Prelude: The Sacrifice
Though a blanket of fog as pale as fresh milk hung thick in the air, the haggard boatman navigated the narrowing canal with an almost inhuman adeptness. A lifetime of monotony etched the anarchic waterways into his memory. His wiry grey hair, matted with filth, hung over his eyes and fell to the small of his back. Bloodied, brown gums smiled from within his knotted beard. At first glance, it appeared as though a corpse captained this rickety punt. However, the man's thick arms, covered in a mosaic of purple liver spots and chaffing scabs, hoisted the pole quickly from one side to the other, propelling the boat silently along the water's surface.
No matter how low the profession, Noho Dimittis could not help but respect a man who truly mastered his craft. Though the dagger of life slowly bled him, it could not cut away the boatman's calling. With pole in hand, this decrypted old man gracefully danced upon the brackish water as if dueling a dozen bravos.
A simple life, Noho thought, bitterly. The kind of life duty and fate took from me. As the fourth son of a mediocre clerk, no one ever expected Noho to enter the employ of the Iron Bank. His father—an almost absurdly simple man—never showed the slightest aptitude for figures. However, he did cook the spiciest squid, fried a to golden crisp in pepper oil and fire powder, served so hot that it burnt the tips of your fingers. When Noho was but a babe, a gluttonous banker loved his father's fiery fair so much that he offered him a clerksmanship on the condition that he handed over the recipe. Thus, the moment his father put down the shucking knife and picked up the abacus, the cruel wheels of destiny began to turn. His father could barely count above fifty; however, a career within the great Iron Bank carried with it a standing that dwarfed that of a fishmonger. For the sake of the family name, society expected the eldest to follow the father into such a profession. With three brothers ahead of him, thankfully, Noho was left to labor upon the docks of Ragman's Harbor in peace, filling his days with salt and sweat. While his upstart family dressed in their motely, dancing like fools for their social betters, Noho drank from the very blood of Braavos as he mingled amongst the brewers, bakers, beggars and whores that brought the city to life.
I gave up a boyhood of bliss for a lifetime of compromise. In time, both his father and eldest brother died beneath the hooves of the pale male—a plague contracted while representing the Bank's interests in the Far East. Not two weeks later, the city guard found the bloated corpses of his two other brothers afloat in the Maiden's Fountain. The memory of his male kin brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Two sheep that thought themselves shepherds, and two dogs who thought they could fight amongst the wolves. Only Noho's love for his mother and three young sisters kept him from stowing aboard a Volantese galley bound far away from these shackles of responsibility. To feed them, Noho abandoned the jubilant squalor of freedom for the golden cage of servitude.
However, where his witless father labored, Noho excelled. When he first entered their employ at the age of ten and five, the Iron Bank made him a lowly pawnshop clerk. Nonetheless, even then, be it a blessing or a curse, his rise—and perhaps fall—appeared preordained. He had always possessed the genius and natural ruthlessness required for the noble art of finance, yet he lacked any interest in putting the brush to canvas. Fate, unfortunately, forced his hand. Rather then swindling the lowly paupers of Whaler's Waif, he now looted the pockets of the princely and powerful from across the known world. By his twentieth name day, Noho's meteoric rise found him at the head of the prestigious Qarthean Branch, becoming the youngest branch governor in the Bank's history. Though by that time his dear mother and sisters had grown fat, their myrish silk dresses bursting at the seams, Noho himself felt empty. At first, he convinced himself that this status and finery was all a good bit of mummery—a costume meant to mock the vapid elite he always despised. Thus, he played his part upon the stage. He wore fine cloaks soaked in purple dye. He styled his beard into a thin rope of hair, adorning it with golden ringlets. He allowed his once youthful muscle to wane into a wiry frame. The more time that past, however, the harder it became for Noho to shed this façade. His purple cloak now weighed heavy upon his shoulders. His beard grew long and knotted. Though he gorged himself on the finest of foods, he remained gaunt. The costume now became his skin.
And then they sent me across the Narrow Sea, Noho recalled, into the court of that whore, pleading for coppers like a beggar. In truth, Noho nearly rejoiced when The Mother of Bastards refused to pay her royal debts. He departed that festering rat's nest of a capital guided by the scared mantra shared amongst his brothers—"the Iron Bank will have its due." Dreams of Cersei Lannister screaming in agony, her once beautiful body broken upon the rack, filled his nights as he sailed back towards the Titan's embrace.
Dreams that turned to nightmares when winter woke the dead.
The pole boat slowed as its decrypted captain made for a make shift dock situated along one of the countless forgotten canals that littered the ghettos of Braavos. Noho stood, motioning for his two companions to follow. Bravos guarded him this night and Noho paid handsomely for both their swords and their discretion. Turning to the boatman, he paid the withered bag of flesh two gold pieces—a king's ransom to such a broken thing. A thrifty man by nature, Noho did not part with gold lightly. However, given the circumstances, even the lowest of vermin needed to remain ignorant of his purpose. If whispers of the Iron Conclave seeped into the streets of Braavos, the city would devour itself. The Conclave had not been called since the Band of Nine collapsed into chaos and infighting almost half a century ago. Convened only in the direst of times, the pronouncements handed down by the Conclave always assured the Iron Bank's survival—but not without a cost.
Stepping from the rotted wood of the boat onto the wet cobblestoned shore, Noho glanced down at the putrid brown concoction below. This deep into the filth of Braavos, human waste and dead fish filled the canals rather than the salt water emanating from the lagoon. As he looked forward, Noho barely managed to make out the sunken row of houses, sprouting forth like diseased algae lining the edge of a pond. With great care, he began walking upon the winding path of slick stone towards his destination. As it did while upon the boat, the dense fog continued to blind him. Noho kept one hand outstretched and touching the wet brick of the houses so as to not unwittingly fall into cesspool to the other side of him. An inconvenient route, he thought, but a necessary one lest all the eyes of Braavos witness the Iron Bank parading down the Street of Pools.
He felt a sudden pain beneath his ribs, as if his kidneys threatened to burst. My very body aches at this betrayal, but the Iron Bank must survive.
As he marched towards his battle, thoughts of bribes and ballots followed his every step. Our cause, along with our gold, died with Stannis—surely they will realize this. Noho remembered weeping over the letters baring the news; however, he did not mourn for the man. That arrogant fool Massey assured us that Stannis died honorably while fighting the dead. As if we cared. Despite the stifling humidity that accompanied the fog, an involuntary shiver danced across Noho' skin. Demons came with the winter and Dragons now come with the spring. Though many within the Iron Bank still frothed and bellowed for the settling of debts, Noho knew that no legion of sellswords could defeat a dragon, let alone three united under King and Queen.
Allor Fregar will convince his lackeys to submit at an "honorable peace," Noho repeated to himself. Of all the votes he bought within the Conclave, Allor Fregar's vote provided the keystone for his plot. As the brother to the current Sealord, Allor possessed great clout amongst the sycophants that littered the ranks of the Iron Bank. After his blunder with Stannis, Tycho's vote holds little sway, Noho ruminated, only Allor's support can guarantee the Bank's solvency.
With survival came sacrifice, however, and Noho did not try to fool himself otherwise. The Ibbenese branch will close, along with Pentos, Myr, and most likely Voltanis, and our holdings in Qarth and Yin Ti will almost certain dwindle considerably. Noho's feet began to feel heavy beneath him. The Iron Bank will endure, nonetheless.
He inhaled quickly, greedily sucking air in a futile attempt to fill his lungs—we will swallow our pride and except the meager payments offered by those white-haired monsters born of incest. His feet began drag as he breath grew more ragged, we…we…we will have peace.
His knees buckled, collapsing his frail body against side of a brick shanty. He placed his shaking fingers to his mouth, gingerly grazing them across his lips—blood.
"Can you see, old man?" a voiced whispered, as graceful as a bow to strings.
"Who…who's there?" Noho managed to gasp through the cascade of crimson that now flowed hot and wet down his chin.
"Can you see, old man?" the angelic voice simply repeated.
The curtain of fog began to dissipate, revealing a figure mere feet from where Noho now waited to die. Even as his vision blurred, the demon's image bore into Noho's mind. With his hulking arms remained outstretched, the Demon welcomed Noho into the sweet embrace of Death. He even smiles. From amongst the gnarled grey thicket of wiry hair, Noho's waning eyes spotted a toothless grin.
"My…bravos…"
"Met the Many-Faced God upon the dock not minutes ago."
Impossible. Cold beads of sweat now mingled with the warm blood as the wave of realization knocked Noho to his knees. Delirious with pain and desperation, Noho nearly laughed. The desolation of the mighty Iron Bank, brought on by a cutthroat boatman.
"why…" Noho breathed, his wasting body now sprawled across the soiled cobblestone.
"The circle must be completed."
What use are riddles to a dying man, you monster?
"The Dragons must go to war." The demon simply stated, his voice sweeter than any song.
In his final moments, Noho recalled tales he once heard from the battlefield—tales of men, with swords through their guts, summoning the very power of the gods for one last charge down the gullet of their enemies. I must stand…I must fight… Braavos cannot fall. As Noho's life withered away, the gods remained silent.
"You won't succeed…I am but one vote…the Conclave will still seek peace…"
Once again, a cloak of fog descended upon Noho and his killer. The cool night mist washed away the demon's mangled mane, revealing soft tawny skin. A jet-black goatee, as thin as a stiletto, now ran down his pronounced chin. The demon gave him a dazzling smile.
"I will ask you once more, old man. Can you see?"
I see Allor Fregar.
The wraith bowed his head, solemnly. "The circle must be completed."
The fog grew heavy and then the world went black.