The year was nearly spent. It was the month of Daeroi, the stormy sea of Lys had a gray cast to it, as it always did.
Ser Barney Took stood at the prow of Serena, wind tugging at his cloak like a child eager for attention. The ship rocked gently beneath his boots, her polished deck creaking with pride. The ship named for his mother was built in the shipyard of White Harbor and seasoned in the seven seas. She had withered storms, survived pirates and failed mutinies. Barney liked to think that she'd outlive him too.
"Land ho!" came the call from the crow's nest. "Lys ahead!"
Serena's helmsman, Murn, squinted at the horizon. "Only two leagues out! We'll be in by midday, ser."
Ahead, Lys the Lovely, sprawled across its islands like a courtesan in silk, all marble towers and painted domes. From afar, it shimmered, like something from a dream. A paradise, or so the dragonlords had called it. The city's low hills thick with palms and fruit trees, the white sprawl of the city hugging the coast like a lover.
The waters around the island gleamed blue-green when the sun touched them, full of fat fish and fat men seeking coin. A city of silk and sin, his Alana had once called it, laughing. She would know.
A Lyseni by birth, she'd grown up among its silken gardens, speaking the flowing tongue of the city that sounded like music. Alana's kisses had tasted of the same perfumed scent of the city. Sensuous, sweet and unforgettable.
Barney had learned the language for her sake, and Tyroshi besides. It paid to speak the tongues of men who might kill or cheat you. Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, Barney Took traded in all their ports, yet he had little trust for them. He only had caution and respect; that was how a man stayed alive in cities like this.
"Drop sail when I say, not before," Barney spoke, his voice low, clipped, marked by the slight drawl of a Kingslander accent, "And let the Lyseni come to us. We don't want trouble with the harbormaster."
Through his far eye, Barney could see the harbor. Crowded, as always. Ships from Tyrosh, Myr, Volantis, even the Summer Isles, their bright sails fluttering like tourney flags. A busy port was good for trade and better for secrets. Barney cared little for secrets, unless they touched his coin. Yet this time, his own cargo were secrets.
"Aye, ser." Murn answered.
Barney adjusted the clasp of his cloak and made his way below deck. As he descended the narrow steps, his fingers found the seven-pointed star at his throat. He touched it gently, murmuring a prayer to the Father for wisdom, and to the Smith for strength.
He was a merchant and sailor, not a knight, not truly. Yet the Seven, in their mercy, had seen fit to grant him that name. Ser.
He bore it now, wore the sword at his side, and had bent the knee to Lord Manderly with all the solemnity of a man who owed his life to another.
Even now, in the quiet of his own heart, Barney felt like he didn't deserve it.
Knighthood was for sons of lords, men born to steel and saddle, with lands beneath their feet and blood on their spurs. Barney had none of that, instead, he had calloused hands and coins earned through storm and sweat. Barney could fight, when it came to it, as any sailor could.
But he is no warrior, no slayer of men in shining mail.
Yet, Lord Arthur had seen fit to have him knighted. And it gave him a name, Took, which he'd chosen himself. A name once used in mockery, now worn with pride, with heraldry 'A yellow Woad flower on a field of white'.
Simple and unassuming, yet this flower that grows wild in the meadows of Matta, is very precious to him.
Barney ducked below deck, boots thudding softly on oiled planks, the familiar creak and sway of Serena underfoot as steady as his own heartbeat. The passage was dim, lit by lanterns that swung gently with the ship's motion, casting long shadows on the walls.
He paused outside his cabin door, hand resting on the latch, and drew a slow breath.
The smell of oiled wood and salt lingered in the air, but beneath it was something sweeter, faint but unmistakable. Her perfume. Lavender and lemon, with some spice he could never name.
Yet, he knew it all the same. The scent of a woman, who is his home.
The door groaned softly as he pushed it open. Inside, the cabin was warm and close, filled with her fragrance and the quiet creak of timber.
Alana sat at the small table near the porthole, brushing her hair in long, unhurried strokes. Sunlight slanted through the glass and caught in her locks, turning them to pale gold. Her skin was smooth as ivory, her eyes a deep, liquid blue, like the waters off Lys's sea on a calm summer's day.
She was slender and graceful, with high cheeks and full lips. Her beauty was the kind men crossed oceans for, the kind wars had been fought over. Barney often wondered if she might have been carved by some Valyrian god or by the Maiden herself.
Barney watched her for a time, just standing there like a fool, still half in awe. Alana of Lys, daughter of Treno, daughter of silk and song. She could have been the prize of some merchant prince or magister, yet here she is, wife to a Kingslander boy who'd once sold salt and fish.
"You're gawking again, husband," she spoke, her voice soft and musical, even in the common tongue.
"Am I?" Barney smiled, stepping inside, "Even if I was, I'm allowed to do that. Since you are mine."
Alana smiled at him, setting down the brush, "Are we going to make port soon?"
Barney shut the door behind him. "Aye. Land's near. We'll be moored by midday."
"And then you'll go to Tregar Ormollen, fat with coins and words sweeter than honey."
Barney chuckled, stepping closer. "I'll deal with the pompous magister who'll try to cheat me blind, later." He cupped her cheek, his rough hand brushing against her soft skin. "But for now, I'll see my wife."
Alana leaned into his touch. "And what does he see?"
Then she rose, and the light caught in the fine silk of her dress, turning it near translucent. Barney's breath halted for a moment as he looked at her. It wasn't just a look of love or lust. It was something deeper, something purer. A kind of reverence. A kind of worship.
Alana stood in front of him, the corners of her mouth curled in mischief. "Say it," she teased, eyes gleaming. "Get it out before you burst."
"You're still the most beautiful woman I've seen, too fine for the likes of me," Barney murmured, voice rougher than he meant. "Lord Arthur knew what he was about, arranging this match."
Her eyes narrowed, teasing. "Is that so?"
"It is," he said, firm. "I was a fishmonger's son with no name to speak of. You were the prized daughter of a merchant prince of Lys. I've seen enough to know fortune when it falls in my lap."
"You've not seen enough, my love," She smiled, and reached up to touch his cheek. "Because if you did, you'd know why he had arranged this match," She went on, "That arrangement is wind and dust now. What matters is, you love me as your fortune, and I treasure you as mine."
"Aye," he murmured. "And may the Seven strike me dead if I ever forget it."
Barney kissed her then, slow and tender. Her lips tasted of wine and honey, and the warmth of her made him forget the sea, forget Lys, forget everything but this one moment.
Outside, the sea whispered against the hull, but here in the cabin, it was still. Just her, and him, and the soft thud of their hearts. There was no gold in the world worth this, he thought. No cargo richer, no reward greater.
They lied together for a while in easy silence, He kissed the top of her head. "Where are the boys?"
Alana's voice was muffled against his chest. "Sleeping. Like little lords after a feast."
Barney smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Should I wake them?"
She pulled back, smirking. "You sailed them through a storm last night and now you want to let them sleep? Go on, Ser Barney Took, wake your sons."
He laughed softly, already rising from their bed. "Aye, m'lady. As you command."
Barney shut the door behind him with care, not wanting to wake her. His boots thudded softly down the passage as he made for the adjoining cabin, where their sons lay dreaming.
He stepped in quietly, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. Inside, the cabin was dim, lit only by the faint slant of daylight filtering through the high porthole. Henry and Jonah were curled together on the narrow bunk like pups in a den.
Henry, the elder by two years, lay sprawled across the bed, limbs askew, snoring faintly, his mouth half-open in a way that made Barney grin. Jonah was curled against his brother's side, thumb stuck in his mouth, the blanket kicked to the floor as usual.
Barney knelt beside the bed, resting his elbows on the edge, and just watched them. Watched the rise and fall of their small chests, the soft innocence etched on their faces. They looked, safe, utterly and deeply. The sort of safety that only children knew, if only for a time.
That was how it had been for him, once.
The cramped rooms over their fish stall in King's Landing, the clatter of carts on cobbled streets, the smell of brine and river rot from the Blackwater. His father, Thomas, had come from the Riverlands, the fourth son of a peasant household that fell to ruin. He had left his home and kin to make something of himself in the capital.
Thomas worked like a man hunted by time, and Jemma, Barney's mother, no less so. They cooked in inns, cleaned chamberpots and hauled crates at the docks, until their hands cracked. They did it together, side by side, and when the day's labor ended, they'd count their coins and their dreams.
Barney's brothers had been born then, Henry first, robust and hearty, then Jonah, bold and rebellious. When Jemma's belly swelled for a third time, they prayed for a girl. Instead, they got him.
A boy, with a wail like a cat and a squint that made the septa mutter about portents. But Barney's father Thomas held him in his arms and wept, and Jemma named him a gift from the gods. Within a year, Thomas had built his fish stall in the square, and by the time Barney could walk, they were making honest coin.
He had grown safe and warm, fed on fish and mother's bread, roughhoused by his older brothers and cradled by his little sisters, Tori and Lara, born in the sweet years when the family's fortunes rose. It was a good life. A small life, but his own.
Until the Rebellion began.
Barney stared at his sons, and for a moment, saw them with crowns of blood on their foreheads, saw bloody flames engulfing the walls of his childhood home, heard their cries, their screams. Memories of the Sack that he buried deep came flooding back, unbidden, unwelcomed.
He shut his eyes and took a breath. No. Not here. Not now. His boys are safe. They are safe.
Barney reached out and brushed a lock of hair from Jonah's brow, then smoothed Henry's blanket back over his chest. The gods had taken much from him but they had given too. These boys, the woman of his dreams.
It was true that Barney was no hero from the songs. Instead, He's a husband to a loving wife, a father to two innocent boys, a servant to a just lord and a merchant who had built something of his own with the blessing of destiny. And that was more than enough.
Barney smiled faintly and kissed each of them on the brow. "Wake up, you little scoundrels," he whispered softly. "Your mother commands it."
Henry stirred first, blinking blearily. "Da?" he mumbled.
"Aye, it's me. Up with you. We've Lys ahead and adventure at our door."
Jonah groaned, burrowing deeper under the covers. Barney laughed. "Stubborn as your uncle. Seven help me."
As the boys began to rouse, rubbing sleep from their eyes, Barney sat back on his heels, watching them with the eyes of a man who had known both riches and ruin, and came through it scarred, yet still standing.
Serena slipped through the harbor gates with her sails furled, her oars biting softly at the blue water. Around them, the scents of the city rolled thick on the breeze, like spice, salt and sour milk.
Barney stood at the prow, Alana at his side, their boys clutching the rail and craning their necks for a better look. Jonah pointed excitedly at a flotilla of pleasure skiffs, each with sails dyed in brilliant colors, fluttering like butterfly wings. "Are those for us, Da?" the boy asked, wide-eyed.
Barney chuckled, tousling the boy's curls. "No, lad. Those are for the fat men with fat purses."
"Like grandpapa!" the boy exclaimed excitedly. Barney burst out laughing. The boys joined in, giggling like fools, until Alana shot them a glare.
"That's not proper, lad," Barney chided his son halfheartedly. "There's the old fox now."
He nodded toward the dock, where Treno Bardi waited with all the subtlety of a king's coronation. The man had brought half the city with him, no fewer than two dozen attendants, all decked out in finery, sweating under parasols, and bearing gifts in silks and spice jars.
His father-in-law stood at the center of the welcome party, resplendent in a robe of midnight blue silk, threaded with gold. Rings winked from every finger, his white beard oiled and neatly forked, his smile wide and polished. Beside him stood Remon and Leto, Treno's sons from his first marriage, Alana's half-brothers.
Remon, the elder, was tall and lean, his beard meticulously trimmed. Leto, rounder of face and figure, wore a sharp expression that never seemed to soften. Both were garbed in silk robes of indigo and bronze.
"Treno brought the whole bloody street with him," Barney muttered.
Alana spoke, serene as ever. "He would never let his daughter arrive in Lys without spectacle. You know him."
"Aye," Barney said. "And I know it's not just for you. He's showing the city his rise."
"This is a part of it, love," Alana said softly, reading his thoughts. "Let him make his show."
Barney muttered with a frown, "Could've been quieter,"
She laughed under her breath and said, "Oh, my love, you worry too much. This is only a family visit, after all."
Barney nodded grimly. "Aye. Family visit."
"Drop anchor!" came the cry from the mate.
Chains clattered, sails flapped, and the crew leapt to their tasks with practiced ease. Serena bumped gently against the dock. Mooring lines flew, and her crew made fast the gangplank.
The boys jumped in place with excitement, while Alana rested her hand on Barney's arm. He led them down the gangway, Alana's gown trailing like sunlight on the wood.
"Ser Barney Took, my dear son!" Treno swept forward, arms open wide. "Lys welcomes you! Alana, my jewel. Come, let me look at you. And the boys! Growing strong, both of them. Just like their father."
The old man kissed Alana and the children, once on each cheek, then pulled Barney into a tight embrace.
"How have you been, papa?" Alana asked, kissing both his cheeks.
"You look well, Father," Barney said in a formal tone.
"Well-fed, you mean," Treno laughed jovially, "When the gods smile on your trade, the table never empties!"
Remon gave a bow with just enough flourish to suggest mockery, "Welcome to Lys, brother. I trust the voyage was smooth?"
"Smooth enough," Barney said. "The winds favored us."
"And your ship... Serena, is it not? She's a beauty." Leto said, "Your own flagship, proof of the gods favor."
Barney smiled thinly. "The gods favor hard work, master Leto."
Leto nodded silently, eyes flicking from the children to the ship, and then to the harbor beyond. Always watching, that one.
As trunks and chests were brought ashore, Treno gestured to the waiting carriage, its wood painted and lacquered, the Lyseni woman etched in silver on the door. "Come, come. You must be tired from your voyage. The manse awaits. You'll find it much changed since your last visit."
Barney helped Alana inside, settled the boys, and climbed in last. As the carriage rolled through Lys' winding streets, Barney let his gaze wander.
The city was a dream made flesh and like all dreams, it was dangerous. Marble towers, silken banners, pleasure houses with painted girls on balconies, temples gleaming with golden domes. It was all too much, and Barney had long ago learned to distrust what dazzled the eye.
He'd been born in a fishmonger's square, the son of a man who toiled till his hands bled, who prayed each night for coin enough to buy bread, not gold-threaded cushions. Barney had earned his place through blood and sweat. All he had, he'd clawed for, save for Alana, who had come to him by the Seven's will. And their will was the only one that mattered.
When they reached the manse, it was exactly as he feared, large, ostentatious, a testament to Treno's new wealth. The gates swung open, and servants poured forth like ants, bowing and scraping. Inside, floors of polished tile, walls draped in lavish Myrish and Merlish tapestries. Even a few years ago, this would have been a dream.
Treno clapped Barney's shoulder. "We hope you are ready, son, this is the start of something greater."
Barney nodded, feeling the weight of years past and the burden of what comes next.
Generations ago the Bardis' had it all; gold, ships, influence in the Signoria. Decadence, foolish investments and failed loans had drained their coffers. Treno's father had died disgraced, stripped of his council seat, forced to sell their last vineyard, their estates and their daughters.
And then came Lord Arthur.
Six years past, when the Merlin Bank opened its doors in Lys, Treno had begun selling off his old debts, shifting bad loans to the bank like a man bailing water from a sinking ship. The Lyseni scoffed, sneered that he was a coward, selling to foreigners, to Westerosi. But Treno planned to survive and words meant little in front of gold.
Alana had told him the tale on a night of sharp wind and quiet seas, six years ago, when Serena was new and he was still learning the shape of her smile in the lamplight. They'd been bound for Oldtown then, with crates of the new merlin dyes. She had lain beside him, head resting on his shoulder, her voice soft and without rancor.
"Father always meant to sell me, Barney," she'd said. "And he did. Though I am grateful that it was to you rather than that old goat with more wives than teeth."
There was an old spice merchant, rich, lecherous and newlymade. To him, Alana's beauty had only sweetened the deal. She is also kind, clever, and too proud to cry over her fate, those things mattered less. Barney had known this, of course. A man like Treno Bardi had no children, only assets.
The Bardi name was old, older than many of the merchant houses that now strutted about Lys. Their blood still carried enough weight to buy favors among the upstart merchant lords clawing their way into the city's ruling circles. To men like that, wedlock with a Bardi daughter meant respectability, a hint of nobility to wrap their coin in silk. For Treno, Alana had been a final bargaining chip, a means to recover some of what his forebears had lost.
Barney had seen such trades before.
'A daughter for an alliance. A son for some lands,
A favor for a favor. Even honor for safety from the Strangers cold hands.'
Treno did the same, though he had hesitated. Westerosi blood was lowborn in Lyseni eyes, and Barney doubly so, a merchant made by a lord of the snowy lands. But gold spoke louder than pride. Lord Arthur's partnership had enticed him, and Barney's knighthood had sealed the bargain.
A trade of services, titles and loyalties.
Treno Bardi now sat at the heart of Lord Arthur's intricate web in Lys, richer and more content than he had ever dared to dream. Once a man clawing at ruin, now a merchant prince, gold on his fingers, silk on his back, and his name once again whispered with respect.
He wagered everything and the gods had seen fit to bless the wager.
And Barney? He had Alana, his children, their home, and the Seven's blessings. No jewel gleamed brighter in his eyes. Not in Lys, not in Oldtown, not even in White Harbor.
Still, Barney could not fault Treno for the welcome, not when it made Henry's eyes go wide. The boy stared, slack-jawed, at the courtyard spectacle: musicians plucking and piping beneath silken banners, their notes light and wild on the Lysene air. Henry clapped along with glee, all the joy of a child who knew nothing of politics, debts, or war.
"Come, lads," Barney said gently, lifting Jonah, who was drooping already, Barney scooped him up, the boy's head nestling into his shoulder. "Let's get you settled, eh?"
Two servants stepped forward at once, hands outstretched to relieve him. "I've got him," he snapped, though not unkindly, "Go tend to my wife."
Alana shot him a look, one brow raised in silent reproach, but said nothing. She knew him too well to argue the point. Barney trusted few hands when it came to his blood. He carried Jonah into their chambers, a room of silk and intricate carpets, with a bed large enough for four. Gently, he laid the boy down and tugged a blanket over him, pressing a kiss to his brow.
Henry rushed in, eyes wide with excitement. "Da, there's a fountain in the courtyard with dolphins! Real ones!"
"Not real, lad, but fine enough. We'll see it together after supper." Barney knelt and cupped Henry's face in his calloused hand. "Stay close to your mother, you hear? No running off, no exploring without me."
Henry nodded solemnly. "I promise."
"Good lad." He tousled the boy's hair. "You're the eldest. You watch out for Jonah."
"I will, Da! I will! Like Ser William," Henry replied with the same excitement as before and started running again.
Barney watched him scamper off to Alana, who was unpacking her satchels and humming softly. Her voice calmed his soul, and Barney let himself breathe, just for a moment. He walked to her side and laid a hand on her shoulder, "This manse… It's fine," he muttered.
"It's a cage with golden bars," she replied, glancing up at him. "I know the look in your eyes, Barney Took. You'd rather sleep on the ship."
He smiled faintly. "Aye. But you and the boys deserve comfort and safety."
She took his hand, and pressed it to her lips. "We are always safe, with you!"
Barney said nothing, but in his heart, he prayed she was right. Seven, guard her tongue and guide her heart. Keep her safe from folly, and me from failure.
That night, when the city's din faded to a hush beneath the stars, Barney stood by the window, arms crossed, his shadow stretched long across the floor of the manse. Outside, domes and towers shone under the moonlight. The harbor alive with distant lights that flickered like candles in the dark.
He watched, silent as stone, a sentinel at rest but never unguarded. Behind him, Alana slept curled around Jonah, the boy's small hand clutching her braid. Henry snored softly in his cot, and somewhere down the hall, servants whispered and padded about, their footsteps careful on the polished floors.
Barney's gaze lingered on his family, but his mind wandered far, carried by unseen tides. Waves within waves, he thought, watching a gull wheel over the harbor. Beneath Lys' silk and splendor, the city churned.
Lord Arthur's words rang in his mind, "Ensure Tregar Ormollen's rise. See him named First Magister. And your wife's father raised beside him. Treno Bardi will wear purple, and with it, bind Lys to our cause."
A merchant in silk could become a magister, if enough coin flowed and the right men bled. That was the truth of Lys, as plain as piss in snow. Titles here were not earned by sword or song, nor gifted by kings. They were bought with gold, with favors, with blood. Barney had been sent to ensure that the coin did flow and if bleeding was needed, so be it.
He knew this was no small game. If Ormellon ascended and Bardi with him, they would control the entire city. The navy, ports, the tariffs, the flow of silk and spice and gold. Manderly ships would dock without tax or delay, the coin of White Harbor would swell, and the Merlin's grip on the east would tighten like a velvet noose.
He did not ask why Lord Arthur had chosen Tregar Ormollen. Such questions were for lesser men. Arthur saw further than most, and Barney had long since learned to follow where his lord pointed, like the needle of a compass. Lord Arthur had raised him up when others turned their backs. He had given him purpose and a life worth keeping. That was no small gift in this world.
So if his lord commanded that Tregar Ormollen rise and Treno Bardi with him, then rise they would. And if any man tried to stop them, be he magister, merchant, or prince, Barney would see him sink beneath the waves.