The bells of Lys tolled like iron hearts in the morning haze, deep and solemn, rolling over the marble domes and the bright canals. Each peal seemed to shake the air itself, carrying with it triumph. Barney Took saw the crowds thronging the square below, silks and jewels glinting in the sun, the colors of the guilds and the banners of the magisters swaying like a restless sea. The conclave had spoken.
Tommasino Bardio was the new First Magister of Lys.
For moons, they had schemed and bargained to bring this to pass, gold spent like water, oaths traded like coin, betrayals spoken in whispers behind closed doors. It was done. And yet… Barney could not shake the dread.
Ser Halbot Leslie's white cloak caught the light, the embroidered sigil glimmering faintly. "This was a proper victory," he said. "Hard-fought, well-earned. Lord Arthur shall have cause to be pleased."
Barney's mouth twisted. "Bribery, blackmail, and treachery. Are these what make a proper victory, ser?"
"No, ser," Arnold the banker said smoothly, "add murder to the mix, and then you'd have it."
The words had scarcely left his lips before it was cut short by the sudden screams. From among the magistrates standing nearest the dais, several men broke ranks, robes flaring. Knives flashed in their hands, quick and cruel. They lunged for Tommasino, and for Treno Bardio, Barney's father-in-law, who stood resplendent in his new Gonfaloniere's robes.
"Gods—!" Barney's voice was lost in the din.
Tommasino moved like a duelist still, nimble as a cat. He twisted aside, the blade grazing his ribs. But Treno was slower. The dagger plunged into his side with a wet sound. His cry was sharp, pained, and Alana's echoed it.
Barney saw her break from the crowd, her pale hair flying. One of the assassins turned toward her, knife raised. Instinct took him then. He caught the man's wrist before the strike fell and drove his own elbow hard into the attacker's face. The assailant crumpled with a grunt, teeth scattering on marble. Another blade flashed. Barney shoved Alana aside and felt heat slash across his forearm. Blood welled dark and fast.
"Guards! To the First Magister!" Ser Halbot's command rang out, steel meeting steel. The air filled with the sound of clashing swords, of shouting, of dying men.
Tommasino, bleeding but unbowed, struck one of his assailants through the neck with his own blade. Treno's sons dragged their father back, his blood painting the hem of his robe. Alana knelt beside him, pressing her hands against the wound. Barney pulled her up. "We have to move!" he barked.
She looked up at him, blood stained her sleeve. "Father's hurt—"
"So are you!" He caught her hand and hauled her toward the archway as more men with swords poured in.
They fled through the corridors, the sounds of battle echoing behind them. Outside, the streets had turned to chaos, shouts rising from every quarter, the fight spreading like fire.
At last they reached the Merling Hall, a palatial fortress of pale stone built beside the sea, with its own harbor and thick-walled bastions.
"Shut the gates!" Ser Halbot bellowed. "No one enters, and no one leaves without my command!" The portcullis fell with a grinding of chains, "We hold this hall, come what may."
Guards swarmed through the gates of the Merling Hall, some bearing torches, others dragging wounded men to the healers. Beyond the walls, the city burned and bled. The sea wind carried the sounds, the ringing of bells, the clash of steel, the screams.
Barney stood by the stairs, his arm bandaged, his head pounding. He had not seen Alana since they'd carried her father within. She was somewhere inside, tending to his wounds, rather than her own. And Barney could do nothing but stand useless.
Arnold came striding through the archway, his fine coat torn at the shoulder, "We need to go to the bank,"
Ser Halbot turned at once, "Go," he ordered. "Take Ser Barney with you. The vault must be secured first."
Barney stiffened. "My wife needs me here."
Halbot's gaze cut to him, hard and cold. "House Manderly needs you more now," he barked. "Your wife is safe behind these walls. Go, Ser, or do you mean to let all we've worked for turn to ash?"
Barney's jaw tightened. He wanted to defy him outright. But he swallowed his protest, muttered a prayer to the Seven, and followed Arnold through the gate.
They rode out with a dozen guards in Merman livery, their boots and blades gleaming dull under the smoke-stained sky. The streets were madness, Lyseni mobs running, shouting, doors slamming, merchants barring shutters as soldiers thundered past. Bodies already lay sprawled in the alleys, crimson pooling in the streets.
Arnold cursed as they rode. "I should've anticipated this," he spat, pulling his horse sharply to avoid a burning cart. "Seven damn my caution. I thought they'd strike before the conclave or after it, not in the very hall itself."
Barney glanced toward him, grim. "And what do we do now? Attanio and his men won't stop here. They'll come for the Hall soon enough."
Arnold gave a short, humorless laugh. "Lord Arthur sent orders long ago, in case this happened."
"Orders?"
"Aye," Arnold said, leaning low in his saddle. "To make sure the Manderlys' were never at the mercy of any one city's whim. Gold is no good without swords to guard it."
When they turned onto the avenue, Barney saw lines of armed men in the bank's livery, their helms glinting in the dull light, halberds and pikes bristling like a forest of iron. Dozens at least, perhaps more.
Arnold dismounted, his boots crunching on marble. "We started gathering swords the moment we began the game," he said, glancing toward Barney. "Now we use them." He gestured toward the steps, where the carved doors of the bank loomed tall as towers. "I'll not lose the city, ser, to a pack of Lyseni jackals. What say you?"
Barney looked past him, at the sea of men awaiting command. He thought of his oath, of duty, of the faith he'd carried all these years.
"What say I?" he murmured. "If Lord Arthur wills this city to be his, we shall make it happen."
Arnold smiled faintly, "Good."
"How many men do you have?" Barney asked.
Arnold turned, eyes flicking toward the armed lines. "A hundred and fifty inside the city," he said. "More stationed beyond the northern gates, sellswords, most of them. Yet gold keeps them loyal enough."
"And Attanio?" Barney asked. "What of his strength?"
Arnold's lips thinned. "Give or take the same number, but he's not alone. Tregar's with him now, or so they say."
Barney's hand found the pommel of his sword. "Then we need to strike first," he said. "Attack Tregar's manse. Seize him and his wealth before he can add to Attanio's strength."
Arnold raised a brow, "Bold. It's the right move, any more ideas?"
Barney went on. "We need the city on our side."
Arnold tilted his head. "And how would you have us win a burning city's heart?"
"By giving it shelter," Barney said. "Offer protection in the Merling Hall. Ser Halbot has men enough there. Those who fear Attanio's purge will flock to us if we promise them safety. Food and guard both. We'll be their bulwark."
Arnold folded his arms. "You think they'll come running to a foreign house's hall?"
"They'll come," Barney said. "If word spreads that Tommasino yet lives, and sees our banners raised in strength. The people love him. Send riders to the docks, to the markets, the vineyards. Tell them their hero stands defiant still, and the Merling Hall stands with him."
Arnold studied him for a long while, then gave a dry chuckle. "You've impressed me, Ser Barney. You've shown yourself more than capable of politics, no matter how you claim to despise it."
Barney said nothing. His jaw tightened. He wanted to deny it, but he couldn't. May the seven save him.
He had bribed and threatened, blackmailed and lied, smiling as he passed out coin for promises he knew would sour. Each step had felt like sinking deeper into some hellish mire, silken on the surface, foul beneath.
Barney lost more than his honor in Lys. His pride. His peace. Perhaps he might lose Alana, too. And still he fought for this city.
"I'll see this done," he said at last, "Then I'm done with this city. Let the rest of them drown in their games."
Arnold only smiled again, "A fine oath, ser," he said. "I wish you good fortune then."
Barney's plan took root. From the battlements, he could see the crowds swelling, fishmongers and dockhands, vintners and beggars, all chanting Tommasino's name. Below, guards stood shoulder to shoulder, holding back the press of commons while nobles and merchants were ushered through the gates.
Arnold stood beside him, his lips curling into satisfaction. "A fine idea, ser," he said, watching the masses. "The best wall we could have built."
Barney said nothing. The sight of the crowd filled him with unease. These were not soldiers, just men, women, and children who wanted safety. Like he himself once sought it during the sack.
Arnold's smile hardened. "We strike now. I've men already in Tregar's household. They'll open the gates."
They rode through the narrow Lyseni streets at dusk, fifty men at their backs, cloaks drawn and blades ready. The gate to Tregar's manse opened without sound. Arnold's men fell upon the house guards like wolves loosed in a pen. Steel flashed; screams tore the silken quiet. Barney shouted for restraint, to take them alive, but his words were lost in the rush of killing. When it was done, the marble floors ran slick. It was a slaughter.
They found Lord Tregar in his upper chambers, dragging a chest toward the door, his breath coming in gasps. Lynesse Hightower clung to him, her fair hair in disarray, eyes wide with terror.
"Leaving so soon, magister?" Arnold said, drawing a dagger. "The game's not done yet."
Tregar fell to his knees, hands shaking. "Spare me," he blubbered. "Spare me, and I'll pay you thrice what you've lost."
Arnold caught the running Lynesse by the hair and pressed his blade to her throat. "Then start with answers. Where is Attanio? How many men does he have?"
"I don't know!" Tregar squealed, fat hands wringing.
Arnold pressed the sword closer, a bead of red blooming upon her pale skin. "Speak," he hissed. "Or she dies for your treachery."
"Take her if you want! She's naught but a whore to me, take my wives too, if you'll leave me breathing!"
The words curdled in Barney's gut. Even among merchants, he had seen cruelty, but this, this was rot.
"Enough!" Barney roared, shoving Arnold back. His voice echoed through the chamber, rough with disgust. He bent to Lynesse, helping her to her feet. "You see what you're worth to him?" he said softly. "Tell us what you know, and I swear by all the gods, you'll be safe. I'll see you home."
Her eyes burned, not with fear but with rage. She spat upon the floor, the gesture sharp as a curse. "Home?" she said. "I've no home left, only debts and shame."
"I want this fat bastard dead." She turned to Arnold, breathing hard. "They're to meet at the eastern gate. Attanio and his men. More than you have, twice, maybe more. Tregar sent his soldiers there, too."
Arnold muttered. "Damn them. We'll need more men."
Before Barney could speak, Lynesse's voice cut through the smoke-filled room. "Go to Lynaro Mazzio."
Arnold looked to Lynesse, and there was something almost like respect in his face. "She's right," he said. "Lynaro's the key now. If Attanio wins him first, all this blood was for nothing."
He turned to his captains. "Take her to the Merling Hall. Guard her well. As for Tregar, bring him and his gold. Leave his wives and children. I've no use for them." The fat lord whimpered as they dragged him away, his silks torn, jewels clattering on the floor.
Barney had done what honor demanded of him, or what little still lingered in him. He found Tregar's wife and children huddled in a corner of the manse.
"Take this," Barney said, pressing a purse of gold into her hands. "There's enough to see you across the straits. Myr or Volantis, anywhere but here. Don't look back." Her lips parted as if to thank him, but nothing came.
When Barney reached the Merling Hall, the scent of blood and sea filled his nose. The guards let him through the iron gates. Inside, the chaos had been tamed by exhaustion. The wounded lay in corners, the dying were carried out to the courtyard where septons of the Seven prayed in tongues foreign to these Lyseni ears.
And there, in the midst of it, he saw Alana.
She turned as he entered, her face streaked with tears and ash. The moment she saw him, she came to him running, clutching his doublet as if she feared the ground might give way beneath her. She buried her face against his chest and wept, the sound breaking something in him he had thought already long broken.
"He's gone," she whispered between sobs. "My father, he's gone."
Barney held her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head as if she were still the girl he'd first seen in White Harbor, the one who laughed too easily and danced barefoot in the snow.
They had laid Treno out on a long table draped in cloth-of-gold, his face pale and still, his lips drawn in the faintest ghost of a smile. Even in death, he looked proud, calculating, certain the world would bend to his will. Barney bowed his head. Whatever the man had been, he had been brave in the end. "Seven keep you," he prayed.
Tommasino lived, though barely. His shoulder was bound in bandages, blood seeping through the linen, yet his eyes burned with that same fire that had made men love him and others fear him.
"My lord," Halbot said, his tone firm, "You must rest. The city will not fall in an hour. Let us hold until reinforcements arrive."
Tommasino gave a short, cold laugh. "Rest? While traitors still breathe my air?" He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the healer's protests. "I am deeply grateful to you, Ser, and to House Manderly. But no one takes my blood without losing theirs."
Barney stepped forward. "You're still weak, my lord. If you ride now—"
Tommasino waved a hand, silencing him. "I am not asking. The city needs to see me stand. They need to see that only I alone can wash this treachery clean."
He walked, limping, to the battlements. The crowd below had gathered. Commoners, guards, and even some magisters who had survived the chaos. Their cries rose at the sight of him, the wounded hero. Tommasino raised his bandaged arm, and the square fell to hush.
"They killed my uncle, tried to kill me, in the sacred halls of our city!" he called, voice raw yet strong. "Attanio and his brood have a long history of treachery. Not only against my family, but against this city. My father, his father before him, forgave their crimes, for it could not be proven. But now, I will not have forgiveness!"
The crowd roared at his words, fists lifted.
"Now I will have blood!" Tommasino pressed on, "I shall kill each and every one of them, and all the enemies of Lys who supported them! I want every trace of them removed from this glorious city of ours, their arms, their seals. From every building, every coin, every paper, every surface. Their names would be wiped from history. Their ill-gotten wealth would be returned to the people. Their lines shall end."
A storm answered him, cries of vengeance, steel drawn, the roar of the mob swelling until it shook the harbor itself. The people loved him more for his fury than they ever had for his wisdom.
The men below didn't see a bloodied man. They saw a savior risen from his own grave. By the time they reached the Great Hall, Arnold and Lynaro were already there with their retinues. Arnold's face was slick with sweat. Lynaro, pale and composed, stood beside him, holding a parchment in one hand and a bloodied dagger in the other.
"My lord," Lynaro said smoothly, bowing, "we have taken several of the assassins alive. Attanio Gerenio has fled the city, his ships loosed from the eastern docks."
Tommasino's gaze was cold. "Hang them. Every last one."
They dragged the men out, their silken robes torn, their faces pale with terror. Tregar began to beg in his mother tongue. Tommasino did not listen. The rope was flung over the rafters, the trapdoor fell open, and justice was done, or what passed for it in this city of perfumed murderers.
Then, as the bodies swung above them, Tommasino spoke again, his voice echoing through the hall. "From this day forth," he said, "Lys shall be ruled by ten. Ten magisters, chosen and permanent, a Rule of Ten, to guard this city from betrayal."
He turned to Lynaro and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "You, Lynaro Mazzio, are my new Gonfaloneire."
Lynaro bowed low, smiling thinly. The former magisters murmured among themselves, but none dared to object. Barney stood apart, beside Halbot and Alana, feeling the weight of what had just begun. This was not justice; it was the birth of a tyranny.
"I'm sorry," Barney said softly to Alana.
Alana's face was pale, her eyes red from weeping, yet when she met his gaze, there was something there, a flicker of the love they had lost in these long, cruel months.
"Don't be. We did what we came to do." Her voice trembled. "Father wanted this for his family."
Barney swallowed hard. "Aye. And now he has it… though not as he'd have wished."
The bank's private room smelled of smoke and ledger wax. A fire burned low in the grate, throwing long tongues of shadow across the faces gathered around it. Tommasino, Lynaro, Arnold, and Leto Bardi, newly robed in the silk of a magister. Ser Halbot remained at the Merling Hall seeing to their wounded.
Tommasino lifted a cup first, crude metal catching the firelight. "To Lys and White Harbor. To victory."
Leto echoed it with a warmer edge. "To family."
Arnold's glass chimed with dry amusement. "To gold."
Lynaro inclined his head, "To the gods."
Barney found his fingers wrapped around a cup before he knew it. "To the ones we've lost," he said.
Arnold set his glass down. "How soon will we commence the coastal moves?" he asked bluntly. "We have men, we have coin. We have the city under our control. A single dispatch, and the Manderly fleets move."
Lynaro's fingers toyed with the rim of his cup. "Magister Illyrio has pledged his hand," he said. "On the condition that Pentos receives its fair share."
Arnold nodded. "Of course. Lord Arthur wishes a common ground. A path that yields profit and loyalty both."
Tommasino's mouth set. "And if Tyrosh stands against us?"
Arnold replied, "They'll fall."
"What of Lady Lynesse?" Barney asked. "You've seized Tregar's assets. What of her fate?"
"Spoils of war," Leto said. "What's taken goes to the victors."
Tommasino smiled, "Tregar's gold and lands to us here in Lys. His trade contracts and his whore Lynesse to House Manderly."
Barney felt the cup go heavy in his hand. "I promised to deliver her home to Oldtown. She is not a property."
Arnold's mouth twitched, "She does not wish to go home, Ser Barney. She has requested an audience with Lord Arthur. She wishes to go to White Harbor."
"That woman has a mouth and will use it," Leto spat. "She's nothing but a common harlot."
Lynaro laughed then, a little cruel, "She will try to seduce your young lord. If it were left to me, I would send her to the pillow-houses."
"I'm sure she would have fetched a pretty price." Arnold's smile widened into a grin, "but Lord Arthur asked that we protect our people in the city. Technically she remains one of ours, her marriage to Jorah Mormont has never ended in the eyes of gods. It is a finer point of law, but one she has used."
"You will not sell her," he said, his voice, unbending. "Not like cattle. If she asks for Lord Arthur, bring her. But if you think to hand her over for coin, you will find me an enemy."
Arnold shrugged. "You are a stubborn man. Have it your way, Ser Took."
Barney rose from his seat, "I'm glad," he said at last, weary and sincere, "that my business in this city is over."
Tommasino smiled, "Not yet, ser," he said lightly. "There's one task for you left still."
Barney's brow furrowed. "What task?"
Leto Bardi stepped close, and before sense could turn to caution, Barney felt a sudden weight in his chest, a blade that stole the air from his lungs. The young man's hand lingered against him, steady, almost reverent.
Leto's voice was a whisper, soft and venom-sweet. "Becoming a martyr, ser."
Barney stumbled back a step. The room swam; the firelight warped. Around him, the faces of men he had worked beside blurred. Tommasino's pale gaze, Lynaro's still mask, Arnold's stricken eyes. He reached for the table, but the strength fled him. Their words came faint through the roaring in his ears.
Arnold's voice came then, low, almost mournful. "Forgive me, ser. It's nothing personal. White Harbor needs a cause to fight for in this war, and you'll be that cause. I always admired you… truly."
Tommasino knelt beside him. "Thank you for delivering Alana to me," he said. "Though I suppose I should thank Lord Arthur most of all. You thought he sent you here for your cleverness, your loyalty? No, poor fool. You were the offering. Alana was the prize."
Barney sank to the floor, the chill of the stone rising through him.
Tommasino's voice rolled on, low and cruel. "She'll mourn you, of course. Poor girl loves you still, though you never deserved her. But worry not, I'll see she's cared for. She'll be my wife soon enough, and your children, my wards. You've served your purpose, ser. And I shall always be grateful."
Their footsteps drew away, fading into the long marble corridor. Somewhere beyond, the great bells of Lys tolled again.
Barney thought of her laughter, the way her eyes softened when no one else looked. He thought of his sons, of White Harbor's gray shores, of the smell of the sea when the nets came up full.
"Alana, I feel cold," he whispered.