Joryn Marsh — Month 8, 283 AC — Bravos
The sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows of the Iron Bank of Braavos, soft and gold, falling across the polished obsidian of the ledger desks. Inside, the only sound was the precise scratch of quills and the occasional shuffle of ledgers being closed or moved.
Joryn Marsh sat quietly in his superior's office, eyes fixed on the parchment before him. He wore a light charcoal-gray linen jacket tailored for summer, buttoned neatly, with silver-threaded cuffs—simple, professional, and deliberately forgettable. Before him, in neat Braavosi script, lay his final monthly report.
To Auditor Rhaem Turov,
All scheduled payments for Lhorathi merchant contracts have been processed and confirmed. Coin movement aligns with attached ledgers: eighty-seven receipts, seven minor correction slips, and two adjusted promissory guarantees for long-haul shipping insurers.
*Errors: none. *
*Fraud indicators: none. *
Margin fluctuation within agreed bounds.
Ledger integrity confirmed by Secondary Clerk Marvolan.
He set down his quill, dusted the ink lightly, and rolled the scroll with practiced precision.
Across the stone office, Rhaem Turov, his direct superior and a senior assessor of external credit schemes, looked up from behind his curtain of curled parchment.
"That will be your last Lhorathi report, then?" Turov's voice was light, but his tone always hinted at suspicion.
Joryn stood and walked to the another desk. He placed the scroll gently atop the stack of completed audits.
"Yes, sir. I've closed the entire cycle. Nothing pending."
Turov didn't respond immediately. Instead, he watched Joryn carefully, then asked, "Did any of the Lhorathi brokers question the terms? Did Merav Orlen sign the final clause personally?"
Joryn nodded once. "She did. Two witnesses present. No changes requested."
"And the shipping guarantees? All confirmed with the Otherys offices?"
"Confirmed and double-checked," Joryn replied calmly. "The northern contracts are clean."
Turov leaned back, tapping his fingers together. "You're always thorough, Marsh. That's what makes this so... peculiar. You tie the knots perfectly—then choose to step off the ship just as the wind turns in your favor."
Joryn said nothing.
Turov leaned forward now, elbows on the desk. "Tell me why. You came to the Iron Bank at the age of ten-and-one, barely taller than the scrolls you carried, and with a mind for numbers better than men three times your age. You rose from steward to clerk, then from clerk to contract handler. You handle all the Lorathi merchant accounts now. You make great coin now. You have no family that the bank knows of. No friends outside of your work. You don't waste time, you don't misstep, and you read a ledger like a bard reads song."
Joryn still said nothing.
Turov's voice lowered, softer now. "Why? Why are you leaving? I may be your superior, yes—but we've been friends these last two years. So I ask you not as your overseer but as someone who has come to respect you. Is someone threatening you? Because for someone like you, Joryn, the Bank would protect you. No one would dare challenge it."
Joryn looked at him for a moment, quiet and unreadable.
And then he simply shook his head.
After a moment, he said, quietly, "I'm not being threatened. Nothing like that. I just... want to pay back someone. By working for them. That's all."
Turov narrowed his eyes slightly, not with suspicion, but in surprise. Joryn rarely volunteered anything.
"And the rest?" the older man asked. "The rest of what I said? No family?"
Joryn let out a breath. "I do have a family. A sister and a brother. They live in Norvos now. They work with the House of Red Hands."
That made Turov blink. "The healer's guild? The best one in all of Essos?"
"So they say," Joryn said softly. "My mother's a healer too. My sister wants to follow her path. I... chose something else."
For a moment, Turov said nothing. Then he leaned back again, visibly processing the revelation.
Joryn straightened, smoothing the front of his jacket. "I'll begin packing all my things now. Thank you for everything you've done for me."
Turov sat forward slightly, lips pressed together. "I trust the Bank won't try to stop me," Joryn added after a pause.
Turov exhaled slowly. "Of course not, Joryn. Gods. You're more than just someone working under me. You're my friend. But—" he hesitated, "I can't promise that some of the higher-ups in the Bank won't try to follow you. They won't do anything stupid, not to stop you. But the Bank... it likes to know where its talent is going."
Joryn gave him a faint nod, turned, and left the room without another word.
................
Two days later, the salt wind of the Narrow Sea curled under Joryn's collar as he stepped off the deck of the Braavosi merchant ship Daughter's Favor. His boots touched the white stone of the docks at White Harbor, and he paused only a moment before descending the gangplank.
Beside him, a lean dockhand carried a modest wooden box—Joryn's only possession from his old life. Inside were three ledgers, two folded tunics, a letter sealed in oilcloth, one silver coin older than the Free Cities themselves, and all the gold he had managed to take with him from Braavos—carefully stacked and bound in small leather rolls, hidden beneath the false bottom of the box.
The market stretched out ahead, full of sound and salted smell—fishmongers yelling prices, hawkers calling about leather and wool, the sharp tang of vinegar and smoke. Everything was alive. Loud. Open. He felt the weight of it and welcomed it.
But Joryn was not here for the markets.
He scanned the crowd carefully, eyes moving from guards in Stark grey to merchants in Harbor blue. Faces passed—some curious, others indifferent. He was looking for someone. Someone he had not seen in more than a decade. Someone he remembered only through a haze of cold water, blood, and a gloved hand reaching through smoke.
The man who had saved his life.
Joryn adjusted the weight of his coat and continued into the square.
................
Three hours later, his mood had shifted.
Joryn stood at the edge of yet another plaza, jaw tight, arms folded. He had circled the markets three full times, checked each watch station, and even spoken with a dock guard. Still nothing. No sign of the man he had come to find.
Behind him, the dockhand grumbled again, shifting the box from one arm to the other. "How much longer, ser?"
Joryn didn't look back. He was paying the man twice his usual rate—not just to carry, but to watch the box like it was a chest full of jewels.
"Why is he complaining?" Joryn thought. "I'm overpaying him and he hasn't walked a mile."
He sighed. The man who had saved him—he knew he was in the city. Lord Nhilux had sent the message weeks ago. But either he was late, or Joryn had been forgotten.
And gods, how he hoped that wasn't true. He didn't want to believe it—that after all these years, after what that man had done for him, he would be left here like some abandoned errand. It stung more than he expected. He clenched his jaw and forced the thought aside, but it lingered like salt in an old wound.
Eventually, with the sun dipping low and his patience threadbare, Joryn turned toward a nearby inn. He'd take a room for the day. Rest. Think.
The place was modest, but clean. A slate-hung sign swayed above the door—The Salted Harp—and a pair of fishermen sat snoring on the steps. Inside, the scent of spiced ale and stew clung to the wooden beams.
I will have to try some of the Mormont Whiskey i have heard so much about
And that was when he saw him.
The man Joryn had been searching for. Sitting in the main area, surrounded by Stark guards—half a dozen at least, all with cups in hand and smiles on their faces. At their center sat Nhilux himself, laughing as he waved a hand to emphasize the arc of some grand tale.
Joryn froze.
"—Thousand Islands," Lord Nhilux was saying. He looked exactly like he did all those years ago. did not look even a single day older. "The maps lie, of course. They say there are fewer than three hundred. But I counted more. Or maybe I was drunk. Either way—"
The guards laughed.
"—they fear the sea. Strange, isn't it? Surrounded on all sides, and they won't set foot in the water. Ever. Not even under threat of death."
One of the guards scoffed. "Because of fish gods?"
"Squamous gods," Nhilux corrected. "Stone idols you can only see when the tide recedes. The women there—green-skinned, hairless, teeth like fishhooks. The men, well... they lose their foreskins before they can speak their names."
The room erupted with laughter again. Ale sloshed. A man coughed into his drink.
Joryn stood in the doorway, silent and staring. His coat smelled of sea salt and sweat. The dockhand behind him muttered something about being paid soon.
But Joryn said nothing.
He had found him.
Time Skip................
Big time Skip around the years 288AC (The last part was basically a flashback)
Joryn Marsh POV
The quill scratched too loud against the parchment that morning.
Joryn Marsh dipped the nib again, careful not to blot, and made a small correction on the ledger. A half-dragon discrepancy from the last barrel of oil sold to White Knife ferrymen had to be accounted for, even if the coin had already vanished into the granaries' accounts. His fingers twitched slightly as he turned the page. A fine dusting of charcoal from last night's fire still lingered on his cuffs.
Outside, Winterfell stirred.
It was a soft kind of stirring—steel scraping stone, the distant barking of dogs, and the faint sound of hammers tapping. The new courtyard, paved with smoothed riverstone and widened just last moon, echoed with clearer footfalls now.
That had been proposed under Lord Stark's approval, but it was Jonlen Poole, acting under Lord Nhilux's broader infrastructure plans, who saw it done.
Joryn rose slowly from his chair, stretching out the stiffness in his back. The fire in his hearth had long gone cold, but he didn't bother relighting it.
He pulled on his outer coat—dark wool, finely lined, a gift from a White Harbor wool guild contact who paid in favors—and fastened the clasp at his neck.
Today marked the arrival of the treasury second shipment this year.
Ten thousand dragons. All counted, weighed, sealed. Promised by the Iron Throne to the North. Joryn didn't care for the politics of it. He cared about the weight, the sound of a true coin ringing on the stone, and the smooth edge of unshaved gold.
He stepped into the corridor and met his men near the scriptorium hall. All three waited with satchels of parchment, weighted stamps, and corded bags meant for sealed bundles.
"You've reviewed the mark sheets from the last caravan?" Joryn asked, his voice plain and steady.
"Yes, Master Marsh," replied Halder, the youngest. "Everything stamped and matched. Lord Manderly's seal is on all the outgoing crates."
"Good. You'll check today's crates against those manifests. Farris, you'll count the bundles in the first three crates and cross-check weights. Edric—"
The oldest of the three, grey-bearded and broad, straightened his back.
"—you'll oversee the entry into the inner yard. I want no confusion. If any seals are cracked or bindings tampered, you flag me first."
"Aye, sir."
The four of them made their way to the outer courtyard where the gatehouse opened onto the newer trade road. The sky hung low with slate-colored clouds, but the wind was calm. That was fortunate. It made the counting easier when papers didn't blow.
The gate captain saluted as they passed. The arrival of the gold escort was imminent; smoke could already be seen on the eastern approach—torch signals from the watchtower relays that marked a caravan's final mile.
Joryn set up at a stone table just inside the expanded receiving yard, cleared of carts for the event. Winterfell's banners hung slightly limp above them, still bearing the frost of early spring.
He paused. On the walls above, there was increased motion now. Runners, a horn-blower, guards shifting. Something had changed.
He caught the eye of a nearby Winterfell guard stationed near the gate.
"Fetch Ser Rodrik," Joryn said quietly. "Now."
The man blinked. "Something wrong, Master Marsh?"
"Perhaps. And if not," Joryn replied, "then Ser Rodrik will have wasted a short walk—and I'll have wasted nothing."
Minutes later, the escort arrived.
There was no formation. No proud arrival. Just limping horses, bloodied armor, wagons rattling as if their wheels had come loose. Joryn's heart sank when he counted. Three men limped. Ten bore wounds that bled through their sashes. And five—five bodies, wrapped in cloaks—were lashed across the rear wagon.
By the time Ser Rodrik arrived, Winterfell's guard had mobilized in full.
"Secure the gold wagons," Rodrik barked, voice like gravel. "Get the wounded to Maester Albar. Leave three men per crate until the coins are stored. No chances."
The courtyard shifted into practiced movement. Men-at-arms formed a half-ring around the wagons. Gold was not to be lost—not here, not now.
Joryn approached slowly. The captain of the escort, gaunt and pale, sat dismounted near the well. A gash streaked his brow, fresh but bandaged.
Rodrik stood over him, arms crossed.
"We were attacked," the captain was saying. "Just after leaving the Barrowlands, before we came up on Creywen. thirty men, at least. Not northern bandits. Didn't speak like them, didn't dress like them either. Some wore Essos colors. One had a Spear carved into a shield."
Rodrik's face darkened. "You're sure?"
"Aye, Ser."
Joryn waited until Rodrik nodded at him, then stepped in.
"Captain, I'll need you to oversee crate verification with my men. We'll recount, reseal, and log all crates before they're entered."
"Do what you must," the man rasped.
Halder and Farris moved quickly, double-checking signatures. Edric personally checked every hinge, wax seal, and sigil pressed on the straps.
"Matched," Halder confirmed. "We need them moved now, though."
Six hours passed.
Six hours of crate lifting, bundle counting, coin tapping, signature checking, and a hundred corrections to the manifest. This took far longer than it should have. Joryn should have known just from seeing the number of crates—oh, it would've been simple if the Iron Throne had sent their payment in gold.
But no. This shipment was mostly silver and copper, packed heavy and awkward in iron-braced crates. The weight was right. But after an attack, and with this much low-denomination coin, nothing was ever truly right.
By dusk, Joryn was hunched over in his chair again. Ink smudged his knuckles. His eyes burned from firelight. A new log had been penned. Another copy sealed. And now, two reports were his to write—
One for Lord Stark.
He began with the Stark report, straightforward and dutiful. The parchment was crisp, his ink cool.
To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell,
This day, under heavy watch, the treasury shipment from the Iron Throne arrived at Winterfell. Escort was delivered via White Harbor, bearing documentation stamped and sealed by Lord Manderly's office. The shipment total stands at ten thousand dragons, in silver and copper, bringing the cumulative transfer to date—including the post-war initial settlement of one million dragons—to one million one hundred and twelve thousand dragons of mixed denomination.
The escort suffered attack just after leaving the Barrowlands, prior to their ascent through Creywen. The nature of the attack suggests coordinated, armed banditry, possibly southern in origin, with identifiable elements inconsistent with northern raiders—such as southern fashion, Reach livery, and one seven-pointed star.
Five men dead. Several wounded. All crates accounted for. Seals intact. Recount performed. Coin secured under three-man guard rotation per crate.
Awaiting your instruction regarding formal communication to the Iron Throne.*
He signed it with his full name, dated it, and added the smaller Stark seal in red wax.
And then, he turned to the longer report for Lord Nhilux.
This one needed more than numbers and stiff phrases. Nhilux had always preferred precision over formality—and detail above all else.
To Lord Nhilux,
Shipment received. Fifth of the year, under guard and delivered from White Harbor as scheduled. Documentation from Manderly's office matches our internal tallies. Crate integrity confirmed, and the coin itself—sampled from each container—shows no signs of adulteration. Your projected milestone was crossed today: the North has now received 1.11 million dragons of the committed royal sum.
That said, the escort was attacked. Five dead, many wounded. The strike occurred just past the Barrowlands, short of Creywen. Not Ironborn. Not Northmen. Southern accents, southern coats. One carried a shield bearing a Spear Symbol. Unclear if religious or symbolic. Reach or Dorne affiliation is suspected, but no heraldry confirmed.
Ser Rodrik took immediate control of defense and lockdown procedures. Each barrel is now under three-man rotation, per your protocol. I've personally overseen the recount—took six bloody hours. Nothing missing, nothing forged, nothing slipped. Still, I've logged two crates with minor hinge damage and one with a warped seal lip. These were noted and rechecked.
Awaiting instruction on whether this attack merits a discreet query through White Harbor. And whether you'd prefer I inform your contact within the Treasury Office directly or continue via the Stark channel only.
Joryn flexed his aching fingers, then tapped the table once with the seal stamp before pressing it into blue wax.
He sat back.
The day was done.
Joryn rose from his chair, shoulders stiff, legs slower than they had been this morning. He took both sealed reports in hand—Stark's pressed in red wax, Nhilux's in blue—and stepped into the corridor. He dropped the former at the solar where Stark's scribes would file it, and left the latter inside the side chamber beside Lord Nhilux's study, where few ever tread unless summoned.
There were still hours left before sundown. The work was done, the coin secure, and for once, there were no lingering numbers gnawing at his conscience.
He allowed himself a rare smile as he left the keep, descending toward Wintertown with his cloak tucked high against the wind. There was a fire usually lit at the Laughing Mare by now, and if he was lucky, Coren the scrivener would already have a cup waiting and some half-true tale about canal saboteurs to share. Gods knew he'd earned a bit of laughter today.
....................
Four days later, the ledger ink was fresh again, but his eyes were twice as tired.
The past few days had been filled with follow-ups—inventory tallies, interviews with guards, and the quiet hum of the treasury vault door being opened and shut far too often. The Stark report had likely already been forgotten, swallowed up in the tide of daily ruling. But the other one—the one addressed to Lord Nhilux—had not.
Joryn had been summoned A letter had arrived late the previous evening, tucked inside a gray pouch sealed with a signet he'd only seen twice before. A stylized eye within a ring.
He'd broken it open slowly.
The message within was brief, direct, and clear: "Approve the transfer of 3,000 dragons to the men who arrive tomorrow. Do not delay. File it under Annex 3, Miscellaneous Trade Expeditions."
It was signed with just a line: "N."
Joryn read it again now in his office, running his thumb along the wax seal remnants.
....................
The man who arrived tomorrow stood near the corner of the room, half in shadow. Cloaked in dark brown, hood pulled just low enough to hide most of his face. He smelled faintly of salt and wet leather.
"I'll need your name for the ledger," Joryn said flatly.
The man looked up slowly. His eyes were pale, one slightly cloudy. "Call me Harl. That'll do."
"Not your real name, I imagine."
"Does it matter?"
Joryn hesitated, then shook his head. He picked up the ledger and opened it to Annex 3, the section meant for side transactions—foreign materials, rare trades, and, now he thought, the odd requests that came under Lord Nhilux's name.
It wasn't the first peculiar payment listed here, and likely wouldn't be the last. All filed legitimately—just never where most would think to look. He suspected this one, like a few others, was simply a bounty in disguise.
He took out the letter again and reread the last line. Then glanced back at Harl.
"Do I want to know what this is for?"
"No."
Joryn didn't blink. "Then tell me anyway."
The man smirked faintly, like someone indulging a child. "It's for hunting a mad dog."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only one you'll get."
Joryn looked down at the letter one last time. The seal was authentic. The handwriting was Lord Nhilux's—slightly slanted, clipped strokes, efficient.
He signed off the ledger, sealed the purse, and handed it over. three thousand gold dragons—enough to fund a small company for months. Or kill something no one wanted found.
Harl took it without ceremony. No bow. No thanks. Just a nod.
"You'll file it as told?"
"Yes," Joryn replied. "Annex 3. It won't appear in the main treasury log."
"Good."
And just like that, the man was gone.
Joryn stared at the doorway for a long while after. Then, with a sigh, he turned to write the last entry in the ledger.
Transaction No. 87-A3.Amount: 3,000 dragons.
Recipient: Harl
Purpose: Approved per special instruction under seal.
He dipped the quill one last time and added, under his breath, "For a mad dog, then."
Whatever that meant, he didn't question it. Though he did mutter with a dry chuckle, "three thousand gold, huh? Must be quite the big dog."
....................
Jon Arryn POV
Year 289 1st month 2 day
Jon Arryn sat in the chair behind his heavy oak desk, hands clasped before him as the last slant of afternoon sunlight crept across the tiled floor of the Tower of the Hand. Across from him, in a cushioned chair far too elegant for the secrets it had heard, lounged Lord Varys.
The Master of Whisperers looked as composed as ever, fingertips touching, expression unreadable but never inattentive.
"So it is confirmed," Jon began, voice low, weary. "Ser Gregor Clegane is dead."
Varys inclined his head. "Quite. And in a manner most... theatrical."
Jon leaned back slightly. "He was in the city, summoned, I assume, by Lord Tywin. There was a letter on his person."
"Indeed," Varys said smoothly with a slight smile. "It bore the Lannister seal. A simple message, nothing urgent, but calling him here. Perhaps to speak to some merchants who won't pay their dues, perhaps not."
"And yet," Jon said, picking up a goblet but not drinking from it, "he never made it there."
"No," Varys agreed. "Instead, his corpse was found hanging from the Great Sept, headless."
Jon frowned while taking a small sip. "So I heard. Found just yesterday morning, they say. As the city stirred. A gift for the capital to wake to."
"Quite so. His wounds were... numerous. Excessive, even for someone of Ser Gregor's temperament."
Jon sighed. "A bit too many, if someone asked me. Whoever did it wanted him to suffer."
"And then be seen," Varys added.
Jon nodded slowly. "And the head?"
"Gone."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"
Varys smiled faintly. "My little birds say it was taken south. Loaded onto a ship bound past the Stormlands."
"To Dorne?" Jon asked.
Varys gave a tiny shrug. "Possibly."
"Do we have confirmation from any source in Dorne?"
"None that will admit it," Varys replied. His tone was mild, but his lips curled ever so slightly.
Jon saw the smile. "I doubt it was them. They've only just begun to speak with the rest of the kingdoms again. They wouldn't jeopardize that so soon."
Varys said nothing. The smile remained.
Jon let out a slow breath, folding his hands. "Lord Tywin sent a raven this morning. Short. He's already on the road to the city."
Varys raised his brows. "How.....interesting."
"He'll arrive within a fortnight, maybe less."
"He will want blood, my lord."
Jon did not answer at once. "He'll want answers."
"And he'll ask why the Hand didn't stop it."
Jon looked out the window. The rooftops of the city stretched before him, glowing in the last golden hue of daylight. "I will tell him the truth. We knew he was here. We did not know he was dead until his corpse was already swinging."
"And what of the Septons?"
"They know nothing. They heard no cries, saw no intruders."
"Remarkable," Varys murmured, a curious glint in his eye. "No cries. No witnesses. No trace of blood beyond the body itself. Either someone was very careful… or very familiar with the Sept's ways."
Jon turned back to him. "You think the letter from Tywin was a fake?"
Varys tilted his head. "It could be. But I rather think not. Too many saw Ser Gregor arrive. Too many heard him say he came on his lord's orders."
Jon watched him carefully. For the first time in memory, he thought he saw a flicker of genuine confusion cross Varys's face. A small frown pulled at the corners of the Spider's mouth—a rare, almost vulnerable moment. Jon tucked the observation away. If even Varys was uncertain, then something far stranger was at play.
"A message then."
Varys gave a soft nod. "Delivered with a knife instead of parchment."
Jon sat silently for a while, staring into the fire. Then he said, "And that's not all, is it?"
Varys's expression shifted—slightly more alert now. "No, my lord."
Jon reached for a scroll on the side of his desk. "House Qhore. Of Darkspear Point."
Varys's expression shifted, subtly. "A minor Dornish house. The Martells have made noise about it recently—claiming the culprits were someone from the Reach."
"What happened?" Jon asked.
"They had fallen into decline," Varys said quietly. "Once, they thrived—sold fine southern goods across the Stepstones from their small harbor. But in the past years, pirate activity worsened. The trade dried up. Their coffers dwindled."
Jon frowned. "And the family?"
Varys's voice dropped. "Found dead on the road to Sunspear. Officially, it was pirates. But... some whisper it was assassins. Hired by the Martells themselves."
Jon narrowed his eyes. "Why would they do that?"
"To claim the house and its port. More ships under their banner in that region would give them teeth against the pirates—and leverage when the trade returns. But of course its all just rumors my lord"
Jon folded his hands behind his back. "It feels like the realm is waking up again... but not into peace."
"No," Varys said. "Into something else."
Jon turned back toward him. "What do you make of all this?"
Varys paused. Then, softly: "A severed head. A sept stained in blood. A house extinguished in the sands. A whisper in the Reach. A shadow in Dorne."
Varys is silent for a moment and then says "The noble in the dorne have been a lot of noise, againts the wo"
"Yes?"
Varys folded his hands together. "I think, my lord, someone is preparing for something. And the North is not without enemies. The Dornish nobility have begun raising their voices more loudly, especially in Sunspear. They claim that the work being done near Moat Cailin—roads, canals, trade links—will devastate their coastlines economically."
Jon's brow rose slightly.
"If the northern projects are completed," Varys continued, "ships from Essos, especially Braavos, will no longer need to sail around Dorne. They'll sail near White Harbor, travel through the canal near most catlin, then back to the western seas—cutting weeks of journey and half the cost."
"That would cripple Dornish trade, wouldn't it?"
"By some estimates," Varys said with an apologetic tilt of the head, "they stand to lose as much as half their maritime income. That kind of loss often leads to desperate whispers, my lord."
Jon sat back down. he felt another headache come.
....................
Two weeks later, the chamber of the Small Council buzzed with subdued irritation.
Jon Arryn sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, while Grand Maester Pycelle droned about grain tithes, the cost of the summer wine for the royal cellars, and—at length—the dwindling supply of royal medicinal stock.
"And furthermore," Pycelle added with a thin cough, "our inventories of healing tonics, bandages, and glass vials are most concerning. The master apothecaries have warned me that we are running perilously low, particularly on the finer Essosi glass and mirrored vials."
He looked over his spectacles. "The northern guilds, particularly those associated with the White Harbor glassworks and the chemists in Wintertown, have begun producing their own supply, I'm told. At a reasonable cost. I suggest the council authorize a modest procurement from them."
"A procurement?" Baelish asked, one brow arching. "How modest, Grand Maester?"
"Ten thousand dragons at most," Pycelle said. "It will keep us supplied through the next 3 years and bolster trade with our northern friends."
Beside Jon, the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, wore his usual easy smirk, drumming one finger lazily on the table.
"And as I've said," Baelish continued, smoothly interrupting Pycelle, "if the North wishes to grow fat on southern coin while avoiding their fair share of burden, then perhaps it is time we adjust how we collect."
"You mean tax them again," said Stannis Baratheon flatly. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes narrowed.
"Not again," Baelish said. "Smarter this time. Not just port taxes. A full levy on all goods sold beyond the Neck—especially those shipped east, where too often they dodge collection entirely."
"Because they've built better trade routes," Renly said from the far end of the table, arms crossed. "And found new markets. So your answer is to punish them?"
"They pay more now than the Riverlands, yes," Baelish countered, "but the crown needs the gold. Wine, arms, and wheat from the south keep their halls warm and their roads mended."
"So does their whiskey and timber," said Stannis. "Plenty of lords in the west and south buy northern goods. This isn't a one-way trade."
Jon raised a hand. "Enough."
The room fell quiet. Pycelle sniffed. Renly leaned back.
"We have coffers to balance, yes," Jon said. "But if the crown begins targeting regions for being successful, we turn lords into enemies."
"Enemies don't fill the coffers," Baelish murmured.
"Nor do civil wars," Jon replied. "We can't tax the North right now—not like this. There's more trade between the North and the rest of the kingdoms now than there has been in centuries. We tax them again and expect them to stay silent?"
Renly added, "Not after we've sent them pennies in delayed payments instead of the gold they were promised."
Before the conversation could continue, a guard stepped into the chamber, helmet tucked under his arm.
"My lords," he said, bowing quickly. "Lord Tywin has entered the city. He passed through the City Gate not moments ago."
Jon gave a quiet nod. "Where is he now?"
"En route to the Red Keep."
Baelish raised his eyebrows. "Punctual."
"We should adjourn shortly," Jon said. "But there's more—"
Another guard burst in, face pale and breathing fast.
"My lord Hand! From the ravenry—a black seal."
Jon's hand tensed before reaching out. He took the scroll, recognized the sigil of Pyke, and broke it clean.
He read, once.
Twice.
Then he looked up, face colder than the stones beneath them.
"The Iron Islands have declared open rebellion."
A stunned silence followed.
"What?" Renly blurted. "Now?"
"They've struck at the west. Ships. Raiders. The raven says Lannisport is burning."
Even Baelish's smirk faded.
Jon stood. "This council is dismissed."
Stannis was already rising. Renly muttered a curse and Pycelle stood with the slow dignity of old bones.
As the others filed out, Jon handed the letter to a page. "Take this to Raven Master Colemon. Have copies made."
Then he turned toward the king's chambers.
Halfway down the corridor, as he neared the royal wing, another shadow appeared—tall, broad, and golden.
Lord Tywin Lannister, immaculate despite the dust of the road, stood flanked by two guards in crimson cloaks.
Jon inclined his head. "Lord Tywin."
"Lord Arryn," Tywin said flatly. "I heard the bells."
"A raven just arrived. The Ironborn have declared war."
Tywin's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his pale green eyes.
"And Lannisport?"
Jon hesitated. "The raven claims the fleet there has been burned."
A pause. Then, "All of it?"
Jon nodded once. "So the message says."
Tywin's jaw tightened. "Then the krakens will bleed."
Jon stepped aside. "Let's inform His Grace together."
They walked toward the king's doors as the weight of war fell over the Red Keep like a closing gate.
Author thoughts -------
well this chapter was completed soon than i expect. i had some free time so just decided to keep writing.
normal update schedule is stil 2-5 days.
pls gimme any story suggestions have.
any direction you want to see the story go.
after the Greyjoy rebellion, I need to decide which direction I want to take the story. so gimme me any and all ideas you guys have pls.
As always if you guys spot a mistake, do tell me so that i can correct it.