The manse breathed beneath the weight of wealth, the great hall swollen with the heat of bodies, voices, and the clink of silver cups. Lamps hung from gilded rafters, burning low and casting a soft gold over silk and jewels.
Barney Took stood near the hearth, the weight of silk wrapped tight around his chest and arms reminding him that he was a stranger here. Every breath he took in this city tasted of torment.
Everything was too soft, too bright, and too foreign.
Beside him, Alana, radiant and poised, her beauty a weapon and a shield. Her gown was a cascade of blue and silver that caught the lamplight like water, her hair pinned with pearls that shone like moonlight. She carried herself like she belonged here. Perhaps she did.
Barney shifted his stance, watching as Treno and his sons Remon and Leto made their rounds at the far end of the hall, greeting their guests. Barney's gaze sought out two familiar shapes weaving through the crowd.
Ser Halbot Leslie, the Merling ambassador of White Harbor to Lys. The man wore no gaudy finery, only a plain well-made doublet, stitched with the arms of his house. The gilded chain of the Order of the Green Hand, hung upon his neck.
At his side walked Arnold of Tarth, younger by a dozen years. Arnold had abandoned the Citadel before earning his chain, trading a maester's chains for the ledgers of the Merlin Bank. From clerk to manager in only a few years. In a world where most men's climbs began and ended in the same place, Arnold had scaled the ladder three at a time.
"Here come some familiar faces," Barney murmured to Alana.
"Seven blessings, Ser Halbot," he greeted, "Good to see you again. I daresay Lys suits you better than White Harbor's chill."
Halbot's mouth twitched, "Seven blessings, Ser Barney. I'd say the contrary, you seem to have taken to it as a fish takes to water. How was your journey from White Harbor?" he asked.
"The seas were generous enough," Barney replied, "though they saw fit to toss us about near Lys."
Halbot's brow furrowed, "The sea is both friend and foe, isn't she? You've weathered worse, I'm sure."
"I've had my share," Barney admitted.
"And the boys?" Halbot asked, his tone softened.
"They are well," Alana said. "The children have been well tended. Jugglers and musicians keep them merry. They may start yearning for home soon, though I confess I worry more that they may not." Her hand brushed Barney's briefly, a silent shared ache.
Halbot's expression darkened. "I know the weight of it," he said quietly. "My own children are here, growing under skies that never saw snow. I wonder what it might make of them… if they would even remember they're of the North at all."
Barney knew the look on Ser Halbot's face, he had seen it before in sailors and merchants who had sailed too far from home, stayed away too long.
Arnold of Tarth stepped forward then, bowing his head, "Seven Blessings, Master Took. Lady Alana. It gladdens me to see you both in good health. How fares White Harbor? And our noble lord, these days?"
Barney grinned, "Both grow with every passing year and White Harbor's been trying to catch up."
Arnold chuckled, a light, youthful sound. Even Halbot allowed himself a smile.
"I jest," Barney said, his voice dropping to a more earnest tone, "Lord Wyman fares well. The last I saw him, he was in high spirits, declaring that Lord Arthur would triumph in the tourney at King's Landing."
Arnold's eyes sparkled with mischief. "It seems Lord Wyman has taken up the mantle of seer, then. Word has it that Lord Arthur did indeed win both the melee and the joust at the tournament for Prince Joffrey's twelfth nameday. Defeating Jaime Lannister in both finals, no less."
"To best the Lion of the Rock is no small feat," Barney murmured, a hint of awe in his voice.
Lord Arthur, besting the Kingslayer, once would have been remarkable enough, but twice, and on the same day? That such a thing had come to pass still surprised Barney, and yet… Lord Arthur was a Manderly. The blood of mariners and warriors both ran in his veins. Perhaps it was only fitting that White Harbor had found another hero worthy of its songs.
The murmur of the manse shifted, as the great doors opened, and heads turned toward the threshold.
There they stood Tregar Ormellon, broad as a merchant's galley and draped in a robe of green silk heavy with gold thread. And besides him stood, Lady Lynesse Hightower, her hair like pale gold spilling over her shoulders. She had the kind of beauty that men fought over for a single smile.
Treno went over with his two sons flanking him like well-drilled pages to greet the arrivals. Barney and Alana followed a half-breath later.
"Magister Ormellon, You honor my hall," Treno said, clasping Tregar's meaty hands. "And the fairest lady in Lys. Welcome, welcome. We are graced beyond measure."
Lynesse's lips curved, not so much in gratitude as in acknowledgement of a queen accepting her due homage. Tregar's answering smile showed his yellow and uneven teeth, "If all of Lys were so warm in its welcome, my friend, the city would need no walls.
"Allow me to present my daughter Alana, and her husband, Ser Barney Took, merchant prince of White Harbor, master of the Merling dyes, and a knight of the Order of the Smith."
Barney almost winced at the weight of the titles. "An honor," he said.
Tregar's eyes, small but sharp, shifted to Alana. "And who is this vision? Treno, you bastard! You've been hiding her from me."
Barney's jaw tightened, and before his temper could find its tongue, Alana replied swiftly. "My lord is kind," she said, her voice polite and dismissive, "but I am no vision, only a wife, fortunate in her husband."
"The Order of the Smith?" she asked, tilting her head with grace. "I have heard of many orders in Westeros, yet never this one."
"A chivalric order," Barney replied. "Founded by Lord Wyman Manderly himself, for men who have proven themselves in service not only by the sword, but by the work of hands, the building of ships, the forging of arms, the shaping of a city's wealth."
"Knights of industry… strange," Lynesse replied in mild amusement.
"Aye," Barney said, steady. "The Smith's work is no less holy than the Warrior's." His words came out firmer than he intended.
Tregar's smiled and said, "Ah, Treno, now I eagerly wish to see your manse, my friend. Let's see the fruits your industry."
Treno led the way with a smile wide enough to fool any man, his voice booming, "Of course, it'd be an honor. I could hardly refuse such noble company."
Remon's spoke in a voice meant for Barney's ear alone. "Careful, good-brother, this is Lys, wise man here learns quickly that counsel wears many faces and some of them are fairer than yours or mine," he said, mirth still painted on his face. "Come, it is time we also left the pageant behind."
Remon led Barney through a side passage, the din of the feast softening behind them, until they reached a carved bronze door. He pressed the door open and Treno ushered Barney inside.
Tregar Ormellon sat with a cup in his hand. Lady Lynesse reclined at his side, pale and serene. Near the window stood Ser Halbot, stiff-backed in plain doublet, and beside him Arnold of Tarth, his hands clasped before him.
"Good," Arnold said, "Now we may speak without a hundred ears straining for scraps."
"Let us not dance as they do in the hall below," Tregar spoke, his eyes settled on Barney. "Tell me plain, good sers of White Harbor." he went on, leaning forward, "How will your lord promise that when the vote is called, it is I who wears the chain of the First Magistrate, and not some rival fat with bribes and promises?"
Tregar's words still hung in the air and all eyes seemed to wait for him.
Ser Halbot shifted, "Before we speak of what is offered, Magister, we must reckon with what stands in your way. The vote will not fall into a man's lap, no matter how many captains he feeds or guilds he boasts of. Three names weigh heaviest. Lynaro Mazzio. Attanio Gerenio. Tommasino Bardio."
Treno leaned forward with eagerness, "Lynaro Mazzio smiles like a prince, spends like one too. He struts about in velvets finer than most kings, and owes to half the counting-houses of Lys."
Arnold's mouth curled as he spoke. "Yet the man is no fool. For all his debts, he has won himself a wealthy patron from Pentos, who lends him silver and strength. That makes him dangerous, debts or no."
Halbot spoke, "First Magister Attanio Gerenio is the truest rival. His father wore the chain before him, and Lys remembers. He is beloved by the weavers, the vintners, and half the lesser magisters. Pride and lineage prop him high, and he has coffers enough to fill the void where charm fails."
"A man who hides behind his father's bones is no man at all."
Arnold's smile was thin. "Yet these bones cast long shadows, Magister. Longer than most men's lives."
Halbot went on, "And Tommasino Bardio… he is the most dangerous of them all. The gonfaloniere of Lys, the master of your swords and sails. Once Attanio's confidant and chosen successor. Men who get the taste for power often shift their allegiance as quickly as sands. Bardio was no different."
Barney spoke towards Tregar, "Their enmity may pave the way to your victory. If we can take this advantage."
Arnold added, "Aye… yet should they clasp hands again, your path to the chain narrows to a knife's edge."
The room fell still at that, save for the soft crackle of the brazier.
Lynesse broke the quiet, "Bardio," she said, "is he not of your blood, Treno?"
Treno's smile held, but there was no warmth in it now. "Born of our line, yet too proud to bear our name. They climbed on the backs of our labor, fattened on our coin. When the hardships came, and our house bent low, it needed only a hand to steady it. Yet they turned us away. Worse than strangers, they are and strangers owe no debt of blood."
There was no laughter in him now, only old bitterness and scars.
"And what of Tregar?" Barney asked. "It is his name that must stand at the end, not Bardio's, not Attanio's. How do we bind the chains to him?"
"We have not yet made that bid," Arnold said.
Barney frowned. "Then what are we doing here?"
Arnold's eyes glittered in the firelight, "We are here to set the board, Ser, for the game. And in this game, your lady wife is the key."
Barney's hands clenched on the carved arms of his chair. "My wife?" The words came low, heavy. "What role does my wife play? Speak plain, banker, before I tear out your tongue."
"I mean no slight, ser. Only that she will play a part that neither you, nor Treno can play."
Barney was on his feet before he knew it, the chair legs scraping hard against the tiles. "You will not use her," he snarled, "not for this farce of coin and chains. I will have no man speak of Alana as if she were some trinket to be bartered or sold."
"Arnold." Ser Halbot's voice cut across the chamber, "Enough." His stare fixed on the banker. "You speak too glibly of things you do not hold dear."
Arnold bowed his head, his smile flickered, faint and unrepentant. "As you say, ser."
Treno rose. "Son," he said, "Still your wrath. It is no insult meant to Alana, but necessity. You speak of her as if I would throw her to wolves. Tom knows her. He remembers her as a child, long before his own star rose."
Barney drew a breath. "So we go to him," he said slowly, voice thick. "And what then?"
"You will go as kin. As those he still may trust. You will place before him the offer plain: if he lends his hand to raise me to the magistracy, I will see him raised in turn. And it must be Alana, she will be the one who makes him believe it is no ruse, no trick, but the true oath of her house."
The words settled heavy in Barney's gut, as if stone had filled him. Alana, always Alana. She had been a piece in her father's games before. Barney had given her his word that it would never happen again. And now that vow had been broken. The thought soured his tongue.
Halbot nodded and turned to Tregar. "And you, Magister. While Ser Barney and Lady Alana weave trust with Bardio, you must thread your way into Attanio's camp. Offer him your loyalty, your silver, your ships. Pledge your allegiance to him. He will need allies to face Tommasino's strength, and you will be the first among them. In return, claim the gonfaloniere's chain."
Arnold spoke again, "With both of you inside their camps, we may break them from within. And when their quarrels consume them, when both men lie shattered, then the chain of First Magistrate hangs loose for the taking. For you, Magister Ormellon."
Barney sat heavy again, his chest was tight, his heart bitter. They had drawn the board, set the pieces, and written his wife's name across the game.
And Barney, for all his oaths and fury, was caught upon it too.
"And what," Lynesse asked, "does Manderly's gain from such generosity? You speak of alliances and promises, of seats and chains, why?" Her pale eyes turned, cool and appraising, first upon Barney, then Halbot. "A noble house from the gods-forsaken land of snows. What is it you want of us? Why meddle in games not your own?" The disdain in her tone was faint yet visible.
Ser Halbot answered, the words measured as if spoken from a script rehearsed many times. "House Manderly seeks only a friend in Lys," he said. "A favorable hand. We are not blind, Lady Lynesse. The currents of power in these seas run strong, and they are not always kind to those who trade upon them. We have common enemies to the north and the south."
Arnold spoke, "Braavos. Pentos. Tyrosh, Myr, Volantis. Cities that would sooner choke our fleets than see them grow, rivals who eye these waters with hunger, who dream of strangleholds upon every tide."
Halbot's hand tightened, his knuckles pale. "Lord Arthur seeks to ensure that when White Harbor's sails reach these harbors, they find allies, not foes. Lys must be strong and she must be friendly. That is all we ask."
Lynesse smiled, "Manderly's seem to have forgotten their own history."
Tregar shifted in his chair, "It matters not what the Manderlys truly want," he said. "So long as they stand at my side when the votes are cast, I shall call them friends. I am a generous man."
"And Tommasino? When shall we meet him?" asked Barney.
Arnold smiled, "Why, ser," he said, "very soon."
As they returned to the feast, Tregar and Lynesse were swept once more into the sea of admirers, Treno with them. Barney was left at the hall's edge.
Alana stood near the great fountain of dolphins and shells, her gown glimmering pale in the lamplight. Beside her a young man spoke, silver hair falling artfully about his brow, eyes the sharp blue of a summer sky at sea. Alana laughed. Clear, unguarded, the sound cutting through the hall like a bell. Barney lingered where he was, the heat prickling the back of his neck.
"Do you know who that is, brother?" murmured Leto, as stood beside him.
Barney did not answer. His eyes were fixed on Alana.
"Tommasino Bardio. The darling of Lys. He is as beloved as he is ambitious." He paused, letting the words drip. "When we were children, he played often with Alana and me. Once upon a time, they used to be very close."
Barney's jaw clenched. Alana laughed again, head tilting back as Tommasino leaned closer, saying something only for her.
"It seems," he said softly, almost idly, "that he still holds her dearly."
Barney turned at last, "Thank you for the tale, Leto. I shall remember it."
The cold-eyed, young man bowed his head faintly, "As you will, ser."
Across the hall, Alana's eyes found him. She raised her hand, beckoning him with a smile that seemed so effortless, so untroubled. Barney stood rooted for a breath, his heart thundering against his ribs.
But the storm within him swelled too fierce. Arnold and Leto's insinuations, Alana's bright laughter, it all gnawed at him, left him restless. Barney had thought her wholly his, yet today he was reminded that she had belonged here first, to this world of secrets, before he had ever laid eyes upon her.
Barney's teeth ground together as he turned on his heel, ignoring her summons. He would not go to her. Barney thought for a moment he might turn back, drag her from the man's side before the whole feast.
Yet, that would be the act of a fool, an Andal brute in a civilized city. And compared to him, mayhaps that was all Barney Took was to them. Dressed in foreign velvet, breathing the air of a land where he did not belong.
Barney woke with unease heavy upon his chest, the kind that did not come from wine alone. He had drunk too deep last night, aye, but it was not the vintage that soured his belly, it was her laughter.
What galled him most was not her smile, nor the tilt of her head, but the sound itself. She had never once laughed for him like that. Not in all their years.
Still, a fool's hope had clung to him. That she might come looking, that she might press him and ask why he had gone cold. That she might care enough to quarrel. But no knock came at his door, no soft step, no whispered word. Only silence, thick as a tomb.
As Barney crossed the corridor and found her already risen. Alana sat before her mirror, pale blue silk clinging to her frame, shimmering like frost when the light touched it. A servant drew the laces of her sleeve tight while she sat straight as a spear. She might have been wrought of marble, for all the warmth in her eyes.
"Did you sleep well?" Barney asked, his voice rougher than he'd meant.
Alana did not turn her head. Only her eyes in the glass found him, "As well as one might," she said. "Though I was surprised to find myself alone."
Barney shifted, guilt pricking him sharp as a thorn. "I thought it best," he said. "The feast was long. I was tired."
"A convenient weariness." No venom, no raised voice, yet the words cut him cleaner than a knife.
By midmorning, their carriage stood ready in the courtyard. The driver cracked his whip, and the wheels groaned into motion, carrying them through the winding streets of Lys.
He sat across from his wife, the sway of the carriage drawing them together, then apart again. Her hands were folded neat in her lap, eyes turned to the passing marble facades and tiled roofs.
Barney watched her, the silence eating at him worse than any insult. He wanted to ask her, about Tommasino, about her laughter at the feast, about why she had taken Treno's command without question.
"You accepted quickly," he said at last.
Her gaze did not waver from the passing hills. "You accepted it first."
The road bent sharply, and there at its crest the Bardio manse revealed itself, white marble walls gleaming beneath the sun, ringed by vineyards that rolled down the hills like a green sea. Cypress trees lined the drive, tall and dark, and fountains sang softly in the courtyards beyond the gates.
A line of liveried servants awaited them, bowing low as Barney and Alana stepped down from the carriage. The air was sweet with ripening grapes, a heady perfume that seemed to cling to the skin.
"This way, honored guests," said the steward, a narrow man with oiled hair. He led them across a marble terrace where vines trailed lazily up trellises, until the sound of steel rang sharp through the morning calm.
Beyond a row of cypress, in a vineyard clearing, a circle had been marked upon the grass. Within it, two men danced on light feet, thin supple things flickering, as sharp as a tongue. Braavosi steel, Barney thought with distaste. A game for cats, not men.
Tommasino Bardio was the taller of the two, his doublet unfastened, his shirt clinging with sweat. His blue eyes were alive with mirth as he pressed his opponent back step by step. The final thrust came sudden and clean; his foe yielded bowing away.
Tommasino wheeled, breathing hard, and his eyes fell on Alana. He strode to her as if the years had melted away.
"Sweet Lana," he said, his voice rich, warm, too warm. He took her hand, bowing over it, and his lips pressed against her skin. "The gods themselves must have smiled on me, to return you here after so long."
She smiled faintly, a courtly smile.
Then Tommasino turned, his eyes fixed on Barney. His sly smile widened. "And you must be Ser Barney Took. The man who stole my Lana."
Alana cut him off sharply, her voice level, her eyes steady. "I was never yours, Tom."
Tommasino only laughed, sheathing his blade with an easy flourish. "Perhaps not. Yet you might have been."
Barney's teeth ground together, but Alana spoke first, her tone smooth, "We did not come here to talk of past mistakes, Tom," she said. "The city knows you seek the chain of the First Magister. It knows, too, that you stand against your old ally, Attanio Gerenio."
Tommasino's eyes darkened, though his smile did not falter.
Alana went on, her words calm, deliberate, "My father would see you succeed. In return, you will see my father's name raised among the magisters."
Tommasino tilted his head, silver hair catching the late sun. For a heartbeat he said nothing, the faintest curl of amusement tugging at his lips. Then he laughed softly, like a man humored by children.
"Is that so?" he said at last, voice smooth as poured wine. "My sweet Lana, do you think I do not know already of this little game your husband and your father play? With that fat Ormellon who dances to his whore Lynesse's tune. You think so little of me!"
"That—" Alana began, but her voice faltered. "That is not—"
"Do not insult me with denial," Tommasino cut in, his smile sharpening into something colder, crueler. "I remain gonfaloniere still. With a word, I can have you seized and named conspirators with foreign powers. The city does not suffer spies lightly. Collusion is treason. And treason… is punishable by death."
The steel lay forgotten in the grass, yet he did not need it. His guards had drawn close, half-ringed about them, hands on the hilts.
The vineyard seemed to hold its breath. Barney's chest heaved with the weight of rage and shame, Alana's hand brushed his. He forced his voice steady, "Let my wife go. I am the representative here. Take me."
Alana's voice followed Barney's, "No! Cease this at once. We came as guests beneath your roof. Show at least the honor of that."
Tommasino sighed, a mock sorrow. "You wound me Lana. Worry not noble ser, I never could say no to Lana's demands."
At his gesture, a servant slipped from behind the cypress. He bore a letter bound in green silk and pressed it into Barney's hands.
"Go now. Deliver my words to your banker and your so-called envoy. Within it, you will find what must be done. And you must do it soon if your little venture is to have even a ghost of success."