Chapter Text
Bloody headache!
That was my first thought upon waking up. It felt as if one of the dwarves from The Hobbit had taken a hammer to my skull—probably Dwalin...
And almost instantly, as I began to open my eyes, I shut them again with a scream. The migraine had morphed into some sort of bloody hurricane, and I quickly understood why. A flood of memories—ones that weren’t even mine, or at least, ones I hadn’t lived through—came crashing into my head. They say migraines feel like getting run over by a car, but this? This felt like I was stuck on a motorway, getting smashed to bits by freight lorries.
Thankfully, the pain eventually stopped, allowing me to make some sense of what had happened.
Somehow, I had ended up in one of the few worlds I absolutely despised, and I had no idea why. Last night, I’d gone to sleep after popping a couple of tramadol pills for the high—yeah, I’m addicted, so what?—and now I found myself lying in a bed that could easily pass for a silk-and-satin-covered swimming pool, complete with down-filled pillows. Not some shabby old cot, either, but a bloody massive four-poster that could have cost me ten months’ worth of salary.
Fortunately, the memories started making sense. I was the only son of a wealthy merchant in Braavos. And when I say wealthy, I mean the kind of wealth that would make Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos green with envy. My father’s name was Atello Bardatto, and besides being a spice merchant, he owned part of the Arsenal of Braavos and a sizeable merchant fleet.
And the bonus? The Bardatto family was one of the twenty-three founding families of the Iron Bank. That explained why I lived in a gigantic villa overlooking the Purple Harbour.
The bad news? Well, for starters, judging by how I’d experienced these memories, the poor bastard whose place I’d taken was probably dead. Metaphysically, I mean. I’d seen the memories from a third-person perspective, so they weren’t mine. Ergo, my soul had replaced that of… Vincenzo Bardatto?
And to top it off, I had a crap name! Not that I’ve got anything against names with Italian, Spanish, or Latin-sounding origins, but surely, we could do better than that. Honestly, I’d have preferred a French name, considering I was French... or had been? This was getting complicated.
Second piece of bad news—or good news? Who the hell knows?
Anyway, padre was dead. Apparently, a week ago, he slipped on one of the countless staircases in this ridiculous villa and cracked his skull open like an egg. To be fair, when you build a house entirely out of polished marble—floors, walls, banisters and all—you shouldn’t be surprised when someone takes a fatal tumble.
Well, things could have been worse, I suppose. And to be honest, I’d always wanted to be reincarnated in another world. I’d read plenty of stories about it, and it always sounded like fun. That said, I would have preferred anywhere other than George R.R. Martin’s world. Of all the places to end up, it had to be one where people die faster than a hooker getting screwed in the Bois de Boulogne.
Deciding not to dwell on it, I forced myself to get up. It was a struggle leaving the bed—it was just too comfortable—not to mention all the silk drapes and sheets everywhere, fit for a king.
Still feeling a bit unsteady, I stumbled to my feet and nearly choked on my own saliva when I caught sight of my reflection. Because, of course, there was a bloody massive mirror covering the entire wall opposite the bed.
Wavy golden locks framed my face. My skin had a bronzed sheen, like polished, varnished bronze. But the most striking feature? The eyes.
Two dazzling sapphire-blue irises, ringed with molten gold, so deep and mesmerising that they looked almost divine. No wonder Vincenzo spent most of his time bedding anything that moved—people must have fallen for him like flies, faced with such ridiculous beauty.
And the rest of the body? Let’s just say Greek statues had nothing on me. It was as if this body had been sculpted by an artist. Thankfully, unlike those ancient Greek sculptures, everything was properly proportioned down there.
I took a moment to open a wardrobe and get dressed, slipping on a black silk shirt and matching leather trousers. Knee-high boots, finished off with a fine purple belt with a gold buckle.
Not the most colourful ensemble, but according to my new memories, colour was for the poor. The rich, on the other hand, preferred grey, purple, dark blue, and black.
A few knocks at the door interrupted my thoughts, followed by a voice.
"My lord? May I enter?"
I recognised the voice—my butler, or at least the equivalent of one.
"Of course, come in!" I replied.
The man entered, elderly and dressed in simple but elegant attire. According to my memories, he had raised me after my mother, Ezzali Bardatto née Valera, died in childbirth. The baby hadn’t survived either. My father had been so devastated that he became a shadow of himself, focusing solely on his business empire and barely paying me any attention.
"Are you well, my lord?"
I blinked a few times before looking at him properly. He must have noticed my momentary lapse. Definitely needed to stop making a habit of that.
"I was just thinking about my father’s passing. The funeral was beautiful yesterday, wasn’t it?"
It seemed Vincenzo had buried his father yesterday, only to drown himself in an entire barrel of wine afterwards. Maybe that’s why I had replaced him? He must have drunk himself to death, and I must have overdosed on my meds.
"A fine tribute, my lord. But if I may?"
"My father wouldn’t have liked seeing me drink myself into oblivion?"
Castar—that was his name—nodded, giving me a disapproving look. Hey! That wasn’t me, that was the previous tenant of this body—but, of course, he had no way of knowing that.
"I can assure you it won’t happen again, it was a one-off..."
"If you say so," he replied, his voice betraying his scepticism.
I sighed internally—convincing him wouldn’t be easy. My predecessor—I might as well refer to Vincenzo that way—had been a notorious party animal and womaniser. Well, womaniser… maniser… and whatever else—if my hazy memories were right, there was even a goat involved at some point...
"Shall I bring you a tonic?"
"A tonic?" I asked, puzzled.
For my hair? Because aside from that and Schweppes, I didn’t know many other tonics.
"For your headache, after all that alcohol," he clarified in a neutral tone.
Ah, so he couldn’t just say ‘Gueule de bois’ like a normal person? Then again, that phrase probably didn’t exist in this world as it’s French. Well, time to fix that.
"Ah, for the gueule de bois! No need, I’ll be fine."
"The… what?" he replied, raising an eyebrow.
Damn, he could raise his eyebrow just like Christopher Judge. That was badass.
"Yeah, I made that up! Gueule de bois is what you call the face of a man who drowned himself in too much ale. You know, because your mouth feels as dry as old wood. Like Hangover, posher though."
"By the Seven, that is quite the saying… In that case, I shall use it."
I flashed him a wide grin, which made him blush. Ha! I knew it—I was so damn good-looking that even men blushed like virgins in my presence. Though, well… this was an old man, so yeah, no thanks.
"You have also received some letters," he informed me.
"Anything interesting? More marriage proposals?"
Apparently, I was quite the catch across the Free Cities, and even beyond. Women flocked to my villa daily, clawing at each other like starving piranhas, while men fought duels over me. Every day, at least one person ended up injured—and occasionally, someone even died.
And when it came to letters, it was just as bad. A constant stream of marriage proposals—even Lys was begging me to join their ‘courtesans’ in exchange for a mountain of gold.
"You have received twelve new proposals. Among them, four from noble houses, three from wealthy merchants, and even one from a Triarch of Volantis."
I raised an eyebrow at that last one. If I remembered correctly, the Triarchs were among the rulers of Volantis—some of the wealthiest and most powerful individuals around. Not to mention, they were direct descendants of old Valyria, often referred to as the Ancient Blood.
I might not like Martin’s world, but I knew it inside and out. Once a geek, always a geek.
"I see. I’ll read them later. Anything else of interest?" I asked, smiling slightly.
"The Triarch has sent a gift—rare spices and silks. He also promised you a villa within the Black Wall if you agreed to spend a night with him. And a Magister of Pentos has gifted you a ship in the hopes of securing a dinner."
I let out a short laugh. "So, I have the chance to become one of the rulers of Volantis, I can get a villa for a single night of debauchery, and I’ve won myself a boat. I hope it’s a nice one, at least?"
"Very nice, but it is not designed for cargo transport. It has clearly been customised for leisure on the canals."
"Interesting… very interesting…" I mused.
Well, I wasn’t about to turn down a free gift. Stretching slightly, I heard my bones crack—a habit I seemed to have retained from my previous life.
"I’d like to have breakfast. I’ll go through these so-called proposals at the same time."
"At once, my lord."
He swiftly left my chambers, leaving me to my thoughts.
To summarise—I was rich, powerful, and influential. I had a fleet of merchant ships and a seat at the Iron Bank’s meetings, giving me even more sway. The only problem? I had absolutely no clue about the full extent of my commercial empire. My predecessor had never bothered to follow his father’s affairs—never even glanced at the account books or business records.
That simply wouldn’t do. If there was one thing I’d learned in my past life, it was that you should always know what you own—especially when it comes to business.
I’d deal with that. After breakfast, of course.
I didn’t waste a single moment in the days that followed, deciding to take full stock of my possessions.
After all, knowing exactly what you own is the absolute basics of investing. I silently congratulated myself for having chosen the economics track in secondary school, not to mention taking the PFEG class back in my first year.
My assets were, quite frankly, impressive, and I wasn’t about to complain.
To start with—and arguably the most important—I owned 60% of the Arsenal of Braavos. I had always assumed that this fortified island belonged to the Sealord, but that wasn’t the case at all. He owned 20%, while the remaining 20% was divided among other investors. In reality, the Sealord’s 20% represented Braavos’ naval fleet, whereas my 60% comprised the docks and shipbuilding companies.
On top of that, I had a merchant fleet of about twenty ships, used to transport goods to all the coastal and riverine cities of Essos. Another flotilla of ten ships was dedicated to trade with Westeros, primarily King’s Landing, Gulltown, Sunspear, and White Harbour.
I also owned several farms producing thyme, marjoram, dill, and wild mustard, which were traded for saffron and chilli in Volantis, and black pepper and cloves in the Summer Isles. Additionally, I had salt marshes providing me with a steady supply of salt.
But the most surprising asset? Three mines. A copper mine, a silver mine, and an iron mine. The only downside was that I had no records detailing how much remained in these mines. No geological surveys, no prospecting reports—nothing.
The last thing I wanted was to start making business plans only to find out the mines had already run dry. I needed to figure out a way to conduct proper prospecting, considering this world’s ridiculously backward technology.
I’d have to summon the Master Miners and request a full report. They should be capable of that much, at least. Though, given the mines’ remote location further south, nestled in the mountains separating us from the rest of Essos, those reports would take time to arrive.
Speaking of which, since the mines were relatively close to one another, I also happened to own an entire town built around a river that fed into the Braavosian sea.
Next, I turned my attention to my assets within Braavos itself—about ten warehouses, though two were in need of renovation, my own villa, of course, and several houses that were rented out. Not bad.
I also had several trade contracts—many with Lorath, Pentos, Myr, and Lys. But none with Tyrosh. Why? I had no idea, but it made me curious. There were also contracts with Volantis, Qarth, and a prince from the Summer Isles, mostly revolving around spices and, occasionally, minerals.
Unsurprisingly, there were no trade contracts with Westeros—just basic exchange deals.
The real problem emerged when I found a ledger recording the “debts” owed to my father by various individuals. These debts were only recorded in this damned book—no contracts, no official documentation, nothing.
I knew that in Braavos, a person’s word held legal weight, but to me, words were just empty air.
Worse still, I quickly realised that many contracts, agreements, and debts had been sealed with nothing more than a handshake.
That was not going to work. Not at all. If there was one thing I had learned in my previous life—especially in France—it was that everything needed to be written down and documented.
The second problem? The bloody Imperial system!
I had completely forgotten that in Martin’s world, everything was measured using this outdated nonsense—inches, feet, leagues, and other ridiculous units. And it wasn’t just distance; drinks were measured in gallons, quarts, and pints, and weight was recorded in stones and pounds.
An absolute nightmare.
Fortunately, I’d done an English degree, and the first lessons had been all about converting to the metric system.
But I had nothing to help me here. No rulers marked in centimetres, no measuring jugs with litre markings. And as for weight? I didn’t even want to think about it.
That was going to be one of my long-term projects, but first, I needed to deal with the lack of written contracts.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. This is going to be a headache.
I would send messengers to collect outstanding debts—some of which were long overdue, but my father had let them slide.
For future contracts and loans, I would draft a standard contract template to put everything in writing. No more verbal agreements—everything would be documented.
Then, I would “invent” the metric system, using what I remembered to create a proper measurement standard.
I could also “introduce” some basic measuring tools—like a right-angled set square or a protractor.
Nothing too complicated, as long as I had the first and most essential tool: a ruler.
I was pulled from my thoughts by a knock at the door.
"My lord, a message from the Iron Bank."
Castar handed me the sealed parchment, which I eyed with disdain. Yet another thing I need to change—these bloody parchments. I missed proper white paper so much… Fortunately, I knew how to make it, or at least the basics. Thank you, Arte and C’Pas Sorcier.
I unsealed the damned thing and let out a breath. One of the bank’s representatives wanted to meet with me—likely to discuss my situation following my father’s passing.
"See to it that a lavish dinner is prepared for this evening. We’ll be hosting an important guest."
"At once, my lord. Shall I have a cask of fine wine opened?"
"Yes, and bring me a glass. I’ll see if it needs decanting."
He gave me a strange look before leaving. Don’t tell me… They don’t know what decanting is?
Searching through my memories, I quickly realised—of course they didn’t. They didn’t even have proper decanters, serving everything in metal jugs. The horror! Luckily, my villa had crystal carafes.
I quickly grabbed a piece of blank parchment. With a quill and ink, I sketched a carafe with a wide base and a slender neck, complete with an elongated pouring spout and a handle. Nothing like the ones used in this world.
Castar soon returned with my glass—thankfully, a crystal one.
"If I recall correctly, a master glassmaker recently arrived in the city, didn’t he?" I asked, eyeing the wine suspiciously.
The colour was lovely, no doubt, but the scent was slightly acrid. I took a small sip without swallowing, closing my teeth and curling my lips to draw in oxygen with a loud slurp—nothing better for aerating the wine in the mouth and tasting all its nuances.
It wasn’t bad at all, but it must have looked incredibly inelegant, judging by the look Castar was giving me.
"Indeed. Master Saliori arrived last week to start his own business. He’s looking for investors, but many are wary of Myr’s retaliation."
Ah, right. I had forgotten that Myr held a monopoly on glassmaking—and that they weren’t above assassinating the competition.
"Give him this drawing. Tell him that if he can craft me a glass carafe that meets my specifications, I will become his investor."
"Is it wise to provoke Myr?" Castar asked, his gaze wary.
"They wouldn’t dare touch me. I’m too rich and powerful for that. I can’t say the same for Saliori, though..."
"As you wish."
He left with the parchment, leaving me to return to my preparations for reclaiming all those debts.
Several hours later, I was woken up. I had dozed off at my desk after successfully drafting the first version of a ruler in centimetres. I had used barley grains that had been brought to me, remembering that a single grain measured approximately 5mm. For the base, I had taken another piece of parchment, folded it in half to create a straight edge, and carefully marked lines at each barley grain’s length. The result? A twenty-centimetre paper ruler.
"My lord, the representative from the Iron Bank has arrived. Dinner will be served shortly."
"Already? Then let’s not keep him waiting. Also, could you find me a carpenter capable of replicating this in wood? It must match these measurements exactly."
I handed him my makeshift ruler. He studied it with interest, clearly wondering what it was, before giving me a nod.
A few minutes later, I met the esteemed representative. I nearly choked when I recognised him. Mark Gatiss? Just what version of Martin’s world was I in—the books or the TV adaptation?
"Lord Bardatto," he said smoothly. "I am Tycho Nestoris, representing the Iron Bank."
"A pleasure," I replied, shaking his hand. "Wine? It’s rather good."
He nodded, and I poured him a glass. I could have asked a servant, but I still wasn’t used to that level of service.
"What can I do for you?" I asked as I took a seat opposite him.
The servants had already begun filling our plates.
"As a representative of the Iron Bank, it is my duty to ensure the seamless transition of your assets. Your late father, Atello Bardatto, was a respected man and a long-time associate of our institution. His ventures were highly successful, and we wish to see that prosperity continue. Moreover, as heir to your family, you now take your place among the Keyholders of the Iron Bank."
I nodded, pouring myself a glass of wine, taking a moment to observe its colour before responding.
"I appreciate your diligence, Master Nestoris. My father was not just a merchant; he was a builder of commercial empires. And if we are to speak of continuity, then let me assure you—my ambition is no less than his."
Tycho gave a polite smile, raising his glass in a small nod before taking a sip.
"That is precisely what we hoped to hear. The Iron Bank holds your family in high regard for its contributions to Braavosi commerce. Now, as a Keyholder, you will have a seat at the Bank’s council. You will be expected to participate in the strategic decisions of our institution. We are here to discuss future opportunities and how we might continue to work together. Your influence and position are assets we would like to see flourish."
I took a bite of my meal, considering the situation. My father had been a shrewd businessman, and I knew that his relationship with the Iron Bank was built on trust and long-term vision.
"My father always knew how to seize opportunities and form the right alliances. I intend to do the same—and even go beyond. I have expansion projects that may interest the Iron Bank. Are you familiar with Master Saliori? A skilled glassmaker looking to establish himself in Braavos. I wish to fund his business to produce glass of unparalleled quality, particularly decanters that could revolutionise wine consumption."
Tycho raised an intrigued eyebrow.
"A bold investment, especially considering the potential retaliation from Myr."
"Myr wouldn’t dare move against me directly," I said with a smirk. "And with your support, this venture could quickly become a highly profitable enterprise—not just for me, but for the Iron Bank as well. After all, why rely on Myr when we could establish a monopoly right here in Braavos?"
Tycho took a moment to consider, tapping his fingers lightly against his glass.
"Interesting. The Iron Bank only invests in ventures that are both promising and well-secured. If you can prove the viability of your project and its profitability, we might consider additional funding."
I smiled, satisfied with the opening he had just given me.
"Then we have a preliminary agreement. I will send you a detailed report of my plan by the end of the week. In the meantime, we can explore how our mutual interests might align in other areas."
Tycho nodded, his smile still measured, but I could see that he was intrigued.
"Very well, Lord Bardatto. We look forward to your report. In the meantime, please accept our condolences for your father. His presence is already missed."
I raised my glass in response.
"To my father—and to the prosperity to come."
Tycho did the same, and we clinked our glasses together, each of us undoubtedly contemplating our own ambitions. The game had only just begun.
As we finished our meal, a servant discreetly approached and murmured in my ear.
"My lord, Master Saliori has sent a message. He wishes to meet with you tomorrow morning to discuss your order—and some potential complications."
I nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across my lips, before turning back to Tycho.
"That is rather convenient. If you’d like to see just how profitable this investment could be, I invite you to accompany me tomorrow to discuss matters with our glassmaker."
The banker raised an eyebrow, but his smile grew slightly.
"I may indeed be curious to see how you plan to challenge Myr. Very well, Lord Bardatto, I shall accompany you. But be cautious—Myrians are not known for their mercy towards those who encroach upon their business."
"Don’t worry—I have no intention of ending up like my father." I took one last sip of wine, meeting Tycho’s gaze with confidence. "But sometimes, one must be willing to rewrite the rules of the game."
The game had truly begun.