Chapter 152: Taking Action

The situation in the Vale was a tangled mess, one of the most intractable problems. After the end of the Dance of the Dragons, no one dared to question Jeyne Arryn's legitimate claim any longer. However, she had remained unmarried throughout her life. Now, with no children of her own, the question of the Vale's inheritance had become a feast for the region's ambitious noblemen. Unfortunately for them, the Duchess had long since chosen her successor—Ser Joffrey Arryn of the Knight of the Bloody Gate. A loyal and valiant knight, Joffrey was from a cadet branch of House Arryn, steadfast in his devotion, young, and vigorous. More importantly, his wife had borne him four sons and two daughters, two of whom were already of age. His ascension would put an end to House Arryn's long-standing situation of widows and orphans ruling over the Eyrie.

Yet, Jeyne's careful planning was not something the ambitious nobles of the Vale could comprehend. One such rival had been Arnold Arryn, who had once vied for the inheritance against her when she was a child—he now languished in the cold, sky-high dungeons of the Eyrie, driven mad. Another contender, the ambitious "Golden Eagle" Emer Arryn, had perished beneath the claws of Vermithor. In truth, the dragon had merely been lazily soaring into the valley to feast on goats and had not even noticed that it had crushed the lord beneath its talons. Yet, despite Emer's death, the wealthy Arryns of Gulltown still wielded considerable influence over the Vale's largest port city.

"So, have you discovered who hired the Faceless Men?" Draezell ran a hand along the armrest of his chair. "Was it Eldric Arryn, the new head of the Gulltown Arryns?"

Eldric Arryn was Arnold Arryn's son. After Emer's death, this ambitious young man had convinced the members of the Gulltown Arryns to let him marry Emer's daughter, thereby securing his claim to the family's immense wealth.

Kungor Potter shook his head. "Someone and their successor, from flesh to soul, belong to you and your house, my prince. The God has severed all ties with them, meaning they will receive no support or aid from the House of Black and White. All I can say is that this is the most likely possibility."

"I see." Draezell nodded. "Your successor? The House of Black and White has already chosen your replacement?"

He found this surprising—he had not expected the Many-Faced God, or rather, the House of Black and White, to place such a heavy bet on him. One Faceless Man had not been enough; it seemed they intended to send more to serve his house.

"That is because of your wisdom, my prince," Kungor Potter remarked knowingly. "The Faceless Men are priests of the God, but not truly His followers. We and our brethren exist only to grant mortals the gift of death." He took a moment to explain their faith. "The will of the God is ambiguous, but His emissaries have glimpsed the future of this world through the eyes of still water and the dying."

He recalled his conversation with the "Cold Man", a discussion that had altered his future. It had transformed him from a mere assassin lurking in the shadows into a guardian who protected from the darkness.

The Faceless Men longed to bestow upon mortals the deaths that were rightfully theirs—but not the cursed, undying existence of the Long Night. Thus, they were willing to collaborate with Draezell, the descendant of the "Breaker of Chains".

"My successor will arrive at your castle as my assistant and apprentice," Kungor Potter continued. "They will be responsible for protecting your eldest son, Rhaegor Vaelarys, and his chosen wife, Daenyra. They will also assist me in safeguarding your fortress."

"Before they come to Dragon's Nest, send them to the Vale first," Draezell decided after some thought. Perhaps the time to intervene in the Vale had arrived. "Have them keep an eye on your comrades."

Kungor Potter nodded and once more faded into the shadows of the Five Fingers Hall, leaving Draezell alone, silently gazing at the mural on the wall.

The mural depicted an incomplete map of the known world, showing only Westeros south of the Wall and a large portion of Essos, with a small part of northern Sothoryos. Draezell had ordered the regions beyond the Wall and the Five Forts to be adorned with obsidian, highlighting their significance. His family's chronicles contained ancient tales from Asshai and Yi Ti, recounting how, during the last Long Night, the demons of the "Night Lion" had breached the Five Forts of the Dawn Empire's northern frontier. That once-mighty empire, said to be akin to a divine kingdom, had been annihilated by the bloodstone emperor's kin-slaying and the demonic onslaught.

This, he believed, foreshadowed the inevitable fate of the next Long Night, nearly two centuries later.

By then, Draezell hoped House Vaelarys would have grown strong enough to fulfill the world's destiny.

With that thought, he sighed, sat back in his chair, and began writing a letter to Daemon. He intended to sell Viserys at a good price—Lysandro's offer was tempting. If he could squeeze even more benefits from them, Daemon would surely not mind arranging a decent marriage for Viserys. After all, Larra Rogare was a true Valyrian beauty, even if she was significantly older than him.

But age had never been a real obstacle—except, of course, when Jeyne Arryn had been suggested as a marriage prospect for Draezell himself. Their age difference had been far too great.

On the third floor of the Dragoncrystal Tower, in the dining hall of the Bloodsworn Brotherhood, Lysandro Rogare finally met with Sebastian Pyrebane—the Golden Finger among Draezell's Five Fingers and the master of all finances in the Borderlands Principality.

Unfortunately, Sebastian was as stubborn as they came.

Lysro had prepared lavish gifts for him, only for the young man to refuse them all. Thus, with no other choice, he was forced to brace himself and take a seat at Sebastian's table, only doing so after the silver-haired youth gave him a pointed look.

The Bloodsworn Brotherhood's meal was, as usual, hearty: a bowl of walnut and nut paste salad mixed with a special dressing, a large bowl of turnip, pea, and beet soup, a lamb chop seasoned with pepper and dragon chili, a plate of honey-garlic snails, fried bacon, and beef pies. Their main course was a large, crisp loaf of warm bread.

Smiling, Sebastian sliced a piece of bread and placed it on Lysandro's plate with deliberate slowness. The Brotherhood's meals were strictly portioned; Sebastian had no way of conjuring up an extra serving just for the Magister of Lys. Not that he would have, even if he could.

After all, it wasn't just Tigarro who held a grudge against the Lyseni.

Sebastian nonchalantly sliced through the lamb chop with force, the dining knife scraping against the bone with a chilling screech. Lysandro shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The so-called "Great" Lysandro, magister of Lys, found himself imagining that Sebastian was carving through his own flesh instead.

"Magister, rest assured," Sebastian spoke with an air of casual indifference. "I am not the kind of man who lets personal grievances overshadow matters of true importance. Please, speak freely of your request."

The silver-haired young man finished his words and tossed a bone into his mouth, biting down with a loud crunch. His calm gaze bore into Lysro, yet the seasoned magister, no stranger to the brutal battlefield of commerce, felt a chill seep into his bones.

"The Rogare family wishes to establish a bank in Brandyport, the Summerfield, or Silvercrown," Lysandro finally said, swallowing a small piece of crisp bread along with his request to have Sebastian mediate between him and Draezell. "If His Majesty and His Highness grant their approval, a Lysene bank would greatly facilitate trade between Lys and the prince's domains. My lord, I do not exaggerate—Rogare Bank's reputation and strength are second only to Braavos' Iron Bank."

Sebastian remained unperturbed as he scooped a spoonful of hot soup over his bread, softening its crisp crust before eating it. Second only to the Iron Bank? Heh. The Rogare family's influence was well documented in the intelligence reports from Tigarro. Indeed, within Lys, the Rogare Bank was formidable and wealthy, but across the Nine Free Cities, the Eastern Kingdoms, and even Westeros, the Iron Bank reigned supreme. Draezell's late father, Claelorius, had written more than once in his notes, filled with disdain, about the Iron Bank's methods.

People often said that Lannisters always paid their debts, but in truth, it was the Iron Bank that tolerated no defaults. The ancient institution, buried deep within the vaults of Braavos, controlled wealth on an unfathomable scale. It was their custom to lend gold to princes, kings, or warlords at reasonably fair interest rates, and then wait patiently for their investments to ripen.

When those rulers either defaulted or foolishly defied the Iron Bank, a new prince or king—bolstered by Iron Bank funding—would emerge to take their place. These new rulers were then required to honor the previous debts, along with the sums they themselves had borrowed to seize power, lest they meet the same fate as their predecessors. What was once a boon would transform into a deadly poison, and the keyholders of the Iron Bank would calmly pluck the withered fruit from its branch, sowing yet another cycle of unending debt.

Claelorius' assessment had been blunt: "Bullshit", "Utter nonsense", and "The Iron Bank isn't a bank at all". Draezell's own view was that, while his father had used crude words, he wasn't wrong—the Iron Bank was far more than just a financial institution. Over the centuries, its keyholders had proliferated into a powerful and enigmatic force. Every Sealord of Braavos carried the Iron Bank's shadow behind them. Every Braavosi warship launched was funded by Iron Bank gold. Even the House of Black and White had long accepted their patronage. Some whispered that the three missing dragon eggs of House Targaryen still slumbered in the Iron Bank's deepest vaults.

It was not gold that made the Iron Bank feared—it was power.

"My lord, the crisp bread baked in the Dragon's Nest kitchens is best enjoyed softened with hot soup. Princess Samansa and Princess Daenyra love to eat it that way, especially with cream and honey. However, His Highness and Prince Rhaegor do not share their taste for it. Yet, when in the presence of the princesses, they partake without complaint." Sebastian's voice was smooth. "Do you understand my meaning?"

Lysandro sighed and rose from his seat. "I understand, Lord Pyrebane. Please allow me some time. We will provide you with a satisfactory answer."

"You don't understand," Sebastian shook his head. "And that is not the answer I require."

Lysandro clenched his teeth, quickly realizing Sebastian's true intent. He had no choice but to reply, "My lord, I will arrange for one of my sons to dine with you. Additionally, we will present His Highness with an answer that satisfies him. A wife is already prepared."

Sebastian nodded. "Magister, you should be more concerned about the Dargaleon faction. Unlike me, they are not so easy to negotiate with. But do not worry—until His Highness gives the word, not a single one of your entourage will be harmed." The silver-haired young man calmly cut into the last piece of lamb and ate it.

Lysandro's face dimmed as he spoke. "I understand. Thank you for your mercy."

---

Elsewhere.

Before the Twin Tower, in the clearing, Shadow Sandoq silently stared at the Valyrian steel curved blade at his feet. Opposite him, Valar laughed heartily.

Without a word, Sandoq knelt and lowered his head before Valar.

"What does he mean?" Valar looked at Drazenko with some confusion. "This big guy lasting so long under me is already impressive enough. If he were one of my brother's men, I would have rewarded him handsomely by now."

Drazenko let out a sigh of relief—it seemed his strategy had worked. "Prince Valar, this is the rule of Meereen's great fighting pits. Sandoq has been defeated, which means his life belongs to you."

"Oh?" Valar curiously circled the massive warrior. "So you're saying he belongs to me now?"

Drazenko eagerly nodded—finally, the bait had been taken. Sandoq, you've proven your worth at last. My brother didn't spend all that money buying you for nothing. "Yes, Your Highness. From this day forward, Sandoq is yours."

"Much obliged." Valar wasted no time, drawing Black Widow and tapping Sandoq lightly on the shoulder. "Get up. I'll have Yamor find you a position later. For now, you'll help guard the Twins."

The mute warrior let out a low, guttural sound before rising to his feet. This time, he silently took his place behind Valar.

"Your Highness, I was wondering if I might have the honor of—" Drazenko barely got the words out before Valar waved him off. "Spare me the chatter. I know what you're going to say—just go back and wait for news. I'll speak to my brother." Valar leaned in close, a smirk playing on his lips as he whispered, "But don't get your hopes up too high. My brother's sworn blood-brothers include more than a few men with grudges against your Lysene kin."

Meanwhile, also in the Dragoncrytal Tower

In the basement of Tigarro, a long-haired young man with silver hair and violet eyes secured a white veil over his face. In one hand, he held a sharp knife; in the other, a vial of unknown liquid. With a cold, expressionless face, he walked deeper into the dimly lit chamber.

The room was nearly empty, save for a massive iron cross and a young man bound tightly to it. His clothes had been stripped away, and a gag was stuffed into his mouth.

As Tigarro stepped closer, the captive struggled, muffled sounds escaping his throat, but the ropes securing his limbs held firm.

"Young Master Roggerio, this is what you agreed to. If you endure, I will speak to His Highness and advocate for your request." Tigarro's voice was chillingly calm, his hand moving swiftly as he traced a shallow cut across the young man's chest.

"Don't worry, you won't die, and there won't be any visible scars. That, too, is my promise." Without a flicker of emotion, Tigarro raised the vial. "It will hurt. Endure it, Young Master Roggerio."