The grand auction hall of Braavos was a study in calculated elegance. High ceilings with intricate frescoes depicting rchant ships and sea dragons stretched overhead, while crystal chandeliers cast warm light across rows of cushioned seats arranged in a semicircle around the auctioneer's block. The finest of Braavos's rchant elite had gathered—n and won whose nas were whispered in the sa breath as gold and power, whose decisions moved markets and fortunes.
Artos sat between Ronan and Waymar, feeling distinctly uncomfortable in the fine clothes that had been forced upon him. Around them, rchants in silks worth more than most n's yearly earnings engaged in quiet conversation, making ntal notes of who was attending and what their presence might signify. It was, he reflected grimly, the kind of event that perfectly encapsulated everything he'd co to Essos to escape.
"Try to look at least mildly interested," Ronan whispered as the first items were brought forward. "You're supposed to be here to network and perhaps make so investnts."
"I'm supposed to be here because you bullied into it," Artos muttered back. "And so far, I've seen a collection of paintings that look like a child's attempt at art, three dozen bolts of silk that all appear identical to my eye, and a statue that soone apparently paid a fortune for. This is tedious beyond asure."
The auction proceeded with the usual pageantry of such events. A set of ancient Valyrian coins sparked fierce bidding wars among collectors, climbing to nearly eight thousand gold dragons before a Lyseni banker finally claid them. A tapestry supposedly woven by a master craftsman three hundred years past sold for twelve thousand. A jade statue so delicate it seed impossible that it hadn't shattered sold for another nine thousand to a Pentoshi magister.
Artos watched it all with the detached interest of a man observing a foreign ritual he didn't quite understand. Gold changed hands, fortunes were made and lost over objects that seed to him utterly devoid of practical value. It was alien, joyless, and utterly devoid of anything resembling actual stakes.Then, midway through the afternoon, sothing appeared that made him actually sit forward in his seat.
"Lot forty-two," the auctioneer announced, holding up a bottle that seed to contain liquid gold. "An exceptional vintage of Dornish red, aged sixty years in sealed casks kept in perfect condition. The provenance is without question—this cos directly from the private collection of a noble house in Dorne, and only three bottles of this vintage are known to exist in the entire world."
The bottle itself was a work of art—old glass, the kind that had taken on a slight amber tint with age, filled with liquid that seed to glow like molten rubies when the light caught it. Artos could see sothing in it that the other rchants clearly recognized as well.
"Shall we begin at five thousand gold dragons?" the auctioneer asked.Hands rose imdiately. The bidding was fierce and fast—serious collectors engaging in a battle of not just wealth but desire. Five thousand beca seven thousand. Seven thousand climbed to ten thousand.
A woman in Pentoshi silks bid twelve thousand. A rchant prince from Tyrosh raised it to fourteen thousand. The bids climbed with relentless intensity, each raise smaller than the last as the price approached the upper limits of what even wealthy n considered reasonable.
At fourteen thousand, five hundred, a tall man with the bearing of Old Empire nobility bid calmly, his voice carrying absolute certainty.
"Fifteen thousand gold dragons," he said, his accent marking him as Pentoshi—one of the great cities of the Essosi.
For a mont, the hall seed to hold its breath. Fifteen thousand was an extraordinary sum for a single bottle of wine, no matter how exceptional.
"Do I hear fifteen thousand, five hundred?" the auctioneer asked.No one raised their hand.
"Going once at fifteen thousand... going twice..." The auctioneer paused, clearly hoping for further competition. None ca. "Sold to the Lysandro Vex for fifteen thousand gold dragons."
Ronan leaned over as the bottle was carefully brought down to the Pentoshi. "Lysandro Vex. I've heard of him—ambitious, dangerous, and apparently willing to spend whatever it takes to acquire what he wants."
Artos said nothing, but he filed that observation away, watching the man as he accepted the bottle with a satisfied expression. The auction continued for another hour, proceeding through an assortnt of increasingly valuable luxury goods. Another set of even more ancient coins from Old Valyria sold for twenty-two thousand. A collection of rare gemstones from the Sumr Isles commanded thirty thousand gold dragons.
The sums were staggering, the competition fierce, the intensity building with each lot. Artos found himself becoming genuinely engaged now, watching not the objects themselves but the n bidding for them, analyzing their strategies and their apparent wealth.
Then the auctioneer's deanor changed entirely. He seed to gather himself, straightening his spine, as though what was coming next required a different caliber of presence entirely."Ladies and gentlen," the auctioneer announced, his voice taking on a quality that commanded absolute silence, "we co now to the final lot of this afternoon's auction. What you are about to witness is sothing I have had the honor of seeing only once before in my entire career. This is an item we have been extraordinarily fortunate to acquire through channels I am permitted to discuss only in the most guarded of terms."
The entire hall seed to lean forward as one.Two attendants appeared, moving with deliberate ceremony. They carried an ornate case fashioned from darkwood. They set the case before the auctioneer with the reverence of priests handling sacred relics, and the whispers that had begun in the audience imdiately ceased.
The auctioneer opened the case slowly, dramatically, as though he were unveiling sothing that transcended re comrce.
Inside, resting on cushioning of deep blue velvet, lay two daggers. Artos felt his breath catch.Even from where he sat, even from a distance of perhaps thirty paces, he could see what they were. Valyrian steel—unmistakable in its dark, rippling surface, the way it seed to drink in light and transform it into sothing darker and more complex. The blades were shorter than swords but longer than typical daggers, perhaps the length of a man's forearm from hilt to point. The surfaces were a masterpiece of the smith's craft—patterns rippling through the tal like waves on water.
"A pair of Valyrian steel daggers," the auctioneer announced, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of genuine reverence. "Pre-Doom Valyrian steel, crafted during the height of the Freehold itself, in the waning days before Valyria's destruction. The craftsmanship is extraordinary—notice the rippling pattern unique to each blade, each variation telling its own story of the forging process. The hilts are fashioned from materials nearly as rare as the steel itself."
Around the auction hall, the reaction was imdiate and visceral. n who'd been lounging casually in their seats were now leaning forward, their eyes fixed on the daggers with an intensity that suggested they were looking at sothing far more valuable than re weapons. This was not the polite interest of wealthy collectors—this was hunger, pure and undisguised.
"Valyrian steel," Ronan whispered, genuine awe in his voice. "It's rare to see Valyrian steel at auction. The families who possess it guard it like dragons guard gold."
But Artos didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the daggers, and sothing inside him had shifted. This was different from the wine, different from the coins or tapestries. This was steel—true steel, the kind that could cut through almost anything, that would never dull or break. This was a weapon from a lost world, crafted by smiths whose skills had died with their civilization.
"It is not just steel," a Pentoshi rchant near them said, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. "It is steel that cannot be broken, cannot be dented, cannot be dulled. It is steel that was forged using techniques lost when Valyria burned. Each piece is irreplaceable—there are perhaps two dozen complete Valyrian blades left in the entire world, and complete pairs..." He shook his head.
The auctioneer continued his description, his words carrying the weight of significance. "These blades were acquired from a private collection in Quohor, where they have been kept for nearly three hundred years. The original crafter is unknown, as many pre-Doom smiths left no record of their nas. However, the quality of the work suggests a master craftsman of the highest caliber. The sapphires in the hilts are flawless—stones that would command significant prices on their own. The Valyrian steel no longer produced anywhere in the known world."
Artos leaned forward, his eyes never leaving the daggers. Waymar glanced at him with concern. "Commander, I know that look. That's the look you get before you do sothing expensive and dangerous."
"The bidding shall comnce at three hundred thousand gold dragons," the auctioneer announced.
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