For a mont, absolute silence fell over the hall. Three hundred thousand gold dragons was a sum that approached the annual revenues of entire lordships. It was more gold than most n would see in ten lifetis.
Then a hand rose. Lysandro Vex, the Pentoshi rchant who'd purchased the Dornish wine, his pale eyes fixed on the daggers with an intensity that was almost predatory.
"Three hundred and fifty thousand," a Braavosi rchant imdiately countered, his voice sharp with determination.
"Four hundred thousand," another voice called out—a Lyseni banker whose wealth was apparently as considerable as his ambition.The bidding climbed with a speed that suggested multiple parties were willing to spend extraordinary sums for these particular blades. This was not the careful, asured competition of earlier lots—this was hunger, desperation, the pursuit of sothing that transcended re acquisition.
Four hundred and fifty thousand. Five hundred thousand. The bids climbed in incrents of fifty thousand, each raise a declaration of seriousness, each price point eliminating another competitor.
At five hundred and fifty thousand, most of the initial bidders began to fall away. Only Lysandro Vex, the Braavosi Young rchant Prince , and a mysterious magister who'd been silent until now continued the bidding.
"Six hundred thousand gold dragons," Lysandro announced, his voice carrying absolute confidence. The rchant was leaning forward now, no longer lounging in his seat, his entire body language suggesting that he would not be denied these blades.
The Pentoshi magister raised his hand. "Six hundred and twenty-five thousand."
The Lysandro rchant paused, clearly calculating whether the daggers were worth such an extraordinary expense. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he wrestled with the decision. After a long mont, he shook his head and withdrew from the bidding, slumping back in his seat like a man who'd just lost sothing precious.
The auctioneer looked around the hall, clearly astonished at the sums being bid. "Do I hear Any advance on six hundred and fifty?"
"Seven hundred thousand," the Pentoshi magister said coldly, his voice carrying a note of finality, as though he'd just made a statent of absolute intention.
rchant Prince's face darkened with fury. For a mont, it seed as though he might bid again.
Artos heard himself speak before he'd fully consciously decided to bid. His voice cut through the silence like a blade through silk."Seven hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons."
The entire hall turned toward him at once. Ronan actually grabbed his arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks."What in the seven hells are you doing?" Ronan hissed, his voice carrying genuine panic. "Do you understand what that sum represents? That's nearly your entire liquid wealth! Do you understand—"
Bravosi Young rchant head whipped around, his eyes finding Artos ."Eight hundred thousand gold dragons," announced, his voice cutting and sharp.
Artos didn't hesitate. "Eight hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons."
"Hal," Waymar said urgently, leaning in close. "You cannot be serious about this. That's—that's more than entire armies cost. That's more than so kingdoms spend in a year."
But Artos was already watching the rchant's reaction with the sa intensity he'd bring to analyzing an opponent in combat. The careful calculation in those pale eyes, the white-knuckled grip on the armrest, suggested that the brat was reaching the outer limits.
Bravosi Young Brat raised his hand, his movents jerky with barely suppressed rage. "Nine hundred thousand gold dragons."
"Nine hundred and fifty thousand," Artos replied imdiately, his voice steady and certain.Silence fell over the auction hall. Absolute, complete, tomb-like silence as though everyone present had simultaneously stopped breathing. Nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons. The figure seed almost aningless in its enormity.
Lysandro stared at Artos for a long mont, his expression a calculation. The rchant was clearly wrestling with sothing.
rchant Prince's hand trembled slightly as he gripped the armrest, and Artos could see the war happening behind those pale eyes.
Final his expression twisting into sothing that was half-sneer, half-grimace. He raised one hand in a gesture that might have been acknowledgnt or might have been a curse.
"Nine hundred and fifty thousand going once," the auctioneer said, his voice slightly strained. "Going twice..."He paused, clearly hoping against hope for further competition. The Pentoshi magister sat perfectly still, his expression unreadable. None ca."Sold," the auctioneer announced, his voice carrying genuine astonishnt. "The Valyrian daggers are yours, Commander Hal, for nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons. A sum that will be recorded in the history of this auction house."
As the attendants carefully brought the ornate case forward, their movents now tinged with sothing approaching reverence, Ronan released his grip on Artos's arm and simply stared at him with an expression that suggested his entire understanding of his business partner had just undergone a fundantal realignnt.
"You just spent nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons on a pair of daggers," Ronan said quietly, his voice hollow. "Nearly a million gold dragons. That is more than so kingdoms generate in a decade. That is more than the annual revenue of White Harbour. That is..." He seed to struggle for adequate words. "Hal, what in the seven hells were you thinking?"
But Artos's attention was fixed on Lysandro Vex. The Volantene rchant was staring at him with an expression the look of a man who'd been outmaneuvered and knew it.
The rchant prince stood abruptly, still holding the defeated gaze for a mont longer before turning and storming from the auction hall, his attendants scrambling to follow.
Waymar watched him go with concern. "Commander, I think you may have just made a very dangerous enemy."
Artos accepted the velvet-lined case containing the daggers and opened it carefully. The Valyrian steel seed to glow in the light, the rippling patterns in the tal creating the impression of movent, as though the blades were sohow alive despite being inanimate.
"I think," Artos said slowly, running his fingers carefully along the edge of one blade without quite touching it, "that man was already a dangerous enemy. At least now he has a concrete reason to be angry with , rather than so abstract rivalry based on principle."
He closed the case gently and looked up at Ronan, his dark eyes intense. "I was thinking that I have spent the last two years accumulating gold that ans nothing to . That I have fought and killed and conquered, and for what? For coin that sits in vaults, for reputation that exists only in tavern gossip, for power that is aningless when exercised in service to myself."
He held the case before him, feeling its weight. "But these—these are sothing different. These are weapons forged by masters who have been dead for centuries. These are steel that will outlast , that will remain sharp and true long after I myself am dust. These are worth spending gold on because they represent sothing real, sothing that matters. And apparently, they're worth making enemies for as well."
Waymar shook his head, but there was a complicated expression on his young face—part admiration, part genuine concern. "That's either brilliant strategy or complete madness. I genuinely cannot determine which."
"Why can't it be both?" Artos asked, setting the case carefully in his lap.Around the hall, conversations were resuming, but Artos noticed that many eyes remained fixed on him. The Pentoshi magister was watching him with an expression that suggested profound reassessnt. The other rchants and magisters were whispering among themselves, clearly discussing both the absurdity and the audacity of what had just occurred—and more importantly, the apparent rivalry that had just been created between the mysterious Northern commander and the dangerous Bravosi rchant prince.
As the remaining minor lots were presented and quickly sold off without much fanfare, Artos found himself thinking about Seraphine Valen and wondering what she would think of his latest bout of spectacular excess.
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