Here's the third chapter. As mentionned, you may find the other chapters (4 to six) on my page o ... just write Kelorus_Fictions on google and click on the page with the big P.
BEWARE : There's a passage of torture, so read the trigger warnings !
One month.
One month since my decanter had become a must-have for Braavosi nobles, wealthy
merchants, and even some Westerosi lords. One month of booming business, overflowing
coffers. One month of silence from Myr.
And that was suspicious.
Myr wasn't the type to forget. Or forgive.
I'd met Tycho Nestoris several times before, but this was the first time we'd be speaking as
equals. The last time didn't count—he'd merely informed me of my new status. But now?
Now, I was meeting him officially as a Keyholder of the Iron Bank.
The room we were in was refined yet understated—one of the Bank's private chambers,
reserved for conversations that were never meant to leave these walls. I had to admit, the
décor was impressive. Marble everywhere, massive Myrish carpets, even a few stuffed
animals mounted on the walls. If the Faith of the Seven had a department for animal rights,
they'd be having a meltdown right now.
Tycho sat across from me, swirling his wine glass between his fingers, as if the motion alone
would unlock the drink's secrets.
"You've made quite the impression this past month, Lord Bardatto," he said in that calm,
measured tone of his.
I couldn't help but admire the man. Not in a physical way, but he had the same aura as
Mycroft Holmes from BBC's Sherlock—cold, calculating, and dangerous.
"Just an impression?" I replied with a smirk.
He gave the faintest hint of a smile. He could pull that off with his pale lips—I couldn't. Mine
were naturally full, no artificial enhancements here. Not like those pleasure house workers
with their wax-filled lips…
"Let's just say, a man's rapid rise always attracts attention. Your success with these decanters
is undeniable. The quality, the ingenuity… and the audacity."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Audacity?"
Tycho set his glass down, folding his hands over his lap.
"You challenged Myr. And yet, you're still alive."
I let out a small laugh.
"Myr is pragmatic. They need time to weigh their options before making a move."
That was a lie.
Myr wasn't pragmatic. They were vindictive. They were cruel. And above all, they never left
loose ends. I wasn't stupid—I knew they'd come for me eventually. My decanter was too
successful, and Saliori's talent was too valuable for them to kill him.
Which meant the target was me.
Tycho tilted his head slightly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
"Let's hope you're right."
At that moment, a servant approached, carrying a silver tray. Two perfectly poured glasses of
wine rested on it—one for me, one for Tycho.
I smiled when I saw the decanter. Straight out of my workshop.
They were selling like wildfire. Even the most basic models went for five Silver Pieces—
about fifteen Silver Moons (or 105 Silver Stags in Westeros). The luxury ones? Some sold for
ten ducats—that's ten Gold Dragons (a hefty 2,100 Silver Stags).
So, without a second thought, I took my glass and slowly raised it to my lips, ready to take a
sip.
And then, the servant spoke.
"I am sorry, my lord."
The glass froze just millimetres from my lips.
Sorry.
That word detonated in my brain like a thunderclap. My instincts screamed danger, but my
mind took a fraction of a second to connect the dots.
Sorry. The Sorrowful Men.
My blood ran cold.
Oh, fuck.
The Sorrowful Men. They were a whispered legend. The kind of assassins you read about in
old Braavosi texts or heard about in merchant gossip. A guild of killers who always
apologised before they struck.
I went white as a sheet.
Myr had made its move.
And they'd sent professional assassins.
My grip on the glass loosened ever so slightly. Instead of drinking, I threw the wine straight
into my attacker's face. The glass hit the floor with a sharp crack as the assassin squeezed his
eyes shut, instinctively flinching from the liquid.
Then, he moved.
Not like a servant—like a trained killer.
His hand shot under his apron, and in a flash of steel, a thin, deadly blade appeared.
I sprang to my feet, narrowly dodging his strike. But that's when I realised—
I'd made a mistake.
There wasn't just one assassin.
There were two.
And the second one?
He wasn't coming for me.
He was going for Tycho.
The assassin's blade shot straight for the banker's heart—a clean, precise strike that would
have ended him in an instant.
Tycho Nestoris, ever composed, didn't even have time to react.
But I did.
I grabbed the first thing within reach—a full decanter of wine—and hurled it with all my
strength.
The glass smashed against the assassin's temple, knocking him just off course. His blade
missed Tycho's chest by a hair's breadth. The banker stepped back, avoiding death by the
slimmest of margins.
Didn't even flinch. Did anything rattle this man?
The first assassin tried to use the distraction to attack me again, but I saw it coming. I twisted
and slammed my fist into his throat. He staggered back, choking.
Before he could recover, my guards burst into the room, weapons drawn.
The first assassin was immediately tackled to the ground, a knee driven into his back, his
dagger ripped from his grasp and sent skidding across the floor.
The second one tried to flee.
Not a chance.
He'd just tried to kill me.
I lunged, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him onto the table. He tried to stab me, but
I caught his wrist and twisted it until the knife clattered to the floor.
In seconds, the threat was neutralised.
Just to be sure, I smashed my fist into his face, breaking his nose. He deserved it.
The two Sorrowful Men lay on the ground, bound, beaten, and completely incapable of
finishing their mission.
My heart pounded like a war drum. I took a slow breath, forcing myself to calm down.
A heavy silence filled the room.
Tycho, ever unshaken, casually adjusted the folds of his robe before glancing at me, the
faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
"Well… that was rather entertaining."
I exhaled, brushing a few stray wine drops off my sleeve.
"Entertaining isn't the word I'd use," I muttered. "But I suppose that depends on your
perspective."
Tycho studied the two prisoners, then turned back to me.
"I imagine you're not simply going to execute them?"
I smirked. He was getting to know me.
"That would be a waste of resources. Myr invested in these men—it would be a shame not
to… reallocate their talents."
Tycho's gaze gleamed with curiosity.
"I look forward to seeing what lesson you intend to teach them."
I turned to my guards, my voice calm.
"Take them away. I'll show them what it really means to be… sorry."
Slowly, I picked up another glass—one that wasn't poisoned this time—and raised it to my
lips.
Tycho watched me, then, with an enigmatic smile, did the same.
We clinked our glasses.
The war against Myr had officially begun. And I intended to end it. Quickly. Brutally.
It was time to let my repressed sadistic instincts take over…
(Two Hours Later)
One month.
One bloody month since my decanter had become an essential item among nobles and
wealthy merchants. One month since my fortune had been growing faster than I could count.
One month of silence from Myr.
And that was exactly what scared me.
Because Myr doesn't forget. Myr doesn't forgive. Myr doesn't tolerate competition.
So when they sent two Sorrowful Men to kill me—in the middle of a meeting with Tycho
Nestoris—I knew the game had truly begun.
But here I was, still alive.
And they were in my cellar, tied firmly to wooden chairs.
It was time to teach them the real meaning of being "Sorrowful."
I made my way down to the least-visited part of my villa—the dungeon.
Why? Because it was perfect for what was about to happen.
1.
It was cold—pain felt sharper that way.
2.
It was dark—no sense of time.
3.
It was huge, with the kind of acoustics that made screams really carry.
Caspar had already inspected them and confirmed there was one older and one younger, likely
a mentor and his apprentice. So I had them separated.
The older one was about to be handled, while the younger one?
He was going to watch.
Because that part was important. Very important.
Why? Because physical torture is fine…
…but psychological torture? Now that is a fucking art form.
Yeah, alright, maybe I was a bit unhinged. But they'd tried to kill me, so—goodbye morality,
hello Ramsay Bolton mode.
For once, all those books on medieval torture and those YouTube videos were going to come
in handy.
I let them wait before stepping inside. Psychological torture starts before you even touch
them—let them sit in fear, wondering what's coming.
Then, I entered.
The older assassin locked eyes with me, his expression screaming: Do your worst, bastard. I
won't talk.
Alright then. Challenge accepted.
I gave him my best smile.
Casually, I walked behind the younger one—who had his back to me—and ran my fingers
lightly over his neck. He stiffened under my touch.
I suppressed a chuckle. They were completely naked—not even a cloth to cover themselves.
Good. He was scared.
I could even see his fingers trembling.
And to think, these were meant to be professional assassins. Right now, they had all the
courage of wet kittens.
I pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the older one, close enough that he could feel my
breath.
"So… you tried to kill me."
Silence. Slow, measured breathing. Almost mocking.
"They say the Sorrowful Men are professionals. Artists of death. I can respect that, truly…" I
smiled lightly. "But a contract means someone paid to see me dead. And that is a problem."
Nothing.
No reaction.
"I'm a generous man, though. So I'll give you one chance. One." I let out a soft chuckle.
"You talk, and I'll let you live. Well—live might be a stretch."
Then, I heard it.
A drip.
I turned my head slightly—
And saw that the younger one had pissed himself.
I turned back to the older one, who still hadn't spoken.
"Nothing? Really?" I sighed, lifting my hands. "Fine. We'll start slow. Who knows, maybe
your friend here will learn a few things."
Ah.
That got to him.
His face paled.
Very good.
I glanced at the side of the room, where an array of torture instruments had been prepared. A
pitcher of water. An empty barrel. Another barrel filled with salt. And a few other lovely
tools.
There was even a caged rat.
My men had done exactly as I instructed.
Caspar stood beside me, ever loyal. My father in this world had never shied away from
torture, and my servants were used to it.
I was about to prove that I was better at it than he ever was.
With a simple gesture, I ordered my men to begin.
[Trigger Warning – Skip to end if you don't feel like it, torture ahead!]
They lifted the older assassin from his chair and strapped him onto a wooden bench. His body
was tilted, head back, legs elevated.
I stepped forward, gently laying a cloth over his face.
Then, I picked up the pitcher.
And I poured.
The effect was instantaneous.
His body jerked violently. His chest heaved, panic setting in. He tried to hold his breath, but
the water invaded everywhere.
His breathing turned ragged. Uncontrollable. His body convulsed in desperate, instinctive
spasms.
I waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Only when he started thrashing violently did I pull the cloth away.
He gasped for air, coughing hard.
"It's a horrible feeling, isn't it?" I murmured, crouching beside his ear.
Silence.
I let him catch his breath.
Then, I did it again.
This time, he screamed into the fabric after five seconds. His legs trembled. He fought,
fought… until his body began to slowly lose the will to resist.
I stopped just before he lost consciousness.
"Still nothing to say?"
He shook his head again.
Well, I was only just getting started.
So, we went again.
Once. Twice. Three times. Each time, the screams grew louder. He struggled, digging his
nails into the wood so hard I thought they might break. But still—not a single word.
Unless the water was stopping him from speaking?
Chinese water torture. A psychological nightmare.
But that wasn't enough for this bastard.
If he wanted to play tough, then I'd be delighted to play his partner.
I gestured for my men to remove the cloth, while Caspar handed me a blade—Valyrian steel.
My late father's favourite dagger.
We didn't have a Valyrian steel sword, but our family owned three daggers and a few pieces
of jewellery. I'd considered melting them down for a blade, but honestly? I was rich enough
already.
My men shifted the assassin onto a wooden table—easier for me to work with.
I glanced at the younger one.
He was ashen, surrounded by a puddle of his own piss.
The little shit had closed his eyes.
I gestured to one of my men, who stepped behind the boy and forced his eyelids open with his
fingers.
You watch this.
I turned my attention back to the older man.
"Let's see how long you last before you start screaming."
I made a cut.
Thin. Shallow. As fine as paper.
Valyrian steel was razor-sharp—a mere flick of the blade was enough to slice through skin.
Then another.
And another.
By the time I was done, there were over forty, spread across his arms, legs, chest. Even one
across his face.
And, for the final touch?
A very light one across his cock.
He whimpered. His jaw was clenched so tight he was practically grinding his teeth.
"So much stubbornness… all for a contract?" I scoffed. "Tell me—is it really worth it?"
"No matter what you do… Myr won't forget you," he rasped. "They'll send more men. And
more after that. You can't kill us all."
"Oh, but I don't need to kill everyone." I smiled. "I just need to make Myr too afraid to try
again. And trust me—they will be afraid."
Silence.
I signalled Caspar.
He stepped forward with a pot of salt.
I grabbed a handful.
And pressed it firmly into his wounds.
The assassin screamed.
Not just a yell.
A piercing, bloodcurdling howl.
The kind that echoed off the stone walls.
I was almost impressed he'd lasted this long.
A distant part of me wondered why I wasn't disgusted by this.
Was it the change of body? Or had I just not fully processed my situation yet?
Didn't matter.
As long as it didn't stop me from sleeping at night, I didn't care.
The old man was close to breaking.
I could see it.
It had been hours.
Time to finish this.
Caspar handed me a small iron bowl.
Another guard approached, carrying a cage.
Inside? A rat.
Not a big one, no. A small, starving thing. Malnourished. Desperate.
Perfect.
The assassin's eyes widened in horror.
Gods, that expression was beautiful.
"I see from your eyes that you know what's coming, don't you?"
He said nothing.
Didn't need to.
I nodded to Caspar, who placed the rat on the man's bare stomach.
I slammed the iron bowl down over it, trapping the creature.
A guard, wearing thick leather gloves, held the bowl firmly in place.
I walked over to the wall, grabbed a torch, and stepped back toward the table.
Without hesitation, I heated the bowl.
Slowly.
The old man broke immediately.
"No… No, not that—I'LL TALK! PLEASE!"
"Too late, mate." I grinned. "Shouldn't have played tough. Now? You suffer."
The rat scratched frantically against the bowl.
I turned to the younger assassin, who was on the verge of passing out.
"Do you know what a trapped rat does, boy?"
He swallowed thickly.
"N-no?"
"It digs."
I kept heating the metal.
The rat freaked out.
It tried to escape. But the bowl was held tight.
Then—
The scratching stopped.
I didn't need to be some Citadel-trained genius to know what was happening—the assassin's
screams painted a perfect picture.
The rat scratched. Bit. Dug.
The old man howled. Begged.
Then suddenly—
A sound.
Not human. Animalistic.
His voice had changed.
I glanced back at the boy. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly open—completely paralysed by
terror.
He'd snapped.
And judging by the way the old man was screaming, so had he.
[Trigger Warning End – Safe to read!]
I lifted the torch as the assassin panted, his chest rising and falling in erratic gasps.
But the real prize? His eyes.
Utterly defeated.
"I'll talk… Please… Stop. Mercy."
I smirked.
"See? Told you you'd talk."
I gestured to my guard, who removed the bowl.
The sight was… well, rattling. (Pun intended.)
Blood. Scratches. A frantic rat.
I waved my hand dismissively, and my men yanked the creature away. It would be killed and
tossed into the sea—no vermin in my house.
They pulled the assassin upright, strapping him back to his chair.
I crouched in front of him, my voice almost friendly again.
"Who? Why? How?"
And just like that, he spilled everything.
This was the work of the Magisters' Council in Myr—specifically Magister Vaelmir, the most
powerful of them all.
Made sense.
Vaelmir was also the head of the Glassmakers' Guild. Of course he was the one behind this.
His workshops—the Sun Forges—were renowned for their craftsmanship. A man like him
wouldn't tolerate competition.
The old man explained that the contract on me was massive.
100,000 golden honours.
That was 2,000 Gold Dragons.
Or 200 Braavosi Crowns.
A ridiculous amount of money. Enough to buy a fleet of twenty ships.
And Vaelmir? He wasn't alone.
There were at least ten others in Myr who wanted me dead.
Which meant… killing him wouldn't stop this.
I needed a better plan.
And then, an idea.
I turned to the younger assassin—still locked in shock.
A slow smile spread across my lips.
I didn't need to send assassins.
Didn't need to bribe, blackmail, or intimidate anyone.
No.
I had something better.
A broken witness.
I was about to become very well-known in Myr. And this time, it wouldn't be for my good
looks.
I gave my men a simple order.
"Kill him."
The old man's fate was sealed.
Then, I stepped toward the boy. Leaning in close, I whispered in his ear:
"Myr sent you here to die. I'm letting you live."
I let that sink in.
"When you go back, you make sure they know that. Because from now on?"
I grinned.
"I'm the one writing the story."
And with that, I walked away, ordering my men to send the boy back to Myr.
I should have felt guilty.
I should have felt something.
But no.
Nothing.
Just the thrill of the game.
And honestly? That should have worried me. If it weren't so damn exhilarating.
Hell, I was hard as a rock.
Good thing I'd find someone to take care of that.
Heh.