"Finally out of Braavos."
On a rocky island just off the city, a tall, gaunt man staggered down the gangplank of a merchant ship. He planted his hands on his hips, face bone-white, dry-heaving with nothing left to bring up.
"Tycho, we're still in the Beggar King's territory," his companion said, steadying him. "Keep your head down. See those soldiers over there? Grab what we need and move fast. The real escape starts once we reach the vault."
Behind them, seven more seasick men and a dozen guards shuffled ashore, all of them looking like death warmed over.
"Look at them—nothing but the Beggar King's dogs," Tycho spat.
"I'll hire an army big enough to burn this shithole to the ground. The bastard's going to learn what happens when you cross the Iron Bank."
Tycho was all sharp angles: long legs, a narrow face, a wispy goat beard that reached his belt, and a three-tiered purple felt hat. His dark-purple robe was trimmed with white ermine and stiff collar—classic founder blood. He was one of the twenty-three original keyholders, the men who could actually open the vault.
Even though he wasn't top brass inside the bank, with everyone scattering in different directions, his group was probably the only one that made it out clean.
A dark spark lit in Tycho's eyes. If those old bastards are dead, I'm the new master of the Iron Bank once we take it back.
"We move," he ordered. "Find shelter, restock, then get the hell out of here. The vault is the only thing that matters now."
"Don't worry," his companion said. "Without the keys, the Beggar King won't crack the main doors anytime soon. Malonko's got a thousand men behind those walls—hell, a thousand pigs could hold the line for a while."
Tycho kept quiet, but his mind raced. If the old men got caught and Viserys has their keys, that vault's already open.
The thought made him hurry. The gold in the insurance vault was nothing compared to the mountain inside the Iron Bank, but it was enough to buy an army. If Viserys got there first, the descendants of Braavos's original settlers would be finished—forced to run with nothing but a few trunks of gold while the city they built burned behind them.
While Tycho fled, Viserys wasted no time.
He handed the dirty work of "cleaning house" to the thousand-plus new players who had just logged in. Most of them weren't even in guilds yet. Some were sightseeing in Braavos, others had already wandered off to see what lay beyond the city.
The ones who stayed—six or seven hundred eager types—got the job.
Viserys promised them a seventy-thirty split on everything they recovered and a free set of basic gear afterward. That was all it took. The new blood went full mafia on the city, raiding hideouts, shaking down debtors, and hunting anyone who had ever crossed the Iron Bank.
"Stop right there! Grab that bastard!"
In a narrow alley, a panicked man bolted and dove into the canal, swimming for the far bank.
A dozen ragged but strong new players chased him, swords out, looking like a street gang on a hit.
Splash after splash—they jumped in after him.
The man scrambled up the opposite bank, only to get kicked right back into the water by a boot.
"You run pretty good, huh?"
A player in chainmail and a blue robe stood on the bank, arms crossed, grinning down at the man now being held underwater.
"Still not talking?" the blue-robed enforcer asked. "Fine. Take him to the ice cells."
The man finally broke, coughing out water and the location of his stash.
Minutes later, in a tavern two streets over, the same blue-robed player kicked open the door to the second-floor room the man had named. A guy inside tried to climb out the window with a heavy chest. A crossbow bolt took him in the back before he cleared the sill.
"Secure the chest," the enforcer ordered.
Back at guild headquarters, a neat row of iron keys now lay on the guild leader's desk.
"Boss," the blue-robed player reported, half-bowing, "operation complete. We bagged six high-ranking Iron Bank officials, recovered sixty-seven thousand gold dragons in loans, warned one hundred and twelve debtors, smashed seven resistance cells, and cleared fourteen street-gang safehouses. Total success."
The guild leader—known in the game as "Point at a Rat, Call It a Duck"—leaned back in his chair, smiling coldly at the keys.
"Excellent. Keep the pressure on. No loose ends."