The iron doors of the Iron Bank loomed over Edric Arryn, their dark surface etched with faint, twisting lines that swallowed the Braavosi sun. He squared his shoulders beneath the black bear cloak, its rough fur brushing his neck, and adjusted the ornate blue doublet, the silver falcon clasp flashing like a defiant eye. Nine guards stood at his back, Ser Luthor's scarred face a grim bulwark, but Edric's gaze lifted—Storm wheeled above, her storm-gray wings slicing the sky. Through her, he saw Braavos unfurl: canals glinting like veins, the Titan's shadow a distant growl, a city alive with hidden currents. His pulse thudded. This wasn't the Red Keep's gilded farce. This was power, raw and unforgiving.
The doors creaked wide, and a clerk scurried out—a wiry man with a pinched face, ink-stained fingers twitching as he bowed low, sandals slapping the marble. "My lord!" he chirped, voice sharp and eager. "One of the men will see you. We've been expecting you."
Edric's gut twisted, unease cutting through him like a blade's kiss. Expecting me? The words sank claws into his mind. He'd slipped from King's Landing on the Moon's Grace, coins slipped to the captain in the dead of night—Varys's little birds and Littlefinger's spies should've been blind. Yet the Iron Bank knew. Their reach coiled deeper than he'd feared, a shadow stretching beyond Westeros. His past-life memories flared: they'd armed Aegon's dragons, bled Stannis to ruin, crushed houses for a missed copper. If they had his name, what else did they clutch?
"Lead on," Edric said, his voice steady, belying the storm in his chest. He turned to Ser Luthor and the guards. "Wait here. I'll speak to him alone."
Ser Luthor's broad shoulders stiffened, his scarred cheek twitching. "My lord, your father—"
"—is in King's Landing," Edric cut in, meeting the knight's gaze with a look that brooked no argument. "This is my business. Stay."
Ser Luthor gave a curt nod, planting himself by the doors as the guards shifted uneasily. Edric followed the clerk down a stark hall, its walls bare, the air thick with salt and the musk of old coin. No tapestries, no pomp—just wealth's quiet hum, seeping from the stone. It prickled his skin more than Cersei's smirks ever could.
The clerk ushered him into a sparse room: a scarred wooden table, two chairs, a slash of light from a high window. The door clicked shut, and Edric stood rigid, the silence heavy as a cloak. He clasped his hands behind his back, the Arryn ring cool against his finger, and waited.
The door swung open, and a man stepped in—a Braavosi, lean as a stiletto, with a trimmed beard framing a face sharp enough to carve stone. His gray tunic hung loose, but an iron chain glinted at his neck, and his dark eyes—flecked with silver like coins in shadow—pinned Edric fast. He moved with a waterdancer's ease, all grace and threat, and carried nothing but a smirk.
"Sit, little lord," he said, his voice smooth as oiled steel, the Braavosi lilt curling like smoke. He dropped into a chair and waved a hand. "I am Tycho Nestoris, of the Iron Bank. What brings a fledgling from the Seven Kingdoms to peck at our vaults?"
Edric sat, the bear cloak rustling as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Gold," he said, blunt as a warhammer, locking eyes with Tycho. "I need it."
Tycho's smirk cracked into a laugh—a short, barking sound that ricocheted off the walls. "Gold, he says! And what does a stripling know of debt, eh?" He tilted his head, fingers drumming a lazy rhythm. "You swagger in with your bear skin and shiny bird pins, but you're a boy playing at swords. What's the gold for—toys? A pony?"
Edric's fists balled beneath the table, but he kept his face a mask. "I'm Edric Arryn, heir to the Vale—one of the strongest houses in the Seven Kingdoms. I know more than you think, and I'm here for what I need."
Tycho threw his head back and laughed again, a rich, mocking bellow that made Edric's scars itch. "Oh, heir to the Vale, are you? Not lord yet, my bold little chick—just a shadow of a title. Why should I toss you a dragon when your father's not here to nod and sign? The Iron Bank doesn't fund nursery games."
"This isn't my father's game," Edric shot back, his voice rising, sharp as a falcon's cry. He slammed a hand on the table, the silver clasp flaring like a star. "House Arryn won't default—I'll see to that. But this deal's mine, between you and me. Not the king's, not Jon Arryn's. Mine."
Tycho's laughter faded, his eyes narrowing to slits as he leaned in, close enough for Edric to catch the faint spice on his breath. The room stilled, the air crackling like a drawn bowstring. Then Tycho grinned, a wolfish flash of teeth. "Well, well. There's a spark in you, little falcon—a fire most men don't find 'til their beards grow gray. I like it. I can be persuaded." He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "But I don't fling coin at every lordling who stomps in with a pelt and a glare. Tell me—what's this gold for, and how much do you hunger for?"
Edric held Tycho's stare, his mind racing like a river in flood. The Braavosi wasn't just prodding—he was weighing him, a merchant with a scale and a butcher's eye. Edric's past-life knowledge burned: Littlefinger's venom, the Five Kings' butchery, the dead's cold march. Gold was steel, was ships, was a chance to seize the future before it broke. But how much to demand? Too little, and he'd be a jest; too much, and they'd scent blood. And what to say?