Chapter 7 to 10 can be read ahead on p/a/t/r/e/o/n/ Kelorus_Fictions, there's also a poll for the pairing's gender :)

I couldn't stop thinking about last night's dinner with my aunt. That bloody old cow might not have been the warmest or most likeable person out there—but she was still my aunt. And the more I thought about the whole Vadremino situation, the more I got where she was coming from.

Back in my old life, I'd have never thought or acted this way. But I'd changed here...

It took me a while to notice, but despite the memories feeling like someone else's life on playback, my personality had shifted. And when you think about it, it makes sense—I was in someone else's body, with their memories and baggage. Obviously, that was bound to rub off on me.

It was subtle, but it was there. More elitist, used to having things done for me, more sadistic too. Fewer inhibitions—I had tortured an assassin, after all. Something I'd never have done before… except maybe in my darkest, most twisted dreams. So yeah, I'd changed.

And my aunt's snobbish, holier-than-thou attitude? I found myself thinking the same way—though with a bit more nuance. I came from a world of meritocracy and innovation, after all. So I didn't look kindly on people who aimed higher than their station without putting in the work.

And the Vadreminos? They hadn't lifted a damn finger. At least, not anything honourable. Just backdoor deals, scheming and posturing. So yeah, I was going to tear them to shreds.

Why? Because they dared to threaten my aunt.

And threatening my aunt?
Was the same as threatening me.

"We've arrived, my lord."

I glanced at Caspar, resisting the urge to jump. No matter how hard I tried, I kept drifting off into my thoughts. He probably thought I was losing my mind by now…

"So I see… Third time here, and it's still just as stunning."

I stepped down from the carriage—yes, we were in a carriage… for less than two bloody kilometres. The perks of wealth, eh?

And for the first time—not counting my predecessor's memories—I laid eyes on the famed Sea Lord's Palace.

And now I understood why they called it the Jewel of Braavos…

The Sea Lord's Palace wasn't just an administrative building. No. It was a full-blown architectural flex. A towering declaration of power planted right on the edge of the Black Canal, screaming to the world: Braavos is richer than you, stronger than you, and way more fabulous than you'll ever be.

Black marble columns held up a vault of pristine white, carved with intricate scenes of trade, war, and dragons drowning in gold. Dragons, yes—just to remind Valyria who had the final word. There was even a crystal dome, because of course there was.

At the entrance, two colossal statues of masked guardians—tall as towers—flanked the great onyx doors. Their empty stares seemed to weigh your ambitions… or your debts. And let's be honest, most people came here hoping to weasel their way out of debt with the Iron Bank.

Idiots, all of them. The Sea Lord, like me, was a Keyholder… So a debt to the Iron Bank? Might as well be a debt to him directly.

I paused a moment, admiring how sunlight danced across the polished glass tiles. Yes, glass tiles. Not stone. Not marble. Glass. Tinted, treated, and tough as Braavosi pride. And not Myrish glass either. No, this was mine. A recent development, and hands down the biggest commission my workshop had ever landed.

Well, "workshop" might be a bit outdated by now. Saliori had already hired over fifteen apprentices, all on lifetime contracts with structured promotion for when they finished training. Naturally, the workshop had expanded into a full-blown factory.

I smiled.

"Subtle as always," I muttered to Caspar with a smug tone.

He didn't reply, but I caught the flicker of a smirk. He was starting to get used to my rich bastard sense of humour.

Two ceremonial guards approached. One more adorned than the other—probably the captain, or just a man with delusions of grandeur—gave a shallow bow.

"Lord Bardatto, allow me to welcome you to the palace of His Excellency, Sea Lord Ferrego Antaryon."

He opened the doors, and I stepped inside.

It was magnificent… Even my villa looked like a bloody cottage in comparison. Funny to think my family had once lived here two hundred years ago.

Yeah, the Sea Lord wasn't a hereditary position. It was elected. Votes came from a council of Great Families, the Iron Bank, and the Founding Families.

Now don't confuse the lot—those weren't the same. Great Families owned land and businesses. The Iron Bank, well, goes without saying. And the Founding Families? They'd built the Bank. They'd built Braavos. Most Great Families were just offshoots of now-extinct Founding lines. And the voting power? Far from equal. Only Founding Families could stand for the Sea Lordship. And in the vote tally? Founders got five votes. Great Families, one. Iron Bank reps, three each.

So yeah, complete mess.

The Bardattos had snagged the title after Belogore Reyaan croaked from a heart attack. Not shocking, really—they say it took six men just to lift the bastard.

Back to the inside of the palace—damn, it was beautiful. Fucking beautiful. Marble as far as the eye could see, statues in silver and gold, opulent chandeliers, and tapestries bursting with colour. Even the plants looked like they'd been told to behave.

"There are a lot of guests," Caspar noted.

And he was right. We were standing in what they call the Grand Vestibule—basically a glorified holding pen for the wealthy and powerful. And it was packed. Easily a hundred people, all of them somebody.

"Isn't that your uncle?"

Huh? I followed his finger and—oh bloody hell…

"Vincenzo! My favourite nephew!"

Didn't even have time to brace myself before I was caught in a bear hug by a pair of meaty arms. Bloody bastard was strong.

"Uncle… Caron… too tight… too tight…"

"Oops! Hehe, didn't realise my own strength!" he said, finally releasing me. "You've grown, I swear!"

Grown? Maybe. But next to him, I still looked like a shrimp. Sure, my body was stronger, more muscular than back on Earth, but he'd crushed me without even trying. No surprise really—the man stood over two metres tall.

Caron Bardatto, my father's older brother. A bloody giant. Built like a demigod with eyes that burned like embers. If he weren't my uncle, I'd probably have jumped him—gender be damned.

And why not? Blond, blue-eyed, bronzed skin, and a body sculpted like a hero from a myth. The kind of man who'd have made Hollywood wet itself. I was half-convinced he had some form of gigantism. Average male height in our family was around 180 cm, but him? He had to duck through most doorways. Three heads taller than me, easy.

"I know, I know… and just a reminder—I'm your only nephew."

His grin widened.

"That's why you're my favourite!" He winked. "Now come meet my colleagues!"

And he dragged me over to a group dressed entirely in black, each one wearing a tiny key around their necks.

Uncle Caron had declined the Bardatto empire, said it was too much of a burden. And fair—he did spend most of his time in brothels. But the man was a bloody genius with numbers. A legendary accountant, if such a thing existed. He wanted something less restrictive, but still useful to the family. So, he joined the Iron Bank as a scribe.

He was so damn good, he rose to Master-Scribe—answering directly to the Council. Which made him an official Iron Bank Representative. Just like my new bestie, Tycho—who, naturally, was standing right there.

"You two know each other, don't you?" Caron asked, motioning toward Tycho.

"We're quite well acquainted, yes," Tycho replied, lifting his glass with his usual subtlety.

I caught a glint of amusement in his eyes. Bastard was laughing at me. I couldn't blame him, though. Watching Caron manhandle someone was always good entertainment… unless you were the one being manhandled.

"In that case, let me introduce Leliana Corres and Valentina Sokera. They work with me."

"A pleasure, ladies."

"The pleasure's ours, Keyholder Bardatto," one of them replied smoothly. "We've been following your rise with great interest."

Yeah, I bet you have. What with Myr, the assassination fallout, and the mountain of gold I was piling up through my glassworks and mines, I probably looked like a golden goose wrapped in silk. And they weren't wrong.

"I've never seen you at Council meetings," I said, a little curious.

"We prefer to stay in the background, unlike your uncle," the other woman replied with a sly smile.

"And quite right too!" Caron barked. "Those meetings lack flair, no pizzazz! They're bloody—"

"Caron!" Tycho snapped, casting a sharp glance at him.

"I meant to say…" Caron paused, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "They can be… a bit tedious?"

I couldn't help but snicker, and the others joined in. Even Tycho let out a faint smile, shaking his head as Caron burst into booming laughter.

People often assumed Iron Bank members were a bunch of uptight, constipated bureaucrats—but that was just the customer-facing façade. For Keyholders and internal staff? Entirely different story.

"So… any idea what the Sea Lord's got planned?" I asked them.

They had to know something. And judging by the amused glint in my uncle's eye, I'd hit the mark.

"You'll find out soon enough," he said with a grin and a cheeky wink. "All I'll say is—your actions have had a… very interesting impact."

A very interesting impact, huh? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

To be fair, I'd stopped paying attention to Myr after their little "surrender." I had bigger things on my plate—Project C, the clockwork blueprints, and all the rest. The only ripple I'd really noticed? My vaults were overflowing. Hehe.

"But I won't say more. The doors to the hall will open soon."

I let out a deliberately loud sigh, which only made his smile grow wider. Classic Caron. I turned my attention elsewhere.

My aunt stood not far off, flanked by Merchant Guild members. She locked eyes with me and gave a slight nod. Probably discussing the metric system. Typical of her—wasting no time.

Then my gaze fell on a small, unpleasant group.

Redrasi Vadremino and his darling son Dorio, standing alongside Volo Velkhar, Elyna Porrimo, Elia Domvanno, and Saelios Merono. The very gang plotting to oust my aunt.

I couldn't wait to crush them—and it looked like I'd get to do it sooner than expected.

I'd received a letter that very morning from Mineville—that's the name I'd given the town near my mining operations. The new mine was already delivering, and the news had me grinning from ear to ear: veins of sapphires and rubies (same mineral family, makes sense), plus spinels and garnets. They even found a shallow emerald deposit… and a whole lot of quartz variants—amethysts, citrines, the works.

Thing is, the mine was massive—so more was probably waiting further down. Hehe.

With a mine that rich, I had everything I needed to seize control of the Miners' Guild. And thanks to Caspar, who'd handled the negotiations, we'd just acquired a dying iron mine from a landowner with no heir.

Five mines.

Velkhar was going to regret ever backing Vadremino. And judging by the look he just shot me… he already knew it.

Then I heard the chime of a bell.

That was the signal—the Reception Hall was opening. I stepped forward, the doors now wide open.
The Iron Bank entourage accompanied me at first, then peeled off to take their places in their reserved row. Only Caspar stayed by my side.

A servant approached me promptly.

"Lord Bardatto, if you'd follow me, please."

I didn't need much convincing. I followed him toward the centre of the room, walking down the carpet that led straight to the Sea Lord's throne. Everyone else had lined up along the central aisle, standing before benches and seats.

But one thing was off—no one was seated on the throne.

He was going to make an entrance.

And oh boy, did he ever.

No music. No heralds. No trumpets or pomp.

Just silence. Heavy, stifling, absolute.
The massive doors opened slowly, soundless.

Enter Ferrego Antaryon.
The Sea Lord of Braavos.

He moved with unhurried precision, robed in deep purple threaded with black and gold. His silhouette cut through the air like a blade. No jewellery. No gaudy emblems. Just a single symbol: a fine chain of white iron bearing a key. An old key. One of the originals, they said. The kind only the Sea Lords wore on solemn occasions.
I had one locked away in my vault—never saw the light of day.

There were only twenty-eight in existence. One for each founding family. And each one opened one of the Iron Bank's primary vaults—the ones holding its greatest treasures.

Ferrego climbed the three steps to the throne. No glances. No gestures. Nothing.

Just the embodiment of power ascending.
He might as well have been Palpatine—minus the yellow eyes and lightning bolts. Probably…

Then he turned.

His voice cut through the air like a verdict.

Calm. Precise. Razor-sharp.

"Braavos has never needed to proclaim its strength."

First punch landed.

I could see backs straightening, hands tightening on chair arms. Even Caspar behind me shifted by half a millimetre—and that was saying something.

Ferrego descended one step.

"Our ships speak for us. Our treaties. Our letters of credit. Our contracts. Our silence weighs more than the cries of a hundred kings."

A beat of silence.

Then, lower. Graver.

"But today… Braavos speaks."

And I knew then—the bloodletting was about to begin.

He raised a hand.

An attendant stepped forward and handed him a vellum scroll. Ferrego didn't read it. Just stared at it.

"This year, Myr sought to challenge Braavos."

Boom.

No one dared breathe. I glanced at Vadremino—stiff as a statue, eyes locked on some imaginary void. Yeah, mate. They were about to sing songs about me, and your clan? You'd be lucky to get a footnote.

Ferrego went on.

"Not through war. Not with ships. But with two blades. Two shadows. Two men sent to assassinate a free citizen of Braavos."

A wave of feigned shock rippled through the crowd. Calculated. Controlled. No one was truly surprised—but everyone played their part. Politics at its finest.

Ferrego continued:

"Two men, paid in whispers, sent to silence a man whose only crime… was to do better. To innovate. To challenge their monopoly on glass."

And just like that, every eye turned to me.

"All while failing to succeed."

He paused.
This time, his gaze found mine.

And let me tell you—when a man with the face of Palpatine stares into your soul, it's not a vibe. I half-expected him to croak out "I am the Senate!"

"They failed because they faced more than a man. They faced a will. A reflection of our city's spirit."

He lifted his chin slightly.

"This man survived. And not only did he survive—he struck back. He shook Myr to its foundations."

Silence.

Then he unrolled the scroll.

And this time, he read.

"Closure of forty-seven workshops in Myr. Suspension of thirty-two trade agreements. Collapse of sovereign debt. Capital flight. Asset freeze by the Iron Bank. Termination of three mercenary contracts."

He snapped the scroll shut with a crisp thwack.

"That is the result."

A long pause. But he wasn't finished.

Ferrego descended another step.

"For this attack was not simply a mistake. It was a turning point. A revelation."

He looked to the crowd.

"Myr tried to defend its glass monopoly. But it forgot—Braavos does not buy what it can create."

And then he delivered the killing blow.

"This year, the Guild of Glassmakers of Braavos has been founded."

A collective shiver. Even from those who already knew.

"In a few short months, it has generated more profit than three guilds combined. It has supplied glass to Essos, to Westeros, to the Iron Bank itself. The Palace of Braavos is adorned with Braavosi glass. We drink from Braavosi glass!"

Then he looked at me again.

"And meanwhile, Myr collapses. Their monopoly shattered, their vaults bled dry. They now beg Volantis for aid."

He shook his head slowly.

"Myr has been crushed by a single man. Proof that it doesn't take an army to destroy an empire. That is the fate of all slavers."

Around me, heads nodded in silent agreement. We traded with them, sure—but we all shared the same long-term goal: the end of slavery.

Then he raised a hand.

Another box was brought forward.

Black. Unadorned. But carved with the Titan's seal. That iconic helm—you couldn't mistake it.

Ferrego opened the box.
Inside was a key I'd never seen before.

Larger than the one I wore. Forged from black steel, etched with ancient runes, and streaked with a line of molten red glass running through its length.

Torchlight danced in it like congealed blood.

Ferrego stepped toward me.

"Vincenzo Bardatto."

I straightened.

"You did not simply survive. You took the blade meant for you and turned it back on those who threw it."

He raised the key.

"You did not flinch. You did not retreat. And like our Titan, you stood tall in the storm."

He placed the key in my hands.

It was heavy. Heavier than gold. Heavier than lead.
It carried the weight of a bloody state blessing.

"Before the Keyholders, before the Founding Families, before all of Braavos…"

He stepped aside, so all could see me clearly.

And declared:

"I name you Hand of Glass, Witness of the Titan, Architect of the New Era."

I didn't smile.

But gods, I wanted to.

Ferrego continued, more solemnly now:

"This title is not just an honour. It is a burden. You are now a member of the Council of Braavos. You will sit at my side, and your voice will carry the weight of your key."

Then he turned to the crowd.

"Let Myr hear it. Let Volantis hear it. Let Lys, Norvos, Tyrosh, and Qohor hear it."

"Braavos is not a city of merchants."

"Braavos is an idea."

He raised his hand, palm open.

"And that idea—cannot be killed… nor bought."

He let the arm fall.

Then he sat.

"Braavos rises."

For a few seconds, silence. Then, the hall erupted in applause.

An ovation.

And I was its rightful recipient.

It was ecstasy. I glanced at my aunt—she was smiling.
My uncle? A cheeky wink.
Even Tycho inclined his head, the faintest of smiles playing on his lips.

But the cherry on top?

The disgust on Vadremino's face—and even better—the way Saelios Merono had taken a step away from him.

As Keyholders, we were meant to stand together, yet he helped Vadremino. But with my popularity where it was? He couldn't afford to oppose me.
Not when I had just become the second most powerful man in Braavos.

And without lifting a bloody finger!
The Magister's assassination? Iron Bank.
The decanter? Just a sketch on parchment.
Only the assassin's torture was truly mine to claim…

Still—not complaining.

Once the applause died down, Ferrego stood again.

"Now, I invite you all to enjoy this evening. Drink, feast, and celebrate! For today, Braavos honours its people and its greatness!"

The ballroom doors opened.

Everyone began to file in—though most made a detour to greet me first. Quick congratulations, subtle grovelling.

And I gave them all my best smile, each time the same:

"Thank you."
"It's an honour."
Blah blah. Classic boot-licking.

Then I stepped into the ballroom.

It was stunning.

Black marble columns, crimson drapes, silver platters, and an army of perfumed nobles—all here to fawn over power, prestige… or just to show off who'd dropped the most coin on their outfit.

At the far end, on a modest gilded platform: a quartet of musicians—harp, flute, lute, tambourine.

They were playing.

Well… trying.

I watched the scene with the same fascination one might have for a carriage crash. You don't want to look—but you can't look away.

The harp screeched. The flute stumbled. The lute had an existential crisis about whether it was leading or improvising.

And the tambourine? It had clearly decided rhythm was just a polite suggestion.

"Is it just me, or did that harp just violate my eardrums?" I muttered to Caspar.

"I fear… it is intentional, my lord. A Pentoshi composition. Very… contemporary," he replied in his usual monotone.

Too monotone. I looked at him—he was suffering just as much as I was. Poor bastard.

"Contemporary, my arse. Sounds like someone strangling a goat inside a copper pot," I grumbled, snatching a wine cup from a passing servant.

My jaw clenched reflexively. This music was actual torture.

A woman passed by and gave me a smile.

"Isn't it lovely, Lord Bardatto? So melodic…"

Was she deaf?

"Oh, absolutely. You can feel the composer's anguish. Probably hated humanity."

She beamed vacantly before trotting off. Bleached-blonde with amethyst eyes—Valyrian blood, clearly. Probably too inbred to count her own fingers.

Another dissonant note stabbed through the room. That's when I realised what the problem was.

They weren't in sync! Their fingers faltered, the sound was staggered… they had no sheet music!

"That's it!" I said, turning to Caspar. "There's no standardisation. No coordination. They're playing from memory—like morons. And look at these instruments! Where's the harpsichord? I'm not asking for a piano, but at least a bloody harpsichord!"

"Sheet music? Harpsichord?" Caspar frowned.

Oh, for fuck's sake. They didn't exist in this world.

There was no way I was subjecting myself to this screeching, off-rhythm rubbish made by peasants with tambourines and glorified spoons.
God, I missed Spotify…

"My dear Caspar," I said, idea forming already, "do you know if our goldsmith can craft fine copper or silver wires?"

He gave me a wary look.

"Another of your ideas, my lord?"

"If I may?" he added, hesitating.

Oh? He'd finally caught on. I gestured for him to speak, ensuring no one was eavesdropping.

"You've changed, my lord," he said. "Since your father's funeral. You're… sharper. More inventive. You used to ignore business entirely, and now you're a master trader. You never had the drive to innovate, yet you churn out ideas weekly. If I didn't know you so well… I'd think you were a Faceless Man."

Good thing I'd planned for this.

"You're right," I admitted, watching his eyes widen slightly. "Noticed the physical changes too? Don't I look like I'm glowing? Stronger? And yesterday's cut—look."

I showed him my hand—flawless. No scar. Just perfect skin.

He nodded slowly.

"After the funeral," I began, weaving the lie with flair, "I… dreamt. I met someone. A god, I think. I don't know who. But they told me I couldn't go on like before. They gave me a gift. Intelligence. Vision. They said the world needed preparing—for the White Walkers."

I was talking absolute shite—but judging by his expression, he was buying every word.

"I see… You've been blessed, my lord?"

"Exactly, Caspar. And it's changed me. I know I act differently. No more courtesans in my bed, I watch what I eat, I track every coin. This gift—it sharpened me. And it's why I speak oddly sometimes. I've realised words waste time. Look at them—trading veiled threats and double meanings. Pointless."

"I understand," he said, nodding again. "Then I thank the gods for not… breaking you. Their gifts are rarely so kind."

I smiled.

"Now, about that goldsmith?"

He pondered briefly.

"I believe so, my lord. I recall brooches made with fine wire."

Perfect. All I needed now was a proper musician.

"In that case, I need a talented one. Obsessive. Precision-obsessed. Preferably someone who plays strings…"

"There is Master Giovanni, considered the greatest bard in Essos," he replied. "Though he's retired and—"

"And?" I asked, tone sharpening.

"His retirement was… forced, my lord. There was a duel with Master Selvo last year. Giovanni said Selvo's wife was as beautiful as the mud of King's Landing, and her scent rivalled Flea Bottom."

Oof. Comparing someone's wife to the slums of Westeros? That took balls.

"He lost. Selvo made him swear never to play lute or harp again… and took his leg."

Ouch. Still—not a problem.

"Doesn't matter. He won't be playing lute or harp. I need him for something else. I want him summoned, along with our goldsmith and a master woodworker. The usual one."

"May I ask which project, my lord? You have… many."

I flashed him my most charming grin.

"Let's just say I'm going to revolutionise music. Harpsichords and sheet music mean nothing to you now—but soon, they will. I refuse to be aurally assaulted again at my own reception. And while I'm at it, I might as well change the face of music forever."

Good thing I remembered how harpsichords work. Thank you, YouTube music channels.

Now I just had to find musicians talented enough to rival Bach or Mozart.

Glass in hand, I turned to rejoin the guests.
Time to enjoy the evening—my evening.