The grand manse of House Sythan overlooked the Long Canal of Braavos, its marble balconies catching the late afternoon sun like polished shields. Inside, however, the atmosphere was anything but serene. Glaro Sythan, rchant Prince of Bravos and heir to one of the most powerful trading families in the Free Cities, sat slumped in a high-backed chair carved from blackwood and ivory. Before him stood an array of goblets, each containing different vintages—Arbor gold, Pentoshi dreamwine, even a bottle of the rare Dornish red he'd won at the auction for fifteen thousand gold dragons. But none of it was helping.
He drained another cup of ad—Brandon's ad, he thought bitterly, slamming the empty vessel down hard enough to send droplets flying across the polished table. The sweet, smoky taste only fueled his rage. Even this, the finest ad circulating through Braavos's taverns and noble houses, ca from the coffers of that damned Northern sellsword. Nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons. Nine hundred and fifty thousand. Flung about like a common laborer tossing coppers at a whore.
"Another!" Glaro bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. A trembling servant hurried forward with a fresh pitcher, but Glaro waved him away with a snarl. "Not that piss! Bring sothing that doesn't taste of barbarism!"
The servant bowed and fled, leaving Glaro to his brooding. Two days had passed since the auction, and the sting hadn't faded. He'd stord out of the hall like a man scorned, his pride lacerated before an audience of Braavos's elite. Magisters, rchants, minor nobility—all of them had seen Glaro Sythan, scion of one of the Bravo's 'greatest' house, bested by so naless captain who'd washed up from across the Narrow Sea. Hal of the North. A sellsword. A man who commanded ragged companies of cutthroats for coin, not a prince born to silk and power.
Glaro hurled his goblet across the room. It struck a tapestry depicting ancient Valyrian dragonlords and tore through the woven flas, clattering to the floor in a spray of Arbor gold. "Bastard! Northern cur! I'll see you bankrupted, your company scattered, your ad turned to vinegar in every cask!"
The doors to the solar burst open, and his father strode in like a stormcloud made flesh. Maegor Sythan was a man in his late sixties, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, his hair silvered but his posture unbowed by age and he tolerated no foolishness from anyone—least of all his only son and heir.
"Enough of this tantrum, boy," Maegor growled, his voice cutting through Glaro's rage like a whip. He kicked the fallen goblet aside and lood over his son, hands planted on his hips. "Two days you've been like this—drinking yourself into a stupor, smashing fine glassware, whining like a kicked dog. The auction is over. The daggers are gone. And if you spent another mont thinking on them, you'd realize what a fool you've made of yourself."
Glaro surged to his feet, wine staining his embroidered doublet, his face flushed with drink and fury. "Father, you didn't see it! That upstart—that sellsword—bidding against like he had a right to sit at our table. Nine hundred and fifty thousand! He threw it away on blades as if it were pocket change. And the whole hall watching, whispering—"
Maegor seized his son's arm, his grip iron-hard, and shoved him back into the chair. "Sit down and listen, you wling whelp. You're not so street urchin fighting over scraps. You're Glaro Sythan, heir to half the trade routes between the Free Cities. And that man you're raging against? He's no re sellsword, no matter what pretty na he hides behind. Hal is a commander who's carved his na into Essos in blood and gold. In two years, he's beco the most expensive captain on the market—the highest-paid sellsword in history. Companies beg for his service. Cities pay him to not march on their walls."
Glaro opened his mouth to protest, but Maegor cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Don't interrupt with your self-pity. You think he won those daggers through luck? No. Through calculation. He saw you wanted them—saw you needed them to salve your pride—and he denied you. That's not the act of a fool. That's the act of a man who understands power."
He paced before the ruined tapestry, his boots clicking against the marble floor. "And it's not just swords he wields. The man is a rchant too—a successful one. That ad you're drowning your sorrows in? His ad, distributed through networks he built himself. Half the brothels in Westeros are hooked on his Lysene trade deals, brokered through the Manderlys. He's got investnts in shipping, in breweries, in spices. Magisters from Pentos to Myr are lining up to partner with him. Princes send him letters. Even the Sea Lord of Braavos has taken notice—our own Sea Lord, who doesn't trouble himself with captains unless they command fleets. He's waiting for the right mont to draw Hal into his web of alliances."
Glaro stared at the table, his fingers tracing the rim of an empty goblet. He murmured sothing under his breath—"Just a lucky barbarian..."—but nodded stiffly, eager to end the lecture.
Maegor wasn't finished. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Listen to , boy, and listen well. Rage won't win you those daggers back. It'll just make you look weak. There are bigger gas afoot. Forget the steel. Focus on what matters. Work. Connections. Power."
He straightened, his expression shifting to sothing more calculating. "Start with Seraphine Valen. The girl from the Valen family—the sole heir to their shipping empire. Half of Braavos's canal trade flows through their hands. Court her. Woo her. Marry her if you can manage it without cocking it up. Join House Sythan to the Valens, and we'll control the waterways from here to the Sumr Sea."
Glaro blinked, the fog of drink parting slightly at the ntion of her na. He'd seen Seraphine at gatherings—tall, dark-haired. She'd spoken with Hal at that party Ronan had hosted, their heads bent close in conversation that looked far too intent for his liking."Seraphine?" he echoed, a spark of interest cutting through his sullenness.
Maegor snapped. "Impress her. Show her you're more than a prince throwing fits over lost toys. Dine with her family. Discuss trade routes. Show her the ledgers—our contracts in Volantis, the silk caravans from Yi Ti. Stop drinking yourself into oblivion and start thinking. The Northman might have the daggers, but you can have alliances that last longer than steel."
Glaro nodded again, more genuinely this ti. The ad still burned in his gut, but his father's words had kindled sothing else—a slow, smoldering resolve. "Aye, Father. I'll... I'll speak with the Valens. Arrange a eting."
Maegor clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to jolt him. "Good. Now sober up. Wash that Northern swill from your mouth. We've work to do."
As Maegor swept from the room, Glaro sat alone, staring at the spilled wine staining the table. The daggers were gone, yes. But Seraphine Valen... she was a prize worth pursuing. And if pursuing her ant crossing paths with Hal of the North again? Well, there were more ways to win than at auction. He poured himself one last cup—not of ad, but of the Arbor gold—and drank it slowly, plotting.
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