d been waiting for that moment.

“Correct,” I said, savouring their disbelief. “Custom-forged copper plates. Clenched and sealed across the waterline.”

Tycho looked at me, scandalised.

“But… that’s a fortune. Copper’s far too expensive for this. No one armours an entire ship with copper!”

I shrugged with theatrical modesty.

“No one before me.”

Ferrego, still silent, finally murmured:

“A hull immune to shipworms. Less drag. Greater speed. Reduced maintenance.”

I turned to him, genuinely a little surprised. So, the man knew his ships. Why, then, hadn’t he done this already?

“You seem well-versed in naval matters, Sealord.”

His eyes didn’t leave the ship.

“My grandfather once invested in a lead-plated caravel. It sank in two years. Copper… is far more efficient. I’ve considered it before. But such a venture would bleed our coffers dry.”

Ah. That explained it. Braavos didn’t own any copper mines—and neither did House Antaryon. Caron exhaled sharply through his nose.

“You seriously plan to do that for an entire fleet?”

I turned to him with my most dazzling smile.
“I own five active mines. One of them copper. I’ve done the maths. But more importantly…”
I leaned in slightly.
“When your ships carry cannon, and you expect them to fire without melting, you don’t want rotting planks below the waterline. You want strength. You want endurance. You want your ship to arrive first, fire first… and return home intact.”

I straightened.
“These carracks won’t just be ships. They’ll be platforms. Ambassadors.”

I fell silent for a moment, watching The Titan of Glass slowly take position offshore. I kept the rest of the fleet under wraps—for now. It wouldn’t stay secret for long, of course, but the aim was to keep the suspense alive just long enough to stall copycats. I wasn’t a fool. I knew someone would try to steal my designs.

But it would take years to crack them. Everything was compartmentalised and locked down tighter than a septa’s virtue. As for the gunpowder formula, I’d gone full Coca-Cola: secret ingredients, distributed in numbered packets, mixed at a dedicated facility in the Arsenal. This wasn’t some Yi Ti knock-off. This was designed for war.

And then, more softly, I said:
“One day, when the dragons return… someone will have to remind them that fire no longer belongs to the Targaryens.”

Silence.
Only the wind, the sails, and the sea brushing the rocks below.

Then I stepped forward, positioning myself slightly ahead of the group, the wind at my back, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Long ago, the seas belonged to dragons.”

I let the line hang, just long enough to catch every eye.

“Then came the galleys, the triremes, the warships powered by sweat and slaves. By suffering.”

I turned slowly, hands folded behind me.

“But today? Today, the seas belong to the swiftest, the heaviest, the most powerful.”

I gestured toward the distant carrack.

“Pirates scour the waters. The Ironborn rape, pillage, burn. And our merchant convoys sail on fragile hulls, guided by hope and luck. Our fleet is strong, yes—but not infallible.”

A pause.
Then I stepped forward again, voice harder now.

“Not anymore.”

A ripple of unease ran through them.

“These ships mark the dawn of a new age. They’ll strike from afar. No more need for bloody boarding actions.”

I raised a hand, palm open.

“Picture merchant convoys protected by these monsters. Ten cannon a side. One broadside—and a pirate ship is a smear on the waves. And let me assure you, it won’t take many shots to sink a vessel. Reload time is quick. By my estimates, one carrack could destroy at least five pirate ships before they even got close. Possibly more.”

A sly smile curved my lips. Not entirely true—you still needed a fair few solid hits to scuttle a ship. But I’d already developed an explosive shell prototype. It had a nasty tendency to go off mid-air one time in three, but when it did work… oh, the fireworks.

“And the Ironborn?” I continued. “They think they rule the sea. But they’ve never seen what three chained cannonballs do to a taut sail. I’m not just building with standard shot—I’ve got chain to rip through masts, and grape to tear through oarsmen like wheat before the scythe.”

Caron barked out a laugh.
“By the Sea’s hairy balls, I want to see that!”

I gave a slow, confident nod.
“You will, Uncle. More than once.”

I turned to the rest of them, voice softer now—
—but sharper, like the calm edge of a finely honed blade.

“These ships aren’t only for war. They’re for trade. And not the pathetic scraps the Slaver Cities bleed from every spice barrel.”

I pointed to the horizon.

“Yi Ti. The cities of the Far East. Untapped riches, silks, medicinal herbs, pigments no Westerosi painter’s ever dreamed of… and not a single free route. Everything passes through Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh. Serpents, the lot of them.”

I paused, then added:

“But with my carracks? We go around. Hug the coast of Sothoryos. Brave the ocean’s edge. Even Asshai becomes reachable—maybe even what lies beyond the Thousand Isles to the north. And if a port refuses us entry…”

I smiled again.
“Well. We can always… negotiate.”

Tycho stared at me for a moment—then let out a dry, incredulous laugh.
“You’re insane. But perhaps the kind of insane Braavos needs.”

Ferrego didn’t laugh.
But he was nodding. Slowly.

“A secure route to Yi Ti… Free. Independent.”

I nodded once.

“Tomorrow’s monopoly won’t be banking. It won’t be gold. Not even glass.”

One more step forward.

“It will be the road. And the ones who control it.”

And I locked eyes with each of them. One by one.

“And I intend to own it. Which is why I have something big in mind.”

The wind caught the edge of my cloak, giving the moment its perfect dramatic flourish.

All eyes were on me. Ferrego’s gaze had sharpened. Tycho looked like he was calculating trade routes in real time. Caron… Caron had that look—a dangerous cocktail of pride, disbelief, and the sort of adrenaline rush only madmen and accountants truly understand.

I let the silence build.

Then, very calmly, I said:

“I’m going to found… the Bardatto Trade Company.”

Caron’s brow creased. Tycho straightened slightly. Syrio, of course, remained impassive. He always did.

“A private company. But backed by Braavos. By the Iron Bank. And by me. It will be led by a board of directors—myself included. With you at that table.”

I saw the doubt flicker in their eyes. The name had caught their attention—but it needed explaining.

“I left out Braavosi from the name. Too much symbolism. Too much responsibility. And let’s not kid ourselves… if a trading post goes up in flames in Yi Ti, no one here wants the Sealord’s Council to take the blame. I’ll take the fall. And the glory, while we’re at it.”

I took a few slow steps, circling the group like a general addressing his officers.
They understood the political calculus. I could see it in the shift of their stances. And in the end, profit didn’t care about semantics.
Ferrego wouldn’t object—he was old, childless, and had long stopped giving a damn. The Iron Bank? Well, the Bank was the Bank. Its blood ran in coins, not creeds.

“It’ll own its own ships. Its own warehouses. Its own trade posts around the world. Yi Ti, Leng, Asshai, the Summer Isles, the Selenar, Westeros—even Sothoryos. Beyond that, I’ve got my eye on Ib in the north, the legendary Maggot Bay south of Sothoryos, maybe even the Three Barriers beyond Ulthos.”

I snapped my fingers.

“Customs. Tariffs. Exclusive rights. It’ll handle it all. it’ll negotiate, it’ll buy, it’ll guard… and if necessary, it’ll strike.”

I stopped right in front of Tycho, locked eyes with him.

“This won’t just be a company. It’ll be a floating state. A sprawling commercial power with its own flag, its own treasury… and its own navy. No—navies.”

Tycho let out a quiet puff of air, somewhere between amusement and admiration.

“And the headquarters?”

I smiled.

“Braavos, of course. Every contract passes through the Bank. Every cargo insured, logged, accounted for. It’s a win for you, a fortune for me… and dominance for us.”

Caron broke into loud, boisterous laughter.

“Why not just create a whole bloody new world while you’re at it?”

I shot him a sly look.

“That’s the plan. One step at a time.”

Ferrego remained silent, thoughtful. Then, at last, he gave a slow nod.

“Such a company wouldn’t just make Braavos powerful… it would make it a world-city.”

I nodded once, sharply.

“That’s the goal.”

I glanced back one last time at The Titan of Glass, still manoeuvring offshore—like the opening note of a symphony yet to thunder.

And then, lower, almost to myself:

“After all… what’s the point of inventing cannon, glass, clocks, and the harpsichord… if not to build a fucking empire?”

I let out a soft chuckle.

Then, under my breath—just loud enough for Caspar to hear, who immediately choked on his own spit:

“There’s so much money to be made I’m half hard just thinking about it. Better than any courtesan or rentboy, that’s for damn sure.”

One Week Later — Villa Bardatto

The upper garden of Villa Bardatto, with its sweeping view over the inner canals and the distant sea, had never been so still.
Not a gull in sight—thank the gods. I couldn’t stand those screeching bastards. Pigeons were no better, shitting on everything like they owned the place. I’d never had much affection for birds, apart from raptors. At least they don’t just crap on you—they go for the kill. Swift, clean. Efficient.

In any case, the weather was flawless: warm, bright—paradise, if your paradise included trade empires and industrial ambitions. A perfect day for today’s revelation.

Once again, I’d summoned the usual suspects for the grand unveiling. The old Sealord was seated comfortably, sipping a glass of iced tea with a faint smile—clearly enjoying the drink.
It was one of the first “inventions” I’d introduced here, supposedly groundbreaking, though let’s be honest: between wine and water, neither are ideal for staying sharp. I was more partial to lemonade myself—closest thing to Earth’s version I could find. Lucky for me, our lands produced both yellow and green lemons. Just needed water, sugar… and carbonation. Gods, I needed to rediscover soda water. No clue how to make it, and the tech level here was depressingly medieval.
Better to start small—mint syrup, grenadine. One step at a time.

Syrio was sipping lemonade too, visibly more at ease in the comfort of the villa.
Tycho had swapped his usual wine for iced tea as well. He’d confessed he wasn’t much of a wine man anyway, though I had to admit our new decanters had improved the flavour by leagues. To each their poison.
And of course, my dear uncle Caron, who’d brought along a bottle he claimed was “older than Lys.” I doubted that, but at least he hadn’t brought a whore. Small mercies. No prizes for guessing what he was drinking.

Their eyes were on me—more precisely, on the cloth-draped form behind me. Beneath it stood a marvel. A piece of true, mechanical art. The future itself, shaped and ticking.

“Gentlemen.”

Their gazes sharpened. Oh yes, time for the speech. And I was in splendid mood—latest reports showed Vadremino sinking into debt. Serves the bastard right. You don’t mess with my family and walk away rich.

“Last week, I showed you how to kill a ship from a hundred and fifty metres out—maybe more.”

I paused, letting them remember the spectacle. Arsenal production was already running at full tilt; we’d hit ten cannons a week and climbing. One carrack every two weeks—solid for a launch phase. I had twenty ships in the pipeline and a dedicated armament foundry under construction. At this rate, we’d be turning out thirty cannons a week within a year.

“Today… I’ll show you how to kill chaos.”

Not my best line, I’ll admit. Running out of punchlines is a hazard of revolutionising civilisation. I nodded at Caspar.

He gave the cloth a clean, theatrical pull, revealing two key items.

The first—a tall, polished steel-and-wood grandfather-style clock, powered by an electric impulse and counterweight system. Two metres tall, embedded in a dark wooden casing, steel gleaming in the sun. The face was black with gold Roman numerals and three distinct hands: two golden, one silver—the last ticking forward with a hypnotic rhythm.

Above the dial sat a carved, rotating sun-disc—every four hours it rotated to display the time of day: Midnight, Dawn, Morning, Afternoon, Dusk, Night.
Admittedly, it was just a six-faced die mounted on gears, but it worked—and that’s what mattered.

The seconds hand—that had been hell to calibrate. The challenge wasn’t the mechanism, but the pacing. We’d had to sync it with a sundial and a round of “one Mississippi, two Mississippi” just to get it right. Thankfully, some things never change—midday still meant the sun at its highest.

Ferrego narrowed his eyes.
Tycho straightened.
Caron half-choked on his wine.

“What in the name of the Drowned God is that?” he managed.

I stepped forward, resting a hand gently on the casing as though introducing a masterpiece—which, in all fairness, it was.

“This, gentlemen… is a clock.”

Silence. A clean, stunned silence.

“A machine built to measure the passage of time. Not based on the sun. Not by bell tolls. Not by the mood of a merchant or the whim of a sailor. A device that counts—regularly, precisely… relentlessly.”

I pointed to the dial, black and gold, sharp and legible.

“The long hand marks the minutes.
The small golden one indicates the hours.
And the thin silver hand—the ‘trotteuse’—measures the seconds.”

I let the ticking settle into their minds. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“The dial is split into twenty-four units. A full day. When the short hand hits the twelve at the top—sun’s at its zenith. That’s noon.”

Pause. Let it sink in.

“And when it returns to twelve at the bottom of the cycle… it’s midnight. The precise moment a new day begins.”

I stepped aside, gesturing to the sun-disc at the top.

“For those who can’t yet read hands, this rotating marker provides an intuitive visual: six phases of the day. It moves slowly, powered by the internal gearing.”

Caron frowned, swirling his wine distractedly.

“So… you’re telling me we can know the exact moment a new day begins?”

I nodded, slowly. Deliberately.

“To the second.”

I straightened, letting the weight of the moment settle.

“No more guessing. No more endless debates over ‘when’. This mechanism tells you the truth of time. It marks it. Paces it. And more importantly… it never lies.”

Ferrego, silent until now, watched the ticking seconds hand with the quiet intensity of someone listening to a heartbeat. Finally, he spoke.

“And… what might its uses be?”

I began to circle them slowly, hands behind my back.

“It’s useful for everything.”

I pivoted sharply, facing them again.

“You don’t see it yet. That’s because you still live in a world of haze and approximations. Everything’s ‘soon’, or ‘when the bell rings’, or ‘when the sun is high’.”

I gestured to the clock.

“I’m offering you precision. A world where appointments begin to the minute. Where ports operate by time slots. Where every worker, every ship, every courier knows exactly when and where they should be.”

A pause. Measured. Like the tick of the clock, advancing by one notch.

“Picture a market that opens at the eighth hour. Closes at the seventeenth. Every day. Without exception.”

I pointed at Tycho.

“An Iron Bank where every appointment, every repayment, every deadline lands on the second. No more delays. No more ‘commercial approximations’.”

He raised an eyebrow—but I noticed his fingers twitch, calculating.

I turned to Ferrego.

“Audiences. Councils. Convoys departing. All set by the quarter-hour. A city that wastes not a single second.”

And then to Caron:

“Ships. Oh yes—entire fleets, where every boarding, every loading, every anchor raised happens at the precise moment. Not an hour early. Not a minute late. Just… on time.”

I lifted my chin, voice steady, proud.

“Braavos is powerful, yes. But still instinctive. Fragmented. What I offer is a city running like a machine. United by a shared rhythm. A tempo of civilisation.”

Their eyes drifted back to the clock.

“This isn’t a machine. It’s a spine. The perfect embodiment of the old saying: Time is money.”

I let that hang in the air for a beat, then gave a shrug, almost casual.

“And between us… do you know the most beautiful part?”

I pointed at the seconds hand, ticking onward. Unstoppable.

“It does all this… without ever complaining.”

Caron burst out laughing, nearly spilling wine everywhere. A walking disaster, that one. Meanwhile, Tycho—ever the hawk—pointed to the second clock beside the ornate one.

It was plainer, less adorned, stripped of elegance but rich in function. And now was the time to explain it.

“This one works differently. Unlike the first, which runs on mechanical backup, this one…”

“Battery?” Tycho cut in, brow furrowed.

I turned toward him, feigning surprise.

“Ah, yes. Pardon. I forget I live in a world where a sundial still qualifies as sorcery.”

I crouched down and opened the lower compartments on both clocks with a precise motion. Inside, small glass chambers connected by copper rods glowed faintly—soft, pulsing light like the breath of a firefly.

“These are electrochemical cells. Copper, zinc, a touch of electrolyte. Sealed in glass for waterproofing. Not pretty—but reliable.”

I stood up again.

“The first clock—the tall one—can run purely mechanical. Springs and weights. It doesn’t need electricity. Useful in emergencies.”

Then I gestured toward the second.

“This one, however, is ship-ready. Compact. Unfussy. Entirely electric.”

I approached and slid open a small side hatch. Inside, three polished metal dice, each set in a rotating chamber, sat aligned perfectly.

“This is its strength: a voyage-day counter. Three ten-faced dice. Each day at sea, the counter clicks forward at midnight. Simple. Reliable.”

I flicked one of the dice gently with my finger.

“When a ship leaves port, the counter resets to zero. And from there, it tracks—automatically—how many days have passed.”

Ferrego stepped closer, eyes narrowed in interest.

“And when they return to Braavos?”

I pointed to a small metal key fixed at the base.

“You open the hatch. Turn the key. The counter resets. A new departure. A new cycle. While you’re at it, you swap the batteries. Each unit’s built to hold over twenty cells—enough for two hundred days at sea.”

Caron let out a whistle, all faux wonder and smug undertone.
“And you really plan to teach every captain how to use that thing?”

I shrugged.
“Two minutes of explanation, and even a drunk sailor will get it—if the die says ‘14’, that means he’s been marinating in his own filth for two weeks straight.”

Tycho was still fixated on the mechanism, but now with the eyes of a man seeing not an object—but an opportunity.
“And you intend to mass-produce them?”

I nodded.
“One for every carrack. One for every port. Eventually, one in every command hall. Because time…”
—I tapped the casing—
“…is what separates a lucrative trade route from a shipwreck.”

He nodded, clearly pleased.

“Of course,” I added smoothly, “these ‘Land Clocks’—as I’ll call them—can be fitted with the same day-tracking module. To mark the passage of the month, the year, or simply to know when someone’s late.”

A beat of silence. The good kind—the kind you could bottle and sell.
They were impressed. And rightly so.
I was going to make an obscene amount of money out of this.

Ferrego, still studying the glowing glass cells like a man watching a caged thunderstorm, finally spoke.
“And… what exactly do these ‘batteries’ do?”

I smiled.
There it was. The fox had sniffed out the scent.

“Ah. Finally, the real question.”

I straightened, hands clasped behind my back.

“They store an invisible energy known as electricity. A form of… controlled lightning.”

Caron raised an eyebrow, caught somewhere between amusement and mild panic.

“Imagine the power of a thunderbolt—shrunk, stable, contained. And used not to split trees or kill men… but to move a needle.”

I tapped the naval clock with the back of my hand.

“The battery sends out a pulse. A little kick, at regular intervals. That pulse drives the internal gears, ticking the seconds forward. I’ll spare you the technical explanation, but in short: the current flows in a single direction. Always. Which allows the gears to move in harmony.”

Tycho murmured, almost to himself:
“Like a heartbeat… in metal.”

I nodded.
“Exactly. A heart of copper and glass. One that never sleeps—unless someone forgets to swap the battery. Or smashes it. But that’s another matter.”

Ferrego remained still for a long moment, eyes locked on the glowing cell. Then he straightened slowly.

“You’ve captured lightning.”

I raised an eyebrow, smiling sideways. He’s using the informal now?
Interesting. That meant he wanted closeness—likely saw the way the tide was turning. He knew that if things kept going at this pace, I’d become the next power behind Braavos. Or over it.
Prestigious seat, that one.

“No, my friend. I’ve packaged it. Standardised it. And I’m going to sell it.”

I let the silence stretch, the punchline settling like a fine wine.
Ferrego didn’t flinch at the phrasing. Approval, then. Or resignation.

Then, as if nothing had happened, I strolled back to the terrace, picked up my wine glass, and continued:

“Of course, this kind of technology isn’t limited to two types of clocks.”

I lifted my hand, palm open.

“I’m founding a new enterprise. A subsidiary of House Bardatto. I’m calling it In Time and in Tune.”

Caron chuckled under his breath. Tycho tilted his head, intrigued.

“It’ll produce our clocks, yes. But more importantly… it’ll manufacture and distribute the batteries. At scale. With traceability, quality control, and—”

—I winked—

“...a maintenance service. A subscription.”

Ferrego frowned slightly.
“Subscription?”

I nodded.
“I know, the word’s new here. It means a customer can sign up for an annual plan. For a few gold pieces a year, our technicians will come by, change the batteries, clean the mechanism, make sure everything’s running smoothly. Quietly. Efficiently.”

I turned to Tycho.

“A service only my company can provide. Because only my batteries work with my clocks. It keeps things clean. And it keeps them ours. Less risk of theft. Less risk of imitation.”

Caron let out a short bark of laughter.

“You’ve got some bloody nerve, lad. I love it.”

I raised my glass. I could see it in their eyes—they understood the real play here. The subscription gave me access. Access to homes, offices, ports, vaults. Access to everything. And once inside? I’d know the rhythm of every important place in Braavos, and more.

“With every contract comes a captive client, recurring revenue, and a dependency softer than silk.”

I took a sip, then finished with a casual tone:

“Why sell a clock once… when you can sell the right to know the time forever?”

Silence didn’t last long.

Caron was the first to crack, setting his glass down with a sharp little clack.

“Right. I want one. The big one. For my office.”

Tycho looked up at me, after exchanging a glance with Caron.

“The Iron Bank requires several. One for each meeting room, each executive desk… and naturally, one for the main hall.”

Even Ferrego, after a long contemplative pause, murmured:

“I’ll need three for the palace. One for my office. One for the council chamber. One for the throne room.”

I smiled—softly, calmly, satisfied.
Interesting that he hadn’t ordered any for the fleet.
He was waiting—probably wanted to replace them with carracks first.
Let him wait. My fleet came first.

I looked at each of them in turn, then opened my arms theatrically.

“You are my allies. My partners. The foundations of what I’m building.”

I gave a mock-reverent bow.

“You’ll have your clocks. Each one as magnificent as the last. With a discount… and free subscription, of course.”

Caron chuckled.

“That’s almost insulting, it’s so generous.”

I gave a half-shrug, feigning modesty.

“A token of gratitude.
And well… let’s just say I’d like to know exactly what time you’re planning to betray me.”

Laughter erupted. Even Tycho cracked a smile.
They knew I wasn’t actually worried—
—but they caught the reference.
Vadremino.

The second hand ticked on, calm and indifferent, as conversation resumed with renewed energy.

And me?

I was already looking beyond this garden, this terrace, these men.

Because after selling time to my friends…
it was time to start charging the rest of the world for it.

And what better place to begin than the next meeting of the Merchants’ Guild?

Where Vadremino would be waiting.
Clinging to his illusions of control.

I couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

Hello there. Here's the 9th chapter.

286 AC
(A month later)



A month had passed since the unveiling of the clock — or rather, the cannon and the carrack.
And ever since, orders had been flooding in from every corner of the city. All thanks to my little stroke of marketing genius.


I'd personally delivered Antaryon's clocks to the palace, making as much of a spectacle out of it as humanly possible. Naturally, I'd timed it perfectly so the delivery arrived just before noon — ideal for unveiling a small surprise of my own.
I'd rigged up a charming little mechanism: two miniature ships colliding with a towering colossus to strike the hour. The result? People gawped at it like tourists drooling over the window displays on the Champs-Élysées at Christmas.
And me? Well, I was the living image of Uncle Scrooge diving headfirst into his ocean of gold.


Everyone wanted a clock. And not just any clock, no — a bespoke one, of course, just to show off that they had the biggest… chime in town. Every guild, bar my own, demanded customised versions to match their trade. As if I was going to say no to that. I've never been the type to turn down easy money. Not in this life.
Good thing I'd had the foresight to set up my little enterprise, In Time and On Time. Ten seasoned craftsmen, with a solid thirty apprentices under their wing. Given that it takes about a week to produce a single clock, scaling up the workforce had significantly ramped up production.


The outcome? Three clocks a week.


And let's not forget my maintenance team, included in the subscription plan. A single ducat a month, with an optional two-ducat upgrade for the full beauty treatment — metal polishing, woodwork upkeep, the works. Around twenty families had already signed up, including my dear aunt. Mind you, I'd gifted her the clock itself — which was generous enough — but the subscription? Absolutely not. Let's not get carried away.


As for the cannons, that was a rather different matter. I'd informed the Council of Braavos that production of cannons and powder would remain exclusively under my control, and that we wouldn't sell to foreign buyers until we'd developed more advanced models. Got to keep an edge, after all.


And the ships and contracts? The Sealord and I had formally inked a contract to replace the entire Braavosi fleet. Given the eye-watering sum of 25,000 crowns — that's 250,000 golden dragons — the Iron Bank naturally acted as witness to the deal.


Considering the sheer number of ships involved, I had to rethink my approach. I bought out the 20% of the Arsenal still held by other shareholders. With the Iron Bank backing me, they didn't exactly refuse my generous offer. Now I hold 80% of the Arsenal, the remainder belonging, of course, to the Sealord's office.


Full-scale production was launched, with several fleets in the making: my own, Braavos's, and a third for my private company.


Flat out, the Arsenal can produce two ships a day. Sounds impressive, I know — but when you consider the Braavosi fleet numbers 500 vessels… Well. I prioritised my personal fleet of fifty ships for my upcoming voyage.

I looked up at the sound of footsteps. For once, I'd snapped out of my own thoughts without any help. My ever-faithful Caspar stepped into the office, dressed to perfection as always.

"Sir, the meeting is about to begin."

I smiled. At long last, the moment had come. Today was the infamous annual meeting of the Merchants' Guild — the only time of year when a vote on leadership could be called. Despite his catastrophic losses, and the disgrace of his son over at the Goldsmiths' Guild, that stubborn fool Vadremino still insisted on running for Guildmaster. I had to give him that much: the old dog was tenacious.

Normally, the meeting would have been held at the Guildmaster's residence. But I'd arranged, through my dear aunt, to have it here, at my place. Better safe than sorry — I preferred to make sure every servant in the house was loyal to me, in case Vadremino fancied pulling a little Myrish trick.

The old battle-axe had agreed without so much as a murmur. With the fortune I was lining her pockets with, the gifts, the fame she enjoyed — being my aunt had its perks — she'd have let me turn her parlour into a brothel if I'd asked. And it certainly wasn't her son Vario who would oppose me. The man practically worshipped the ground I walked on, all but drooling when he looked at me. My predecessor had even slept with him, which still gave me nightmares… Shudder. Honestly, remembering you've shagged your own cousin is about as pleasant as chewing on glass. It's as if incest was the running joke in this world of degenerates.

I rose slowly from my chair, letting my vertebrae crack with rather shameless satisfaction. Not that my back hurt, mind you — but it always added a nice bit of theatre. Especially in front of Caspar, who regarded me with the resigned patience of a butler well-accustomed to my theatrics.

"Are they all in place?" I asked, slipping on my gold torque, making sure the black key pendant sat front and centre — just to remind them whose altar they ought to be lighting their bloody candles at now.

"They're beginning to arrive, my lord. The first guests are seated in the main hall as you instructed. Refreshments are prepared, and the servants await your orders to begin the official procession," Caspar replied, as efficient as ever.

I gave a slight nod, a crooked smile tugging at my lips.

"Excellent. Let's offer them a final drink before the slaughter."

I adjusted the torque with a finger, checking its gleam under the lantern light. Bright enough to blind a half-sighted old man, but not so gaudy as to look like I was trying too hard. Balance was everything: command respect without looking like some jumped-up parvenu. Not that I gave a toss, deep down.

I glanced out the window overlooking the villa's inner courtyard. The carriages were already parading in, some tastefully elegant, others so extravagantly decorated they bordered on the grotesque. It never failed to amuse me, watching merchants try to pass themselves off as nobles. A turd, no matter how finely wrapped, is still a turd.

"Who arrived first?" I asked, purely out of curiosity.

"Master Porrimo, of the Weavers' Guild. Followed closely by Poros Daltien, and a few representatives from the Iron Bank. Redrasi Vadremino is en route, according to our lookouts on the rooftops," Caspar answered, as steady as a metronome.

I let out a low chuckle.

"Of course that sewer rat's running late. No doubt hoping the tide will wash my foundations away before he has to face them."

I gestured for Caspar to follow, and together we left the office. My boots struck the marble floor with a crisp, steady rhythm, as satisfying as the ticking of one of my clocks. With every step, I felt the weight of the moment settle over me — the kind of weight that crushes worms too slow to crawl away.

Servants along the corridor bowed their heads respectfully, perfectly trained. My servants. My ground. My bloody miniature kingdom.

At the grand doors to the salon, I paused to take a long breath, savouring the subtle scent of burning incense and beeswax polish.

"Open the doors, Caspar. Time for the vultures to discover they're the feast."

Caspar obeyed without a word. The heavy doors creaked open with solemn grandeur, revealing the fifty-odd figures gathered inside the hall. Faces turned towards me — some with forced smiles, others with thinly veiled fear of those who can sense the end closing in. But most, like my aunt, wore expressions of amused complicity. They knew what was coming, and they were ready for the show.

I strode into the hall like a king entering his throne room — no, better yet, like a creditor come to collect from a dead man walking. And damn, I loved it.

They wanted a spectacle? I'd give them one for the ages.

My eyes swept slowly across the room, hungry, deliberate, like a wolf taking his time to pick which lamb to gut first. The big mouths were all there, lined up neatly around the central table, as if their mere presence might yet save their skins. Ha. About as likely as a barrel of powder surviving a lit match. The presents?

Redrasi Vadremino, of course. The fallen patriarch of the Goldsmiths' Guild, stiff as a strip of old leather tanned one time too many. What did he think, really? That his brooding glare would be enough to unsettle me? He was welcome to try. I already knew this was to be his swan song.

At his side, his whelp Dorio Vadremino tried to play the braggart, but I could see his eyes darting away from mine like a courtesan dodging a lecherous client. Ambition without talent — a fatal combination. For him, at any rate.

My aunt, Azalea Bardatto, was there, naturally. Seated with the poise of a queen who knows full well the throne is already hers. Her fingers drummed lightly on the armrest, impatient, yet utterly assured. She was in her element, as always.

Directly opposite, Elia Domvanno, head of the Weavers' Guild, wore that polished mask of diplomatic neutrality that only the craftiest old foxes ever manage to perfect. She pretended disinterest, but I saw the glint in her eye: she was paying closer attention than anyone. At her side, her sister-in-law, Elyna Porrimo, played the dutiful mouthpiece, a well-oiled puppet ready to recite her mistress's script at the drop of a hat.

Saelios Merono, master of the Vintners and Brewers, stood tall and steady as a vine on its trellis, no doubt already calculating how many casks of wine he'd shift once the Vadreminos were swept from the board.

Maeron Tolvys, the newly minted head of the Goldsmiths' Guild, was casting daggers at his former masters. Now the official heir to the still-warm corpse of old Vadremino, he sniffed out fresh opportunities with the subtlety of a carrion crow. At least he'd read the winds correctly.

Brucaro Uomel, as solid as the iron from his forges, kept his arms folded, his gaze heavy with promise. He hadn't come for the niceties of the occasion. He was here for the forging of the future — and I held the blueprint.

Rhandal Estrosso, head of the Salters and Smokers Guild, sat in silence, sucking his teeth as if already tasting the smoked profits of the future Bardatto Trading Company.

Ilarina Lendrio, mistress of the Spice Merchants, wore her usual velvet smile, but her eyes — sharp as Braavosi blades — swept the room with surgical precision. She never backed the wrong horse. She backed the winner. And today, that was me.

And of course, Tycho Nestoris, from the Iron Bank, watched with his trademark icy calm. But I knew full well, inside that calculating skull of his, the numbers were already dancing like courtesans in a Lysene tavern.

The rest? Nobodies. Spectators. Parasites clinging to the flanks of power like barnacles to a ship's hull. Whether they were here or not made no difference to the outcome. But at least they'd have front-row seats for the Vadremino downfall.

The room fell silent as my aunt rose from her chair, draped in her authority as Guildmistress as regally as if she'd donned an imperial toga. Her gaze swept the assembly with the satisfaction of a lioness surveying freshly conquered ground.

"Esteemed colleagues," she began, her voice firm, laced with that little twist of arrogance that plainly said: take a good look — I run this show. "It is with great and unfeigned pleasure that I open this year's meeting of the Merchants' Guild."

She let the words hang in the air, giving the audience time to savour the quiet irony of the moment. Then, as expected, she turned towards me, her smile one of deliberate approval.

"I would like to begin by offering special congratulations to my dear nephew, Vincenzo." Her eyes gleamed with well-earned pride — naturally. "Thanks to his revolutionary system of measurements, our ledgers have never been clearer, and above all…" she paused, perfectly timed for effect, "our profits have grown more than satisfactorily."

I caught the briefest grimace on Redrasi Vadremino's face, as if he'd just swallowed a whole lemon. Poor wretch. Adapting to the new system had cost him an arm, and very nearly the shirt off his back. And with my embargo forbidding the Miners' Guild from supplying his workshops, I'd neatly kicked out the last leg he had to stand on. No surprise it left him with a sour taste.

I fought back a smirk. Let him choke on his bile — it would whet his appetite for the main course.

"The Merchants' Guild prospers as never before," my aunt continued, savouring every word like a vintage Myrish red. "And there is no doubt that today's deliberations will lay the foundations for an even greater era of growth."

A few nods of approval rippled across the room, like a silent wave. Even those who would have gladly seen me toppled knew that, for now, money spoke louder than envy.

Azalea sank back into her seat with all the grace of a queen certain her crown was already secured. She shot me a knowing, conspiratorial glance. The arena was open, and the gladiators already in place.

I let a beat of silence stretch out after my aunt's speech, savouring the atmosphere in the room like a fine vintage laced with the unmistakable taste of premature victory.

Then, with slow, deliberate poise, I spoke. As host, it was my prerogative.

"Esteemed colleagues," I began, with a polite smile — the sort of smile that always spells trouble for whoever happens to be across the table. "As is our esteemed tradition, this annual gathering is, of course, an opportunity for all to have their say…"

I let my voice linger, the way one might let the threat of a storm hang over a field of wheat, ripe for the scythe.

"And above all," I continued, letting my gaze settle briefly — but pointedly — on Redrasi Vadremino, just long enough for him to feel the heat of iron beneath the silk, "to propose nominations for the position of Guildmaster."

There it was: the subtle shiver that passed through the room. A silent, almost delicious charge in the air. Even the most stoic couldn't help a raised brow or a discreet clearing of the throat.

I took my time to add, in my best impression of the benevolent statesman:

"Of course, let me remind you that all proposals will be received with the seriousness and impartiality they deserve…"

Before being methodically obliterated, naturally. But no need to say that part aloud.

My eyes drifted leisurely over the assembly, savouring the weight of my words. Some lowered their gaze to hide a smirk, others exchanged furtive glances, and Vadremino — ah, Vadremino. He was already stiffening in his chair, as if someone had rammed a poker where the sun doesn't shine. Did he really think his little machinations had gone unnoticed? Please. His ambition was about as subtle as Robert Baratheon's fidelity.

Perfect. Let him rise. Let him speak. Let him offer up his neck for the blade I'd been honing just for this occasion.

He rose slowly, as rigid as a broomstick dipped in the molten steel of his own forges. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket with a nervous flick — the reflex of a goldsmith desperately trying to polish a piece dulled by time.

"I…" he began, before clearing his throat. The dryness in his voice betrayed him more than his words ever could. "I take the liberty, as former master of the Goldsmiths' Guild and a longstanding member of our august body, to put myself forward for this position."

He aimed for firmness, but I could hear the crack beneath the varnish. His eyes — oh, his eyes — flitted everywhere, anywhere but towards mine. He was playing his final hand, and for that at least, I admired his nerve.

"The Merchants' Guild has always thrived under experienced leadership," he continued, with all the solemnity of a man reading his last will and testament. "My years of service to Braavos are the guarantee of the continuity and stability we need in these times of innovation."

Oh, a neat little jab at me, trying to twist my modernisation into a weakness. I nearly applauded him for the effort.

He pressed on, forcing conviction into his voice:

"Of course, no one can deny the challenges we have faced in recent months…" His gaze strayed towards his right, to where his son Dorio sat with a face as blank as their family's empty coffers. "But it is precisely in the storm that seasoned captains prove their worth."

Seasoned captain, is it? A pity, really, that his ship was already sinking — and I'd been the one to saw through the keel from the inside. And if anyone here had the right to call themselves captain, it was me. I was the one building the bloody ships, after all. He, at best, had a gondola to go punting down the canals.

He ended his speech with a theatrical flourish, arms spread wide as though he were blessing the assembly.

"I stand ready to continue my task with the same dedication and loyalty as always, in the service of our common good."

The room held its breath for a moment. No one dared break the tension, not even his own son.

As for me, I simply fixed him with my finest bitch face.

What a lovely speech for a dead man.

The silence dragged on, heavy and suffocating, until at last a voice rose, clear and faintly ironic. I stifled a smile as I recognised the man.

"Forgive me, Master Vadremino, but I find myself compelled to wonder aloud."

Elvano Trask.

Master of the Braavosi Guild of Cartographers and Navigators.

A man as sharp as a compass point — lean, wiry, with eyes that mapped every corner of the room as if it were a chart to be meticulously deciphered. The sort who never moves a piece without having plotted the entire game in advance.

Naturally, his guild was entirely dependent on mine. After all, what use is a cartographer without ships to scour the seas and precision instruments to draw his charts? In short, the man ate at my table, wiped his mouth on my profits, and drank himself merry on the wine paid for by my orders. But he had the wit to know exactly who fed his ambitions. He was, in short, my lackey.

He dipped his head slightly towards Vadremino, adopting that honeyed courtesy that always precedes the firing squad.

"You see," he continued, wearing that faux-smile of a man about to slit the throat of a fattened goose, "experience is, undoubtedly, an asset. But…" He let the word linger in the air, savouring it like a fine morsel, "...is it truly wise, when one considers the recent stewardship of the Goldsmiths' Guild?"

I saw Vadremino stiffen even further. If his spine hadn't been as brittle as his pride, it might well have snapped there and then.

"Your son, whom you placed at the head of the guild, was obliged to step aside for Maeron Tolvys, if I'm not mistaken," Trask went on, all innocent candour. "No doubt a difficult decision, but one forced by… unfortunate circumstances."

A murmur rippled through the room. Just a whisper, but loud enough to prickle Vadremino's ears like the first warning gust of an approaching storm.

Trask fell silent for a beat, choosing his words with the meticulous care of a man tracing the outline of a betrayal, dressed up in the varnish of diplomacy.

"If the leadership of a single guild could slip through your grasp," he concluded, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed malice, "ought we truly to believe the stewardship of the entire Merchants' Guild would fare any better in your hands?"

The silence that followed was not awkward — no, far from it. It was thick with anticipation, with the delicious tension of a noose tightening. Everyone in the room was savouring the moment, the expectation of a reply, or rather, the delightful absence of any reply that Vadremino could credibly muster.

The best part? Tolvys, bless him, had been all too eager to sign exclusive contracts to source his metals from my mines. In exchange for favourable prices, of course, he'd pledged his loyalty to my cause. A masterstroke.

I was savouring the scene like a fine autumn wine. For a fleeting moment, I almost pitied Vadremino. Almost being the operative word.

I didn't have to wait long before Vadremino's whelp, young Dorio, leapt in like a starving rat spotting what it thought was a scrap of cheese.

"It's easy for you to speak so, Master Trask!" he burst out, his voice trembling with poorly contained fury. "Easy to criticise when you're under the thumb of a man who controls your ships, your navigational tools, your material supplies!"

Ah, splendid. Even I had to fight the urge to let a satisfied smile slip across my lips. He'd all but confessed it outright: the trap was so perfectly sprung, his teeth were grinding against the bars.

"Our family has been the target of deliberate sabotage, of a calculated campaign to cut us off from the essential resources of our trade!" Dorio raged on, growing increasingly frenzied. "Suppliers denied us, our workshops crippled, our alliances destabilised…"

He swept his gaze around the room, searching desperately for sympathetic eyes — but found only closed expressions, faces locked somewhere between wary neutrality and silent discomfort. Even his former allies suddenly found the tapestries and the polished grain of the table far more fascinating than his pleas. When the ship is sinking, the rats always know when to flee.

"All of this is the work of an invisible hand!" he pressed on, his voice rising a notch. "Or should I say… a hand very much visible."

And with that, his eyes locked on mine, burning with impotent fury.

I returned his gaze with all the calm of a snake watching a mouse wriggle at the bottom of the cage. Let him spew his venom; it wouldn't change the outcome, not now that the verdict was carved in stone.

To complete the performance, I even gave him a small, knowing wink — and watched with immense satisfaction as his face darkened to a shade not unlike Thanos in Avengers.

His outburst had at least the virtue of amusing Tycho Nestoris, whom I caught hiding a smirk behind his glass of iced tea. He'd grown addicted to the stuff — well, better that than drugs and whores. My uncle Caron, from who knows where, was grinning broadly, the bastard, nibbling on hors d'oeuvres as if this were an evening at the theatre.

And my aunt? She wore her usual sly little smile, her eyes alight with mischief. She was thoroughly enjoying watching the Vadremino clan squirm. I could see the cogs turning in her mind already, dreaming of snapping up Vadremino's failing businesses. But I intended to snatch them out from under her nose — I had plans for those goldsmiths, for my clocks, my pocket watch prototypes (still in development), and a dozen other ventures that required skilled hands.

The silence that followed Dorio's fiery tirade was almost too perfect. You could all but taste the disdain of the other guild members, or their quiet amusement. Even his so-called allies were laughing at him, not bothering to hide it.

The silence lingered, heavy and oppressive, until it was finally shattered by a gravelled voice that rang through the hall like a perfectly placed hammer blow.

"So, if I understand you correctly," rumbled Brucaro Uomel, leaning forward slightly, his massive arms folded across the table, "you're publicly admitting that you've been brought to your knees by a more cunning rival?"

I smiled inwardly. Brucaro wasn't one to waste time on subtleties. He preferred to strike where it hurt most, much like he did with his steel ingots.

Dorio paled a shade but tried to salvage what little pride he had left, shaking his head in protest.

"I said no such thing, Master Uomel. I merely state that—"

"That what?" Brucaro cut in, his voice booming like the bellows of his own forge. "That your incompetence is someone else's fault? That your failures should be paid for by those of us who adapted instead of whining?"

He spread his great, calloused hands across the table — the hands of a builder, a maker, hands that shaped raw material into power.

"When the orders for clockwork gears and precision components came pouring in, I delivered. When the metric system was adopted, I recalibrated my forges. I didn't sit around weeping about my fate or blame the competition for my own shortcomings."

His eyes, dark as the coal in his furnaces, bore down on Dorio with a near-crushing intensity.

"A true blacksmith doesn't blame his tools when the blade is flawed. He admits he tempered the steel too soon or too late, and he tries again. But you, Master Dorio… you blame the anvil for your failures."

A ripple of approval passed through the room. Faint, but unmistakable. The first tremor before the collapse of a rotted wall.

And me? I was in my element. I could have reached for the popcorn if it were the custom in Braavos.

Instead, I simply savoured the spectacle, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers steepled beneath my chin, watching Dorio Vadremino sink under the weight of Brucaro's hammer-blow truths.

Like a drowning man catching sight of a drifting scrap of wood, old Vadremino himself tried to lift his head.

"It is merely a downturn," he declared, his voice a little firmer than his son's but missing its former fire, replaced by that stubborn flicker in the eyes of a man who refuses to accept his own defeat. "We have weathered far worse storms. The Goldsmiths' Guild will shine again, and with it, our fortunes will rise anew. I swear it to you all."

Dutiful as ever, Dorio bobbed his head in vigorous agreement.

"We've already taken steps to restart production," he chimed in, voice wobbling between hollow hope and rising panic. "New contracts, new suppliers…"

Their desperation was almost touching. Almost. They looked like a pair of drunkards insisting they could still afford to buy a round when their purses were as empty as their promises. They were still prattling on about the Goldsmiths' Guild as if they hadn't already lost it. Clearly, the message hadn't quite sunk in.

Then came the smooth, cutting voice of Tycho Nestoris, steady and implacable as the vaults of the Iron Bank themselves.

"Hm. A recovery effort that cannot conceal the financial reality," he said, as he produced a small black leather ledger from his pocket. He flipped through its pages at an excruciatingly slow pace, before pausing. "According to our latest records, House Vadremino is indebted to the Iron Bank to the sum of…"

He raised his eyes to Redrasi, offering him a professional, razor-thin smile.

"Twelve thousand, two hundred crowns."

The room froze.

Even I felt a delicious shiver trace down my spine. Tycho certainly knew how to drop numbers like an executioner drops an axe.

I caught the flicker of panic in Vadremino's eyes. The mask was cracking, moment by moment.

Perfect timing for the final blow.

I rose slowly from my chair, my voice gliding through the air like treacherous silk.

"Twelve thousand, two hundred crowns, you say, Tycho?" I repeated, feigning thoughtful surprise. "A rather weighty sum… and one, if I may, likely to sink the Vadreminos straight to the bottom of the canal."

I let the silence linger, playing with it the way a cat toys with its prey.

"I would propose to offer my modest contribution to spare us any unpleasant economic ripples," I continued, slipping on the mask of the generous saviour. "By assuming responsibility for the assets of House Vadremino."

My voice grew firmer, more cutting.

"I shall purchase their workshops, their stockpiles, and even their outstanding debts with the Iron Bank. In return, of course, I will take it upon myself to restore their businesses and safeguard the jobs that depend upon them."

Faces turned towards me, some with feigned surprise, others with silent approval. Some saw the move for what it was, others preferred to cling to the illusion of my benevolence.

As for the Vadreminos…

They stared at me like condemned men hearing the sound of the blade sliding into place.

I offered them my finest shark's smile.

"Naturally, I will also assume full responsibility for their debts. After all," I added, with a sly wink at Tycho, "the Iron Bank always gets its due."

Tycho inclined his head, his thin smile widening by a fraction. My uncle Caron, meanwhile, raised his glass in a silent toast in my direction.

As for my aunt… ah, the old battle-axe wasn't particularly thrilled to see me snatch her future prize right from under her nose. I caught the subtle tightening of her lips, the faint flicker of a nerve pulsing at her temple. She recovered quickly enough with a polite smile, but I knew her far too well not to spot the irritation burning behind her eyes.

I offered her a calm, almost amused glance.

Sorry, dear aunt. But in this game, I always take the pot.

And, as I wasn't a monster — well, not entirely — I would, of course, be gracious enough to offer suitably tailored positions to the members of the Vadremino family. Provided, of course, they didn't mind getting their hands — or their consciences — a little dirty.

Dorio Vadremino's jaw clenched so tightly I half expected him to splinter his own teeth. It was he who, at last, let his pent-up rage explode.

"You have no right!" he cried, fists clenched white at the knuckles. "My family built those workshops with our own hands! Our artisans are among the finest in Braavos, our creations adorn the grandest homes in the city! You can't simply… buy our honour!"

Redrasi made a futile gesture to calm him, but it was far too late. Too late by a long mile.

"We are goldsmiths, not servants!" Dorio spat, his voice cracking under the strain of fury and despair entwined.

His eyes swept the room, desperately searching for support, any support at all. But all he found were averted gazes or, worse, impassive faces merely waiting for the final act of the play. Even his sister-in-law, seated at the back, was suddenly deeply engrossed in inspecting her fingernails.

Then came the calm, icy voice of Tycho Nestoris, slicing through the air with the weight of iron ledgers.

"The Iron Bank does not lend honour," he said smoothly, turning a page of his little black ledger with infuriating leisure before lifting his gaze. "It lends money. And it trusts those who, generation after generation, have proven themselves worthy of that trust."

He let the words hang there, his eyes settling first on me — insistent, almost respectful — before drifting deliberately to my aunt Azalea, to Ilarina Lendrio, and finally to Saelios Merono. He named no one. He didn't need to. Everyone in the room understood the message with perfect clarity.

"The Keyholders," he continued, weighing each syllable like a banker counts his gold bars. "The descendants of Braavos's founders and of the Iron Bank itself. Those whose names ensure the strength of our vaults."

A silent wave rippled through the room. Eyes turned towards us, some filled with admiration, others gleaming with barely concealed envy. Only Elia Domvanno remained unmoved — herself a descendant of the founders, though her branch of the family had long since withered.

Then Tycho let his gaze settle upon the Vadreminos, cold and sharp as a stiletto to the ribs.

"And those who do not bear the key…" His smile was thin, professional, but glacial. "… well, their debts remain their debts. With no legacy to shield them."

Redrasi went pale, Dorio dropped his gaze. The humiliation was complete. They had never truly been part of the club. And now, they weren't even welcome at the table.

As for me, I was savouring every drop of the moment. By all the gods, it was as sweet as a fine Bordeaux — or perhaps a Sauternes? I'd always had a weakness for rich, honeyed white wines.

I let the room steep for a few heartbeats in that thick, golden silence, saturated with the Vadreminos' defeat. A silence that tasted sweeter than any nectar.

Then, in a calm, almost detached tone, I spoke again.

"To prevent any uncertainty regarding the future of the Guild," I declared, leaning back lazily in my chair, "I propose we maintain my dear aunt, Azalea Bardatto, in her role as Guildmistress."

I turned my head slightly towards her, catching her eye. Beneath the calculating surface, I saw the flicker of surprise — followed, swiftly, by the poised satisfaction of an old fox realising she'd narrowly sidestepped the axe.

She inclined her head with regal composure, expertly concealing the relief that danced behind her gaze.

I swept the room with my eyes, lingering a moment on each face, on each merchant and guildmaster.

"Does anyone wish to propose an alternative?" I asked, knowing full well the answer would be unanimous.

The silence that followed was more delicious than all the sycophantic speeches in the world. Not a murmur. Not a dissenting word. Even Vadremino, shattered, had no strength left to object.

Perfect.

I gave the slightest incline of my head, my voice falling over the room like velvet curtains closing on the final act of a perfectly staged play.

"The motion is carried unanimously."

And just like that, I sealed the fate of the Vadreminos, and with it, my absolute hold over the Merchants' Guild.

As for the acquisition? I had no doubt Tycho would prepare the papers. All that would be left for me was to sign my name — in my finest hand.

At last, I could turn my attention to my voyage and the expansion of my Company.

Destination: the Riverlands.

It was time to set foot in Westeros, and prepare the stage for what was to come.

(Two weeks later)

The sun was slowly sinking behind the domes of Braavos, casting my study in a golden light almost as dazzling as my recent profits.

I leafed idly through the financial reports spread across my desk. Each page detailed a recent acquisition: goldsmith workshops, jewellers' shops, artisan supply stores… So many little gems plucked from the smouldering wreckage of House Vadremino.

I let out a low whistle of appreciation.

"Mmmh… I could almost feel a pang of guilt. Ah! Who am I kidding — serves the bastards right."

Caspar slipped in silently, as ever immaculate, his white gloves fitted to perfection, not a crease out of place.

"Sir," he announced with his trademark composure, "a Wisdom has arrived. He claims to be from King's Landing."

I raised my head, arching an eyebrow slowly.

"A Wisdom, you say?"

"Yes, sir. He speaks on behalf of the Alchemists' Guild of Westeros. He's travelling with several of his brethren. Apparently, they've heard of our… advanced experiments."

I eased back in my chair, a crooked smile tugging at my lips.

"Ah, the rats are abandoning the cesspit to join my little paradise of perfect chemistry. Excellent."

I shut the profit ledger with deliberate care, patting the cover with genuine affection. Gods, how I loved the sight of rising numbers.

"Show him in, Caspar. I believe we're about to have a rather… profitable conversation."

And even as I spoke, my mind was already racing with the wonders I could wring from these jaded old alchemists.

If the maesters of Westeros feared their flames, I intended to turn them into gold.

After all, there's no alchemy without a bit of chemistry

Chapter Text

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

And for those who like to review "it's illogical" or "why not steel but bronze etc." just...think. Yes, think... My character is in bloody middle-ages and has been there one year only. There's reasons why bronze was used 'till 18th century, as it could be poured and broke less easily under strains and explosions... (most of these reviews were on Ffnet btw)

And don't forget, it's a crack fick...which means, the goal is to have fun, and my character is a bloody capitalist, narcissist with a fishmonger tongue. He's an asshole, and proud of it. Doesn't mean what he does don't help people, quite the contrary.

Purple Bay, Bardatto Tower
286 AC — Two months after the (forced) burial of the Vadremino

It was time for the musical revolution — officially, at least. Everything was in place, including a harpsichord so lavish it looked like it had been kissed by a thousand goldsmiths. Gilded from top to bottom, covered in a fresco, and gleaming with ivory keys. In short: a masterpiece, gaudy beyond belief.

In front of me, Ilario Giovanni took his seat with all the elegance of a crippled man who'd long since stopped giving a damn. His busted leg forced him to shift awkwardly into position, grimacing all the while, but his fingers? His fingers looked ready to ravish the instrument before they'd even touched it. He'd been waiting for this moment for months, and at last, he had the chance to let it all loose.

He laid his hands on it like a horse dealer groping a mare before market day. I almost felt like telling him to be gentler, but then again — it was his toy. I'd simply paid through the nose to make sure he gave us a bloody marvellous inauguration concerto. The funniest part? The bastard was so talented that, reading his scores, you'd think he was the second coming of Bach. Or Mozart, maybe? Either way, the man was a musical genius.

But he wasn't alone, oh no. He was surrounded by a dozen or so musicians wielding flutes, violins, and double basses. Fortunately, these instruments already existed — even if they were wildly out of fashion. To be fair, without the bow, playing violin or double bass with your fingers… well, let's just say it wasn't ideal. I'd sorted that though, with a bit of horsehair ingenuity.

I swept my gaze across the room.

Obviously, it was packed with big fish, all here to soak up the intoxicating aroma of success — mine, naturally.

First off, there was Ferrego Antaryon, the Sealord himself, slouched in a chair worth more than your average Westerosi fleet. His expression was about as lively as a sandbank, but I knew that beneath that walrus-in-a-judge's-robe exterior, the cogs were grinding furiously. My cannons, my ships, my gold: the thoughts swarmed his mind like a pack of drunken imps. And then there was the meeting straight after this, the first for the Company. No doubt, he was already scheming.

At his side was my… friend? Let's go with that — Tycho.

Always wearing that smug little banker's smirk, like he'd triple-checked his sums and liked the numbers he saw. He was probably lining up my future profits in his head like ladies of the night outside the Bois de Boulogne. And he was already rubbing his hands at the thought of his cut of the spoils. Oddly, my uncle wasn't here… But then, it was night — he was likely off in some brothel, screwing heaven knows what.

Next, the clowns from the Braavos Council.

Roger Estanvo, the city's treasurer and, conveniently, the go-between with the Bank. Fat and greasy, a prize pig if ever I saw one. He had this porcine glint in his eye — proper Uncle Vernon from Harry Potter vibes — as he ogled the harpsichord. I'd wager my entire mining empire he was already fantasising about the taxes he could skim off every instrument I sold.

The poor bastard fanning him with a palm frond probably deserved a raise. At this rate, he was going to cramp up before the night was over… I really should look into inventing fans. After all, I already had electricity… Something to think about.

Then came Donato Velgra, Admiral of the Braavosi Fleet.

An ex-privateer who'd survived more boarding actions than I had bank accounts. Yet, from the way he was eyeing up the harpsichord with the pout of a shipwrecked sailor, you'd think he was about to ask if I could fit ivory keys to his damned galleons.

Spoiler: I won't.

Next to him sat Serenia Malthor, Braavos' chief ambassador.

A praying mantis in a Lyseni gown. Far too well-bred to drool openly, but I caught that tight little smile of hers. She was already plotting how to weave this Renaissance gem into her next round of talks with the fools at Tyrosh or Pentos. She could dream on. I planned to keep this baby as an exclusive of the Company — cut out the middlemen. As the saying goes: short supply chains, fat profits. Or maybe that one's mine. Ha!

Lucio Verendis, head scribe for the trade routes, was already sweating over his notebook. I could practically see the panic in his eyes, like a man realising his logistics were hopelessly outgunned by my future convoys. Given his role, he'd likely end up Antaryon's proxy at the Company, so he was no doubt steeling himself already. With my ships, my inventions, faster voyages… It wasn't going to be a walk in the park.

Lastly, Ysolda Braetius, head of customs.

An administrative leech of the highest order, forever fantasising about a new tax on trade flows. If I sold her air conditioning, she'd probably slap a tax on moving air. Out of the lot, she was hands-down the biggest thorn in my side when it came to taxing my products. Still, everyone's got to pay their dues… Though I did wonder where all that money went — certainly not into a welfare state, this place didn't even know what that was!

I could have found their presence annoying, if it weren't for the fact I held every last one of them by the leash. Even the bloodsucker herself fed from my hand like a well-trained parakeet.

Finally, the show was about to begin. And I'd picked the perfect setting: the Bardatto Tower, soon to serve as headquarters for the Bardatto Trade Company. The place practically dripped with luxury, reeked of wealth, and oozed decadence. Honestly, it was the only fitting backdrop for the first concerto in history. A concerto dedicated to me.

Giovanni struck the first note.

It wasn't music.

It was a confession.

The man was laying his soul bare on the silver platter I'd forged from my own gold bars.

The opening notes echoed through the hall.

Even Antaryon gave a subtle nod of approval.

Tycho flashed a satisfied smile, the sort of grin that said, I do enjoy it when my investments pay off.

As for Estanvo… Estanvo gazed at the harpsichord as if gold coins were dropping from it with every press of the keys.

Caspar, ever-loyal Caspar, leaned towards me, eyes still fixed on the room.

"Rather impressive, my lord."

I smirked.

"Oh, indeed. With enough motivation, even a cripple can compose the anthem of my triumph. And this is only the beginning."

The concerto swelled, and with it, so did my ego. The other instruments joined the harpsichord, each musician glued to their sheet music perched on sturdy stands.
Every key struck was like a thunderous slap across the face of the Vadremino — and every other fool who'd ever dared to doubt me. An anthem to my success, my victory… my wealth.
Even the ceiling beams trembled under the weight of the sound, and the sheer ambition coursing through the room.

The final note cracked through the air like a sentence passed.
Silence.
Then, applause.
Some genuine, others merely out of obligation, but all of it thunderous. And that, frankly, was all that mattered.

I rose slowly, as one ought to rise when they've won — unhurried, unbothered, radiating the calm assurance of a man who knows the entire room belongs to him.
I let my gaze drift lazily over the assembly, a sly smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

"Ladies and gentlemen…"
I gestured languidly towards the harpsichord.
"Master Giovanni has graced us this evening with a magnificent concerto. The harpsichord you heard, along with the violins and double basses, will soon be crafted and sold by my latest enterprise, Music & Profit..."

I paused just long enough to savour the weight of their attention.

"…but I didn't summon you here just for a concert. No, tonight marks the first meeting of the Company. Though, at least you now know there's a splendid alternative to the mangy caterwauling some bards dare to call music."

A few stifled chuckles rippled through the room. Even Tycho had to smother a smile behind his hand.
I threw a meaningful glance at Caspar.
"Open the doors. Let's move on to the real festivities."

The heavy council doors creaked open with theatrical timing.
I could have ordered a drumroll, but I've got enough enemies already without enraging the musical purists as well.

The room beyond was worthy of the stage.
A colossal oval table of polished mahogany, inlaid with gleaming, gold-plated brass, large enough to host a royal wedding feast — but today, it would seat only the three who truly mattered. Etched into its surface, a grand map of Westeros and Essos.

At the head of the table: me, of course — my throne, my cathedral, my bloody personal altar.
To my right, Ferrego Antaryon, as expressive as a prison wall, yet his eyes all but whispered: Go on, surprise me.
To my left, Tycho Nestoris, the ice-cold banker who, for once, looked almost thrilled. Well, a projected 500% return on investment tends to do that to the devout worshippers of the god of coin.

The Braavosi Council had installed themselves along the flanks, like luxury extras in a play not written for them. They'd have no say in the matter, but I'd let them watch the show — give them something to dream about, or lose sleep over, depending on their level of envy.

I let Caspar lay out the dossiers, neatly aligned before each of us. Everything was set for the grand mass of commerce.

I opened proceedings with the finest jackal grin in my collection.
"Well then, gentlemen… let's begin."

I signalled for Caspar to open the production registers.
He complied in silence, and the first page revealed an elegant engraving of my first fifty carracks. Beauties, the lot of them. Floating temples to the glory of ostentation. They were already docked, just waiting for launch. But there was one vessel… a special one, notably absent.

Roger Estanvo, Braavos' porkish treasurer, squinted his beady eyes at the schematics. I could see it coming a mile off.

And bingo.
He snorted loudly, like a truffle pig catching scent in the mud. At last, he dared to speak, eyes still glued to the plans of my ships.
He'd been burning to ask for a full ten minutes. Couldn't keep it in any longer.

"Lord Bardatto…" he grumbled in that stuffed-turkey voice of his, "permit me to enquire about a particular detail that… intrigues me."

I stretched in my chair, feigning boredom, as if I hadn't seen this question sailing towards me from three ports away.
"Roger, you're a curious man. It's an admirable trait. Go on, entertain me."

He jabbed a pudgy finger at the plans, right on the railings of carrack number twelve.
"The fittings… the railings, the embellishments… tell me I'm not seeing things, they all appear to be gold. And not a timid gilding, mind you. No, this is brazen, ostentatious stuff."
He furrowed his already overgrown brows — a hedge in desperate need of pruning.
"Is that solid gold?"

I nearly burst out laughing.
The fat oaf actually thought I was daft enough to squander solid gold ingots on railings? Even I, with all my egotism, draw the line somewhere.

Ah, dear Roger. Predictable to the last.
Fortunately, I possess more than the greasy brain of a bureaucratic piglet. I've got alchemists who know their way around electricity, and mountains of brass just waiting for a golden makeover.

I thought fondly of my dear alchemists from King's Landing, discreetly poached a couple of months ago. They'd all but begged me to take them on, aware of my progress and my interest in chemistry. And I hadn't needed much convincing — they were good for far more than wildfire.

People tended to underestimate alchemists — but like the Maesters, their sworn rivals, they were scholars and researchers at heart. The difference? Alchemists weren't content to scribble their findings into dusty tomes and let them rot on library shelves. No, they dabbled in chemistry, in transformation, in creation.
The result? An exquisitely efficient method for plating brass in gold, with a finish so dazzling it could fool even the most seasoned jeweller under the sun.
You see, I understood the principle of electrolysis — and they had just the knack for whipping up the solution for the dipping baths. Throw in my galvanic batteries, and voilà: metal plating at scale.

I took on the air of a man about to deliver the punchline to the finest joke of the decade.

"Solid gold?" I let the silence linger, deliciously theatrical. "Come now, Roger. I may head the richest company in Braavos, but I'm not yet pouring my ingots into my railings."

He let out a little sigh of relief. Premature.

I straightened, just slightly, letting the next line hit him square between the eyes.
"No. What you see here is brass. Good old brass from our workshops, coated by electrolysis in a layer of gold so fine, even a master jeweller would be duped."

I savoured the ripple of astonishment that swept the room, before clapping my hands crisply.
On cue, half a dozen servants strode in, each carrying a black lacquered case, my initials embossed in gold — understated, yet so brazenly arrogant it could only have come from me.

Caspar directed them with his usual precision, ensuring mine was placed before me with that discreet respect I so adored.
I gestured for them to open the cases.

Inside: jewellery. Bracelets, necklaces, rings. All in silver, plated in gold, gleaming as though I'd emptied the vaults of the Faith itself.

"For you, my esteemed guests," I declared with a predator's grin, "a little practical demonstration of my latest industrial whim. Silver, plated in gold. Lightweight, radiant, and…"

I drew a small engraved plaque from my pocket.

"…identifiable."

I held it aloft for all to see.

"Thanks to this unique hallmark, my craftsmen can mark each piece with a subtle seal, confirming whether it's solid gold or plated."

I let the plaque fall onto the table with a crisp metallic clink, the sound ringing through the air like divine judgement.

"Handy for avoiding counterfeits, wouldn't you say?"

Roger Estanvo was turning his bracelet over like a hen staring down a cleaver.

"So… even the ships carry this hallmark?" he finally croaked.

I treated him to my finest shark's smile.

"Absolutely, Roger. Every component, every rivet, every railing on my ships is hallmarked. If anyone tries to copy me, they'll have to do it without my mark. Which, let's be honest…"

I swept my gaze across the assembly.

"…is about as useful as tossing off into the wind. Messy, but ultimately unproductive."

Tycho, barely containing himself, let out a dry, clipped laugh behind his glass of iced tea.

"Ingenious," Ferrego approved, in that gruff tactician's tone of his, always quick to recognise a masterstroke of power play.

I added with a wink:

"And you know me — if I'm going to trample my competitors, I might as well do it in boots gilded with gold."

The room rippled with a mix of laughter — some nervous, others envious — but all with that tell-tale glint in their eyes, that heady blend of greed and fear I so loved to stir.

The game had barely begun, and already, I was the one setting the rules.

I plucked one of the rings from the case before me, rolling it between my fingers, admiring the way the golden reflections danced under the lantern light.

The room hadn't even settled back into silence before the vultures began to circle.

No surprise, really — it was Serenia Malthor who swooped first, a sly smile playing at her lips as though she thought her charm might prise secrets from my tongue.
Spoiler: it would not.

"Fascinating, Lord Bardatto," she purred, twirling her bracelet between her delicate fingers. "This plating method… you described it with such mastery… Perhaps you could enlighten our modest minds on its workings?"

Her eyes sparkled brighter than the gilding beneath her lashes. She was already scheming how to smuggle the technique into her own little web of influence — I could see it plain as day.

I met her gaze with my sharpest, hungriest grin.

"Alas, my dear Serenia, generous as I am with my guests…"
I tapped the case lightly with one finger.

"…there are secrets that belong better in my vaults than in your ears."

A ripple of stifled laughter moved through the room. Caspar, as impeccable as ever, didn't so much as twitch, but I caught the glint of amusement in his eyes.

Lucio Verendis, that ferrety little bureaucrat, made his move next.

"Is it a lengthy process? Complex? Costly? I'm sure the Council would appreciate understanding the implications for trade…"

He was practically sweating greed, no doubt fantasising about quotas, tariffs, or some fat little tithe on the method.

Keep dreaming.

I fixed him with an ice-cold stare and delivered my answer, crisp and final:

"It's a process mastered solely by my workshops. And it will remain so."

Full stop. End of conversation.

I let the silence stretch, calculated and heavy — the kind of silence that says: Ask another question, and I'll ram your curiosity straight down your throat.

Roger Estanvo, the treasurer, still clutching his bracelet like an old tart gripping her coin purse, finally let out a grunt:
"Very well, let's say we remain ignorant of the method. But why, in the name of the Seven, go to such trouble to plate your ships in gold?"

His piggy little eyes glittered with incomprehension, and I'd bet my best cargo he was praying I'd say it was madness — that would've done wonders for his plump financier's ego.

I flashed him my finest shark's grin.

"To leave an impression, Roger."

I rose slowly, my hands folded behind my back.

"Picture it… a squadron sheathed in gold, slicing through the morning mist. White sails billowing, hulls gleaming in the sunlight, cannons gleaming, primed to unleash thunder."

I let my gaze roam across the room, savouring the tension that tightened their faces.

"Pirates? They'll flee at the mere glimmer of gold upon the waves. Our allies? They'll see an undisputed power. And our enemies…"

I paused, just to let them stew a moment longer.

"…our enemies will know that Braavos — and above all, I — have become living legends."

I let the weight of my words drop into the room like an anvil into a pond.

Then, with an almost careless wave towards the caskets, I added:

"And of course, the method isn't limited to ships. Oh no, my friends, its potential is far more… grounded."

I picked up one of the rings and let it roll between my fingers.

"We're going to sell jewellery. On a grand scale. At affordable prices."

A predator's grin curled my lips.

"Gold-plated silver broadens the market. The wealthy will still buy pure gold, out of sheer snobbery, but the masses… ah, the masses. They want to shine. Even if it's all smoke and mirrors. We'll have tiers: brass plated in gold for the poorest, gold-plated silver for those looking for a hint more luxury."

Roger Estanvo shook his bracelet, making it jangle like a bloody piggy bank.

"And how do you tell the genuine from the plated? You mentioned hallmarks, but where, exactly?" he asked, his voice oozing suspicion.

"You want to know how to tell gold from glitter? It's simple. Simpler than slitting a rival's throat."

I glanced at Caspar, who was already presenting a small case to the assembly. Inside were four metal pieces, each stamped with a clear, precise hallmark.

I pointed to them, one by one, taking my time — I do so enjoy watching them squirm.

"For pure gold, the real deal, the stuff that makes kings and Lyseni whores swoon, we have…"

I picked up the first piece, holding it up to catch the light.

"…the crown."

The hallmark was an exquisitely engraved crown, every filigree insultingly detailed, dripping with arrogance — exactly as intended.

"Twenty-four carats. Pure gold. No compromises. Anything stamped with this mark is worth as much as a hold full of golden dragons."

There were a few appreciative nods around the room. The rich do love knowing how to recognise their toys.

I moved on to the next.

"For standard gold — let's say, for honest merchants and housewives too cautious to get mugged in the street — we have…"

I lifted the second piece.

"…the ship."

The hallmark showed a stylised galleon, proud as my own carracks slicing through the waters of Braavos. Sails full, ready to conquer oceans and markets alike.

"Eighteen carats. Enough gold to shine, not enough to have your throat cut for a ring. Practical, isn't it?"

A dry chuckle rippled through the room. Even Ferrego allowed himself a slight smile. He appreciated the brutal pragmatism of it.

Finally, I picked up the third.

"And for our friends among the common folk, those who dream of riches without selling their children into slavery…"

I held up the third piece, marked with two hallmarks: a radiant sun and a square enclosing the letter A.

"…the sun."

I turned it in the light, openly revelling in its brilliance.

"Gold plating. The beauty of illusion. Affordable luxury, but with impact. With this system, even the local fishmonger can buy his wife a necklace without ending up begging outside the Iron Bank. For plated pieces, we use a second hallmark. Here, you see an 'S' for silver."

I set it down and picked up the final piece.

"Here, you'll see a 'B' for brass. Meaning this one's cheaper than its silver cousin."

I flicked the piece onto the table with a satisfying metallic ring.

"Four hallmarks. A crystal-clear hierarchy. From nobility to common folk, there's something for everyone. And me? I skim the profits at every level."

Tycho, grinning ear to ear, raised his glass to me.

"A hierarchy fit for society itself, Lord Bardatto. Ruthless and lucrative."

I returned his toast with a wink.

"Precisely, Tycho. I give everyone just enough to believe they're getting what they deserve — and I make a fortune off their vanity."

I saw Serenia Malthor trace her finger thoughtfully over the sun hallmark. She was already calculating how many of these little beauties she could funnel into Volantis.

Roger Estanvo, predictably, piped up again in his anxious piglet voice.

"And these hallmarks… will they be certified by the Goldsmiths' Guild?"

I flashed a smile as dazzling as my rings.

"Roger, Roger… when you control the Guild, certification is automatic."

A brief silence hung over the room. Heavy with the obvious.
Everyone here knew I had the Goldsmiths' Guild in my pocket — more than half the craftsmen worked for me now, and the guildmaster himself obeyed my every whim like a lapdog on a leash.

I leaned back in my chair, satisfied as a king upon his throne.

"With these hallmarks, I unify the market. I crush counterfeiters before they even dare lift a finger. And I control the entire chain, start to finish. With the blessing of the Iron Bank, I intend to extend this hallmark system to coinage itself. It will take time and no small effort, but at least, we'll know what's real and what's rubbish."

I ended on a lower, more theatrical note:

"I decide what shines. And what shines… is me."

The room hung on my every word — my favourite position, if we're being honest.

I let my gaze prowl over the assembly, leisurely resting back in my chair. No need to bang fists on the table or bark for attention here. I was gravity incarnate — and they were all caught in my orbit, helplessly drawn in.

"Now that you've had your fill of my little trinkets, let's get to business."

I let the suspense linger, just enough to make them twitch.

"My fleet is nearly ready. Fifty brand-new ships, dressed to outshine kings."

Roger Estanvo visibly flinched, no doubt already tallying up just how many bloody taxes he could squeeze from my expeditions.

I pressed on, relentless.

"But I've no intention of sitting here, sipping wine, waiting for the gold to pour itself into my goblet."

I allowed myself a crooked smile — the kind that tells your enemies they've already lost, whether they know it yet or not.

"I will be sailing aboard the fleet myself. To Westeros."

Dead silence. Even Tycho, not one to be easily rattled, frowned at that. Ferrego, ever the statue, stayed impassive, but I caught a flicker of intrigue in those obsidian eyes of his.

As for the Braavosi Council, they finally stirred like a shoal of fish realising the shark was already in the bay.

Serenia Malthor, forever eager to pull the strings, parted her lips to speak — but I was faster, cutting her off with a predatory smile.

"No debate, Serenia. My mind is made up. Westeros overflows with opportunity, and I fully intend to seize it."

I rose, the leather of my chair creaking under the motion.

"I want them to see, to smell, to hear Bardatto arriving in their harbours. I want the gleam of my ships to make them forget the very name of their pitiful coinage."

I shot a glance at Tycho, just for the pleasure of it.

"And to remind them that Braavosi gold outshines their knock-off dragons any day."

Caspar, ever impeccable, stepped forward with a ledger in hand.

"Preparations for the voyage are already underway, my lord. The fleet is being provisioned and will be ready to set sail at your command. As for the Treasure of the Seas… construction will be complete within the week."

"Perfect," I nodded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

Donato Velgra, the Braavosi Admiral, cleared his throat.

"The Treasure of the Seas?"

I flashed him a sly smile. The Treasure of the Seas was to be my flagship, my floating colossus. I'd worked day and night with shipwrights, goldsmiths, alchemists, and master forgers. The result? A monster of a ship — four masts, three full batteries of twelve cannons each, that's thirty-six a side. Seventy-two cannons poised to obliterate anyone foolish enough to stand in my way.

A beast among beasts, over eighty metres long, with multiple decks, and — because of course — a music hall. I fully intended to bring a few musicians aboard, including Giovanni himself.
The stern? Shamelessly modelled after the Sovereign of the Seas.
The prow? A chest spilling over with gold.
In short: sheer floating opulence, designed to flatten anything foolish enough to cross its path.

"My flagship," I confirmed. "A surprise, of sorts. I plan to mark my departure with great fanfare — you won't be disappointed by the spectacle."

He eyed me warily, then gave a slow nod.

"An expedition of that scale, my lord… it won't go unnoticed."

I served him a smile as sharp as a rapier's edge.

"That's precisely the point, Donato. I want people talking about me in every tavern from Braavos to Highgarden. I want songs sung in King's Landing, rumours so wild they'll become prophecies."

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a velvet purr.

"I want them to see Bardatto as the rising sun of their trade… and the shadow that falls across their coffers if they dare resist."

A heavy silence.

Then, I concluded — with the certainty of a conqueror who already sees victory within reach:

"I'm going to sell them dreams. I'll sell them jewellery, clocks, weapons. Hell, I'll sell them their own wretched dignity. And I'll do it in person. After all, the vain lords of Westeros love nothing more than to be drowned in gifts and flattering words. With me, they'll be feasting like starving men at an endless banquet."

"I suppose you've a particular target in mind?" Antaryon asked, arching an eyebrow.

I gave him a knowing smile.

"Indeed. No need to bother with their capital that reeks of shit. No, I'm aiming for the Riverlands with a network of depots."

I gestured at the engraved map before me, which looked for all the world like a banquet table where I alone had been invited to gorge.

I spread my hand flat across it, letting them feel, deep in their bones, that it was already mine — they just hadn't yet received the invoice.

The Council, a swarm of flies around a particularly juicy corpse, hesitated. Naturally, they wanted details. They could sense it: behind the gold plating and the pomp, I had a masterstroke in the works. Not that it bothered me — I relished this. Being the seer in a room full of the blind.

Roger Estanvo, apparently determined to wring every last ounce of use from his corpulent frame today, fumbled to reconnect what few synapses he had left.

"Depots… where exactly, my lord?"

I smiled, slow and sharp. The kind of smile that says let me teach you to read a map, piglet.

"Three main ones, Roger. Not fifty. No need to spread oneself thin when you know how to aim properly."

I tapped my finger against the first target.

"Saltpans. The perfect harbour to receive my cargoes by sea. Close enough to the coast to offload straight into the Riverlands, and discreet enough that the customs men of King's Landing will keep snoozing over their ledgers."

I caught Ysolda Braetius frowning at the mention of Saltpans. No doubt she was already dreaming up a whole nursery of new taxes.

Then, I slid my finger inland across the map.

"Oldstones."

I let the name linger deliberately.

"An ancient fortress, dusty, decrepit… in other words, the perfect place to be reborn with my money and my ambitions. I'm going to turn it into a commercial citadel. Fortified, naturally. Cannons, walls, warehouses vast enough to starve Lannisport on a whim."

Silence gripped the room. You could almost hear the calculations grinding in their heads.

"And finally…"

My finger traced its way to the mouth of the future canal, boldly carved into the map by my own hand.

"…the third depot will be here, at the mouth of the canal linking the Ironborn's bay to the Blue Fork. Yes, I fully intend to negotiate for land between Oldstones and Ironman's Bay to build a canal linking river to sea. By my reckoning, it's barely eighty kilometres… fifty miles, for those of you still clinging to the old system."

I leaned over the map like a wolf scenting its prey. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Antaryon's flicker of amusement.
I'd pushed through the metric system in Braavos, after all — asked the Council to adopt it officially. The guilds were already on board, so the Sealord hadn't even put up a fight.

"This depot will be more than just a warehouse. It will be a bloody fortress. I'll have dykes built, gun batteries mounted, stores of food and weapons piled high enough to withstand any siege. After all, we'll have the Ironborn for neighbours."

Donato's eyes shone at the mention of cannons. The Council had been briefed, of course, and he'd become one of my most enthusiastic allies. Practically worshipping me. We'd already started building fortifications around Braavos, on the islands guarding the city. The plan? Install heavy artillery to blow any would-be attackers out of the water. We were even preparing to re-arm the Titan itself.

I snapped my fingers — purely for the theatre of it — and Caspar stepped forward, ruler in hand, to trace the routes on the map.

"The carracks, armed to the teeth as they should be, will sail around Westeros straight to this depot in the bay. No more faffing about with Reach detours or Lannisport's customs. They'll have a dedicated quay at this hub."

Caspar nodded crisply.

"And inland?" asked Donato Velgra, sharp as ever, sensing the genius at play.

I gifted him a smile that could have melted his iron cannons to slag.

"Inland, Donato, I'll send flat-bottomed ships. Nimble, fast, gliding over the rivers like blades over a throat."

I traced the route with my finger.

"From Saltpans to Oldstones, then from the canal to the bay. They'll ferry goods east to west, keeping the depots well stocked. From there, the fleet waiting in the bay can fill up before selling along the western coast — Bear Island, Oldtown, Lannisport. I plan to commission sturdier vessels to transfer the profits back to Saltpans, where my carracks will be waiting to bring the gold home to Braavos."

Roger Estanvo opened his mouth, no doubt ready to vomit up another bureaucratic objection.

I cut him off at the knees before he could embarrass himself.

"No, Roger. Don't bother asking if it's profitable. It's beyond profitable. It's inevitable."

I let myself sink back into my chair, savouring the weight of my audacity.

"While my competitors chew their tongues over clogged routes, I'll be delivering ahead of schedule. Faster. Cheaper. With infinitely more style."

I allowed a heavy, deliberate pause to fill the space, then delivered my final words like nails hammered into my rivals' coffins.

"I will bleed Westeros dry, ladies and gentlemen. And I'll do it with a smile on my lips and gold-plated rings on my fingers."

Slowly, I let my hand drift across the map — from Oldstones to the canal, to Saltpans, then to the Twins and Riverrun.

"I'll make them dependent. Entirely. Not just petty merchants scraping a few coins off my shipments. No."

I let my gaze lock onto the Sealord, then slide deliberately to Tycho of the Iron Bank.

"They will be bound to the Bardatto Trade Company."

I let the name resonate through the chamber like a bell tolling the dawn of empire.

"The Tullys, the Freys, the lords of the Riverlands… they'll cling to my ships like lice on an overzealous smuggler."

I rolled the gold-plated ring between my fingers.

"They'll beg me to open new routes. To build new depots. To flood their bridges and their quays with my cargoes. Every tax they scrape from my goods will be a gasp of air in their lungs, wheezing from living on credit."

I raised my eyes, scanning each face on the Braavosi Council, then landing — quite deliberately — on Tycho and Ferrego.

"And every tax they take…" I let the words hang like silk in the air, "will be a share that we take with them."

A well-placed silence followed, heavy with promise.

"Because, gentlemen… this Company is not mine alone."

I let the final syllable drag out, like a blade drawn across a throat.

"This is our ship. Our cargo. Our profits."

I felt Tycho's attention sharpen like a hound catching the scent of an overfed pheasant.

"The fatter they grow off our bounty, the fatter they make our coffers. The more they depend on my routes, the more they depend on us — the three of us."

I braced my palms against the table, pressing my words into the polished wood as if to carve them into its grain.

"The Iron Bank will be the blood in their veins. The Sealord, their breath. And I — I will be their damned heartbeat."

Tycho inclined his head slowly, appreciating the clarity of the mechanism, and the cold, inevitable profit it promised.

Ferrego allowed himself a dry but approving remark.

"Total dependency. Force them to live by us… or die."

I flashed him a predator's grin.

"Precisely. They'll live if we allow it, and die if it suits us better."

Then, I straightened fully, sweeping the room with a gaze heavy with command.

"We set sail in a week, and you can be damned sure they'll see us coming from a league away. And while we're at it…"

Caspar read the signal without a word, unfurling a roll across the table. Not a scroll, no — sheets of fine paper, forming… a newspaper.

Oh yes. I had planned to launch the world's first newspaper, and emblazoned across this prototype was—

"The Titan Gazette? What is this?" Ysolda asked, her interest undisguised.

I let my eyes roam the room, savouring the moment.

"My dear friends, this is the first official newspaper of Braavos and the Bardatto Trade Company."

I snapped my fingers for effect.

"It will be our voice. Loud, clear, and echoing as far as my ships can carry it — loud enough to drown out the wails of our competitors."

Tycho, naturally, grasped the strategy before I'd even finished speaking.

"A weapon of propaganda…" he murmured, smiling faintly.

I raised my gold-plated ring in a toast of sorts.

"More than a weapon. A symphony of influence. We will use it to announce our innovations, our expansions, our products… and to spread whatever messages we deem useful for the smooth flow of trade. We'll shape public perception the way a jeweller cuts a diamond."

Ferrego Antaryon, until now quietly listening, gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"We could even use it to broadcast our official positions… let's say, to support the abolition of slavery, for instance."

He earned himself a sharp, wolfish grin from me.

"Exactly, Ferrego. Picture it: a people convinced that freedom is good for business, that commerce thrives best without chains around the workers' wrists. And guess who they'll see as the champions of this noble cause?"

I flicked my thumb towards myself with calculated nonchalance.

"Us. Bardatto, the Sealord, and the Iron Bank. The enlightened liberators selling them the keys to prosperity."

Lucio raised a hand, worry creasing his brow.

"But… Lord Bardatto, what of the illiterate? The peasants, the labourers, the dockworkers? They won't be able to read your Gazette."

I smiled like a wolf spotting a limping lamb.

"Ah, my dear Lucio… this is where the illusion becomes a vision."

I clicked my tongue against my palate, savouring the suspense I had crafted so perfectly.

"We'll have town criers, of course. Men paid by the Company to read the news aloud at set hours in the market squares, the ports, the outskirts of every major town. Each new edition will be heard by all, literate or not."

I let the idea settle over them, then continued, my tone turning solemn, each word carving itself into their minds.

"But I intend to go further. I will found an institution — a public college, funded by Braavos and by the Company itself, where anyone, from the humblest fisherman to a merchant's son, can learn to read, to write, and to count."

A murmur of surprise rippled through the assembly. I heard Tycho let out a low whistle, appreciating the scope of the ambition.

I locked eyes with the still-hesitant councillor and delivered, in a voice as firm as iron:

"An educated population is a profitable population. More efficient. More inventive. More ambitious. You think I'm dabbling in charity? Hardly. I'm making an investment. A peasant who can read ledgers is a merchant in the making. A dock boy who can write is a future clerk. And a population that can count?"

I jabbed my finger against the map, right where the canal had been drawn.

"That's a population that understands the value of labour. And the fortune we will bring them."

Ferrego gave a slow nod, his eyes glinting with icy approval.

"You're turning the masses into cogs in your machine, Bardatto."

I met his gaze with a blade-sharp smile.

"Exactly, Ferrego. Education is the most profitable weapon of all. And once it is in our hands, we won't just control the gold and the trade routes…"

I rolled the gold-plated ring between my fingers again, savouring the play of light.

"… we will control their very minds. Picture it: the values of Braavos embedded deep in their skulls, from the classrooms to the front pages. Imagine posters plastered across their walls, preaching Braavos' trade, freedom, and… the Company."

Silence. The room held its breath. Even the sceptics were reassessing their place in the grand game I had laid bare before them.

And I concluded, as only I could, with a perfectly honed parting shot:

"Ladies and gentlemen, remember this day well. We are not simply writing history…"
I let the pause stretch just long enough.
"…we are deciding who gets to read it. So let us drink! To the glory of Braavos, of the Company! And above all, to our goddess: wealth!"

"To wealth!" they cried in unison, raising their glasses high.

They were eating out of my hand, and it was exquisite.

I left the chamber to the sound of cheers, and in the quiet of the corridor, I paused a moment to look out the window.
The sea stretched before me, vast and infinite, a promise waiting to be claimed.
It belonged to no one — but I could already hear its waves whispering my name.
Soon, it would be mine.
Mine alone.
The very thought sent a shiver down my spine. What a thrill.

Chapter Text

Hey people, here's the 11th chapter. Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

(Braavos, a week later)

Fucking hell, what a week.
It felt like I'd spent my days counting orders like some banker off his tits on stimulants. And I won't lie—I loved every bloody second of it.

Clavichords were flying off the shelves. The nobles of Braavos—those silk-draped peacocks—were clawing at my instruments like beggars at a free banquet. And violins? Same story. Even the spoiled brats of the upper crust wanted them, just to show off in their parents' parlours. Hopefully their daddies would fork out for proper tutors, or we'd soon have an army of screeching alley cats who fancied themselves prodigies.

As for the cellos… correction, cello, not double bass—rookie mistake in a moment of euphoria. Had to happen sometime. Either way, the wealthy were elbowing each other to get one for their drawing rooms, proof that taste didn't die with the Vadreminos. Speaking of which—they'd decided to leave Braavos for… gods know where. And we'll never find out, since their ship mysteriously went under. To be fair, I offered them positions. They spat in my face.

Anyway, every morning had turned into a circus. Letters were flooding in from everywhere—Lys, Pentos, even bloody Norvos. Everyone wanted Bardatto. Pure, handcrafted goods.

How the news spread across half of Essos in just a week, I'll never know—but I was pleased. Naturally, I hiked up the prices for those slave-trading bastards… and the Iron Bank was thrilled. Why? Because all that money they were paying—vast sums of it—was going straight to the Iron Bank, draining the reserves of Volantis. The result? Iron Bank dominance, total control of the money flow.

It was when I caught my reflection in one of the windows that I realised I was grinning. Proper pleased with myself, and it showed.

That's when the carriage gave a gentle lurch and stopped.

"My lord, we've arrived," Caspar announced in that flawless voice of his.

Perfect timing. Enough of the past—the curtain was about to rise.

I raised an eyebrow, brushed off my sleeve for show—always keep it sharp, even at the top—and stepped down from the carriage.
And then…

Bloody hell. What a sight.

A deep crimson carpet stretched all the way to the Treasure of the Seas, my flagship. No, not just that—my masterpiece. My floating jewel. The largest vessel ever built by human hands. My pride.

Two magnificent banners flapped in the wind. The first bore the company emblem: a golden balance with a black key in place of the centre beam, flanked by two ships instead of weights, the sea below, all on a red background.

The second? Mine—my family crest. Instantly recognisable, of course—stamped on every single one of our products. A massive, over-the-top golden B, as if the letter itself was shouting, "Look at me, I matter." Framed with vine leaves and grape clusters, for flair. A crown at the top—naturally, I was the king of commerce—and two ships on either side, sails billowing, ready to conquer the world… or at least sell barrels of cheap wine at caviar prices.
A Renaissance crest for a world knee-deep in mediocrity.

I dragged my gaze away from the ship and looked around.

Hundreds—no, thousands—of gawkers had gathered. The whole damn city seemed to have turned up to watch me set sail, as if I were the bloody Sea Lord himself. Given Antaryon's age and my popularity, people were already whispering my name as the next in line. Ah, power. I do love the taste of it.

I glanced at the officials dressed in their finest silks.

Of course, Ferrego Antaryon stood there, his dignity wrapped around him like a concrete-soaked broomstick. Beside him, Tycho Nestoris, flashing that smug banker's smile—I'd bet my mines he was already counting future profits from my company. He was coming along too, as the Bank's representative. Mostly, he just wanted to watch me work.

And then there was my uncle Caron, looking positively jolly, thrilled at the prospect of having full access to the wine and whores in my absence.

Ah, Caron. Always a man of priorities. I left him in charge of my Braavos affairs while I'm off gallivanting across the world. His one condition? Unlimited access to my wine cellars and the House of Delights. Well, everyone's got their poison.

But today, no one was stealing my spotlight.

I raised my hand with theatrical flair, and the murmuring crowd fell silent.

"Caspar," I said without looking at him, savouring the moment, "start handing out the silver coins. The special ones."

Caspar bowed ever so slightly and gave the order.

Ah yes, those coins… not your average currency. Custom-minted with my crest on one side and an engraving of the college under construction on the other. A fine little PR stunt to burn my name into the public psyche. Naturally, struck at the Iron Bank, who loved the idea of "collectible coins."

Relics to some, talismans to others. And to me?

Seeds. Seeds planted in the minds of the masses. I could already hear the rumours forming—legends sprouting around those coins. Some would believe it marked them as chosen to work in my ateliers. Others would think it promised future fortune. Fools, all of them. But clever fools would collect them—and eventually, they'd build a thriving little black market around them.

Caspar, as dry as ever, couldn't resist a quiet comment, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"My lord, you do realise you're creating your own religion?"

I returned his smile, wicked and knowing.

"As long as they pray with offerings, I don't mind. You know me—money's my only god."

The coins rained down, and with them came the cheers. I heard the crowd chanting my name while the other merchants stared daggers at me, green with envy.

Pathetic. They couldn't buy admiration if it came pre-wrapped in gold.

I cast a glance to the side and—right on cue—spotted a few discreet figures cloaked in heavy capes, despite the sweltering heat. Foreign spies. Volantis, Lys… maybe even Myr. Who could say?

Ah, those vultures never wasted a second.

I smirked inwardly.
Patience, darlings… patience. One day, I'll come knocking—and then you'll be biting your fingers to the bone. Compared to me, the Valyrians will look like dainty schoolgirls playing dress-up.

I ascended the steps of the Treasure of the Seas with the unhurried grace of a king mounting his throne. No pompous speech, no theatrical declarations. Tycho soon joined me, wearing that usual inscrutable smile of his—he did love a good show.

But I didn't need words to make an impression today.
No, I had something far better.

Behind me, Giovanni and his musicians took their places, ready to make my clavichord sing with ecstasy. Specially built for the ship, fixed to the deck with the precision of a master carpenter—it wasn't going anywhere, no matter how wild the waves.

The first notes rang out—rich, powerful, grandiose.

Then the fireworks cracked open the Braavosi sky, lighting up the faces of the crowd with awe. Oh yes, that sailor I'd hired—the one who'd travelled to Yi Ti—had been worth every coin. The blue above exploded into a riot of colours as cheers erupted from every corner of the docks.

The Treasure of the Seas lifted anchor to a thunder of applause and cascading lights.

I stood at the prow, hands clasped behind my back, savouring the moment like a fine vintage.

Caspar approached quietly.
"My lord, you seem pleased."

I shot him a knowing look.
"How could I not be, Caspar? I leave behind a city at the peak of prosperity, a college rising to shape my future workforce, and my uncle…" I paused for effect. "…drunk before noon and undoubtedly draped in the finest exports Lys has to offer."

Caspar stifled a smile while Tycho gave a knowing shake of the head—he'd long since grown used to my uncle's antics.

My eyes drifted from the shrinking city to the vast horizon ahead—where gold and conquest awaited.
"I can't wait to see Westeros," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.
"And by the time I return… the college will be complete. And Braavos will be ready for the next chapter of my empire."

"An empire," Tycho added smoothly, "fully supported by the Iron Bank. Our coffers have never been so well-fed."

I smiled at the sound of his voice.
"Soon, the whole world will know my name—and the name of our company. And no one will dare stand against us, because we all know the truth:"
"Money makes the world go round."

With that, I turned from the horizon and settled into a seat beside the clavichord, letting Giovanni's music wash over me.

I couldn't resist humming the lines from an old song…
"Money makes the world go around, the world go around…"

Truer words had never been sung.

(Five days later, King's Landing, the Red Keep)
POV: Robert Baratheon

Fucking eunuch.

I could've been out hunting. Or better—drinking a bloody barrel of wine with a pair of tits in each hand. But no. I'd been summoned. Again. And by Varys, no less. That powdered butterfly with a voice like he's been sucking flowers since birth.

I kicked the council chamber doors open with all the grace of a boar in heat, hell-bent on wrapping this meeting up faster than it takes to drain a tankard.

They were all there. As usual. All sat in place like constipated old aunties afraid to move too fast.

Jon Arryn, steady as ever. Gods, I loved the man—he raised me like a son. I missed those days in the Vale with Ned. Simpler times. But did he really need to summon me? I made him Hand of the King so I wouldn't have to deal with this shite.

Stannis… oh, Stannis. My lovely brother with a stick up his arse and a face like he's been sucking lemons in a graveyard. Already staring at me like I've done something wrong. Which, to be fair, is just his resting face. Even when he's taking a dump, I bet it doesn't change.

Then Staedmon, the stingy old coin-counting sod. Tight-fisted as a starving lion's jaw. We need to replace that one. He's competent, sure—but always on my back about tourneys and "royal expenses." Targaryen left behind a mountain of gold, and by the gods, I'll spend it if I want.

Pycelle—ancient fossil with the posture of a sack of wet bread. Don't let the droop fool you, though. He plays the loyal fool well, but I see him. That toady bastard served the Mad King like a lapdog and flipped his cloak the moment it suited him. Can't boot him without backlash, though. Cersei'd never let that slide without turning it into another godsdamned shrieking show.

Barristan Selmy—now he's a man I respect. Knows his way around a blade and doesn't look at me like I'm a walking scandal. Bit of a relic, sure, but an honourable one. Shame he ever had to bow to that silver-haired lunatic.

Lord Penrose—always ready with laws and codes as if they ever stopped a blade. Still, a good man, castellan's father down in Storm's End. Bit ancient, though. I'd wager he'll croak soon enough. When he does, I've half a mind to slot Renly in.

And of course, right at the centre of it all—the silk-cloaked spider himself: Varys.

I dropped into my chair like I was burying my patience six feet under.

"Well, Spider, are you going to spit out your silk, or will we be treated to more perfumed curtsies and sweet nothings?"

The eunuch bowed, slow and syrupy. That damn voice of his—smooth as poisoned honey at a wedding feast.

"Your Grace, thank you for honouring us with your presence. What I bring is… of strategic significance."

Pycelle gave a phlegmy grunt. Stannis frowned even harder. Didn't think that was physically possible.

"I'm listening," I growled, "but you'd better make it quick. I've been sober for two hours already, and that's an insult to the gods."

Varys delicately lifted a scroll.

"Five days ago, a fleet left Braavos. A massive fleet. Fifty ships at least."

I raised an eyebrow.

"The Braavosi are always setting sail. It's what they do. You dragged me here for that?"

"This is no merchant convoy, Sire. These are ships like we've never seen before. Fifty—possibly more. Enormous. White. Their hulls are plated with metal. Some say they bear open maws, and pipes made of steel."

I straightened in my chair. What the hell was this cockless bastard on about now? And while we're at it—how does he cope without a cock? No wine, no whores. No wonder he's always got that odd look on his face.

"Maws?"

"Weapons, Your Grace. Mouths of thunder, they say. Capable of breaking walls or sinking ships in one strike."

Silence.

Even Stannis looked away, jaw clenched like he'd just swallowed a bad clam.

"Who commands them?" Jon asked, ever the calm one, upright as he was back when he used to thrash me for nicking bread.

Ah, Ned and I, we caused all sorts of mayhem back in the day… Mostly me, really. Ned was always the brooding type. Northerners. Always cold—even in their joy. Except Lyanna. Gods, Lyanna…

The eunuch smiled again—tight-lipped, serpent-like. You don't need to travel to Dorne to find snakes. I've got a prime specimen right here.

"A man of Braavos. A name Your Grace may have heard… Vincenzo Bardatto."

I snorted.

Foreign names bored me to tears. But that one—that one—even I'd heard it.

Some merchant bastard from Braavos, supposedly richer than the bloody Lannisters if you believe the drunkards in the taverns.

"Bardatto… yeah. The merchant who shits golden dragons."

"They say he's the richest man in Essos."

"They say a lot of bollocks," I muttered, folding my arms. "So what the hell's he doing with fifty ships? Coming to flog me some wine, or planning to nick my crown?"

"His intentions remain unclear, Your Grace. But according to my sources, his fleet is headed… for the Riverlands."

Stannis clenched his jaw. Gods, does the man ever stop sulking? Since he married that Florent girl, it had only got worse. Mind you, that was on me too… but the maid was irresistible. And I had a son out of it. A bastard, sure, but my bastard—Edric Storm.

"And Hoster Tully is welcoming him?"

"Maybe. Maybe not yet. My little birds haven't sung the full tune," Varys said smoothly.

I turned to look at Jon. His brows were drawn—coming from him, that was damn near shouting.

"I don't think Bardatto wants war," he said at last. "But he's definitely after something. And when a rich man moves, it's never for scraps."

"He may be seeking alliances with Hoster," Penrose added. "Trade agreements. Port access. Influence."

Stannis slammed a fist on the table.

"He mustn't have free rein along our coasts. That's a foreign armada."

I rolled my eyes.

"Here he goes again. What, you want us to send our entire navy to greet him? The Admiral of Paranoia, sailing forth with suspicion in his sails. And what navy, exactly? The one you built and got sunk when you stormed Dragonstone—and came back empty-handed, I might add, without a single bloody dragon brat!"

He shot me a glare black enough to make a shadow run. I was used to it.

"If he turns against us…"

"Then we crush him. Like all the rest. A fleet looks grand at sea, but on land, I'll ram my warhammer through his chest just like the last dragon."

I sighed and turned to Jon.

"What do you think? Honestly."

He didn't answer straight away. That look he got—the one where he was combing maps and names in his mind—settled on his face.

"We should warn Hoster. Just in case. He should inform his bannermen. Stay alert."

I nodded slowly. That was level-headed. And let's be honest—fifty ships weren't about to conquer the Riverlands, let alone my kingdom.

"Fine. Send a raven to Riverrun. Tully should be ready."

Varys leaned in slightly.

"Shall I… suggest that we hope this fleet is not an omen of storm?"

I shot to my feet.

"Write whatever pleasantries you want. As long as the Braavosi doesn't attack, I don't give a pig's arse. And if he shows up here, we'll see what he wants then."

I stared down at the map of the Riverlands, then grunted and turned away.

"I'm going back to real business. Next time you call me in, make sure it's for something worth the wine I'm not drinking. Otherwise, I'll let the hammer do the talking!"

And with that, I stormed out of the chamber, Barristan trailing behind me, along with that bloody Lannister. I could have dismissed him, but I wasn't about to hand Tywin the satisfaction.

Part of me hoped this was all just trade—that the Braavosi were simply peddling their luxuries and playing merchant-king.

But another part… another part wanted to see what would happen if it wasn't.
Gods, I missed the war.
And if it meant getting away from that screeching harpy I call a wife…

Yeah. I wouldn't mind meeting this Vincenzo.
Not one bit.

(The Riverlands, Riverrun, Seat of House Tully)
Two Days Later – POV: Hoster Tully

Another letter.
Another godsdamned letter.

I've read hundreds of them. Kings, queens, puffed-up little lords who think their parchment smells sweeter than their neighbour's.

But this one…
This one made me raise an eyebrow. And at my age, that's no small feat.

The raven from King's Landing had arrived that very morning, slick and polished like a champion at a tourney, bearing the sort of dread they never usually bother sending to my lands.

"A foreign fleet approaches. Possibly hostile. Prepare your men. Fortify your ports. Remain vigilant."

Didn't even bother finishing it before rolling the bloody thing up.

Vigilant? I was born vigilant, you southern imbeciles.

My lands have never had the luxury of looking away. Every time a wind blows from the west or a dragon farts fire down south, it's my soil that gets trampled. War always comes to the Riverlands first. Always. And no one gives a shit.
Except today, apparently.
Pfah.

But this time…
This time felt different.

I turned back to the other letter—the one I'd received three days prior.
I'd read it five times now. Hadn't even put it away.

The parchment was thick, expensive. It reeked of foreign wax, the ink embroidered with style, with intent. And the words… oh, those bloody words.

"To the attention of Lord Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun,
Protector of Rivers and Hills, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

"My Lord,

If you're reading this, it means my ships weren't sunk by the paranoia of your neighbours, nor scorched by the zeal of some over-eager fanatic in the service of an overly cautious king. That's already a good start, wouldn't you say?

I come not to ask, but to offer. Not to plead, but to propose.

I am Vincenzo Bardatto, heir to House Bardatto of Braavos, Keyholder of the Iron Bank, Master of Clocks, Founder of the Bardatto Commercial Company, Lord of the Treasure of the Seas, Reformer of Metric Systems, and—according to certain well-informed courtesans—a divine lover. But don't trust the rumours. They tend to exaggerate. Slightly.

I arrive with fifty ships. Not creaking war-galleys, no. Marvels of engineering. Each capable of crossing oceans with grace… or levelling a fortress if required. But fear not—I am a man of commerce. I prefer my powder in ledgers, not cannons.

My aim is simple, yet ambitious: to establish the principal trade hub of my Company upon your lands.

Why the Riverlands? Because this is the beating heart of this godsdamned continent. The crossroads. The lifeline.

And that is precisely what everyone has forgotten.

They tread on you. They use you. But they never pay you what you're worth. I offer to turn this heart into a vault. To make your rivers into golden roads. To make the Lannisters weep and Castral Rock itch with envy.

I do not come empty-handed. I come bearing cargo, craftsmen, contracts, promises… and the power of a floating empire.

I propose an alliance. Commercial. Political. Profitable. For you. For me. For the Riverlands.

And if you still have doubts… remember this:
When Braavos extends a hand, it's rarely without gold dripping from its fingers.

With all due consideration (and a touch of irony),
V.B."

I leaned against the desk, but my eyes were already somewhere else—far ahead, where the rivers widened into possibilities.

Bardatto wasn't a merchant. He was an army.
An army of gold, of silk, of silver-tongued ambition.
And that… that was far more dangerous than a thousand cavalry charging at my gates.

We've dealt with Braavos for years. Traded, borrowed, owed.
And the name Bardatto—well, it's been echoing louder and louder of late.

But truth be told, I didn't give a damn if he was dangerous. Or if he wanted to use me.
At least he was honest about it.

I've been used all my life.
Me, my lands, my people.

The Lannisters ignore me, the Tyrells sneer down from their flowery hills, the Greyjoys raid my coasts, and the Baratheons treat me like a bloody stepping stone.
I married my daughters to Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. And what did I get? Stark's got a bastard running around, and Jon can't even get my girl with child. Thank the gods he doesn't know about that business with Petyr Baelish—or he'd have called the whole thing off. Forced my own daughter to drink that cursed moon tea…

But Bardatto? He speaks to me like an equal. He sees what my lands are worth—my rivers, my ports, my crossroads.
He wants to turn them into an empire.

So let him come.

I took a blank sheet of parchment, and though my hand trembled with age and fatigue, my script held firm:

To Lord Cox, Lord of Saltpans,

In a matter of days, a fleet from Braavos will arrive.
There must be no delay. No doubt.

You are to welcome them as you would a king.
No—better.
For this one brings gifts.

Let the streets be clean. The carpets laid. The barrels opened.
And let Bardatto's name be whispered in every tavern before nightfall.

This may be the beginning of a golden age…
or an age of madness.

But either will be better than what we've known.

Hoster Tully,
Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, Lord of Riverrun

I sealed the message and called for my maester.

"See it sent within the hour. And have the reception halls prepared. No royal banners—I want red. I want blue. And I want good wine."

He bowed and left.

I remained there a moment longer, gazing out the window.
The sky was heavy, brooding—but the wind had changed.
Something was coming.

And within me, for the first time in far too long…
I felt something strange.

Hope.

But one thing I knew for certain:
If that Braavosi bastard is lying to me,
I'll throw him into the river myself.

But if he's telling the truth—
Then Riverrun will shine.
And the Riverlands will never bow again.

Chapter Text

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

(One week later)
Saltpans, The Riverlands, Westeros

As he did every morning, Ser Quincy Cox — knight of Saltpans and lord of the town — took his breakfast with the rest of his family. Today, he was surrounded by his three sons, two daughters, and a cluster of grandchildren.

He had insisted they all return for the coming weeks, though they now lived scattered across Westeros, each having forged their own path. As a lesser house sworn to the Tullys, and only a landed knight at that, his holdings were modest, and only his eldest son would inherit anything of note.

"When is that merchant supposed to arrive?" asked Rowan, his firstborn.

"I'd suggest you refrain from calling him a merchant once he's here," Quincy replied, tone clipped. "He's no mere vendor. He's a man of considerable standing."

"Considerable?" one of his daughters asked, brow raised.

"You don't know, sister?" another son interjected. "They say Vincenzo Bardatto is the richest man alive. Richer even than the Lannisters."

"Nonsense," she scoffed. "No one has more coin than the Lannisters. That's just drunken gossip."

While his children bickered, Quincy remained silent. The rumours had swept from Winterfell to Sunspear — whispers of the Titan's Witness, a man whose name echoed in hushed voices. Tales of Myr's surrender without a battle, of vaults overflowing in the Iron Bank, and of influence bought rather than won.

His gaze drifted to the carafe of wine at the table — a dark red from Braavos. A Bardatto vintage. He had to admit, the coin had been well spent. The wine had become a favourite.

"They say he set out a fortnight ago. He'll need at least that long to reach us, won't he?"

He was about to answer his daughter when the bells began to toll. Not the sept bells. These were louder. Urgent.

The doors burst open. A servant rushed in, sweat gleaming on his brow.

"Ser Cox— my lord— a fleet… there's a fleet on the horizon. It's… it's…"

The servant's words dissolved into stammers. He was clearly shaken. Quincy stood at once, his family rising with him, and together they made for the balcony overlooking the harbour.

There, stretching out beneath the morning sun, was a sight to steal the breath.

A vast fleet, brilliant white hulls glittering on the water, sails billowing in the wind.

"It's enormous…" murmured his second son.

Quincy could only nod, struck dumb. The ships were massive — twice the width of a galley, three times the height of a dromond. Two flags fluttered from their masts. One was unknown to him: a golden balance, ships, and a black key. But the other he recognised — the same crest engraved on the carafe from Braavos.

"Look at that one!" cried one of his daughters. "It makes the Fury look like a dinghy!"

She meant the Fury of Robert, flagship of the royal fleet. A war galley of fearsome reputation — now dwarfed by the behemoth gliding into Saltpans.

A four-masted titan, each mast strung with sails. At its prow, a monstrous ram — bronze, or perhaps copper — impossible to tell from this distance. Carved into it, a colossal chest, bold and unmissable. A declaration: wealth ruled here.

Quincy turned to a stunned servant.

"Ready everything. Lord Bardatto has arrived." Then, to his family, voice sharp and commanding: "Go. Change. I want you dressed as though we were welcoming the royal family itself."

His children scattered. Quincy stepped away from the balcony and was met by the captain of his guard, waiting with a dozen armed men.

"Saddle the horses. We ride for the docks. I won't have him setting foot on Riverlands soil without a proper welcome."

His stablehand brought the horse, and Quincy mounted without hesitation.

The time had come to receive the man who might well reshape the fate of the Riverlands.

POV Vincenzo Bardatto
(Meanwhile — Aboard the Treasure of the Seas)

Ah… Westeros.

At long last, I was about to step onto this bloody continent. Part of me was thrilled — because, godsdammit, it was WESTEROS! And yet… another part of me wanted nothing more than to turn the ship around. Because, well — shit, it was Westeros. The land of icy stares, misplaced honour, and entirely too many swords for anyone's good. Enough to drive a man insane.

Still, I had a distinct advantage: the calendar. It was the end of 286 AC. About three years before the Greyjoys played pirate king, and a good sixteen before those frosty twats from beyond the Wall began their march.
Plenty of time to lay down roots. And maybe — just maybe — to prepare a welcome party so infernal even the Seven would flinch.

I stood at the prow of the Treasure of the Seas, wind blasting into my face, hands clasped behind my back, cloak rippling like the bloody banner of a conqueror. My expression? Somewhere between divine ecstasy and unashamed narcissism. The kind of pose that made painters swoon and lesser lords piss themselves. Oh yes — I wore a cloak, solely for the drama.

Thanks to my personal tailor — a genius with silk and an attitude problem — I had assembled a wardrobe like no other. A deep blue shirt, open at the chest, with voluminous sleeves that screamed decadence. Over it, a black leather doublet with golden buttons shaped like tiny coins. Around my waist: a broad belt with a gleaming golden buckle, the clasp styled into a baroque 'B'. Cream-coloured trousers tucked into thigh-high black leather boots. And to crown it all, a wide-brimmed hat with absurdly elegant peacock feathers, because subtlety is for peasants.

My fingers glittered with signet rings and golden torque, each piece a declaration: I reeked of wealth. On purpose.

I turned briefly to glance behind me — my fifty ships gliding obediently in formation behind the Treasure of the Seas.
Fully stocked. Perfectly aligned. Regal as a goddamn imperial procession. I was the Bernard Arnault of Westeros, and this was my portfolio made manifest.

Their white and purple sails billowed magnificently in the breeze. At their head, me — riding a floating beast of wood and bronze, its prow carved into a titanic treasure chest bursting with frozen riches. Not subtle. Intentional.
A message etched into every inch of this ship:

"I'm not here to conquer you. I'm here to buy your soul. And your children's. And their children's. Ad infinitum."

At my side stood the only man aboard immune to the gravitational pull of my ego: Tycho Nestoris of the Iron Bank. Always composed. Always elegant. Always just a little nervous whenever I utter the words, "I have an idea."

Still, I knew he liked me. These days, he was hooked on my drinks — iced tea, lemon cordial, mint syrup… The man was a Braavosi financier with the soul of a summer maiden.

"The bells of Saltpans ring out your arrival," he said, raising one thin brow. "It seems your fleet has given them quite the fright."

"Well, they knew we were coming," I replied with a smirk. "At least the peasants will come running to the docks. A crowd's a crowd — and a crowd is publicity. Besides, I didn't arrive empty-handed."

Oh no. I had plans for these quaint little Westerosi. First impressions mattered, after all.

"They're ready," said Caspar, appearing behind me — curt, precise.

I nodded slowly. Time for the show.

"Let's begin. Giovanni?"

On a raised platform mid-deck, Giovanni lifted his hands above the keyboard like a high priest summoning a god. Around him, violinists, cellists, and flautists waited, taut with anticipation. Frankly, I was impressed they still had the strength — they'd spent the last two weeks playing nearly six hours a day.

"It's time."

I raised a hand. A signal shot down the line.

And then… it began.

The first firework screamed into the sky from a flanking ship — a shriek of light, followed by a golden explosion shaped like a star. Then another. And another.
Bursts of colour arced through the air — trails of red smoke, spirals of flame, waterfalls of violet sparks.

The sky above Saltpans — grey and sleepy moments before — erupted into noise and light.

Fire-dragons coiled among the clouds. Rosettes of gold bloomed over the waves. Jets of blue crashed into the sea like the gods themselves were weeping magic. Even the gulls fled in panic — good riddance, vile shit-stained things. They'd fouled my decks too many times.

And the grand finale? A blazing insignia — a stylised golden balance, followed by a black key circled by a golden crown — fired from custom pyromantic rockets. My thanks to the pyromancers of King's Landing. Worth every flaming gold bar I paid them.

Tycho, usually stone-faced, finally turned his head.

"My lord… you're launching an illuminated artillery barrage above a Tully stronghold."

I offered him the smile of a man who's never lost a bet.

"Correction. I'm rewriting the economic history of Westeros with fireworks. These aren't threats, Tycho — they're advertising. The sort that will ripple through the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire. My name will be on every tongue by sundown."

He allowed himself the faintest of smiles. From Tycho Nestoris, that was practically a climax.

"Like your posters in Braavos?"

I nodded, a smile tugging at my lips. Back in Braavos, I'd plastered the city with posters bearing the seal of the Company — a polite reminder that we were here, that we were the future, and that yes, we were hiring. But that was just the surface. The real message, the deeper play? They'd find out soon enough.

I'd sent letters to every sellsword company from Pentos to Qohor — the Company of the Rose, the Stormcrows, the Gallant Men, the Company of the Cat, Windblown, and a dozen more. Even the Golden Company. Though I didn't hold my breath with those zealots — not with the whisper of an Aegon in their ranks, whether Targaryen or Blackfyre. Still, I'd confirmed it myself — Jon Connington and a blue-haired child. Interesting times.

My goal? Simple. Recruit, dismantle, absorb. Fold them into my own Company as the backbone of a standing armed force. See, I'd already begun dividing the Bardatto Company into two branches: the Military Arm and the Administrative Arm. The latter would manage our depots and colonies — the bureaucrats, the stewards, the governors. But the sword? That would serve only me.

Speaking of which…

I cast a glance behind me, toward a hooded figure who stood in still, silent vigilance. No one aboard knew her identity — no one but me.

She was tall, powerful, the kind of woman who could snap bones with a handshake. A warrior forged in violence, clad in gleaming full plate etched with the symbols of my family and the Company. Under her crimson hood, a mask of gold concealed her face. A greatsword rested across her back.

She had sworn herself to me — body, mind, and soul. I'd named her my High Inquisitor. My right hand. She would be the iron fist enforcing order in our future territories.

Oh, I had plans. Ruthless ones. This was George R. R. Martin's world — mercy was an expensive luxury.

I'd already begun laying the foundations for my personal army. An order built on loyalty, ideology, and law — my law. The law of commerce.

Its name? The Golden Garrotte.

Its sigil? A sword driven into a chest of treasure, crowned by a golden circlet — all in shimmering gold on a deep purple field.

Caspar approached, drawing my attention.

"They're running along the ramparts. The bells have stopped. I think they're too busy shitting themselves," he reported with a smirk.

He was starting to talk like me. Gods, I loved it. I caught him shooting a sideways glance at Julia — my Inquisitor. He was still a little scared of her. As he should be. That armour was designed to unsettle.

"They should be," I replied coolly. "A man shows up with fifty ships, a bloody orchestra, and fireworks that make grown men cry — they'll soon realise I'm not here to set up a bloody market stall."

I fixed my gaze on the port ahead. Closer by the second. The walls teeming with gawkers, the rooftops packed with eyes wide and mouths agape.

"No… I'm here to show them who's in charge. These blue-blooded inbreds still believe power lies in nobility. What utter bollocks!"

My voice rose — enough to make Caspar flinch, and even Tycho blink.

"Power lies in knowledge. In wealth. And most of all, in knowing how to wield both. Power is admiration. Trust. Influence. Look at Braavos — they chant my name, parents teach their children about me, beggars toast to my health. I don't need some dusty castle and a dozen inbred cousins to be important. Oh no."

"Dangerous words, Vincenzo," Tycho murmured. "Some might take that as a challenge. Or worse — a threat. Not the Iron Bank, of course. But then, you knew that."

He gave me his signature thin smile. Of course he knew. The Bank had always understood the link between gold and power — more clearly than anyone else.

Few in Westeros grasped the truth: many noble houses were deep in the Iron Bank's debt. Some had even vanished from history. They blamed war. Disease. Misfortune. Fools.

The truth? The Bank funded their enemies and collected its due in blood. Robert's Rebellion needed coin — mountains of it. And the Bank obliged.

Aerys was mad, yes, but rich. What soured the deal? His dream of building a rival bank. So the Iron Bank backed the rebels — a loan of a million gold dragons. Paid back, with interest, after King's Landing fell.

Very few knew that. Jon Arryn. Eddard Stark. Robert Baratheon. Tywin Lannister. Hoster Tully.

My uncle had played a key role in that affair, and he loved to brag about it. And why not? The return on investment had been glorious — half a million dragons in interest alone.

"You'll see, Tycho," I said. "My words are prophecy. One day, the Bardatto Commercial Company will dominate the world — and we'll usher in an age of wealth and innovation. The Iron Bank will become the vault of the known world. Every man, woman and child will trust it with their coin. Because the one who controls the currency, controls the realm."

I met his eyes — and saw the flicker of something rare in Tycho: satisfaction.

"I imagine history will remember you, Vincenzo," he said. "Especially if you're the one writing it."

"I intend to."

I turned to Caspar.

"Tell the captain to dock right there — where those soldiers are lining up. Must be the local lord. Also, send word to the fleet: it's time. Begin the Assembly."

Caspar nodded and hurried off.

"The Assembly?" Tycho asked.

I gave him a sideways glance and a knowing smirk.

"I'm not dragging my arse across the Riverlands on foot. You'll see. I think you'll rather like it. We'll save a lot of time."

He raised a curious eyebrow, then nodded once.

Yes. I'd planned for everything.

End of POV
(A few minutes later, at the docks)

Ser Quincy Cox stood tall, back straight, flanked by his guards. Around him, hundreds of people had gathered, all under his protection, his authority.

Saltpans was no great port — its size paled in comparison to other Riverlands holdings. He was, after all, a landed knight, not a lord paramount, and his domain reflected that. Still, it was prosperous. The sea was generous, the Trident nearby offered fertile land, and the Ironborn were a distant problem on the far side of the continent.

But one thing was certain: never in all his years had Saltpans seen anything like this.

The ship looming before him, Treasure of the Seas, was so vast it cast a shadow over the docks. Finally, a gangplank was lowered. Guards in supple leather and rapiers — Braavosi by their look — descended and formed two symmetrical columns.

Then came four figures, followed by servants struggling under the weight of heavy chests.

Quincy recognised Vincenzo Bardatto instantly. The absurdly elegant hat. The radiance. The swagger. The kind of presence that didn't require introduction. Next to him stood a man in simple, fine brown robes with a black iron key hanging from his neck — unmistakably a representative of the Iron Bank.

The third man carried a bundle of parchments and a slate, no doubt a scribe or personal steward.

But it was the fourth figure that made Quincy swallow.

Tall. Towering. Armoured from head to toe in gleaming, gilded plate etched with sigils he didn't recognise. A woman — that much he could tell from the shape of the cuirass — but unlike any woman he'd seen. She was huge. Nearly the size of the Mountain That Rides. He wasn't sure he could best her in combat, and he was certain his guards couldn't.

He stepped forward to greet his guests, maintaining a dignified air, though his stride had the faintest tremble. The golden sentinel at the rear didn't help matters — her blank mask seemed to track his every move.

He forced a smile, bowed slightly, and offered his hand.

"Lord Bardatto, Saltpans is honoured to receive you. I am Ser Quincy Cox, landed knight of the Riverlands and lord of this town. On behalf of House Cox and House Tully — welcome."

A heartbeat of silence. Just long enough to sting.

Then Bardatto stepped forward. His cape flowed behind him like silk caught in a breeze, his pace measured, his bearing imperial. He stopped just short of arm's length and dipped his head — only slightly, enough to register as polite, but never submissive.

"Lord Cox. The honour is mutual."

His voice was calm, rich — the sort of voice that made people lean in. Quincy knew, in that instant, he was in the presence of danger — not the brute-force kind, but the slow, smiling, velvet-gloved type. The Tywin Lannister kind. Only smoother.

Vincenzo extended a hand to his side, gesturing to his companions in turn.

"This is Tycho Nestoris, official representative of the Iron Bank."

Tycho bowed slightly, his eyes already dissecting the port and its people like an assessor with a deadline.

"This is Caspar, my personal steward. The man who ensures order in chaos."

Caspar gave a brief nod, his gaze already sizing up the crowd, the terrain, the economics.

"And this," Bardatto said, pausing for effect, "is Julia, my protector against any… unfortunate surprises."

A ripple of shock passed through the gathered crowd. The realisation struck — the golden giant was a woman.

Whispers spread like wildfire.

Armed women were unheard of in the Riverlands — this one shattered that expectation like a warhammer to glass. The men gawked in disbelief. Some of the women looked on in fear, others with a spark of envy. Julia was a vision of impossible strength, moving outside the roles Westerosi society allowed them.

Then Bardatto turned his gaze back to Quincy.

"And in gratitude for your hospitality — and to seal this meeting under the sign of prosperity…"

He snapped his fingers.

The servants stepped forward, hefting the heavy chests with visible strain. The reinforced wood creaked. Locks clicked open. Lids were thrown back.

No gold.

Silver.

Hundreds — no, thousands — of silver coins. Freshly minted, each bearing the sigil of Braavos. They gleamed in the sun, glinting like the promise of better days.

Bardatto raised one hand.

"For Saltpans. May the people remember."

And the coins were hurled skyward.

A roar exploded from the crowd — shrieks of joy, gasps of disbelief, sobs of gratitude. Arms reached skyward. Children fell to their knees, old men wept openly.

Silver rained like salvation.

"Long live Bardatto!"
"Thank you, Lord Bardatto!"
"Braavos! Braavos!"

Cox's guards tried to restore order, but it was no use. The people were already his. To them, he wasn't a foreigner — he was a saviour. A single silver coin was worth a year's labour to many. He had bought their awe, their thanks… their loyalty.

And Ser Quincy Cox stood there, motionless.

He had finally understood.

He hadn't welcomed a guest. He had welcomed a wolf.
And he had just realised he was one of the sheep — in a world where the shepherd had long since died.

The rain of silver continued to fall, coins skipping off cobblestones, bouncing on rooftops, vanishing into grasping hands. Joy surged through Saltpans like a tide no dam could hold.

The cheering had drowned out caution. And Quincy Cox still wore his smile…
But his eyes had dimmed.

He straightened, carrying the dignity of a man who knows the game is lost — but refuses to leave the board.

"My Lord Bardatto," he said, voice firm but careful, "you honour our humble town with your presence… and your generosity."

He paused, selecting his words like a man walking barefoot over shards of gold.

"May I invite you to Saltpans Keep? You shall be our honoured guest. I only hope our lands prove worthy of your… eminence."

A ripple passed through the crowd.
Tycho raised a single brow.
Julia didn't so much as twitch.

Bardatto, for his part, appeared to consider it, as though the invitation of a Riverlands knight demanded true deliberation. Then, a calculated smile.

"It would be an honour, Lord Cox. I accept your hospitality."

He glanced briefly at the roaring crowd, still chanting his name.

"Prosperity always begins with a warm bed, good wine… and better negotiations."

Caspar moved at once, murmuring instructions to a servant. A cluster of Bardatto men broke away, heading to coordinate the disembarkment of the cargo and retinue.

Vincenzo descended the final step of the gangplank, extending a hand toward Cox with the grace of a prince who didn't need a crown.

"Lead the way, my lord. I'm curious to see what Saltpans has to offer — beyond its people."

They began the short procession toward the keep. Horses were brought forward. Bardatto mounted with ease. Unsurprisingly, Julia chose to remain on foot — faster to draw steel that way.

Behind them, the shower of coins continued. The crowd clawed at the earth for every last scrap of silver. The servants kept distributing, methodical and relentless. This wasn't charity — it was branding. A spectacle.
Every piece they threw forged a link: prosperity equals Bardatto.

At last, they reached the keep's courtyard.
The great wooden doors creaked open, aged hinges groaning in protest.

The Bardatto entourage entered — and the contrast hit like a hammer.

The keep, with its damp stone, its old moss-covered walls, smelled of age, tradition, and stubborn Riverlands pride.
The guests? They brought the scent of polished leather, freshly-forged steel, exotic oils, and the unmistakable tang of logistics and coin.

Cox dismounted first and beckoned to his household.

"Lord Bardatto, allow me to present my family."

His children stood lined up like unsure soldiers before a phantom enemy.

"My eldest son, Rowan."

Broad-shouldered, hard-eyed. He gave a curt nod, visibly rattled by Julia's towering presence.

"My second son, Perwyn."

Thinner, bookish — the dried ink on his thumb betrayed his true calling.

"My third son, Lewyn."

Tall like the first, but with a gentle awkwardness that made Bardatto smile. A soft brute — now that was a rare breed in Westeros.

"My daughters, Myrielle and Liane."

One forced a smile. The other stared at Bardatto — or perhaps at Julia — with wide, curious eyes. Fascination or fear? Hard to say.

"And at last, my grandchildren… and my lady wife, Lady Jeyne."

She stepped forward with measured grace, her bow elegant, her bearing proud. But her eyes never left Tycho. She knew a banker when she saw one.

Bardatto dismounted in one fluid motion, cloak fluttering just so, boots clicking like punctuation marks on old stone.

He took in the scene. Calculated. Cold. Perfectly polite.

Then he smiled — just enough to unsettle.

"A fine family," he said, voice warm with a faint edge. "It pleases me. Family loyalty is the bedrock of any empire… even the modest ones."

He offered a fractional bow.

"Vincenzo Bardatto, President of the Bardatto Trade Company. At my side, Caspar, my steward. Here, Tycho Nestoris, Iron Bank representative and member of the Company. And there…"

He paused, letting the silence weigh.

"…Julia. My bodyguard."

Julia stood immobile. Her golden mask caught the light, casting back the reflected, distorted faces of House Cox. She didn't need to move — her presence alone was enough to terrify.

Bardatto turned back to Cox, still perfectly affable.

"You have a fine estate, Lord Cox. Old, solid… rich in history. I do hope it proves equally open to the future."

Quincy inclined his head with the grace of a man navigating a storm with no sails left.

"We shall show you to your chambers. I trust you and your companions will join us for luncheon?"

"With pleasure," Bardatto said smoothly. "We've so much to discuss. And truly — there's nothing like a good meal… to do serious business."

Cox's brow furrowed ever so slightly.
Business?
Hoster Tully had made no mention of negotiations. He'd simply been asked to host.

Then what, exactly, was Vincenzo Bardatto planning?

Chapter Text

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr. I do post there some different extras.

(Dining Hall of Saltpans Castle, three hours later)

We'd been assigned quarters in the lord's wing of the castle.

Hardly majestic, if I'm being honest. I'd go as far as to say it was picturesque. After a life of luxury and wiping my arse with silk, I'd grown used to a level of comfort mere mortals can only dream of. But hey — I couldn't really blame Sir Cox. He was a landed knight, after all. Barely a notch above your standard-issue noble. So of course, he didn't have much to his name.

Later, we were taken to the Banquet Hall… or what passed for one.

Frankly, I'd have preferred to be lounging with a glass of Myrish red and a Volantene courtesan on each arm. But apparently, we were here to "honour the local nobility." Which meant dinner. With people who still think a taxidermied stag and a stitched table runner are the height of grandeur.

Still, it was an opportunity to negotiate the Saltpans trading post, which was essential to my plan. Sure, I could bypass Cox entirely and go straight to Tully — his liege lord and owner of the land. But why bother making enemies for free? Better to loop Cox in, get him on side. A resentful ally is still more useful than a sulking opponent.

I brought my attention back to the table.

It was ordinary. The mood was stiff. But my gaze landed on something far more delicious than anything they'd served.

The carafe.

My carafe.

One of my early designs, still bearing the old engraving. Broad base, delicately worked handle, stopper cut to perfection. The crystal caught the candlelight with a grace this room certainly didn't deserve.

They were drinking from my glassware, in a castle that might one day appear on my balance sheet. Adorable.

I couldn't help but smile. But even I could see, reflected in my wine, that it wasn't a warm smile. Oh no — this was a predator's grin. A piranha catching scent of blood.

Cox's children eyed me warily, but I couldn't care less. Tycho and Caspar? They didn't even blink. Used to me and my little… quirks. I could see they were already bored stiff — probably by the mind-numbing conversation.

Yes, we were eating. And to say the meal was uninspired would be generous (except for the marinated venison — that was bloody brilliant). But the conversation? About as stimulating as a damp sock.

Harvest yields. Shipping routes to Braavos. The going rate for fertiliser. Riveting stuff.

Then the doors swung open, mercifully interrupting the thrilling debate. Thank the gods — I was ready to chew my own arm off.

A guard burst in, stiff as a board, a little too quickly to be casual. Clearly something had lit a fire under him. I had a pretty good guess what.

He froze the moment he saw me — possibly dazzled by my sheer presence — then turned to Cox, still panting. The man had clearly run, and judging by his gut, not recently. The Riverlands' finest, ladies and gentlemen. No wonder they lose every bloody war.

"My lord… Lord Bardatto's men… they've begun disembarking. They've pitched tents… and they're… they're building ships. But… not like ours."

Knew it. My "assembly" — our not-so-secret code for the reassembly of our vessels — had begun. And, as expected, the local idiots had noticed.

"They're flat. Really flat. Long. Wide. No keel. Not built for battle. But… they…"

He fumbled for words. Never seen a flat-bottomed boat before? Or not like these?

"They look like they know exactly what they're doing."

I didn't answer right away, letting the silence stretch a little. Tycho gave me a sly look; Caspar looked like he was trying not to grin. I was definitely rubbing off on him.

Fingertips drumming the table, I turned to Cox, who looked bewildered. Then, finally, his gaze met mine. Time to deliver the pitch. No better cue than a fleet being built under his nose.

"Don't worry, Sir Cox. Just our river transports. I'm not a fan of roads — and even less of spending hours on horseback or jostling about in a carriage. So I arranged a more efficient alternative. Quicker. Smarter."

I took a slow sip of the local wine. Passable. Slightly sharp, not properly aired. But served in my own decanter, so I let it slide.

Cox sat up, fingers tight on the rim of his plate. He was keeping it together, but the twitch of his jaw gave him away. He clearly didn't appreciate me acting without informing him.

Too bad. There wasn't much he could do. I had more men, and better armed.

What did he command — a hundred men? Maybe? Me? With my fleet? Over ten thousand.

Not exactly a fair fight.

"Since you seem so comfortably installed… may I ask which direction your men intend to… sail?"

I set my glass down slowly. A gentle clink against the table. It was a stupid question, frankly — I knew full well Tully had already warned him I was coming.

I smiled at him, calm and composed. The sort of smile you offer when someone asks the colour of your curtains.

"Riverrun, of course. I plan to make the journey in a few days. The Trident offers a direct, smooth, convenient route."

I watched his eyes blink — once, slowly.

"It's an underused trade artery, if I may say so. And I like to think I can make… harmonious use of it."

He laid his cutlery down with deliberate care, then folded his arms. There it was — the irritation. Subtle, but showing.

"That river runs through my lands, Lord Bardatto. It serves my people. My fields."

I nodded, polite, sincere… falsely. What was he thinking — that the river belonged to him? Poor sod.

"Of course. And I would be the last man to upset the order of your domain."

I leaned in ever so slightly, hands steepled beneath my chin.

"After all… it is your river."

I let the silence hang. Watched him bristle. Yes, I'd said "your river" with just the right hint of mockery.

Then, in a voice as smooth as silk:
"Although… strictly speaking… no one really owns that river. Except, perhaps, your King. Or your liege lord. But you? Not in the slightest. Still — I'll take your concerns into consideration. And I'll show you just how thoroughly you've been underusing it."

I offered a small, civil smile.

"I'm a reasonable man, Lord Cox. I move with the current. And so far, the current's done very well by me."

I straightened slowly.

"You now have a rare chance — to see your lands become part of a major trade route. The ships we're assembling aren't here to raid your shores… they're here to bring something."

I gestured lightly to the carafe, without touching it.

"Like this decanter. Made in my own workshops. A product from far away, and yet… here it is. Brought here by merchant vessels crossing the sea."

I took another sip.

"And the same will happen with the river. It will serve. It will enrich. It will flow. And everyone… will profit."

I let Cox stew in silence for a few more seconds — just long enough for him to wonder whether he ought to feel insulted… or intrigued.

Then I carried on, lightening my tone, almost affable.

"Sir Cox, you've got a port. Small, yes, but functional. A modest town, well situated. Fertile lands. Access to the Trident…"

I cast a glance around the room, like a benevolent appraiser in a slightly shabby antiques shop.

"What you have is potential. What I'm offering is the means to turn it into wealth."

His gaze sharpened. I had his full attention now — and his children's too. Good. I planned to make the most of it.

"I want to establish a trading post here, under the aegis of the Bardatto Trade Company. Warehouses, housing, guardhouses, docks, moorings — even an exchange bureau linked to the Iron Bank. All run by trained professionals, managed with precision."

I'd already discussed the concept with the Bank's senior officials. They liked the sound of it. After all, Braavosi coin was preferable to most, and what better way to begin a shift in currency than with a proper exchange bureau?

I leaned in, elbows just brushing the table.

"In return, you gain what most lords don't even dare to dream of: jobs for your people, an influx of merchants, taxes on trade, exclusive privileges… and of course, an annual rent. After all, these are your lands, and I wouldn't dream of buying them from you."

I let that line hang. They love that word — "rent". It smells of passive income dressed in dignity. And besides, even if he wanted to sell, he couldn't. He's just a landed knight. The land belongs to Hoster Tully.

"Saltpans will become a major waypoint on the river trade network. What is now a modest holding will be seen as a key junction between Braavos, Riverrun… and beyond."

I picked up my glass, turning it slowly between my fingers.

"You'll remain lord of your lands, of course. But under the watchful shadow of a structure that ensures your crops always find a buyer… and your enemies rarely find allies. The Bardatto Trade Company is powerful, Lord Cox — as are its members."

I flicked a glance at Tycho, whose face remained impassive. They followed my gaze and understood the message: The Iron Bank was part of the Bardatto Trade Company.

"An alliance, Sir Cox. Intelligent. Lucrative. And, most of all… inevitably profitable."

I paused. Then, softly, with just a hint of a dagger beneath the silk:
"Unless, of course, you'd prefer to watch your neighbours seize the opportunity before you do."

I let my last words resonate, then shifted slightly in my chair. The backrest creaked softly beneath my cloak, and I caught that gleam in Cox's eyes — that delightful blend of greed and apprehension. My favourite flavour.

I continued, my tone smooth and perfectly measured — almost casual.

"For all of this, naturally, we need a base. A foundation. A stronghold — not military, of course… but just as strategic."

I laced my fingers together before me.

"I would like to lease a plot of land on the edge of the port, or a little downstream, depending on what you deem appropriate. Let's say… a few hectares. Enough for the Company to build its warehouses, install private docks, and raise a few reinforcing embankments. All at our expense, naturally."

I noticed Rowan stiffen at the mention of permanent facilities — but I ignored him. He wasn't the one in charge. Not yet.

"Of course, to protect our holdings, a barracks will be constructed to house the Company's guards. They won't interfere with your men, and they'll have no authority beyond the Company's grounds. But within those grounds?"

I held Cox's gaze with the gentle warmth of a banker discussing family inheritance.

"Within, the Company's laws will apply."

I could see the subtle tension ripple down the table. Cox and his sons had tightened at the word barracks. They understood the implications of a foreign armed presence — and I understood their hesitation.

Time to dangle the carrot.

"I propose an annual lease of two hundred crowns."

Silence.

I dropped the next line with the kind of instructive tone one might use for slow learners.

"That is… two thousand gold dragons."

I saw his lips move, but no sound came out.

Even his wife tightened her grip on her fan.

"Payable on a fixed date, in the currency of your choice, through a deposit at the Iron Bank. And I assure you, Lord Cox — that's a starting offer. In five years, this port will be worth five times as much. And we'll pay accordingly."

I leaned back ever so slightly.

"The facilities will be managed by my staff. Security, by our men. Maintenance, by our engineers. Your people, should they wish it, can find employment there. Better yet… I could build a school. And housing. All protected by proper walls."

I paused.

"A city within the city — for your benefit. And as proof of good faith, I'll guarantee that in the event of a siege, your people may take refuge within our compound."

I lifted my glass calmly. His eyes lit up — just a flicker — but it was there. We both knew: in the event of war, the trading post would be untouched. No one is foolish enough to attack the Company.

"This isn't an invasion, Lord Cox. It's an opportunity. I'm not taking your land — I'm making it useful."

I raised my glass slightly in an empty toast.

"And believe me — two thousand dragons is a figure even Reachlords would struggle to ignore."

I saw the shift in Lord Cox's eyes.

For a fleeting second, he no longer saw a foreign merchant, but a future paved with overflowing coffers, better-fed peasants, and well-equipped soldiers.

He saw a legacy. A place in history.

And I knew he'd bite.

He wet his lips, thinking.

"It is… a considerable sum. I must admit, your offer is enticing. If all this comes to pass… Saltpans would be transformed."

But no sooner had the words left his mouth than a voice cut through the air. Sharp.

"And at what price, Father?"

Rowan. The eldest son. He was glaring daggers at me, every inch of him pulled taut like a drawn bow. One of those idiots who mistake patriotism for competence.

"We'd be handing over our lands to a man we know only by the weight of his coin. And you'd welcome him by offering the port? Our shores? A city within the city?"

He glanced swiftly at Julia — and I caught the twitch in his jaw. He was afraid of her.

Good.

He pressed on.

"This isn't an alliance — it's a conquest in disguise. Say yes, and you sign the death warrant of our house. This merchant is nothing but a vulture, here to feast on our bones. He speaks of guards, of ships — gods be good, open your eyes! This is an invasion!"

A tense silence settled over the table.

I turned slowly toward Rowan. The smile was still there — but my eyes had gone cold. The kind of chill that precedes an execution… or worse: a public humiliation.

He'd dared to insult me. The little bastard.

"A vulture? How charming. I rather prefer the phoenix, myself — burns everything to ash, then rebuilds. But hey… to each their flair."

I took a slow, loud sip of wine. Then set the glass down with deliberate force.

Caspar was staring at the boy, clearly furious. Even Tycho looked displeased — no doubt baffled by the sheer idiocy of the Cox heir. After all, my offer was exceedingly generous… The kind the Iron Bank adores.

"You speak of conquest. Very well. If that were my intent, I wouldn't have asked to lease land. I'd have taken it. And right now, you'd be on your knees begging me to spare your men."

I saw his throat tighten. Good.

"But I'm not here to plant a flag. I'm here to lay a foundation. And if your father is wise enough to read between the lines of the history being written, then your house won't fade — it will rise."

I leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled.

"Or, of course… you can keep tilling your fields, pray the next war doesn't trample your harvests, and hope your grandchildren have enough mud to build their walls with."

My gaze slid from him to his father, then back to the table.

"You mistake civility for weakness, Ser Rowan. I offer you my hand because I am a civilised man — not because I must. I have no doubt that Lord Tully, whom I am soon to meet, would be more than happy to accept in your place."

The Cox family stiffened — the weight of the threat registering loud and clear. I glanced up, a mocking smile playing at my lips.

"But do know — if my offer is accepted by Lord Tully, then he will receive the rewards. And you? You'll be relegated to the margins, a footnote soon forgotten."

Lord Cox said nothing. His gaze darted between his eldest son — still taut with impotent rage — and me, lounging in my chair, glass in hand, smile perfectly composed.

Then, wordlessly, he stood. Straight-backed, dignified — the posture of a man who had just made a decision. He folded his napkin with calm precision and placed it on the table.

"Ser Rowan."

His voice was sharp and dry — not a shout, but a blade. Even the deaf would have felt the cut.

Rowan flinched.

"After this meal, you will see the captains of our guard. You will inform them that Saltpans is now hosting a trading delegation. That no incident will be tolerated. And that the honour of our house lies also in its hospitality."

Rowan paled. But he lowered his eyes.

Victory. Not an outright humiliation — no, something far better. A public correction. Clean. Surgical.

Then Lord Cox turned to me. His features harder now, but his eyes… clear.

"Lord Bardatto. I'm a man of the Riverlands — a man of earth and stone, not gold and parchment. But I know the worth of a river when it starts to swell."

He drew a breath.

"Your proposal is… ambitious. But I see what it could bring to my house."

He paused for a beat. Then:

"Saltpans will receive you. I shall grant you land along the edge of the port — where the river widens. There, you may build your trading post, your barracks, your docks, your warehouses."

He raised one finger — almost like a knight making an oath.

"But on one condition."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"That you hire from Saltpans. That my carpenters, my masons, my porters and my fishermen find work in this venture."

I let the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat — then gave a slight, approving nod.

"A fair condition. And a wise one. After all, who better to build a shared future than those already rooted in the soil?"

A ripple of relief passed through the table. Even Caspar gave a subtle nod.

Lord Cox extended his hand across the table.

"Then we have an agreement."

I took it without hesitation — firm grip, perfectly measured.

And in that moment, I knew: Saltpans had just changed hands. Not a single drop of blood spilled.

Later, as the meal wound down, I gave a discreet signal to Caspar.

He nodded, rose without a word, and left the hall.

Minutes later, he returned — and behind him, two Company scribes in black and purple. One of them carried a carved chest. Inside: the contract. Already prepared, of course. Only the name of the town, the signature of the local lord… and the formal submission remained.

I let the silence linger as the scribes set the documents on a portable lectern between Cox and myself. All eyes were on us. Even Rowan watched — though his jaw remained clenched tighter than his pride.

I rose, calm as ever.

"To ensure clarity, Lord Cox — we shall formalise our agreement now. In the presence of witnesses, naturally."

I gestured to Tycho, who gave a small nod.

"The Iron Bank will act as guarantor and custodian of the contract."

Then I turned to Julia — silent as a steel statue, her golden mask catching the firelight like a blade.

"And my Grand Inquisitor will serve as territorial overseer."

Cox raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

I took the quill, already dipped in ink, and signed in a steady, deliberate hand:

Vincenzo Bardatto, Keyholder, President of the Bardatto Trade Company.

Then I stepped back.

Cox came forward in turn. He took the quill, turned it once between his fingers, and signed:

Quincy Cox, Landed Knight of Saltpans, Lord of the town and its lands.

The scribes collected the contract, rolled it with meticulous care, and sealed it in a brass tube etched with the Company's crest. A second copy was handed to Cox, in a more modest case — but no less official.

Then I raised my voice — not loud, but clear, so even the servants hovering in the shadows would hear. After all, they'd be the first to spread the news.

"The Saltpans trading post is officially founded. In a matter of weeks, the first warehouses will rise. And in a matter of months… this town will no longer be a dot on the map. It will be a name remembered."

I extended my hand to Cox once more.

This time, he took it with greater strength.

And me?

I had just purchased a port, a town, and a stretch of the Trident.

All of it — signed and sealed with the tip of a pen.

(Meanwhile, in Essos)
Golden Company encampment, somewhere between Selhorys and Volon Therys

The tent of the captain-general smelled of leather, sweat, and golden dust. The hot Essosi wind made the canvas flap lazily, while the distant clatter of hooves echoed beyond the camp.

On the central table, only one thing held Myles Toyne's attention: the letter.

He held it between gloved fingers, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

"A bold proposition," he said at last, almost amused.

Seated nearby, the Company's treasurer, Harry Strickland, was absently stroking his well-trimmed beard. His eyes, however, were locked on the letter's seals — a golden B against a red background, accompanied by the stylised emblem of a key.

"Bardatto, eh…" he murmured. "That name's been echoing through every market hall from Braavos to bloody Qarth. Glassworks, clocks, cannons… and now he wants to buy blades?"

"Not buy," Toyne corrected, his eyes gleaming strangely. "Integrate. He doesn't want to rent the Golden Company. He wants to absorb it. Enrich it. Even ennoble it."

Strickland raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"And you're considering it?"

But before Myles could respond, a sharp voice sliced through the air:

"It would be a mistake. A betrayal."

Jon Connington had entered. His purple cloak swept the floor behind him, and his eyes burned. In his shadow, the faint silhouette of a young man with blue-black hair and noble features loomed —

The "prince." Aegon. Or whatever he claimed to be.

"This Company swore an oath. It has a mission. It doesn't sell itself to the highest bidder," Connington growled.

Toyne turned to him, his expression calm — almost mocking.

"You speak of missions, Jon. I see twenty thousand lances that haven't seen proper battle in years. Veterans fed on stale promises and hard bread. Bardatto offers gold. Roads. A structure. Paid wars."

He tossed the letter onto the table. The parchment bore figures — promises of triple wages, preserved command, access to unmatched logistics. An army, funded, armoured, and honoured.

"He doesn't want us as mercenaries. He wants us as knights of commerce. Soldiers in golden armour. A private legion at the service of an economic empire."

Connington clenched his jaw.

"And what of Westeros? The Iron Throne? The very reason the Golden Company was created? You'll throw all that away for a pension plan and a few cannons?"

Toyne stared at him. Long. Steady.

"You want Westeros for that boy. I want us to survive the century. And let's not forget — we were founded by the Blackfyres. The enemies of the Targaryens. And the Blackfyres are gone. Which means… so is our oath."

Silence.

Then, Strickland spoke — cool and measured:

"He's not asking for an answer. Just a meeting. Perhaps it would be wise… to see what a man capable of buying an entire sea might truly offer."

Toyne gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Prepare the messengers. And speak to the officers… privately."

Connington's fists clenched.

He had just realised that the Golden Company's loyalty was slipping.

And Vincenzo Bardatto hadn't even needed to cross the Red Mountains.

He would have to inform Varys. Immediately.

Their plan was no longer secure.

Chapter Text

Hello o/ Here's the 14th chapter, hope you'll like it. Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr. I do post there some different extras.

286 AC

After the contract was signed, everything snowballed rather quickly. Cox decided to mark the occasion that very evening with a feast in my honour. Well, his eldest son was still sulking like a brat, but I couldn't have cared less.

So we drank ourselves senseless all night—yes, even Tycho joined in. I had Giovanni's clavichord brought up, and he turned up with his orchestra to play us into oblivion. The result?

We were drunk as lords… Or rather, they were. Not me. Strangely enough, I metabolised alcohol almost instantly—just one more oddity to add to my ever-growing list of peculiar bodily features. Not that I minded: I got to enjoy the drink without ending up flat on my arse, legs in the air.

The crown jewel of the night? I ended up in bed with Cox's eldest daughter and her husband. Let's just say I gave them a demonstration that would've made the Dornish blush with envy. Whether it was her or him, both ended up begging and blacking out from sheer pleasure. I was, understandably, quite pleased with myself.

Until this morning.

Caspar had slept in the room next to mine, while Julia stayed in the one opposite. Which meant—yes, they'd heard everything. Julia didn't care in the slightest. I was her boss and she worshipped the ground I walked on—no surprise, really, I'd made her High Inquisitor for a reason. But Caspar? Oh, he had thoughts to share.

Not because I'd bedded those two morons—no. But because we'd made such a racket he couldn't get a wink of sleep. The best part? According to him, the husband's voice had been far shriller and more piercing than his wife's.

Now, after a hearty breakfast and a morning full of awkward glances—the couple trying to look invisible, Julia looking smug, Cox playing the innocent—I found myself at the future site of the trading post.

Around me, my men were clearing, chopping, levelling the place. Hundreds of them, working with quiet efficiency under the dumbstruck gazes of the locals. Cox had been sceptical at first—I had promised to hire his people, not use my own. My reply? This way's faster. His lot would work on the actual build.

To keep him sweet, I had a massive recruitment tent set up. Two scribes were stationed inside, drawing up contracts for the yokels—signing them up to the Bardatto Trading Company. They'd still pay taxes to their lord, of course, but they'd answer to me.

And judging by the stampede toward the tent, you'd think we were handing out gold. One silver coin per month for unskilled labour—the lowest rung. Which, for them, amounted to three silver moons.

From what little I knew of the serf class, they scraped by on about a silver moon a year. So three per month? It was a bloody windfall. Give it a year of saving, and most would hold their first golden dragon in hand.

"The chief architect says we'll have the trading post built in under three months at this pace," Caspar told me, handing over a glass of orange juice.

Tycho stood beside him, silent as ever, doing his best impression of detached indifference. Nice try. I saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes. He hadn't expected me to jump into construction the very next day.

Which only proved he didn't know me at all. Business doesn't wait.

"And the ships?" I asked, pointing toward the riverbank.

The banks of the Trident lay a hundred metres or so off. Jetties had already been set up yesterday by my men—temporary docks for assembling the ships. Later, they'd be dismantled and replaced with stone. Stronger. Permanent.

"This afternoon," Caspar replied, watching the site in the distance. "They worked through the night unloading the parts and beginning assembly."

I couldn't blame him for being intrigued.

I'd designed these ships with three clear goals:

• Maximise river trade
• Speed up transport while minimising loss—whether from wear and tear or theft
• Navigate shallow waters and pass under bridges at speed

So, with the help of my shipwrights, naval engineers and blacksmiths, I created a class of vessel unknown in either Essos or Westeros. I took my cues from the Chinese sampan—fast, riverine, flat-bottomed boats with feather-light hulls. I wouldn't be surprised if something similar existed in Yi Ti—this world's version of the Middle Kingdom.

But I wasn't born yesterday. I refined the design for peak efficiency. A bit of inspiration from bateaux-mouches back home—France knows a thing or two about riverboats, no matter what anyone says.

My flat-bottomed beauties were made of treated wood, riveted with featherweight steel. Minimal draft, a body about 25 metres long by four wide, twin retractable rudders, a central mast with a lateen sail—lowerable by crank to pass under bridges.

Side-mounted retractable oars if needed. A small cabin for the captain. And the cherry on top? A cargo capacity of 20–30 tonnes—or 20 tonnes with a crew of twenty.

A marvel, in short. Sleek, sturdy, and already field-tested. I'd been using similar vessels from Mineville to ferry goods to the dockyards near Braavos Bay.

I spotted Julia returning from what she generously called a stroll "into town." Though frankly, town was pushing it. Saltspans was barely a village. In this sorry excuse for a kingdom, a place needed a charter to be called a city—and Saltspans had none.

"Lord Bardatto," she said with a bow.

I noticed several men nearby pause, clearly startled by her voice. Julia's tone wasn't what you'd call ordinary. It was strikingly feminine, yes—but also cold. Austere. Icy, even. She reminded me more than a little of Inquisitor Lödwyn from Avowed or Pillars of Eternity II: Deadfire. That's why I'd made her my High Inquisitor. If she could smite the wicked with divine light, she'd be my hand-picked paladin. Honestly.

"What news?" I asked.

I'd dispatched her and a squad of a dozen men to post notices everywhere, making the Company's recruitment drive loud and clear. Cox, on his end, had sent heralds across his lands and even to neighbouring holdings to announce that I was not only hiring—but buying raw materials in bulk. Credit where it's due, the man had played along.

"As per your orders, we've announced the Company's recruitment and posted the flyers wherever we could," she replied, standing tall. Through the slits of her golden mask, I caught a flicker of professional pride. Mission handled.

"And the reaction?" I asked, though she immediately picked up on the question behind the question.

"The people seem cautiously optimistic. However, I recommend placing Rowan Cox and his squire Calum under surveillance," she stated bluntly. "Based on field observation and information gathered from our other agents, I'm confident he'll try anything to disrupt our operations. I strongly suspect he's considering arson once construction begins."

Tycho, who'd been hovering at the edges until now, decided to speak up.

"I agree with her assessment. Still—Rowan Cox is a knight, like his father. He might invoke Westerosi tradition to handle the matter…"

We all knew what he was getting at: the little bastard might issue a formal challenge.

Now, I'm no great warrior. I prefer schemes and silver over steel any day. But I had one massive advantage: Julia.

"If that scoundrel dares to challenge my lord, justice shall be done," she declared, drawing her weapon with theatrical flair. "I'll defend his honour and grind his enemies to dust."

Everything around us came to a halt at the sound of her blade leaving its scabbard. It was an absurdly large claymore, forged from blackened steel veined with gold. The pommel held a ruby bearing my personal crest. And the best part? She wielded it with one hand and drove it into the ground like a divine sentinel on a warpath.

"Well, I don't doubt your devotion, High Inquisitor," Tycho said with a wry smile. "Wherever Vincenzo found you, he made the right call."

"Julia, my dear… just try not to split him in half on the first blow. We haven't printed the duel posters yet," I quipped.

I couldn't help myself. I lived for that kind of provocation. And Tycho was right: no one knew where she came from—except me. And I intended to keep it that way.

"Speak of the Other…" murmured Caspar, nodding toward a group approaching.

Rowan Cox, flanked by his squire and a few guards, was heading our way. Behind him, I spotted Quincy Cox galloping in, panic etched all over his face.

Rowan's expression was pure fury—jaw clenched, fists tight, the whole brooding knight act dialled up to eleven. His squire trotted behind him, proud as a pigeon in chainmail. The guards, though? Sweating bullets already. No surprise there. When you're facing a small army, you either hesitate… or you're an idiot.

Rowan stopped about ten metres from me, radiating barely contained rage. His men looked ready to draw—but also to run.

My own guards subtly shifted forward, with Julia at the head, blade still embedded in the ground. Cox's men hesitated. Naturally. They were six, including the squire, against hundreds of my workers—and about fifty elite guards armed to the teeth. Not to mention the woman-shaped weapon standing before them.

Rowan raised his voice so everyone could hear—dramatic little sod.

"Vincenzo Bardatto!" he bellowed, with all the pomp of bad amateur theatre. "I accuse you of dishonouring Saltspans, humiliating my family, and treading on our land with no respect!"

A ripple passed through the crowd—villagers and workers alike. Some paused mid-task, others edged closer, curious.

I saw Julia tense beside me. Always ready to impale someone in my name. Saints, I adored that woman.

Rowan wasn't done.

"And under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, I challenge you to a duel of honour!"

I froze.

Then blinked, very slowly.

Well, shit. The little idiot had actually done it. He'd gone and triggered a formal challenge.

Behind him, his father arrived at full gallop, looking like he'd seen a ghost. He nearly launched himself off his horse.

"Rowan, NO!" he roared. "You don't speak for this house without my authority!"

Too late, Daddy.

I raised a hand, halting the living wall of guards in front of me. Julia stepped forward, arms crossed over her chest, claymore still planted in the ground like a monument to inevitable bloodshed.

I sighed—like a weary father catching his kid with a fork in the socket.

"Rowan, my lad… You do realise what you've just done, don't you?"

He shot me a defiant look.
"I've issued a challenge. As per Westerosi law."

I rolled my eyes.
"Yes, Sherlock, thank you for the recap. I've done my homework. And do you know what that means?"

His brow furrowed.

I jabbed a thumb toward Julia, like a proud man showing off his latest death-dealing acquisition.
"It means you'll be fighting my High Inquisitor."

Silence. Dense. Heavy.

Julia stepped forward, grabbed her claymore one-handed, and hefted it like it was a bloody knitting needle.
"He dared challenge you, my lord. He's not worthy of my blade. He's worthy of a demonstration."

She slammed the tip of the sword into the ground, and the earth moaned. The sound echoed like a funeral bell, and I swear the dirt beneath Rowan looked ready to dig his grave for him.

Quincy opened his mouth, closed it, then tried anyway:
"Lord Bardatto, I beg of you—my son is… impetuous. Let me revoke—"

I cut him off gently, with an amused little smile at the corner of my lips.
"I like you, Lord Cox. I really do. But a duel declared, in front of witnesses, can't be undone. Not even by Daddy."

I turned back to Rowan, allowed myself a dry chuckle.
"You wanted a show, you'll get one. I'm bringing in the scribes, printing posters, hiring criers, putting up a platform. The full medieval circus."

Julia nodded like she was already going through her warm-up routine in her head. Rowan paled. Too late, sunshine.

I leaned in slightly, voice rich with sadistic glee:
"You should've challenged me to a finance duel. Might've actually survived that one."

The moment the duel was locked in, I switched into full marketing mode. And as always—I was ready.

"Caspar," I said, setting down my glass of lemonade.

He didn't answer, just gave me that look—the one that meant finally.

"We're building an arena. Wood. Stands. Banners. Public criers. I want a gods-damned coliseum by nightfall."

He bowed like he'd waited his entire life for that order.

Three hours later, the central square of the "city" of Saltspans—let's not kid ourselves, still a glorified hamlet—had been transformed into a medieval carnival on hard drugs. My Company's carpenters had felled trees, cut planks, and erected tiered stands at lightning speed.

In the middle of the flattened square stood a rough octagonal arena, ringed by rope and lit by torches, the dirt freshly packed and swept.

A raised platform had been constructed for me, complete with imported purple carpeting and a stretched canopy for shade. I was lounging comfortably on a temporary throne—gilded mahogany, obviously—flanked by Caspar, Tycho, and a well-stocked refreshment table.

But the best part?

The criers.

Half a dozen of my men, clad in Bardatto red and gold, roamed the village, shouting from barrels or balconies like prophets of doom and drama:

"Come one, come all, lords and louts—witness the duel of the century!"
"A blade blessed by fortune against a relic of a bygone house!"
"An inquisitor forged in steel versus the son of Saltspans—entry free, blood guaranteed!"
"Tonight at sunset—justice cleaves with a claymore!"

Word of the duel spread faster than a pox in a Lysene brothel.

Kids tore through the alleys screaming, "He's gonna die! He's gonna die!" while peasants ditched their tools and swarmed the square for a good view. One old man tried to climb a scaffold for a better vantage point—tumbled into a pile of manure, popped up grinning, and shouted, "Best day of my life!"

At this rate, we'd need crowd control.

Makeshift stalls popped up around the arena—wine, beer, skewers, dried fruit. Some old fellow was even hawking hand-knitted "Go Julia!" scarves. Kids were drawing swords in the dirt, screaming "Cut off his head!" like it was the town anthem.

It was a bloody carnival.

All this in a forgotten backwater where, until last week, the most exciting thing was a two-uddered cow.

I sipped my iced tea—Caspar serving, of course—and surveyed the madness with immense satisfaction.

Tycho, stoic as ever, took in the preparations.
"You've turned a public humiliation into an economic event."

I smiled.
"Of course. I've never been fond of blood—but the gold it spills? That, I adore."

Julia stood nearby, sharpening her sword with a focused gleam in her eye. She was still fuming—probably because someone dared challenge me.
Gods, I really did love my Inquisitor.
Not a guard dog.
A war dog.
A rottweiler with a longsword and the loyalty of a golden retriever.

That's when Quincy burst in. And he didn't look like a lord—no, he looked like a father in full emotional collapse. A man who'd just realised the family name might be wiped off the map by suppertime. He gave a slight bow, but shame twisted his face like a rag being wrung dry.

"Lord Bardatto… I come humbly to beg clemency for my son. He… he didn't grasp the weight of his actions. He's young, hot-headed, and above all… a fool."

I raised an eyebrow as I took another sip of lemonade.

"That's true. But it's not a valid excuse in a world where foolishness gets paid for in blood."

He winced.
"He doesn't deserve to die…"

I lifted a hand, halting his appeal.

"I'm a businessman, Quincy. Death rarely turns a profit."

A flicker of hope passed through his eyes.

I leaned forward, fingers steepled.

"I can spare your son. Julia knows how to make a lesson last without ending it in a grave. A public humiliation, of course. Maybe a few missing teeth. But alive."

He nodded frantically. "Yes! I'll do anything—whatever it takes."

I smiled.
"Perfect. As it happens, I have just the idea."

I straightened slowly, letting each word fall like a golden promise wrapped in poison.

"Saltspans will enter into direct contract with the Bardatto Company. All trade must pass through our outpost. Coastal patrols will fall under our jurisdiction within a five-kilometre radius. And…"

A pause. For effect. For flavour.

"…every artisan in Saltspans will be free to join my economic system. I'll provide tools, materials, training. But their production? Mine. First rights, no exceptions."

Quincy swallowed hard.
"And in return, my son…?"

"…keeps his arms, his life, and maybe even his dignity—if he manages to stay upright for more than ten seconds."

He hesitated, then bowed deeply.
"Saltspans is yours, Lord Bardatto."

I turned to Julia. She was watching me in perfect silence—no surprise in her gaze, just a quiet, lethal question: "Symbolic decapitation or shall I add some theatrical flair?"

I shrugged.
"Hit hard. But not fatal. He needs to be able to sit… to sign the surrender."

She smiled. A real smile.
The kind that doesn't melt hearts—just curdles blood.

The sun had begun its descent, casting that golden, almost mythical light over the makeshift arena—the kind that gives everything the air of legend… or public execution.

Julia stepped forward, slow and silent, her claymore resting across her shoulder like she was carrying a basket of fruit. Her armour was dark, engraved with the sigil of the Golden Garrot, shoulders gleaming with gold trim, mask still in place.

Across from her, Rowan entered the arena in light armour, helmet in hand. He tried to look relaxed, but you could spot the tension from a mile off—he moved like a man who'd just realised he'd slammed his bollocks in a drawer.

And yet, the fool opened his mouth. He looked Julia up and down with a smirk, loud enough for all to hear:

"Seriously? This is your champion? A woman?"

A ripple of mocking ooohs surged from the crowd—followed by silence.

I took a slow, deliberate sip of iced tea, lounging on my makeshift throne, with Quincy to my left, stiff as a corpse and sweating bullets.

I placed the glass down with a soft clack, then leaned forward slightly.

"Rowan… oh Rowan, my dear boy…"

I let my voice rise just enough to cut through the silence of the crowd.

"You don't need to mock her gender to show us you're afraid. It's already painfully obvious."

A nervous chuckle rippled through the crowd.

I gave him a wide, predator's smile.

"But I'm a generous man, as you well know. I want this duel to be… fair."

I leaned in further, locking eyes with him.

"You came to challenge me with four men and a squire at your back, didn't you?"

He raised an eyebrow, confused.

I lazily pointed toward the five of them, huddled just behind the rope—looking like hens in a thunderstorm.

"Well… I'm giving you permission to bring them into the arena. All of them."

A commotion broke out.

Rowan stiffened.
"What?"

I shrugged.

"You want courage? Borrow some. Whether it's five-on-one or six-on-one, I assure you…"

I gestured vaguely toward Julia, who was slowly circling, a caged panther in full control of her turf.

"…the result will be the same."

Julia raised her blade, let it whistle through the air, then returned to the centre of the ring—silent, waiting.

Tycho, calm as ever at my side, murmured:
"You're staging a military demonstration for illiterate peasants."

I grinned.
"Exactly. And tomorrow, they'll be begging to enrol their sons in my Company."

Silence reclaimed the arena as Rowan's four guards—and his unfortunate squire—stepped into the ring, dragging their feet like men heading to the gallows.

Their leader puffed up his chest to maintain some facade of control, but his eyes were already scanning for exits that no longer existed.

Julia didn't move. She stood dead-centre, sword tip resting on the earth like a judge waiting for the condemned to present themselves.

I shifted forward in my seat, hands folded, a slow smile curling at the edges of my mouth.

"Julia?"

She inclined her head—nothing more.

Tycho leaned against the armrest of his chair.
"Five-on-one. Do you think she'll pace herself?"

"Not even slightly," I replied. "I want this to leave a scar."

A makeshift drum boomed across the arena—a euphoric child banging on an empty barrel.

It had begun.

The first man, a hulking slab of rust and poor choices, charged forward with a clumsy battle cry.

Julia pivoted a quarter turn. Just one.

CLANG.

Her left foot struck him square in the chest like a battering ram on spice.

He flew.
Literally.

He sailed a good six metres through the air, crashed into the crowd, and demolished a skewer stand in a spray of broken timber and sizzling fat.

Some peasant screamed, "He's dead!"
Another followed with "No, he's moving!"
And a third, "Worse!"

The remaining five froze.

Julia lifted her sword. Slowly.

They charged.

A mistake.

The second came in from the side. She parried lazily, then smashed the pommel into his throat. He crumpled like a one-legged Jenga tower, gasping and wide-eyed.

The third had the misfortune to approach from behind.

Crack.

Julia grabbed his arm, spun, and hurled him into the ground with such brutal force the dust rose like smoke. Even the earth seemed to mutter, "Ow."

The fourth tried to retreat—instinct, perhaps. Julia raised an eyebrow. Or so I assumed, behind the mask.

"En garde," she murmured.

He half-lifted his sword. She struck him in the knee.

The crunch that followed could've halted a Dothraki charge.

He collapsed, howling like a pig on fire.

And then… the squire.

The boy. The blond.

He froze. Blinked. Drew a rapier like it was a fishing rod.

Julia stared.

Then advanced.

He raised the blade, arms trembling, mouth half-open.

She stopped two paces away.

He dropped the weapon.

And burst into tears.

Collapsed to his knees, sobbing, whispering "I want to go home" like a child who just lost his first marble tournament.

Julia didn't even dignify him with a glance. She stepped past him like he was pigeon shit on polished stone—then turned to face her final opponent.

Rowan Cox, Morron-en-chef.

The entire square held its breath.

He clenched his jaw, knuckles white, breathing ragged. He took one step forward.

Julia finally moved.

One step. Slow. Controlled.

He stepped back.

I leaned toward Quincy, who had his arms crossed like a dying septon and was muttering prayers under his breath.
"You know… if I were truly cruel, I'd have him sign the contract right now."

He whimpered.

Rowan, in a final surge of desperation, gave a shout and swung his blade down at her.

Julia parried. Effortlessly.

And struck.

Not hard—just a clean, surgical tap to the knee.

CRACK.

Rowan screamed and collapsed face-first into the dirt, his sword tumbling from his hand.

Silence.

Then Julia, ever the professional, calmly set her blade two fingers' width from his throat. She tilted her head slightly.

"Declare your surrender. Or I'll write it for you—with your spine."

A gargle. Then a choked word.

"I… yield…"

The crowd exploded.

Cheers, whoops, dancing children, a stand flinging free skewers into the air, and a rooster crowing triumphantly like he owned the bloody place. One of those moments where even the gods pause and go, "Alright… fair play."

I rose slowly from my throne, arms wide.

"People of Saltspans… remember this day."

I let the silence settle.

"You haven't just witnessed a duel. You've witnessed the birth of a new order."

Julia sheathed her sword. She didn't bow. She didn't need to. Even the statues looked like they were reconsidering their loyalties.

I leaned back toward Quincy, whose face now hovered somewhere between relieved and ready to vomit his entire bloodline.

"Your son is alive. Mostly in one piece. I've kept my end of the bargain, so…"

I straightened, a wolfish smile curling at my lips.

"We'll be signing that new contract now."

As Julia left the arena to thunderous applause—peasants stomping the wooden bleachers like the drums of war—a laugh rang out. Not a chuckle. A laugh. Deep. Honest. Almost warm.

I turned my head.

To the left, leaning casually against a pillar beneath the stands, a man pushed himself upright.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Worn but solid armour. A cloak in Tully colours. Greying hair, tousled. A beard you wear not for fashion but because you've got more important things to do.

And those eyes.

The eyes of a man who's seen enough corpses to stop flinching—but still knows when a duel is worth the price of admission.

He walked forward into the arena, boots kicking up dust, a half-smile on his lips.

"Well, Bardatto… I was expecting ships, cheap trinkets, and pompous speeches. Not a bloody public execution with background music."

I raised an eyebrow, amused.

"And I wasn't expecting the Blackfish to attend my little spectacle incognito. Hiding behind the peasants, were you, Ser Brynden?"

He let out a bark of laughter.

"I was meant to meet you tomorrow—to escort your precious self to Riverrun. But when I heard there'd be a duel between an army and a woman in gold-etched plate, I figured I'd come early. Military curiosity."

He glanced toward Julia, now calmly cleaning her blade in silence.

"Impressive. Do you train all your inquisitors like that?"

I gave a slight bow, smirking.

"Oh no. Julia's special. She is the execution. The rest handle the paperwork."

Brynden nodded, clearly entertained. Then he looked toward Rowan—still on his knees, held up by two barely-conscious guards.

"And him? Did he soil himself before or after the impact?"

Caspar chuckled into his beard. Tycho merely raised a brow, as though someone had just insulted the weather.

I shrugged.

"After. Though to be fair, he held his nerve for a solid five seconds."

The Blackfish crossed his arms, looked around at the crowd—still in uproar—the banners bearing my crest flapping above skewer stands and children flogging "arena pebbles" as souvenirs.

Then he said, almost too quietly:

"You know, Bardatto… Westeros is an old land. We don't much care for change. And we like it even less when it comes wrapped in a slogan, backed by a private army, and led by an inquisitor who cuts through knights' sons like wheat."

I stepped down slowly from the platform, eyes locked with his.

"And yet, Ser Brynden… here you are. Watching. Laughing."

I stopped just one step away from him, extending my hand.

"Because you're smart enough to see what others won't admit: the old world is dying. And me? I'm the bloody bell ringing in its funeral."

He shook my hand—firm grip, no hesitation.

His smile thinned, grew sharper.

"And I, Bardatto… I'm the poor sod who has to escort you to Riverrun."

He leaned in slightly, voice low, conspiratorial.

"If you make it that far without someone trying to poison you, I'll buy you a drink myself."

I chuckled.

"Poison? I've had worse. I digest that better than the nobility digests my contracts."

I stepped down slowly from the platform, eyes locked with his.

"And yet, Ser Brynden… here you are. Watching. Laughing."

I stopped just one step away from him, extending my hand.

"Because you're smart enough to see what others won't admit: the old world is dying. And me? I'm the bloody bell ringing in its funeral."

He shook my hand—firm grip, no hesitation.

His smile thinned, grew sharper.

"And I, Bardatto… I'm the poor sod who has to escort you to Riverrun."

He leaned in slightly, voice low, conspiratorial.

"If you make it that far without someone trying to poison you, I'll buy you a drink myself."

I chuckled.

"Poison? I've had worse. I digest that better than the nobility digests my contracts."

The sun sank lower behind Saltspans, painting the sky a fierce red. Perfect. Nothing better than a crimson sunset to sign a noble's surrender under.

At the centre of the square, a heavy wooden lectern had been erected—gold-leaf inlay, my sigil carved front and centre. Two benches flanked a table draped in royal purple, the kind of altar where you don't sacrifice goats… but reputations.

The villagers remained. The poorest had crept closer; some perched on barrels, others hoisted up on shoulders. The shouting had faded. All that remained was the rustle of the wind, the whisper of banners, and the soft clink of Julia's armour—still standing watch like a statue of war incarnate.

Quincy Cox had regained some colour. His son, not so much—the poor lamb was halfway through being patched up by their maester, barely conscious, drooling on himself. Quincy sat to my left, clad in his finest, jaw tight with tension.

I took my seat to the right, my golden torque gleaming, the black key of Bardatto resting squarely on my chest. Caspar handed me the contract—four full pages in sharp black ink, sealed with the insignia of the Bardatto Trading Company.

Ser Brynden Tully, still lurking, had settled at a discreet side table with a tankard in hand, watching with the unshakeable calm of a soldier too old for theatre, but wise enough to enjoy a good performance.

I raised my voice, clear enough for the entire square.

"People of Saltspans, this day marks a turning point. Today, your lord, Quincy Cox, steps into a new era. An era of prosperity, of trade, of security."

I paused. Let them imagine it—an empire built on gold, not blood.

"The Bardatto Company commits to invest, to train, to protect. And in return… it receives what makes a land truly rich: its structure. Its flow. Its future."

I turned to Quincy, whose eyes met mine with the look of a man who'd just kissed the executioner's ring for sparing his firstborn.

Caspar slowly unrolled the contract.

I read aloud, purely for flavour.

"Article 4: River routes shall fall under the customs jurisdiction of the Company."
"Article 8: Any infrastructure built on leased land becomes the exclusive property of the Company."
"Article 12: In case of armed conflict involving Saltspans, the Company guarantees protection of assets—but not necessarily the lord."
"Article 13, clause B: Company forces retain authority over all commercial zones within a five-kilometre radius of the trading post."

A low chuckle escaped Brynden. He raised his mug in a silent toast.

And then came the final clause.

"Article 21: The Lord of Saltspans acknowledges that any signature made under this agreement constitutes de facto vassalage to the Bardatto Trading Company, for a period of twenty years, renewable."

Quincy went pale.

Brynden outright laughed.

"Godsdamn, Bardatto… You just turned him into a client lord without raising a single army."

I shrugged, feigning modesty.

"Oh, I raised an army, Ser Brynden. They just happen to carry ledgers and understand gross margins."

Quincy signed. Slowly. Hand trembling only slightly—almost dignified.

Then I took the quill, signed with a flourish, and pressed a seal of golden wax. The Bardatto crest sank into it like a statement of conquest.

I turned to Brynden.

"There. Saltspans is now a strategic territory of interest under permanent delegation to the Company. Not annexed, of course. Delegated."

He drained his tankard and snorted.

"Right. And I'm the High Septon. My brother's going to have a bloody seizure. He already hates merchants, and now he gets to watch one annex a village under his nose? He'll be pissing ulcers."

He raised his now-empty mug in a phantom toast.

"To you, Bardatto. You're a right bastard. But a brilliant one."

I offered a slight bow, smile razor-sharp.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Chapter Text

(POV Vincenzo Bardatto)

The Trident stretched out before me like a carpet rolled out in my honour.
Aboard the Purple Ambition, I stood at the prow, cloak billowing in the wind, spyglass in hand—fresh out of my own workshop—watching my ships cut through the river like blades on a tax mission. Yeah, I decided the riverboat deserved a name. Why the hell not? In fact, I'd gone ahead and named the entire class: Golden Currents. Not bad, right? Has a nice ring to it. Evocative.

Behind me sailed the Bardatto Flotilla: twenty Golden Currents, sleek, reinforced-hulled, fitted with collapsible lateen sails, twin rudders, and more creature comforts than those bloody Lannister hearses could ever dream of. Might seem excessive, sure, but I wasn't showing up empty-handed—and more to the point, I fully intended to head straight to Oldstones once the deal was sealed.
Because he was going to sign.
I was bringing so much money, even a pious saint would cave.

So yes, we were sailing with a modest armada of about five hundred men.
Estimated travel time from Saltspans to Riverrun: five days.
On horseback? Ten. With saddle sores and bite marks from your own frustration.
The local nobility still believes speed is measured in mares and murmured prayers.
Me? I'll take quality pine, Essosi fibres, and a favourable sail angle, thank you very much.

Not that I was naïve—of course I realised the real challenge was going up river. Most gave up because it meant rowing. But with my upgrades? Problem solved. The secret was in the shallow draft. Reminded me of the Ironborn ships, now that I think about it... No wonder those pirates were so damn good at raiding the inland North—just sail up the rivers pouring into the western coast.

I looked around.
While the crew kept everything ticking along, the rest of my… entourage—didn't have a better word for them—busied themselves in various ways:

Caspar was reading supply and cargo reports. And when needed, doling out drinks and snacks like a butler who knows the value of delegation.
Tycho stood with a glass of lemonade, gaze distant, as if calculating the yield potential of every farm we passed. For him, this was more pleasure cruise than mission.
Julia sat meditating on a crate of vintage wines, her claymore laid across her lap like a vengeful saint on paid leave. She was waiting. Watching. Probably bored out of her skull.
And Brynden Tully, leaning on the railing, eyeing me like he still hadn't decided whether to chuck me into the river or gift-wrap me for his brother.

Personally, I was betting on gift-wrap.

He tapped the ship's wood lightly with his fingers, sighed, then finally muttered,

"Gotta admit… it's comfortable. Too comfortable. That's suspicious."

I smiled.

"That's because you come from a world where progress is measured in sweat. I measure it in convoy speed and freight cost per ton."

He shook his head.

"We'll outrun a knight on the road."

"No. We'll outrun his ego, then beat him there before he's had time to empty his boots."

Silence, for a moment.

I watched Brynden, still at the railing, eyes fixed on the slowly passing banks, as though the river itself was too polite to rush without permission from tradition.

"Hoster's going to have a stroke," he said, a little too dry for a joke. "He already hates boats. And merchants. And change. You're all three."

I gave him a calm, almost insolent smile.

"In that case, maybe I'll have better luck with his stableboy."

He chuckled.

"And yet…"

I tilted my head, curious.

"And yet?"

He sighed—like a man about to chew and swallow his own pride.

"He'll probably love you."

My eyebrow climbed.

"Excuse me?"

"Not you as a man. You as a concept."

He straightened and gave a vague nod toward the flotilla behind us.

"You represent what he's dying to show the rest of the Reach, the Westerlands—even Dragonstone: that the Tullys are modern, formidable, and allied with people who make the known world shiver."

He gave a bitter smile.

"He hates what you are. But he loves what you do."

I just exhaled, amused.

"Hypocrisy—always the finest diplomatic lubricant."

"It's not hypocrisy. It's courteous desperation. He wants to polish up the old sigil, and you shine bright enough for people to forget where it's rusted."

I said nothing. Let him speak. People always open up when you don't interrupt.

And Brynden, against all odds, kept going.

"That's why he's so hard on his children."

I didn't answer. No need.

He ran a hand through his beard, visibly annoyed with his own mouth.

"Edmure tries. But he lacks edge. Wants to be liked more than he wants to be respected."

A pause.
Then, almost without segue:

"And Lysa… she got lost in the softness they let grow in her. And Cat, well… she took refuge in duty."

He froze. Then growled,

"Gods, why am I telling this to a bloody merchant?"

I gave him a neutral look, just slightly tinged with a smile.

"Maybe because I'm more than a merchant."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, with that raw honesty of his:

"Or maybe because you listen. And no one in this bloody family takes the time to do that."

I nodded.

"That's the trick. Want to rule? Let people talk. Want control? Let them believe."

He exhaled a coarse laugh.

"You scare the hell out of me."

I smiled.

"You haven't even seen my tax plans."

Yeah, I'd noticed that little quirk people had around me:They opened up. Too easily, sometimes. Another strange side effect of this body, this personality.
Not that I was complaining—hell no.

It was bloody useful.

(Four Days Later)
(No POV)

The wind came from the northeast. Not cold. But sharp. Carried a bite only a man of his age could recognise—the scent of change.

Seated on his raised chair, Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, gazed at the river with a hawk's eye. His cane propped against the armrest, his cloak heavy with old embroidery, he'd had a viewing platform built overlooking the docks.

Not because he expected anything today.
Precisely because nothing was supposed to happen.

And now… that silence had been broken.

First one speck on the horizon.
Then two.
Then twenty.

He wasn't imagining things.
An entire fleet was sailing upriver. Low, elegant ships of an unfamiliar design, gliding over the water like knives through butter. Their triangular sails snapped in the wind, and with each passing second, their presence grew more obvious. More unsettling.

Not an escort.
A statement.

And on each sail, that same emblem repeated with almost insolent precision: golden scales, a black key, and stylised ships.

Hoster gripped the armrest. Just a little.

"This can't be."

Beside him, Edmure frowned.

"Father?"

"I sent your uncle out a fortnight ago. To escort Bardatto. On horseback." He pointed at the fleet with a trembling finger. "And here comes the merchant—first. With a damn armada."

He snapped his fingers. A liveried servant appeared instantly.

"Bring me my Myrish glass. And make it quick."

Moments later, the object was set on a golden tripod before him: a fine cylinder encased in ornate metalwork, perfect for observing from a distance without having to leave his seat. A long-forgotten gift from a Myrish archon.

Hoster adjusted the angle.

The lead ship was docking. Flawlessly. No stumbles. The deckhands threw their mooring lines with guild-worthy precision. Other ships followed, arranging themselves in a perfect fan, like a ceremonial guard made of water and wood.

And there, aboard the largest vessel— A man in a purple cloak. Golden torque. Standing beside an old man with a familiar beard.

Hoster squinted. Then sighed.

"Brynden…"

Edmure leaned in, uneasy.

"He's with them?"

"He wasn't escorting. He was leading."

He placed a firm hand on the armrest.

"That's Bardatto. No doubt in my mind. He's not arriving for an audience—he's imposing a rendezvous. I'd heard the rumours about his eccentricity… and his love of spectacle."

Slowly—more with a gesture than motion—he signalled to be helped up.

"Inform the kitchens. Triple the courses. Only the best. Lyseni wine, Reach fruits, and crack open the Red Queen barrels for the meats."

The servant nodded, but Hoster wasn't finished.

"Welcome banners on the towers. Sound the watch bell. Twice. Not the alarm. The honour."

Edmure hesitated, mouth half-open.

"You… want a feast? Now?"

Hoster turned to him, slowly.

"Edmure. When a man arrives at your gates with twenty ships, your brother at his side, and the look of someone who needs nothing from you… you don't greet him with silence and a lukewarm cup."

He tapped the armrest once.

"You greet him like a king. Then you watch. Every word. Every gesture. Every single detail."

He paused, eyes fixed on the fleet unfolding with surgical elegance.

Then, quieter:

"Because men like that… they never come empty-handed. Or without a purpose. And who knows—maybe this is finally our chance. Gods know I hope so."

He glanced toward his son, who was already moving to change. He didn't say it aloud, but his hopes for the family were dimming.

His son was a disappointment—still refusing marriage like his uncle before him.

Lysa wasn't of sound mind, and the likelihood of heirs was slim.

And as for his eldest daughter… he had prayed for a second son, an heir raised here in the South. But the North was clingy, and the children—if they came—would be raised under the Old Gods. They'd never be accepted as lords of Riverrun. Not truly.

All his hopes now rested on Vincenzo Bardatto.

And he had no intention of wasting this chance.

It was time the Riverlands stopped being treated like Westeros's afterthought.

(POV Vincenzo Bardatto)

The gangplank of the Purple Ambition lowered slowly with a well-oiled groan, almost ceremonial. Every click of chain felt like the overture's first note—and me? I was the bloody prelude.

The first foot to touch the docks of Riverrun was mine. Heel sharp. Purple cloak catching the breeze. My golden torque caught the sunlight like it meant to blind the statues.

Behind me, Julia—stone-faced, in black-and-gold armour, claymore in hand.

Caspar was already directing the Company's dockhands with the ruthless grace of a piranha school.

Tycho stood serene as a banker mid-coup, eyeing the riverside like he was reading a balance sheet the size of a kingdom.

And to my left, the Blackfish himself—Brynden Tully—descended the gangplank with a slight sniff.

"What is this, a port siege or a royal wedding?"

I smiled.

"Why not both?"

He gave a dry laugh, hitching at his belt.

"If the crates are full of grain, it's a wedding. If they're full of gold… it's war."

I raised a finger, theatrically.

"Both. And in the proper order."

On the docks, the first chests were already set down—copper-braced, polished to a mirror shine. Each engraved with my seal and a little golden plaque:

"With my regards — V. Bardatto"

A whole avenue of them was forming: bolts of cloth, amphorae of wine, glassware, rare instruments, even the odd sculpture.

Further down, a troop of horsemen approached at a steady trot. Tully banners. Well-oiled armour. Impeccable formation.

At their head rode a man straight-backed as a worn blade, grey moustache, eyes like ice.

Caspar, without prompting:

"Robin Ryger. Captain of the Riverrun guard."

Brynden snorted.

"Straightest man in Riverrun. Shame he's as flexible as a dead oak."

I rolled my shoulders and stepped down the last of the gangplank.

"Perfect. I love it when the welcome arrives before the smile. Julia?"

She stepped forward and planted her claymore into the ground with a satisfying thud.

"Line the chests. I want a corridor of offerings. I want Ryger to feel like he's walking toward an altar."

Brynden raised a brow.

"You planning to marry him or buy him?"

I smiled.

"In Westeros, I've learned one tends to follow the other."

Hooves drummed the dockstones with military precision. Twelve riders, silver-trout capes fluttering, trotted in perfect formation—straight out of a parade manual.
At their head: Robin Ryger. Tight moustache, tight face, the tight posture of a man who does not enjoy surprises—especially not ones shaped like foreign ships and ceremonial invasions disguised as gift processions.

Brynden's comment clicked. Ryger was portly. Clearly, peace had not been kind to his waistline.

He dismounted with a smooth motion, surveyed the dock, the crates, the flags—
And then me.

I stepped forward to meet him, flanked by Julia to my right, Tycho to my left, and Brynden two paces behind, arms crossed, looking like a boy at a funeral who's secretly enjoying the drama.

Ryger stopped two paces away. Inclined his head—not too high, not too low.

"Lord Bardatto."

I smiled, palms open in a welcoming gesture.

"Ser Ryger, I presume. Captain of the Guard. Your reputation precedes you."

He glanced briefly at Julia. Then the crates. Then me again.

"Lord Hoster Tully sends me to welcome you to Riverrun, and to his lands."

I gave a slight bow.

"An honour. I've no doubt we'll be received most graciously. As you can see—
I come bearing gifts."

With a flourish, I gestured to the growing corridor of chests.

"Presents for your lord. From the Bardatto Company. Wine, cloth, craftwork, precious objects. Nothing explosive, I assure you."

Ryger gave a slow nod.

"We appreciate the generosity. Are all the crates part of this… tribute?"

Beside me, Brynden coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Ryger ignored him. Naturally.

I continued:

"These crates will be delivered directly to Riverrun, under good guard. If Lord Tully wishes to open them himself, I entirely understand. And as for your question—
No. Some of them relate to the business I came for. The ones with golden clasps are not to be opened just yet. After all, we wouldn't want to tempt every set of greedy fingers along the docks."

Julia moved just slightly. Just enough for her armour to chime.
It was a warning.

Ryger blinked. Once.

"The Lord of Riverrun will be honoured. He awaits you for a formal meal at the castle."

I nodded.

"I assume you've arranged an escort."

"Naturally."

"And I've arranged a procession."

I snapped my fingers.

Behind me, the porters began lifting the first chests in a seamless, well-oiled dance of coordination. Two columns of living cargo fell into formation, each led by a banner bearing the Bardatto Company's colours. My men, armed and attentive, formed up around the procession. Better safe than sorry.

Brynden let out a sigh, half under his breath.

"This is more parade than arrival."

I smiled, not bothering to turn.

"Brynden, please. It would be terribly rude not to make a bit of a show. And besides—you should know by now, I do enjoy a little spectacle."

I turned to Ryger.

"Ser, I'm in your hands. Lead the way."

He stared at me for a moment longer, his eyes shifting from my cloak, to Julia, to Brynden—then to the line of chests stretching behind us like a gilded carpet all the way to Riverrun.

(POV Vincenzo Bardatto)

And so began our grand procession. It was damn striking—and I could already see heads turning. Servants from the castle, local folk trickling in from the fields. There wasn't a village directly nearby, true, but in a medieval world like this, farms were scattered everywhere. And those farms bred families twenty strong, thanks to tradition, poor planning, and a lack of effective contraception.

The wood creaked beneath my perfectly polished boots. The riverbank where we'd docked sat only a few hundred yards from the castle gates, but each step felt like a note in the symphony of my arrival.

Behind me, the chests followed—borne aloft by my men in purple-and-gold livery, two by two, perfectly in sync.
Here and there, peasants peeked from hedgerows, gawping with the wide, glazed eyes of stunned cod. One actually dropped to his knees at the sight of Julia.
I didn't blame him.

Julia led the procession, claymore slung over her shoulder, her armour gleaming as if fear itself had polished it. Her golden mask caught the pale sun and scattered it like prophecy. With each step, her cuirass rang out like a funeral bell.

Beside me, Brynden Tully trotted along with that infuriating, blasé smile of his, hands clasped behind his back.

"Looks like a coronation. Or a funeral… depending on the angle."

I smiled without turning.

"Perhaps both. I've come to crown my influence—and bury a few illusions."

He chuckled.

"Hoster's going to love this."

Behind us, Caspar managed the rhythm of the porters with his usual blend of elegance and menace—fingers snapping like a maestro, voice just shy of charmingly threatening.
Tycho, ever composed, walked like a man who already knew the return on this performance.

The Tully soldiers flanked the entire parade. Robin Ryger brought up the rear on horseback, stiff as a halberd, moustache drawn taut like a bowstring. He hadn't spoken a word since we left the docks.

I took the lull as an opportunity.

"Ser Ryger," I said lightly, "you should be proud. I believe this is the first time this path has seen as much gold as a royal wedding train."

He didn't even glance at me.

"So long as it doesn't block access to the farms."

Brynden stifled a laugh.

"Shall I go move the oxen?"

I answered, still forward-facing:
"No need. Let them watch. This kind of spectacle tends to inspire."

From behind a hedge, a farmer whispered to his son:

— "Is that him? The merchant the criers talk about?"

I smiled. Yes, little one. That's me. But don't worry—soon you'll call me boss, not merchant.

The gates of Riverrun loomed ahead—tall, severe, time-worn and battle-marked. Cold. Solid. Majestic. But today, they weren't opening for soldiers in steel.

No.

Today, they opened for commerce made flesh.

The guards on the ramparts had dropped the statue act.

Some stared at the chests like hungry dogs. Others weren't sure whether to salute, stare, or just step aside before they got trampled by symbolism.

The portcullis was raised. The great reinforced doors stood half-open.

Through the cool shadow of the gatehouse, I could already see the trout-and-chequy banners flapping lazily over the forecourt.

At its centre: Hoster Tully.

Elegantly dressed, but restrained. A richly embroidered cloak, yes, but nothing ostentatious. Seated in a carved wooden chair, raised just high enough to be symbolic. Cane in hand. Gaze sharpened by age and long habit.

To his left, Edmure—rigid as a fresh beam, young face taut with effort.

To his right, a scattering of minor bannermen—likely rounded up for display.

I slowed.

Caspar made a subtle gesture. The procession halted ten paces from the old lord.
Julia stepped aside to let me pass, then held her position to my right like a golden-armoured shadow.

Tycho and Brynden flanked me, each in place. The picture, as always, was perfect.

I stepped forward three paces.

Stopped.

And offered a slight bow.

"Lord Hoster Tully. It is an honour."

His voice was clearer than I expected.

"Lord Bardatto. You've arrived… earlier than planned."

I smiled.

"Progress, Lord Tully, does love a surprise."

A charged silence.

Edmure stared—half at Julia's armour, half at the unbroken line of chests behind me.

Hoster leaned forward slightly.

"And you arrive… in force."

I tilted my head, gently.

"In beauty, my lord. The force lies in the detail."

He narrowed his eyes, then flicked a glance to Brynden—who, as ever, shrugged.

"He talks a lot. But he delivers."

Hoster straightened in his chair.

"Then come. You and your companions are welcome within. A meal awaits. We'll speak… of business."

I bowed again, deeper this time.

Then turned, just briefly, to my men.

"Bring the chests. And be careful. These are… messages."

And as the gates of Riverrun swung wide to receive me, I stepped into its heart like a velvet-cloaked king walking into a den of silent wolves.

The place wasn't half bad. Ancient stones, well scrubbed. Crenellated towers, scattered ornamental bits, tapestries all echoing the grand aquatic theme of House Tully's beloved trout… A lovely little fortress, all things considered.

And yet—I couldn't help but smile to myself.

All this grandeur, built on the simple talent of falling to one's knees faster than the neighbours.

Credit where it's due: the Tullys were probably among the sharpest in the art of staying alive. Dragons arrive? Drop first, grovel best. Result? After Harren the Black got roasted like a chestnut in autumn, the Tullys snagged the Riverlands. Greyjoys got the Iron Islands. People tend to forget it used to be one single kingdom, all under the banner of Harrenhal.

Which is honestly hilarious, when you think about it.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms, they say—seven. But with Harren's domain split into the Riverlands and the Iron Islands, that makes… eight.

The North, Riverlands, Iron Islands, Westerlands, Stormlands, Reach, Vale, and Dorne.
But I suppose "King of the Eight" didn't sound quite as divine. The Faith of the Seven and their holy obsession with numerology probably had something to say about it.

Anyway.

The Tullys were no conquerors. Just smart enough to survive the fire. And at their core? Parvenus, lounging in halls too big for their name.

Not even the most powerful house in the region. According to books, records, and a few very well-placed bribes, it's old Lord Frey who's both the richest and the one with the biggest army.

And the largest holding? Harrenhal.

Hmph.

Now that gave me an idea. Last I heard, old Lady Whent had kicked the bucket, left the place without a proper heir.

Might be worth negotiating for it. Harrenhal would make a splendid Westerosi headquarters for the Company.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a servant bearing a silver tray.
On it: a slab of grey bread—dense, rustic, with all the tenderness of cobblestone—and a little dish of salt, only marginally more refined than what you'd find in a backwoods inn.

Ah yes.

The sacred bread and salt. The hallowed rite of guest-right.

Funny, I hadn't been offered it at Lord Cox's. Must've been too dazzled to remember tradition. Not that I was complaining.

I took the piece, dipped it in the salt with all the gravity of a tragic actor accepting his fate.

And I bit.

Dry. Dusty. Salty. Wonderful.

That's sarcasm, obviously.

I nearly choked. Not on the salt—on the sheer poverty of flavour.

"And to think this is meant to be an honour. In Braavos, I'd have sent the tray back with a threat of litigation. Here, it's sacred. What a savage little world."

I chewed slowly. Every bite was an insult to my palate. Then I swallowed, lifted my chin slightly, and gave a curt nod.

Hospitality accepted. Disgusting, but accepted.

At last, we were guided—my companions and I—toward the great hall. Naturally, my men followed, carrying the chests and other offerings.

They'd make fine conversation pieces during the meal.

The perfect time to dazzle the local gawkers with a bit of theatre.

The great hall of Riverrun had been prepared. Too well, if anything.

Embroidered tablecloths, silver candelabras, overflowing baskets of bread and fruit—though most of the fruit was just this side of overripe. Mental note. They'd even brought out the "good" silverware, the one with trout so badly engraved it looked like a drunk eel.

I was seated to Hoster Tully's left. The highest courtesy, a political symbol—
and more importantly, the best spot to survey the table like a benevolent tyrant.

Edmure, rigid as a training dummy, gave me a nod so stiff it belonged in a funeral parlour. The boy looked torn between admiration and a burning urge to mash my face into his mash.
Charming.

But on closer inspection, that look wasn't hostile.

Oh no.

The little bastard was into me.

And I don't mean envy—I mean full-on flushed-cheek, trembling-lip interest.

Not surprising. My beauty was the stuff of legends.

Still—no, thank you.

Ginger twinks aren't my poison.

Now, if his sisters had been around…

Hoster, for his part, carried himself like a man who had long since run out of patience for ceremony—but heard everything. His fingers occasionally tapped the table, and his eyes flicked, more than once, toward Julia.

Couldn't blame him. She was hard to ignore.

Julia, of course, remained as warm and welcoming as a freshly scrubbed crypt.
Standing behind me, unmoving.

Her armour caught the candlelight like polished threat incarnate.

I swear, Hoster looked at her like one might look at a warning carved in stone.

Further down, Tycho was savouring his wine like it was a quarterly report wrapped in grape.
Caspar, naturally, had already begun charming a minor bannerman desperate for a "branch office" in his modest little holding.

Pathetic. But useful.

Then came the food.

Game pie—dry.

Turnip mash—forgettable.

Brioche—meh.

The roast? Passable, but nowhere near the level of the pomp surrounding it.

"In Braavos, this would be staff dinner. Here? A feast. Note to self: import a real chef. And quietly set fire to the current one."

Still, I played the part.

Clean cuts, courteous smile, a few well-placed comments about texture and seasoning. I was the guest, after all. The charming invader. The velvet glove around a golden brick.

Then came the signal.

Hoster lifted his cup—but didn't speak. Not yet.

To my right, Caspar glanced at me.

A nod.

The procession began.

One by one, the chests entered the hall—carried by my men in purple-and-gold livery.
But this was no longer a presentation.

This was an assault. A visual bombardment. A tidal wave of splendour.
A slow, deliberate drowning of the room in prestige and weight.

The musicians shifted into a slow, ceremonial melody. Something liturgical, almost funereal. Each note landed like a drumbeat. Each chest like a declaration.
The porters moved with heavy grace, footsteps echoing with the solemn rhythm of a funeral march—for the old way of doing things.

With every chest opened, candlelight caught a new spark—a sheen, a gemstone, a delicate glaze.

And the room?

The room reacted.

Oh, how it reacted.

A chest opened: a statue of black marble, a winged woman holding a set of scales and a torch. Life-sized. The hall collectively lost its breath.

"By the Seven… she looks like a goddess!"

"Is that… is that Justice?"

"No, it's the Braavosi version. Look at the key."

Another chest: silk robes woven with gold thread, embroidered with river scenes. A young lady stood up without realising it, eyes shining like a child staring at a unicorn.

"Mother… Mother, it's… it's alive."

"Sit down!"

Another: jewellery. Necklaces, circlets, diadems, rings etched with exotic patterns. Some nobles rose from their seats for a better view. Others stiffened.

"Looks like a queen's dowry…"

"He's got more, hasn't he?"

Then the crowd edged back as two men laid down a long, ornately wrought steel chest, which opened with a sliding mechanism.

Inside?

A full suit of knight's armour. Polished steel, delicate gold accents, and a crimson cape embroidered with a black key and a stylised trout.

A murmur of fear. Then fascination.

"By the Seven… it's more beautiful than Prince Rhaegar's."

"That's not armour. That's a masterpiece."

One serving girl began crying. Literally.

A lady fainted—caught just in time by a page too young to understand what had floored her:
luxury.

I remained seated. Unmoving. Calm.

Wine cup in hand, the other resting on the armrest, my golden torque catching the torchlight. Every glance brushed against me like a caress. Every sigh, every gasp—an offering.

And Hoster Tully?

He didn't move.

But I saw him.

His eyes moved from chest to son, from son to Brynden, then to me. He was calculating. Weighing. Adapting. That's what made him a true lord.

Edmure, on the other hand, was elsewhere. Dazed. Overwhelmed. Unsure whether to be impressed… or afraid.

Brynden, naturally, shattered the most solemn silence in the realm with a dry murmur: "And here I thought a proper show involved a troupe of jugglers with tambourines."

Caspar, standing still, perfectly impassive, replied without looking at him: "You are a juggler, ser. But this performance has a maestro."

Tycho, meanwhile, was studying the neighbouring lords. He was tracking glances, jaw twitches, egos quietly bleeding.

He muttered more to himself than to me: "That's how you crush a room without drawing a single bow."

I took a sip of wine. Rose slowly then raised my hand.

And declared, in a clear, calm, almost affectionate tone:

"I hope these modest gifts are deemed worthy of the welcome I've received."

Murmurs of admiration. A few hushed claps. Some nobles, visibly jealous, were already pretending to find their wine fascinating. Others leaned toward their stewards with the unmistakable look of: "Can you get me that?"

But I raised one finger.

Just one.

And the hall—already convinced the performance had ended—froze again.

"…but we're not done yet."

A shiver. A collective, near-organic reaction.

More? That was written across every face.

I turned slightly toward Caspar.

A signal.

And the next wave began to move.

The porters returned. More of them. Quicker now.

This wasn't artistic display anymore. This was utility. The precision of a domestic empire. Not the kind of wealth you flaunt to impress—but the kind you use to govern.

Chests were opened, revealing:

• Fine tableware: porcelain plates adorned with floral patterns, solid silver cutlery, hand-cut crystal glassware from the Bardatto workshops.

• Everyday items… assuming your "everyday" belonged to a lord with more gold than shame: writing sets, copper calames, carved seal boxes, wax presses, compartmentalised chests for managing correspondence.

• Embroidered fabrics—this time not for show, but for wear. Entire lots: linen, fine wool, rare cotton. All labelled, sorted, ready to be cut, sewn, and worn.

Then came the books.

Ah… the books.

Each volume was carefully protected, wrapped in silk, tied with ribbons bearing the seal of the Company.

Caspar stepped up to an open chest and read out a few selected titles in a clear, even tone:

"Genealogy and History of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, copied from the Great Sept of Oldtown.
The Art of Sieges, compiled by Maegor Warwright.
Chronicle of the Kings of Winter, annotated edition.
And The Rise of the Braavosi Economy, transcribed word for word from the Exchange at the Market of the Three Arches."

A maester somewhere in the hall actually squeaked—audibly—then rushed a few steps forward for a better look.

"That's… that's vellum! High-grade vellum! The lettering… it's identical!"

"Block-printed. Braavosi method," Tycho added calmly.

The nobility didn't know what to make of it.

Knowledge that could be copied. Multiplied. Spread.

Fascinating.

Frightening.

Dangerous…

And then—

The final porters stepped forward.

Three large chests. Heavy. Made of dark wood, reinforced with iron bands, each marked with the seal of the Company.

They were placed before Hoster's table with deliberate care.

A reverent hush.

Then Julia stepped forward. Herself. In person.

She raised her hand.

The locks were undone.

And the lids, slowly, lifted.

Coins.

Thousands of them.

Braavosi silver stags. Gleaming, perfectly struck. Stacked with obsessive care. Each column tied with a fine thread of linen. Their shine wasn't ornamental.

It was transactional.

The hall shuddered.

A whisper rippled like a wave:

"Braavosi silver… gods…"

"They say a single one's worth three silver moons!"

"Three? He's brought whole chests!"

Ladies leaned forward. Bannerlords turned pale. Edmure looked ready to faint. Even the servants—usually part of the furniture—froze in place.

And finally, Hoster Tully straightened a little in his chair.

I took one step forward, gaze calm, voice even.

"Three chests of silver. For Riverrun. For your future endeavours. To show that my arrival is not a promise."

I let the silence linger. Then added:

"It's a commitment."

This time, Brynden said nothing.

He didn't smile.

He was looking at Hoster.

And he understood.

War hadn't been declared. It had already been lost. Quietly.

By the weight of a coin.

The last chest shut. The final flicker of silver swallowed by the candlelight. The hall sank into a silence that pulsed.

Not awkward. But absorbed. Saturated with gold, with images, with emotion. Saturated with what I'd just done.

The guests no longer knew whether to applaud, kneel, or flee to hide their own mediocrity. One or two minor lords were already whispering about "how to get that Bardatto onto their lands." The local maester was taking notes with the fevered zeal of a man transcribing divine revelation.

Even the most flirtatious ladies stayed silent, as if any word now would be far too crude to follow the diplomatic opera that had just been staged.

And at last, Hoster Tully stood. Not fast. Not abruptly. But with the deliberate weight of a man making sure everyone in the room saw the shift in posture.

He raised his cup, and he spoke in a voice clearer than anyone would have expected from a man his age.

"Lord Bardatto."

I straightened. No arrogance—just… present.

He went on:

"You came as a merchant. You presented yourself as a guest."

He paused, then:

"But tonight, you acted like a sovereign."

Murmurs rippled.

He raised his hand. Instant silence.

"You honour my house. You honour Riverrun. And if the Seven still hold meaning in this realm, then I'd say your presence here is a blessing I had the wisdom not to turn away."

He lifted his cup high.

"To Lord Bardatto. May he walk our lands… as he just walked through our certainties."

Toasts erupted. Tankards lifted. Glasses clinked. Tight smiles, glistening eyes, hands already twitching at the prospect of future contracts.

Me?

I didn't raise my cup. I set it down. Slowly. And I bowed.

Just a touch deeper than before. Just enough for them to believe it was gratitude. Not strategy.

Several hours later, as the hall was slowly emptying, as the servants cleared the tables and the guests lingered just enough not to seem in a hurry, Hoster approached me. Because yes, the feast had lasted from early afternoon until late into the evening.

He wasn't smiling. But his gaze was lighter. His voice, too.

"Tomorrow morning. First light. My study. Just you and me."

I nodded.

"Wouldn't miss it."

He turned to Julia. Studied her for a moment, without a word. Then said to me, almost under his breath:

"You're a storm, Bardatto. But a storm that builds instead of laying waste."

I smiled.

"That always depends on what gets in my way."

He tapped my shoulder with a single dry finger, like an old priest giving his blessing to a useful demon.

And walked away.

Brynden, not far off, muttered,

"He's done for. He already adores you."

I shrugged.

"That's fine. I've always gotten along with clever men."

Chapter Text

[POV – Vincenzo Bardatto – Riverrun Office, Morning]

Lord Hoster Tully's study was exactly what you'd expect from the man: austere, bloated with memory, and frankly too big for what it held. Scroll-stuffed shelves, a linen-covered map table, and a small iron stove in the corner puffing away to keep the morning damp at bay. And in the middle of it all, that ancient, sculpted chair—less throne than tired monument.

I was already seated across from it, legs crossed, perfectly at ease. Tycho stood at my right, statuesque, hands folded before him, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance as if already calculating the day's interest rates in his head.

Hoster entered, leaning on a cane, dressed simply. He found us waiting.

And he stopped dead.

He wasn't thrilled to see Tycho. That much was obvious. He'd wanted a one-on-one. And me, being the bastard that I am, brought the Iron Bank with me.

A moment of silence as he settled into his chair, the wood groaning under his weight.

Then, slowly:

"Lord Bardatto. I was under the impression this meeting would be between the two of us."

I smiled. Not mockingly. Not apologetically either—too risky to poke the bear. No, my smile was perfectly neutral.

"That was the idea. But you see, Lord Tully… I brought my credibility. In human form."

I gestured toward Tycho with a lazy flick of the hand. He shot me a mildly irritated look—not for being presented like a prized ox, but because I'd asked him to remain standing.

Here's something I've learned about Tycho: the man hates standing around. He likes chairs. Sofas. The reassuring embrace of expensive upholstery. But today, I needed him to play his part: a deferential shadow.

Hoster arched a brow.

"Mister Nestoris?"

Tycho offered the barest of nods, mechanical.

"Lord Tully."

Hoster leaned back slightly, hands steepled, his chair creaking ominously. He gave me a curious glance.

"Am I to assume the Iron Bank has joined our conversation?"

I dipped my head, just slightly. Couldn't help the faint smirk tugging at my lips.

"In a manner of speaking. Don't worry—you'll see why soon enough."

Hoster didn't look the least bit impressed. Tough crowd. Still, I wasn't here to grovel.

Time to spell it out. The procession yesterday. The banners. The cheers. The signing in the square. None of it was frivolous. It was theatre—yes. But theatre with purpose. A performance requires an audience.

"What you witnessed yesterday wasn't a ball. Nor was it some self-indulgent display. It was a demonstration. And a demonstration needs a witness."

Tycho raised his head slightly. His voice was calm, almost monotone, as if announcing the weather during a financial apocalypse.
Honestly, I often wondered how he managed to always stay so neutral, so… cold? Glacial? Boring? Well, for others. Personally, I found his humour dry and delightfully dark.

"Lord Bardatto is not a mere client."

He paused just a beat, as Hoster Tully's eyes widened. The Lord Paramount of the Riverlands wasn't stupid.

"In Braavos, he is regarded as one of the most influential Keyholders of his generation. And likely the most profitable."

Hoster blinked.
I smiled to myself. One of the most influential?
I glanced at Tycho and saw the flicker of mischief in his eyes. The bastard.

He knew full well I was the most influential, the richest, the most powerful. We both knew that once Antaryon-the-shrimp dropped dead, I'd be Sealord of Braavos.
When I say he had a wicked sense of humour… And on top of that, he's the sort to enjoy a petty little revenge.

I gave the slightest nod. He caught it, and sat down gracefully. I could see the glint of victory in his gaze.

He carried on, utterly unbothered. Hoster, meanwhile, was visibly thrown off by the fact Tycho had sat down and was speaking as if nothing had happened.

"His personal fortune is… sufficient to buy kingdoms. Several, in fact. And it's well-managed."

Another slight pause. Then, in a quieter tone—less a statement, more a verdict:

"But that's not the key point. The Bardatto Trading Company, which you saw parading through town last night, is not solely his. It is backed by the Iron Bank. And it enjoys direct—and renewed—support from the Sealord of Braavos."

A breath seemed to pass through the room.
Even the embers in the stove seemed to shrink back.

I simply laced my fingers together. My turn to speak, while Tully was already halfway into a spiral.

"In short, Lord Tully… what I'm offering today is not the alliance of a merchant."

I let the silence stretch.

Then, calmly:

"It is a partnership with the most powerful commercial organisation in existence—at least, to our knowledge. I run the Company. The Iron Bank and the Sealord—representing the Braavosi Council—are founding partners, combining their strength and resources."

Hoster didn't respond immediately.
He straightened slightly in his chair, ran a hand along the carved armrest, and fixed me with that intensity particular to men who've led more campaigns than feasts.

Then, in a clipped tone:

"Tell me about Saltspans."

I tilted my head, amused by the sudden change of pace. No, this one didn't lose the thread…

He carried on, not giving me the chance to answer:

"My brother told me everything. Or rather… what he saw. An improvised arena, a public duel, a humiliated son, and a lord forced to sign a contract I've yet to see in full."

He watched me for a moment, almost as if expecting me to flinch.

He didn't know me.

I offered him another of my smiles.

"Rowan Cox challenged me. Publicly. In front of witnesses. Without specifying that it was to first blood. Therefore, under Westerosi law, the duel was by default— to the death."

I let the weight of that settle. Then continued:

"I'm no fighter, Lord Tully. I deal in figures and opportunity. But I have people for these things. And Julia, my High Inquisitor, stood to defend my honour."

Tycho, beside me, crossed his arms, impassive. He was never a fan of Westeros' legal customs when it came to justice… Unsurprising. One only needs to be strong to avoid consequence here. Trial by combat? Trial by Seven if you really push it? No wonder Gregor Clegane never saw judgement—no one survives him face-to-face.
Except maybe Julia… hmm…

"The duel happened. Before a large crowd. Rowan Cox was… let's say, handled. Efficiently. But he wasn't killed."

I lowered my voice a touch. Sharper. More precise.

"Earlier, and on his knees, his father came begging me to spare him. He would have given anything to see his son walk out alive. And believe me, Lord Tully — he did."

I let that hang for a moment. Then, without drama:

"I simply seized an opportunity. One that required no blood—just a signature. One contract had already been signed, but I saw a chance to reinforce the Company's position. Would you not have done the same? I daresay if he had challenged you… or your son… the Cox would no longer be at Saltspans."

Hoster said nothing. His gaze drifted to the map behind him. Then returned to me—harder now. But there was something else in it too. Respect. And acceptance.
Because we both knew: had Rowan Cox challenged him, he'd have made sure the boy died and his father lost his lands.

"You turned a bannerman under my authority. Without informing me."

I didn't flinch. He clearly wasn't ready to let go of the point. Well, neither was I.

"I turned no one. I negotiated with a man on his knees, willing to give anything to save his son. I took what he offered. And I paid for it. Generously. The fief remains intact. Taxes are paid. The serfs fed. And now… productive. He'll reap the benefits of that contract for decades, and despite the clauses… he'll be protected if war comes."

I placed my palms flat on the desk.

"I didn't steal a vassal from you, Lord Tully. I spared you a problem. And turned a liability into an asset. Saltspans is secured for the years to come—regardless of what chaos unfolds in Westeros. After all, peace in Westeros is just the quiet between two funerals."

Silence.

Then, very softly:

"You've still got all your men. But now, you've also got a new stream of revenue. And a vassal who knows he owes me his son's life."

I straightened slightly.

"And all of that… without raising an army."

Hoster remained silent. He didn't nod. He didn't retort. He was chewing over my words like one swallows something far too rich to be taken in one bite.

Then, slowly, he leaned on his cane, eyes still locked on mine.

"You are… effective, Lord Bardatto. I'll give you that. Perhaps too effective, for some people's tastes."

I didn't answer. Not yet. I let him have his moment.

He went on, more serious:

"But I am Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. And even a contract signed in haste, under pressure, sets a precedent."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"I won't tolerate that becoming a habit."

His tone didn't rise. It didn't need to.

It was a warning.
No anger. Just the firm will of a man determined to remain master of his lands.

I inclined my head slightly, hands resting neatly on one knee.

"And I respect that. Entirely."

Then I straightened, voice clear and composed.

"If a similar situation ever arises — a duel, a dispute, a contract under duress — you will be informed immediately. And we will decide, together, how to proceed."

I paused just a moment, then locked eyes with him:

"I'm here to build, not to sabotage. And what I build has value only if it rests on a stable authority."

Hoster weighed me. Long and hard.

Then, finally, he nodded slowly.

"Good. Then let's put this behind us. And tell me what you want to build. Here. In my land."

I let the silence hang for a moment.
Then, calmly, I answered:

"Not here."

He raised an eyebrow.

I straightened in my seat, hands loosely clasped, tone composed.

"I want to acquire Oldstones."

He didn't reply straight away. I caught the flicker of disbelief in his eyes.

"Oldstones is a ruin—contested by two houses who've spent over two thousand years calling each other usurpers by raven. And you want to build on that?"

I smiled.

"No. I want to dig through it."

Hoster flinched—just slightly. I could understand his reaction. I'd just told him I intended to buy the former capital of his kingdom and reshape it entirely.
Not the sort of news one hears before breakfast.

I opened one hand slowly, as if laying down a secret.

"I'm not after the ruins. I'm after the land. Its position. Precisely between the Blue Fork and the Ironman's Bay."

He frowned—he hadn't yet seen where I was going with this.

I continued:

"I want to build a canal. A proper one. Navigable. A direct line from coast to coast."

I let the words settle. Then brought down the rest—methodically:

"With my engineers, gunpowder, contacts among the alchemists and artificers, and the Iron Bank's funding, I can blast what needs blasting, dig what needs digging, and shape this jewel into the image of my empire."

I made a slow gesture, as if tracing the map in the air.
I saw it in his eyes—he was intrigued by the mention of "gunpowder," and he had definitely paled at "alchemists."
Fair. With Aerys, every day had been Beltane without the feast. No music. No joy. Just screaming and wildfire. And truth be told, that little historical trauma gave me a few ideas for stirring trouble when I stopped by King's Landing.
I did intend to see the king—before he became a walking sausage roll.

"The canal will link the Trident to the sea. East to West. And I… will place a port-trading post at its mouth, on the Ironman's Bay."

I looked Hoster straight in the eye. He understood, then. That meant three trading posts: Oldstones, Saltspans, and a third not far from Oldstones. But most goods would be stockpiled at Oldstones.
Pure prudence.

"And from that port, I'll serve the entire western coast of Westeros—without sailing south, dodging the Stepstones and their pirates. Saving time and coin."

I dropped the last piece on the table like a king placing his crown.

"I don't want just a post at Riverrun. I want to rewrite the map."

I saw disbelief rising in Hoster's gaze.
A war-weary general confronted with a battle plan that looked dangerously close to madness.

I didn't blame him. My plans were insane—but also doable.
What he didn't know was that the alchemists who had joined me were already obsessed with the project. So much so, they'd left King's Landing and shut the guild down. The Westerosi didn't complain.
Aerys had left a mark.
A… smoky one.

They'd shown real skill with chemistry. And with my admittedly vague explanations, they'd recreated the equivalent of dynamite. So yes, I had more than enough to carve a canal.
Three months' work, thousands of peasants. Given the unemployment rate? Not a problem.
Besides, Westerosi minds are still stuck on roads and wagons.

So I leaned in—gently. Like a teacher trying to coax comprehension from a slow, but salvageable student.

"I can see it strikes you as… ambitious. So allow me to lay it out as a route."

I placed three fingers on the desk and moved them one by one.

"Saltspans trading post. Already under construction. Set at the Trident's mouth, east side. All Essosi cargo—Braavosi especially—will dock there."

I paused.

"Oldstones post. Will serve as the central warehouse."

Then slid my other hand to the opposite side.

"Unnamed trading post on Ironman's Bay. Mouth of the canal. Dedicated fleet, ships designed for the western sea. And, occasionally, it will serve as a filter for access to the Blue Fork."

I joined both hands.

"Goods unload at Saltspans, are transported via canal to Oldstones, then reloaded at the other end… bound for Lannisport, Oldtown, the Arbor—and beyond."

I looked up at him, tone calm, measured.

"I'm not talking about a shortcut. I'm talking about dominating every major trade flow in Westeros with a single line of navigation. And I don't intend to stop there. I'm planning a fourth post at the Twins—ideal for reaching into the North. It's already a key artery for northern trade. And therefore, perfect for us."

Hoster remained still. His gaze hovered somewhere between suspicion and fascination.

I straightened, a little cooler now.

"And of course, any ship crossing the canal that doesn't belong to the Company… will be taxed."

I let the smile stretch, subtle.

"Not a toll. A commercial agreement. A transit right. Supported by treaty, sealed under your authority. I don't intend to be a Frey. I'm offering… a subscription model. Like with my clocks."

I folded my hands over one knee, casting a glance at the timepiece in his office.
Because yes, even the Tullys had a maintenance contract. Once a year, a team came by to ensure everything ran smoothly.

"The revenue will be… colossal. And you'll have your share."

A pause.

Then, velvet wrapped in steel:

"A fixed share. Indexed. Transmissible to your heirs. Because I'm not buying land—I'm elevating it. And I'm making you rich… simply for saying yes."

Hoster leant back in his chair, hands resting atop the pommel of his cane. He frowned.

"The Ironman's Bay…"

He left the thought hanging.

Then:

"You intend to build a port-trading post on the doorstep of the Iron Islands?"

His voice was calm. But I could hear it — the wariness of a man who'd spent a lifetime learning to fear the sound of oars at dusk.

I smiled.

Not arrogantly. Not mockingly. Just… assured.

"I know what you're thinking. Raids. Pillaging. Fire, blood, and screams. Even in Braavos, the Ironborn's reputation needs no introduction."

I shrugged, almost casually.

"That time's passed. The Ironborn of today don't have the strength of their legends. And if they do decide to strike at my installations…"

I leaned forward slightly, eyes alight.

"…they'll join their god swiftly — and they'll fear me. They say they're terrified of the Storm God. With me, they'll be well served."

I let that hang. The silence. The soft crackle of the hearth.

Then, to my right, Tycho smiled.

Not a smirk.

A real smile. Thin and sharp — like a shark catching the scent of blood.

And in that ever-frosted voice of his:

"The Ironborn attack what they think is unguarded. The keyword being think."

He looked Hoster straight in the eye.

"And everything Bardatto builds… is more than guarded."

I straightened, pleased with Tycho's contribution.

"I never leave an investment unprotected. And besides…"

I raised a hand slightly, as if brushing aside a trifling concern.

"The Bardatto Trading Company is far more than a commercial body. We have fleets — and I know you've heard the rumours about our artillery."

I smiled again.

"I may be a merchant, Lord Tully. But I know how to defend myself — and I can assure you, in war, I become my enemies' worst nightmare. But for my allies? A waking dream."

Hoster, after a long pause, straightened in his seat — his gaze now sharper than it had been since the beginning.

"Then tell me, Lord Bardatto… what are you offering for Oldstones?"

I looked him in the eye. No smile this time. Voice even. Cold.

Time to state the terms. Let him see that for me, this sum was little more than a formality.

"One hundred thousand crowns. The unopened sealed chests? That's the payment, ready to be cashed in."

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Tycho, still standing beside me, raised his chin slightly. His voice as smooth as polished steel.

"That's the equivalent, by current rates, of one million golden dragons."

The wood beneath Hoster's elbow groaned softly. I saw the flicker in his eyes.
He wanted to hold onto the image of the seasoned lord, the experienced Lord Paramount.

But what he'd just been handed wasn't a threat.

It was abundance.
Even Tywin Lannister would have signed, diving on the offer like a hawk.

I continued, my tone unchanged — as if I'd just quoted the price of a barrel of herring.

"That's the outright purchase of the land — Oldstones, the ruins, the fields, the forests, the riverbanks, and the dead roads that cross them."

I folded my hands.

"On top of that, of course, come the trade taxes. A fixed share will be paid out to you on every shipment, every vessel, every transaction passing through the canal."

I paused. Just briefly.

Then came the clause — the one that always stung.

"In exchange… the Company will exercise its own authority over the acquired lands."

Hoster's gaze sharpened.

I clarified immediately:

"So long as our laws don't contradict those of the Seven Kingdoms, they shall take precedence within the domain. It will be our land. Our rules."

I dropped it, calm, unwavering:

"I'm not building a trading post. I'm founding a stronghold. And a stronghold needs order. Efficiency. Laws built to last. The Company's armed force will ensure that order. And if war breaks out in Westeros…"

I turned to Tycho.

"I will gladly shelter the people of the Riverlands."

Then, back to Hoster:

"After all — who would dare declare war on us? Attacking the Company… is attacking the Iron Bank and Braavos."

A silence fell.
But this time, it wasn't heavy.

It was electric.

Hoster Tully had stopped moving.

His fingers were clenched around the edge of his desk, rigid like talons. His eyes burned—not with anger, not with irritation.

With want.

He had done the maths. Not just the staggering sum—a million golden dragons—but what it could mean for him.

The rebuilding of a fleet, the repair of the roads.

The strengthening of Riverrun.

And above all… a legacy. A lasting glory.

He inhaled. Deeply, then, his voice slightly rough:

"And what if I didn't… just want to sell?"

I said nothing. I watched him, completely still.

He continued—words spilling faster than he perhaps intended, as if he was surprising himself:

"What if I wanted to invest? Take part. Become part of your… your Company."

He paused. Searched my eyes.

"As a shareholder. Or partner. Or… whatever form it takes. I'm not talking about control. I'm talking about sharing."

Tycho didn't move.
But his smile returned—fine, almost imperceptible. Razor-sharp.

And me?

I let a moment pass.

Just long enough for Hoster to feel it. That he'd crossed the line.

Then I answered, calm, without false humility:

"It's possible."

I leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the armrests.

"The Company is selective. We don't sell shares to the first lord who shows interest. But you're not an ordinary lord. Active participation is expected from members of the Company's Council. And you have everything it takes. However…"

I paused—then continued, gently:

"There would need to be guarantees. Discretion. A binding clause. A lock on transmission."

I smiled.

"But yes. We could discuss your entry into the Company."

And I closed, still quiet, still level:

"That's what I do, Lord Tully. I build empires. And I choose my partners."

I let him sit with that. The gold. The revenue. A seat on the Company.

Then, softly—no drama—I laid the final piece on the table.

"Oldstones is a foundation. But it's not the end."

Hoster looked up.

I continued:

"What I want as the official seat of the Company in Westeros is… Harrenhal."

The name hit the air like a slap of iron.
Even the fire in the stove seemed to fall silent.

I let the shock pass.

"A cursed fortress, some say. Empty. Crumbling. Far too large for anyone."
I smiled.
"Perfect. That's precisely what I need."

Hoster inhaled—slowly. His brow furrowed. His tone turned grave.

"I can't sell it to you."

I didn't respond. I already had a good idea where this was going.

He went on:

"Harrenhal isn't under my direct jurisdiction. It's changed hands too many times. Granted. Seized. Reassigned. Its status is… unstable. You'll need to speak to King's Landing."

I nodded. No surprise. Nothing unexpected.

I smiled.

"Very well. In that case, a letter of support will suffice. From a respected liege lord, recommending the acquisition of Harrenhal's lands for commercial development."

Hoster stared at me for a long moment.

I continued:

"The day that letter is signed, you'll be inducted into the Company—as a founding partner of its western branch. And as such… you'll receive quarterly income. Variable, of course. But always…"

I paused briefly.

Then added, softly:

"…substantial."

Tycho, beside me, added in his usual deadpan:

"The Company pays its partners dividends greater than those of the Bank itself. It's not a favour. It's a system."

I straightened, gaze locked with Hoster's.

"And if King's Landing proves difficult, I'll go myself. And I'll place on their table the one thing the Crown never refuses: stability… and gold."

Chapter Text

Helo everybody, here's the 17th chapter. Some may notice the different way it's written like 16th chapter. It's the translation as the french version is much more compact :s I had some problems with the translator's parameters...it decided to put lot of space between lines etc. I suppose it's a common problem with AI...
As I didn't want to change the chapters format, well here's the way it's written. The translator was corrected with chapter 19 so you'll have to read through this different format for 3 chapters.
For those wondering why I don't correct: It's time-consuming, I work all day and I'm ill so...not my priority. If I won 1K/month for these yeah I would tweak things and correct it, but that's not the case so...

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr. I do post there some different extras.

[POV – Vincenzo Bardatto]
(Seven days later) (286AC)

The Golden Current sliced through the river like a sharpened feather.

Given my categorical refusal to ride a horse—and the complete absence of anything resembling a carriage fit for a civilised human—I'd opted to drift down the Red Fork to its confluence with the Blue Fork, then head upstream all the way to Oldstones. One might assume it took longer than riding from Riverrun, and they'd be right. With the current, we made the descent in two days; five more to claw our way back upriver. Seven days total, compared to five on horseback.

But there were advantages: no horses, no wading through mud, and no bloody bandits. The gains more than made up for the lost time.

I stood at the prow, hands clasped behind my back, cloak trailing in the breeze, eyes locked on what would soon become the crown jewel of Westeros's Riverlands Crossroads: Oldstones.

Or rather, what remained of it.

Ruins. Walls split wide by time, arches collapsed in on themselves, a dock half-swallowed by silt and roots. The former capital of the Kingdom of the Trident looked more like a tomb than a throne. Perfect.

Julia stood at my side, arms folded across her steel breastplate, silent. A living statue. Behind her, her claymore practically thrummed, as if eager to carve through crumbling symbols and outdated myths.

Behind us, the other Golden Currents followed in a precise, deliberate line. Ten ships. No more, no less. By design. The rest had turned back to Saltpans to fetch more men and supplies. The goal was clear: start rebuilding Oldstones immediately.

Why the rush? I needed infrastructure ready for the alchemists' arrival, and for the canal teams that would follow. I glanced over at Caspar—confirmation never hurt.

I turned towards him, just to be sure.
"Tell me, my ever-dutiful steward—the ravens? They've flown?"

He nodded instantly, unrolling a small parchment from his belt like it held the fate of kingdoms.

"The maester at Riverrun oversaw the dispatch. One raven to Saltpans to coordinate further shipments—food, tools, materials. Another to the captain of the Jade Truth, still docked. He's been ordered to set sail for Braavos to pick up the alchemists… and collect the first crates of BLASTonishing™."

I let out a quiet laugh.

"Ah, the infamous BLASTonishing™. The name alone screams 'this ends loudly.'"

To be fair, I wasn't short on flair. It was just dynamite, really—but I'd wanted something with a bit of bite. The kind of name a goblin marketing exec from Warcraft would slap on a crate. And so it was born: BLASTonishing™ – Because brilliance should come with a shockwave.

Julia tilted her head slightly.
"It's a weapon, then?"

I nodded.
"A blessing, rather. A lovely yellow paste, packaged like a noble's pudding, with the good manners to wait before obliterating everything. Originally intended for mining. But like any fine invention… it kills beautifully too."

I cast a look at Caspar.
"They know how to handle it, I assume? I'd hate for my apocalypse monks to blow their own teeth out before they arrive."

Caspar didn't so much as blink.
"The crates are triple-insulated. Instructions are crystal clear. Only licensed Guild alchemists are allowed to touch it."

Fun fact: the Alchemists' Guild was mine. Entirely. Meaning they worked directly for the Company now. And frankly, they were a goldmine. Between dynamite, electrolysis, fire-spitters... The coin poured in. I'd even ordered special lenses from our glassworks. For microscopes, naturally. We'd need those once the pharmaceutical empire launched. One lesson COVID taught me well: Sickness = Profit.

"Excellent. I want it delivered like a holy relic—gloves, prayers, and backs ramrod straight."

At that moment, Tycho looked up from his ledger, a thin smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. An emotion. Remarkable.

"Let's hope they've improved the packaging since... the South Quay incident."

I turned toward him, eyebrow raised.
"The old warehouse, you mean?"

He gave a slow nod, mock-thoughtful.
"Abandoned storage unit at the city's edge. They'd stored two barrels of the early formula—non-stabilised. Let's just say the district received... a rather prompt renovation."

I nearly burst out laughing.

"Oh, I remember that! The alchemists were so thrilled with the results they practically climaxed in their robes."

Tycho arched a brow, dry amusement creeping in.
"I thought it was a metaphor the first time they said it. Until one of the scribes brought me a note… drenched."

I snorted. They really were aroused by explosions.

"A scientific and bodily demonstration of their enthusiasm. They even wanted to rename it The Bardatto Wind after that."

Julia turned her head slightly—either to hide a smile, or suppress a gag. Hard to tell.

I regained some semblance of composure—well, almost.
"In any case, the version they're sending now is stabilised, tested, and packaged like a virgin on her wedding day. With any luck, we won't blow Oldstones off the bloody map."

Tycho muttered,
"Statistically, that would already be an improvement."

I rolled my eyes at the sarcasm. I knew full well it was stable—just like real dynamite. But we let the instability rumours linger. Just enough to scare off the idiots. Fear, after all, makes a rather effective passive security system.

(A few minutes later)

Wood scraped softly against moss-covered stone as the gangplanks were lowered. The Golden Current docked with the precision of a craftsman obsessed with perfect lines. Its hull brushed against the crumbling remains of the old quay—a relic of another age I'd come to bury once and for all.

I was the first to step off. Sharp-heeled, cloak lifted by the breeze. Behind me, Caspar followed in loyal silence, while Tycho moved ahead with a measured stride, already sizing up the ruins with that clinical eye of his.

Julia joined me without a word.

A heavy silence had fallen over the place. Too heavy. Too thick.

I frowned, just a little.

No birds. No insects. Not even a single sodding frog. And yet, with all that mud along the ruins and roots curling through the broken stones, the place should've been swarming with life.

Julia halted beside me, scanning the area in silence before speaking:

"It's too quiet."

I raised an eyebrow. Really, Sherlock? Hadn't noticed…

"I thought you liked this sort of thing. Silence, solitude, places where people have forgotten how to breathe."

She didn't move, but I could tell her eyes were narrowing behind the mask. She was definitely amused.

"This isn't natural silence. It's... hollow."

I cast a slow glance around the ruins of Oldstones.

True enough, it reeked of abandonment. But there was something else. Unease, coiled and patient. As if the city had sensed our coming and decided to empty itself just to avoid meeting us. Frankly, it screamed ambush. Which, to be fair, made sense. A fortress—even a dead one—was still a fortress. Ideal hideout for bandits, smugglers, or worse.

Julia spoke again:

"No recent tracks. No wildlife. No people."

She paused.

"I request permission for a full sweep. Two squads. Slow approach. Fan-out pattern."

I exhaled through my nose—half a laugh.

"You mean: shadow army formation, methodical advance, just in case something dares to twitch out here?"

She gave me a look. The kind that didn't ask for approval so much as acknowledged protocol—with a garnish of politeness.

I waved a hand.

"Fine. Sweep away. If there's a ghost lurking, offer it a job in security. And if it's anything else… bring me back a prisoner or two. Something to set the tone."

Julia left without a word, flanked by two squads—weapons drawn, posture upright, gait relentless. No grand declarations. No drawn-out plan. She didn't need one. When Julia entered a place, it was rarely for negotiations.

I remained on the riverbank, hands clasped behind my back, eyes fixed on the shattered skeleton of Oldstones. A breeze stirred my cloak and the banners of the Company fluttered behind me. The others had begun unloading supplies, utterly unbothered.

Caspar stepped up to my right, nose in his ledger. Tycho, ever true to character, joined me in silence, studying the ruins like he was calculating the yield of a cemetery.

And then, a few minutes later—

Screams.

Not a single cry. No. A long, guttural howl. Then another. And another. Twisted by the echo of stone. At first muffled, like fear hadn't quite decided if it wanted to be heard. Then louder. Sharper. Splintered.

Caspar looked up, slowly. Tycho's lips thinned. Me? I smiled.

"Bandits."

Caspar furrowed his brow.
"You're certain, my lord?"

I shrugged.
"People don't scream like that over a snake's nest. And Julia's not one to scream. She makes others scream."

A sharper, higher-pitched shriek sliced through the air.

I snorted.

"They probably holed up in whatever was left of a throne and now they've found themselves face to face with an inquisitor in full plate wielding a sword larger than their ambitions. I'd almost pity them… but they're bandits. And sanctity's never been a trait of the profession."

I pulled a mock-sympathetic face.
"Bad karma."

Tycho, the ghost of a smile on his face, gazed up at the ruins.
"They thought they were safe."

I laughed.
"Safe? In my ruins? Ha! They must've thought Oldstones was still abandoned."

Another scream rang out—sharper, shorter. Muffled.

I exhaled, deeply satisfied.
"I despise vermin. Especially the kind that squats uninvited."

I turned calmly.
"Let her clean house. I want the foundations laid on clean ground."

Silence fell again. Brutal. Total. Not a cry. Not a whisper. Julia's pest control session, it seemed, was complete. Oddly enough, nearly half an hour had slipped by.

All that remained was the wind sighing between broken stones—as if even Oldstones itself was holding its breath.

And then came the footsteps. Heavy. Steady. Leather boots on dead stone. Steel plates clinking softly, like chapel bells tolling absolution through slaughter.

Julia returned.

She led the way, unhurried, her black-and-gold claymore hanging low in one hand. Blade dripping. Fresh blood across her greaves, splashed across her spaulders, a sticky crimson trail down her chestplate. A vision of war straight out of some lunatic crusader's wet dream.

Behind her, her men. Not a scratch among them. No wounds, no limping. Just looks. The kind only earned after witnessing a lesson.

Admiration—pure and raw. She was impressive, my Julia.

Two of the men dragged what was left of three survivors. Bandits with hollow faces, clearly dragged through every ring of regret. One whimpered faintly. Another whispered what might've been a prayer. The last stared into nothing, like he'd already left the world—or was desperately wishing to.

Julia halted a few paces from me.

"Area secured. No survivors beyond these."

I nodded, pleased.
"Any losses?"

She shook her head once.
"None."

I exhaled.
"Just how I like it—efficient."

My gaze slid to the prisoners.

"And how many were there?"

She raised her blade slightly. Thick blood ran down the flat in a slow, viscous line. Then, in that calm, no-nonsense tone of hers:

"We'll probably need a mass grave."

Caspar swallowed, discreetly.

Tycho gave a small, approving nod—subtle, and somehow colder than silence.

And me?

I smiled like a man who's just discovered his wine cellar had an extra floor.

"Well then. That's sorted. Interrogate them—just to be sure they're proper bandits. You never know, with the eternal Blackwood-Bracken pissing contest over these lands…"

"NO!" one of the prisoners squealed, before I'd even finished speaking.

He raised his hands—or tried to, given the ropes—his face slick with sweat, eyes wide with pure panic.

"We—we're just bandits, sir! Swear on my mother! We've got nothing to do with the Brackens! Nothing! Not a thing! We just needed shelter, that's all! We didn't steal anything! We don't even know where Bracken is! Honest!"

A silence followed. Dense. Embarrassing.

I stared at him for a beat. Then turned slightly toward Tycho.

"Funny how often that name comes up for someone with nothing to do with the Brackens, isn't it?"

Tycho nodded, voice dry and flat:
"A bit too often, yes."

I turned to Caspar with a light tone:
"Write up a note. A scroll. Nothing grandiose. We'll send a copy to Tully, just to show him I keep my promises."

I began to dictate aloud, mock-formal:

"To Lord Bracken of Stone Hedge, claimant to the lands of Oldstones—
If this snivelling sack of meat truly belongs to you, you may take him back. This once.
From now on, however, I consider this land mine.
And should you attempt any underhanded infiltration, know this: compared to what I'll do to you, Castamere will read like a bedtime tale.

Yours sincerely,
Vincenzo Bardatto,
President of the Bardatto Trading Company, rightful holder of Oldstones by decree of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

Caspar was already scribbling, word for word, without comment.

I gave a casual gesture toward the talkative one.
"Release him. Escort him directly to Stone Hedge."

Then, with a smile—serene, almost warm:
"As for the other two… They can christen the mass grave."

Silence.

Julia nodded, already issuing orders. The other two so-called bandits sobbed like extras in a bad King's Landing tragedy.

I turned to Tycho with a mock-thoughtful air.
"Speaking of the grave… wouldn't it make a rather fine boundary for a future cemetery?"

Tycho responded without inflection:
"Efficient. Perhaps a central plaque, for dramatic effect?"

I grinned wider.
"Efficiency. I like it."

Then turned once more toward the ruins.
"Oldstones is finally free of vermin. We can begin building."

I rubbed my hands together.
"Caspar, start setting up the camp. Julia—"

She looked up, attentive. I noted the two prisoners were already being led away. Presumably, toward their… permanent residence. Heh.

I gestured to her bloodied blade.
"Clean that. Or don't. Might scare off the next batch. But if you're staying near me, you'll need to be presentable. Blood stains, and it stinks."

She dipped her head—just enough.

(Two weeks later)

Oldstones no longer looked like a tomb.

The eerie silence of those first days had been replaced by a perfectly orchestrated cacophony—hammers ringing, orders barked, boots striking stone, carts creaking, steel on rock, voices clashing in organised chaos.

The construction site was in full swing.

Hundreds of tents now sprawled along the riverbanks and deep into the ruins themselves. Thousands of peasants, labourers, craftsmen and hardened veterans swarmed like ants laying siege to a dead kingdom. All drawn by the same lure: gold. And the promise—boldly printed on my posters—that here, gold could buy you bread, a roof… and maybe, just maybe, a future.

The Golden Currents, my river fleet, had become the new pulse of the river. They sailed up and down without pause, laden with men, food, cut timber, quarried stone—and occasionally, dreamers who had grossly overestimated themselves and scurried back as fast as they'd come.

From my command tent—a wooden and canvas structure that looked far more like a general's war room than some builder's pavilion—I could watch the city rise from its grave.

And that's when Caspar entered.

No knock, of course. He knew I hated that. Unless he had good news.

And by the look on his face… he did.

"They've arrived."

I looked up from my schematics.
"The Glass Viper?"

He nodded.
"Docked a few minutes ago."

"They've brought the crates?"

"Two cases of BLASTonishing™. Sealed. Secured. The alchemists are unloading them now."

I stood, satisfaction already blooming in my chest.
"And who's leading them?"

Caspar answered without pause.
"Wisdom Hallyne."

I grinned.
"The mad old spark from King's Landing? The one who spent his days praying to wildfire so he could keep dreaming of Aerys?"

Caspar gave a brief nod.
"The very same. Though I must admit, brilliant or not—he's somewhat… volatile."

I chuckled under my breath.
"Volatile, yes. But sharp enough to recognise a good investor. He approached me in Braavos, remember? With his scrolls, his vials, and that gleam in his eye—like a boy who finally found someone just mad enough to believe in his delusions."

Tycho appeared then, hands clasped behind his back.
"He said you were the only man in the world who understood that chemistry, combustion, and ambition are the three ingredients of power."

I smiled, genuinely flattered.
"He's not wrong. And at least he doesn't grovel before those Citadel rats."

Tycho nodded, faintly. We didn't hate the maesters, exactly—I'd done my research. No, they weren't wicked. Just smug. Hoarders of knowledge, never offering it freely, and Westerosi lords were too thick to ask the right questions. Result? A kingdom frozen in place for centuries.

"Their feud's been brewing for generations," Tycho mused. "And now you've handed him his revenge."

"And in return, he'll help me reshape this kingdom—one calculated blast at a time."

I stepped outside the tent.

The quay was a hive of motion. The Glass Viper was moored cleanly, and the procession was already coming down the ramp. Dark robes, faces weathered by obsession, hands moving with ritual precision around two large crates—sealed and bound in bronze.

And in the centre, straight despite his years, with a greying beard and eyes ablaze with unburnt fervour: Wisdom Hallyne.

I approached. He bowed low—surprisingly graceful.
"Lord Bardatto. Oldstones… has strong bones. And a reactive soul. I can feel it already. The terrain is ripe."

I returned his greeting with a curt nod.
"You have the explosives. You have the blueprints. You have full discretion."

I leaned in slightly, voice dropping.
"And if a hill happens to go up in smoke too early… call it deliberate. Art is about presentation, after all."

He laughed softly, voice like charred parchment.
"My lord, I came because you're the only living soul who treats alchemy as it deserves: as a science. Not some superstition."

I tapped a finger on one of the BLASTonishing™ crates.
"Then prove it. Tomorrow, demonstration. Public. With a crowd. Let them see firsthand that we don't build empires with timber and prayers—but with vision… and a well-placed bang."

They were going to get their money's worth tomorrow. Nothing convinces like a perfectly timed explosion.

(The Next Morning)

The sky was clear, the sun high, and tension clung to the air like humidity before a storm.

A platform had been set up facing a marked slope of hillside—white chalk lines traced precisely across the earth. Below, a patchwork crowd had gathered: labourers, craftsmen, veterans, peasants, onlookers, sceptics, and the usual scattering of spies. All drawn here to witness what the Bardatto Trading Company had dubbed "progress in motion."

I stood tall, hands behind my back, gold torque gleaming, crimson cloak draped just right, proud as a peacock at court.

To my left, Tycho—impassive as ever, though a flicker in his eye betrayed his anticipation. To my right, Caspar, loyal as always. Behind me, Julia, grim and silent, playing gargoyle.

And at the centre, Sagesse Hallyne—ready to let science speak. Or more precisely: scream. The old man was practically twitching with eagerness.

I raised a hand. The crowd fell silent.

Then, in a clear, carrying voice:
"Today, you'll witness how we carve out a future. Not with shovels. Not with prayers. But with BLASTonishing™. Because as we say—every project deserves an explosive start."

A ripple of murmurs. The tension twisted tighter. I continued:
"This hill blocked the path of our future canal. Impassable? Not for us."

I gave a subtle nod. Hallyne bowed his head, lit the fuse, and promptly bolted like a rat from a cellar fire.

One... two... three seconds.
Nothing.

The crowd shifted. Doubt crept in. I smiled inwardly. Always let them think it's failed—just for a moment.

Then—

BOOM.

A sharp, clean detonation. The hill cracked like old bone, a whole section collapsing in a billow of dust and flying soil.

Frozen silence.

Then—shouts. Not panic this time—astonishment. Awe. Even the staunchest doubters were left gaping, mouths open, words caught in their throats.

I let the moment breathe. Then spoke again—calm, but firm:
"What you've just seen… is the future. And for those bold enough to build it, the Company is open to you."

I took a step forward, eyes sweeping the crowd.
"Every man or woman willing to work on the canal will earn two silver marks a month."

Gasps. Murmurs. Two silver marks? That was absurdly generous.

I raised my hand again.
"These coins aren't from here. Thus, they can be exchanged right here at the currency office we'll set up in Oldstones. And each one of them is worth… three Silver Moon."

The weight of those words sank in. Faces lit up. Whispers turned to disbelief, to excitement. They were calculating already—what this meant. A labourer could earn in one month what used to take them years.

But of course, there was a reason for the price.

Working with explosives wasn't a game. I'd already factored in the casualties. Most would die from their own lack of attention. For that, we had compensation: a gold crown to the family of the deceased. Nothing for me—but for them, that was five lifetimes' worth of coin.

I continued:
"And that's not all. Those who sign on long-term will have guaranteed work after the canal is finished. With renegotiated pay, of course."

More exchanged glances. Hope in their eyes. Hunger. Exactly what I wanted.

"There's always work with the Company—guards, blacksmiths, stewards, scribes, builders, foremen..."

I gestured to Caspar, who held up a long scroll.

"Aptitude tests will be held. Got arms? Good. Got a skill? Even better. Know nothing? We'll teach you. Missing a leg? I've got a job for you. Missing an arm? Still usable. Blind? Well—there are trades that don't require vision."

Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd. Fair enough. The only ones I truly can't employ are the ones with no arms and no legs. But unless you're a noble, that level of misfortune usually means you're already dead. And this isn't exactly a welfare state.

I smiled.
"The world is changing. And here, in Oldstones, we're the ones building it."

I descended from the stage slowly, deliberately.

"Those who wish to sign up—follow the red banners.

The rest of you? You're welcome to go back to praying for better harvests. But let's be honest with ourselves—you won't get a better offer in your life."