Chapter Text
Here's the second chapter of the seventh and last book of this part 1: The Trial of King's Landing. 🎭
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I've already writed the 59th (Chapter 10 of Arc 7 : The Trial of King's Landing) which is the penultimate chapter of this first part :)
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WARNING : Scene of execution with some gore :o
POV Barristan Selmy
Piers of King's Landing, Westeros,
A few hours later – 287 AC
I swore my oath so long ago that some have forgotten I served more than one king.
I knew Aegon, Fifth of His Name — a ruler of uncommon wisdom, whose zeal for reform burned so brightly it reduced his reign to fire and ash. Then his son, Aerys — remembered now as the Mad King, though once he'd brimmed with promise, before fear and flame hollowed him out. And now Robert Baratheon, my current liege, the rebel turned monarch, who won his crown in a storm of steel only to drown it in wine.
And yet, just this morning, I had to face the truth: the man had changed.
My king no longer drank. Not a drop had passed his lips in weeks. Each day, he trained in the yard, hammer in hand, sweating like in the days he split men in half on the battlefield. Each day, he sat the Small Council, attentive — at times even sharp. Was this the discipline of a maturing king, or the shadow of a man from across the Narrow Sea? I could not say. But the fact remained: the crown once more rested on shoulders that could bear its weight.
Not all could say the same.
Queen Cersei, now heavy with child, lay confined — her chamber softened, but still a cell — watched day and night by the Silent Sisters. Whispers were already spreading that the babe in her womb bore no trace of royal blood. And once a rumour like that finds breath, it rarely dies quietly.
And her twin brother… Ser Jaime. My brother-in-arms beneath the white cloak. My deepest regret.
I knew from the very start he had no place among us. A man who had already betrayed one king — mad though he was, a pyromaniac though he became — could not be trusted to guard another. But Robert, blinded by his triumph and contempt for the Targaryens, had refused to bend to Lord Tywin's will. And so here we were: the Kingslayer, chained in our own dungeons. He had never been a prince, only the son of a great lord — but he had the chance to become a standard for those who would follow. He chose, instead, to be a warning etched in shame.
More than anger, I felt sorrow.
For I had known better men. Duncan the Tall, as steadfast as stone. Aegon's sons, bright as comets, gone far too soon. Even Rhaegar — the distant, brooding prince — whose dreams held perhaps more madness than we dared admit. I had served kings and heirs, lights and shadows alike. And still, I mourned what might have been.
My thoughts turned, as they often did, to the Lannisters.
Tywin possessed a brutal clarity, a cold-eyed discipline that had held his house aloft while others collapsed in dust. It was by his will that the realm — already creaking — saw one last golden hour. Not the age of dragons, nor of knights and songs, but of ledgers balanced, and gold in every vault. The Rock, through iron will alone, lent the Iron Throne a stability its kings could no longer provide.
But his children… his children inherited nothing of worth.
None of his wisdom. None of his discipline. None of the bitter duty that made Tywin a lord worth fearing. No — those virtues melted away, like gold thinned in cheap wine. What remained was pride, vanity, and the drunken conviction that laws were for lesser men. A family that might've ruled kingdoms… and managed only to rule their own ruin.
And I remembered Aerys — the king I served until the bitter end, even as his flames consumed the innocent.
I remembered his beginning: a young monarch, full of promise, who cast aside honourable men for flatterers and whispers. Each word they fed him led him further from sense. Each counsel drove him closer to madness. And when he turned even on his oldest friend — Lord Tywin — the realm's fate was sealed. The kingdom became a cinderfield in waiting.
So my thoughts turned to the man from Braavos.
Vincenzo Bardatto.
At first, I mistook him for yet another merchant. Wealthy, bold perhaps, but destined like so many to break against the walls of the Red Keep. I thought his name would vanish into the gutters of King's Landing — another footnote among the filth and the ledgers of the Iron Bank.
And yet, in mere months, he had done more than most lords manage in a lifetime. He had changed my king. Deposed the queen. Ripped Tywin's children from their thrones and unravelled his plots. By will alone, he had carved his mark into the capital.
A merchant, I thought again. But one who had reshaped more in months than all the kings I've served over decades.
Only then — only then — did I notice how the city itself had begun to shift.
King's Landing was not quite the same. The stench of waste no longer soaked the docks — his men had cleansed the sewers. Construction rose everywhere — bones of wood and stone heralding the birth of a new trade quarter, whose very foundations would bear his name.
And the people… they moved differently.
Gone was the slouch of beggars. They walked with purpose, vigour — as though the promise of foreign gold had given them more than coin. It had given them hope.
Even this quay, where I now stood, belonged to the Bardatto Trading Company. Towering cranes loomed above the water, designed to lift cargo we'd never seen before. New machines. New rules.
And I, Barristan the Bold — who had watched so many dreams rise and fall — stood still in the sea breeze, unsure whether to be awed… or afraid.
"Hmm. I'm getting too old to bother my head with such things," I murmured.
One of the guards cast me a curious glance. I offered him a smile.
I was an old man in a profession that buried its own young. Perhaps I had grown cynical with time. I had survived wars and rebellions, victories and defeats. It was by the grace of the man now called king that I lived at all — a man who chose to have me healed, instead of tending to his own wounds.
"Ser Barristan. The Merchant-Prince's ship is approaching."
I nodded, eyes rising to the sea.
And there it was — and in that moment, I knew: no ordinary word could do it justice.
I had seen the dromonds of the Reach, tall and narrow. The royal galleys, rowing in perfect rhythm. But this… this was something else.
A leviathan.
So vast, so high upon the water, that the ships flanking it looked like toys at its side.
Its hull rose in golden-white walls, straight as fortresses, at least three decks high, each lined with neat, dark openings — staring like rows of eyes.
"Gunports," a sailor had whispered to me once. Behind them, they said, lay Bardatto's infamous cannons. I had never seen one, but at court the rumours flew: iron beasts that roared fire and thunder, splitting ships in a single blast. A captain once spoke of pirates turned to ash, of a noise so terrible even the gods would have wept.
And at the prow — audacity made manifest.
A massive, sculpted chest, trimmed in gold, burst open, spewing a cascade of carved coins — each frozen in descent, some still appearing to spill down the hull and vanish in the foam. Absurd. Grotesque. And utterly impossible to ignore.
A boast made timber. A flag carved in oak.
There could be no doubt now: Vincenzo Bardatto had arrived.
And I could already imagine the faces of the other guests.
Something told me… the world would remember this man. Even generations from now.
POV MC
Abord the Treasure of the Seas, Westeros,
At the same time – 287 AC
It had been an hour now since someone tried to turn my ship into a pile of smouldering ash. Let's just say I'd prepared a rather tailored sentence for our little amateur saboteur.
I glanced sideways — the poor bastard was gagged, a shiny red apple wedged in his mouth. I wanted to mark the moment. A bit cartoonish, I know, but at least it was entertaining.
"Is this really such a good idea? It feels a bit… excessive."
I turned towards Ashara, who was nibbling her lip. My idea had clearly unsettled her — which frankly surprised me. After all, this was a woman who'd lived through the whims of Aerys the Mad, and seen hangings and beheadings served up like sweets to outlaws — and yet this punishment gave her pause?
Granted, it wasn't exactly orthodox. But come on — I wanted something bold, something grand… and most of all, something memorable. A little message of my own for the old lion — and the other enemies lurking in the wings.
As my favourite Hearthstone card once said: They'll witness magic most phenomenal. And just like Medivh, I intended to deliver it with a dazzling finale worthy of fireworks night. Oh yes — I was going to savour the fate of this second-rate saboteur.
"Well, milady, it's not like he didn't deserve it."
Naturally, my loyal Caspar jumped to my defence. And from the looks I was getting from the others, he wasn't the only one who thought my decision reasonable. Of course, the Westerosi saw things a little differently. I could read the disgust in Joryn Dayne's eyes, while Moore, as ever, looked unbothered. Only Ebrose wore that familiar, fascinated expression…
As for my fanatical alchemists — they didn't just approve; they celebrated my choice. A punishment, they said, "fitting and just". They were thoroughly enjoying watching the condemned man wriggle and squirm inside the barrel as best he could.
Because yes, I'd stuffed him into a large barrel, tied up like a fine sausage. But instead of filling it with salt — the usual go-to, so he'd dry out like an old cod — I'd gone for gunpowder.
And since he knew exactly what gunpowder did, let's just say the squirming was all the more frantic. Not to mention it's highly abrasive — so he was probably in agony. Good.
"We'll be docking in a few moments, Merchant-Prince."
The captain's announcement reached me just as I spotted the procession waiting for us at the harbour. I had expected Robert, ready to greet his beloved… Not that I was complaining about Barristan Selmy and the guards. But still… it was odd.
"Hm… I wonder where King Robert is," I said aloud.
"Given the time of day, I can only assume His Majesty is attending the Small Council,"
came Mandon Moore's response — just as puzzled as I was.
"I was under the impression that wasn't exactly… his style."
I saw the grimace twitch across Moore's face — confirmation enough.
"It is true His Majesty has never been inclined to… participate in council matters. However, that was always due to drink or his… appetites."
Mm. So basically, Robert never showed up because he was either drunk or buried in whores. But since I'd put a stop to all that — and considering his newfound devotion to marrying my sister — he'd had to let it go. That left him with training sessions, council meetings, and royal audiences.
"We could simply ask our escort," Tycho cut in with an amused tone.
I caught the look in his eye — he was thinking exactly what I was. I nodded, while Julia stepped forward, noticeably less confident than usual. I shot her a glance.
"Something wrong, Julia?"
She met my gaze. There was anxiety there, clear as day — rare for her.
"The moment I set foot on land, I know I'll be losing my position for good."
Ah. I should've guessed. She was thinking of her role as Grand Inquisitor — which she was about to trade for that of queen.
"I would've kept you, dear sister, but we both know those two titles don't mix. I did give you the choice, though."
A faint smile flickered across her lips.
"I know you did. But… I'm still unsure. Not about the marriage — but what comes after. What then?"
I simply patted her shoulder. Probably looked ridiculous, given her towering height.
"You'll rule. Just as I taught you. And besides… I'll always be around."
She gave me a radiant smile, full of gratitude. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Caspar's amused look, Ashara's tender one… and above all, Tycho's knowing stare. He saw straight through it — he knew that when I said "I'll always be around", what I really meant was: "I'll be pulling the strings, as planned."
A pawn remains a pawn — even when it's family. Of course, you cherish them, protect them… but they're still pieces on the board. The only difference is, you assign them more value — and try to sacrifice them last.
Cold? Perhaps. But that's one of my talents: emotional distance, when the moment calls for it. Or better yet… playing the part of someone who feels. Theatre lessons back on Earth had done wonders — and I always got the lead role.
A few more minutes passed, and finally the great gangplank was lowered to connect the ship to the dock. I didn't waste a second stepping off, my retinue close behind. Naturally, my guards were standing at attention, ready to follow. Fortunately, I already had Robert's blessing to strut around with an escort... he just hadn't specified its size. But I had the sealed letter and all the pomp that came with it.
Over two hundred armed men in full gear, each carrying a halberd and a crossbow strapped to their back. I liked to think of them as my elite guard, but I had far bigger ambitions for that title. I'd already sketched out the designs — ornate, ostentatious, radiant armour. But for that, I'd need the finest smiths money could buy... and of course, I planned to recruit the finest soldiers.
I'd recently received a report, back when I boarded at Saltpans. Several mercenaries had answered my call in Braavos, and more were on their way. Word was even the war between the Three Sisters had come to a halt — all the sellswords were headed for Braavos. Nothing better than seasoned fighters used to blood and chaos, and I intended to pick the best of them for my elite.
And then there were the Faceless Men, who saw me as the chosen of their god. Battle-hardened, silent, deadly — perfect Inquisitors. And naturally, the Inquisitors were also my elite…
I came back to the present as I descended the ramp, casting a glance at the crowd gathered for the spectacle. Unsurprisingly, they looked awestruck — though I couldn't tell if it was at the sight of me, or the ship. It was just as grand, after all. Or perhaps it was the prisoner?
Two of my burliest sailors were carrying a huge iron-bound barrel, tilted just enough to leave the condemned man's head visible. The red apple jammed into his mouth kept him from screaming, but his eyes were doing the job well enough — wide with panic. The gunpowder had already burned him down to raw flesh in places, clinging to his skin and turning him into a grotesque mockery of a man awaiting judgement.
The alchemists followed behind, visibly ecstatic, lips moving in prayer, as if the man were some divine sacrifice. Julia, upright and cold as ice, had donned her Inquisitor's mask one last time, though her fingers betrayed a certain tension. Ashara couldn't take her eyes off the barrel, caught between revulsion and disbelief.
I caught sight of one of the wooden cranes — a clever tangle of ropes and pulleys — lowering my carriage, while a stableboy led the horses behind the guard. Finally, I turned to Barristan. He was watching me with a gaze somewhere between curiosity and caution. No surprise there. Wherever I went, the wind shifted.
And that unsettled those who had lived too long under the same sky.
Ser Barristan eventually broke the silence, his eyes fixed on the barrel, swaying slightly in the arms of my two heavy lifters.
"What is that man's crime, Merchant-Prince?"
I returned a smile that had nothing kind about it.
"A saboteur, plain and simple. Caught in the act. His sentence will be... exemplary."
I left it at that. No need to mention Tywin or his little games — best to keep that card close to my chest. Barristan said nothing in return, but I saw it — that subtle shift in his gaze, a flicker of disapproval only an honourable man could wear in the face of a scene he already knew he wouldn't forget.
The barge waited at the dock, sail raised, ropes taut. The sailors lowered the barrel with great care, as if laying down some sacred relic. The prisoner squirmed, eyes bulging, searching for help, but the apple gag left him with nothing more than muffled grunts. One push of the oar and the little vessel drifted away, sail catching the wind, gliding out across the bay.
I raised my hand, and my guards understood instantly. Halberds struck the ground with a metallic crack, crossbows were drawn and aligned. Amphorae of oil were brought out and emptied into basins; the bolts dipped and then passed over to torches. The tips caught fire one by one, forming a flaming row of death above the dock.
I took a moment to look around. The crowd had gone quiet — some stunned, some terrified. The alchemists were already on their knees, arms raised, as though witnessing a miracle. Ashara looked away, Julia's fingers tensed, Tycho watched the scene unfold with the quiet satisfaction of a jeweller admiring rare craftsmanship. And Barristan — he never looked away from the barge, unmoving, rigid, like he meant to memorise every detail for a later reckoning.
So I spoke. This sort of thing deserved a few words.
"Let all of Westeros bear witness. This is the fate of those who dare strike at the Company. This is what awaits anyone who raises their hand against my interests... or my family."
I let the wind carry the words, then dropped my hand in a single, crisp motion.
"Behold the fate of our enemies."
The crossbows fired in unison, a volley of flaming bolts slicing through the air, carving lines of red light toward the barge, striking sail and tarred wood alike.
The first bolt hit the sail, which went up like a torch in a gust of wind. The next hit the hull, flames crawling up and down like a living thing. In seconds, the barge turned into a floating pyre. The prisoner screamed behind the gag, his eyes wild with panic, but the sound was lost in the roar of burning wood.
And then, the moment everyone was waiting for.
A heavy, echoing blast rippled through the air. The barrel exploded from within, spewing a jet of fire and powder. A column of flame shot into the sky, scattering sparks in all directions and sending up a thick, black plume. Waves surged outwards, slamming against the quay with the violence of a storm. And in the aftermath, pieces of wood, metal… and flesh rained down over the water.
The crowd screamed — part horror, part fascination. Some backed away, others crossed themselves, but no one looked away from the blast wave still rolling across the surface. The alchemists fell prostrate on the stones, rapturous, chanting that the fire had spoken, that the gods themselves had answered. Ashara turned her head sharply, rigid with tension. Julia clenched her jaw, unmoved behind her Inquisitor mask. Tycho watched in silence, and I could see it in his eyes — not the look of a man witnessing a death, but the quiet calculation of a banker who had just witnessed a display of power.
As for Barristan, he didn't move. His face remained stone, but I saw his jaw tighten, and his eyes track every spark, every flicker dying over the waves. He understood. He understood that this wasn't a punishment. It was a message.
I let the silence stretch, broken only by the lapping waves and the muffled sobs of those too weak to stomach the sight. Then I spoke again, my voice cutting through the air and bouncing off the harbour walls.
"Remember this day. Any soul who dares betray the Company, or raise a hand against those who bear its name, will meet this end: consumed by flame and rejected by the sea."
A septon, rigid as a lance, stared at me, the Book of the Seven clutched to his chest. I read his lips as he mouthed a single word: blasphemy.
Noted. After the docks, the sewers, and the granaries — I now had another project to add to the list: the pulpits.
The Faith would learn how to count, too.
POV Varys
King's Landing Docks, Westeros,
At the same moment – 287 AC
I stood among the crowd, hidden in plain sight, wrapped in a coarse woollen hood. The common folk around me jostled, sniffed the salt in the air, crossed themselves now and then, or whistled like the gulls circling above their heads — but no one thought to look my way. That, after all, was the art of it: I was no longer the Spider, but just another face, nameless, forgettable, lost in a sea of faces. Dressed like this, I could observe without being observed, listen without being heard, reflect without the fear of being read. And today, I had come to see. I wanted to see, with my own eyes, the man whose name was already whispered across King's Landing — the one courtiers now called, half-mocking, "the Merchant-Prince", whom traders addressed with genuine respect as "the Company President", and whom the poor invoked with a reverence tinged with dread, like one might speak of a god not yet fully understood.
And what I saw bore no resemblance to anything Westeros had known before.
The Treasure of the Seas glided into the bay with the majesty and calculated grace of a moving fortress. Its four masts rose toward the sky like temple columns, and each taut sail seemed to defy the wind as much as it embraced it. The hull, massive and almost insolently white, was trimmed with gold that caught the sun and threw it back into the sea in a thousand blinding shards. The gunports, arranged in perfect rows, opened like the teeth of a beast poised to devour whatever dared bar its path.
And at the prow, that sculpted chest — grotesque, fascinating — spilled an eternal cascade of golden coins, frozen mid-fall into the foam below. It looked like a caricature of greed, an insult carved in timber, but the excess had its own cold logic: to remind all that this was not merely a weapon of war, but the symbol of inexhaustible wealth.
And the man who stepped down the gangway, surrounded by two hundred guards marching in unison, was no merchant — no matter how many still pretended he was. He walked with the confidence of a prince, moved with the arrogance of a king. He smiled like a man who already knew he had won. And behind him, his soldiers marched like an elite guard, clad in steel, their boots striking the quay with a discipline no royal battalion had ever matched. I watched the peasants' faces: fascinated, intimidated, some afraid. And I understood — his entrance had already succeeded. He had struck the imagination harder than a thousand sermons ever could.
I noted every detail, for the city itself already bore the marks of his passing. Since his last visit, King's Landing had begun to shift. The sewers, long neglected, had been cleaned by his men, and the stench that once clung to the stones of the capital had begun to fade. The markets, once sparse and loud, now offered more bread, more fish, more dried meat. The children — once little more than hollow bellies echoing in the ears of my little birds — looked less gaunt.
Even the king — my king — was no longer the man he'd been. Robert Baratheon, whom I had watched drink himself into stupors, who'd sneered at his Council and abandoned his realm, now sat his seat with discipline, trained each morning, carried himself with a strength not seen since his youth. And that, I knew, was not the weight of the crown suddenly settling on his shoulders — it was the effect of one man: Vincenzo Bardatto.
Then came the prisoner.
I knew exactly where he came from. Tywin Lannister had moved this piece onto the cyvasse board, thinking it a discreet but decisive strike. My birds had sung every detail of the plan to me, and I had chosen not to intervene. That is my craft: to let the threads tangle at times, and see who has the wit to untie them. I wanted to know how Bardatto would respond. Would he settle for a common hanging — or turn a threat into triumph? I had my answer the moment I saw two sailors carrying a vast iron-bound barrel, tilted to display the condemned man's head, as it was loaded onto a waiting vessel and pushed out to sea.
The barge caught the wind, its sail puffed like a throat ready to sing — and when the aligned crossbows loosed their flaming bolts, the entire bay seemed to ignite. The air cracked, a column of fire rose skyward, and fragments of wood, metal and flesh rained back down like some unholy storm. The crowd screamed. Some staggered back. Some crossed themselves. But all of them understood the message.
And so did I.
I remained still, hood low over my brow, as my thoughts drifted back to another king — one I had served unwillingly, advised as best I could, and whose memory still clung like poison to the halls of the Red Keep.
Aerys II.
When I first came to King's Landing, he was already slipping — consumed by paranoia and mistrust, his mind rotted by visions of fire and plots. I watched him surround himself with pyromancers, trusting them more than his maesters or his knights. I heard him speak of conspiracies that did not exist, see enemies in every shadow, suspect even his own son. I watched him demand fire to cleanse mere whispers, and dream of blazes so vast they'd consume the city itself.
But I also did what I do best. I listened. I searched. I gathered what others discarded. I read chronicles of his early years, questioned courtiers who had seen him in youth, listened to old men who remembered his court. And nearly all of them told the same tale: that he had once been beautiful, charming, full of lofty words and shining dreams. That he spoke of building monuments, of making Westeros just, prosperous — a kingdom worthy of song. Some believed in it, once. And bitterness still clouded their eyes when they spoke of what he might have been.
Had he held onto reason, had he mastered his demons, Aerys could have transformed the realm. But he did not. He fell — and in his flames, he burned all he once promised.
And today, watching Vincenzo Bardatto, I caught a glimpse of what Aerys might have become, had madness not devoured his mind. A man of grand dreams — but lucid. A player who wielded fear like a blade, but kept his passions caged. A ruthless mind, capable of building and destroying — but never so lost as to destroy itself.
I thought then of my own webs, those I had spun so patiently over the years, thread by thread, until the network was too vast for any man to see in full.
A coded message had reached me not long ago from Jon Connington, guardian of the future I had shaped with my own hands. He wrote that Essos was stirring. That mercenaries — many — were abandoning their wars and marching on Braavos. Not to fight, but to listen. Listen to what? Listen to whom? The Merchant-Prince. Vincenzo Bardatto.
Beneath my hood, I felt a faint smile creep across my lips — unbidden.
A merchant, they called him. No. Not a merchant. I saw in him an uncrowned king. A player who did not merely move his pieces with patience — but flipped the board when it pleased him, forcing every other hand to recalculate. Perhaps it was time to accept that the future would not be written with the dragons of old — but with this outsider, who gave the people what kings had never thought necessary: bread, work, a firm hand… and the fear of justice.
And for the first time in many years, I wondered if my own plans were still worth pursuing.