"This is the power of the Guild. They can refuse to ship certain goods. They can refuse to transport certain people. Without the Guild, no interstellar commerce exists."
―Muad'Dib
…
Mysaria watched in silence from the narrow slit of a high window in the Merchant Guild building, her gaze fixed on the slow, deliberate approach of the ornate galley as it glided into the Blackwater Rush. The vessel, black and gold, cut through the water with an effortless grace, its sails taut under the brisk autumn wind. An hour earlier, one of her little mice had whispered of unusual activity at the High Wharf. Dockworkers had been ordered to prepare for an unknown arrival, and then word came that an elaborate Braavosi galley bearing the Targaryen sigil had been sighted in Blackwater Bay. Suspicious of its identity, she had hurried to the best vantage point she could find in order to investigate. And there it was…
The Absolution.
Mysaria knew the name well. Many months had passed since she first laid eyes on the ship's writs and financing ledgers, long before it had taken form in the Braavosi shipyard that birthed it. Commissioned in secrecy when the Crown's dealings with the Iron Bank still maintained a veneer of civility, the vessel was unlike anything else in the Royal Fleet. She recalled its specifications with eerie clarity—sixty meters in length, a beam just over six meters, the sleek, narrow frame a testament to Braavosi craftsmanship. Its hull, reinforced with oak and pine, bound by iron fastenings that gleamed faintly even from this distance.
Her eyes lingered on the massive lateen sails, black as a starless night and embroidered with the crimson three-headed dragon. The sigil rippled with each gust of wind as the ship moved steadily forward, escorted by two smaller sloops that guided it past the towering winch towers standing like silent sentinels at the river's mouth. She counted the oars, dipping into the waters in perfect unison—fifty-nine on each side, arranged in three staggered tiers. A crew of at least two hundred and fifty, perhaps three hundred. An unusually large number compared to the longships and cogs that typically haunted Westeros' shores.
This was the first time she had seen The Absolution in its full glory. The Prince had kept it well hidden, sending it to Qohor immediately after its keel-floating for what he deemed necessary refinements. Mysaria had reviewed the vast sums funnelled into the venture without question, though her curiosity had never waned. The initial Braavosi crew had been dismissed after the voyage to Qohor, replaced with less competent slave rowers—a fortunate decision it seems now, given how swiftly relations with Braavos had soured soon after.
Her gaze shifted to the bow, where an imposing iron pipe jutted forth—grotesque in shape, tapered, and bell-mouthed. It was flanked by four smaller counterparts, all perched atop reinforced wooden platforms. Cargo, perhaps? Or were these the vaunted "refinements" Aemond had sunk obscene amounts of gold into? Whatever their function, Mysaria found it difficult to justify the extravagant cost, though she had long since learned not to question the Prince's vision.
The Absolution slid into position beside the royal flagship, which once seemed grand but now paled in comparison to Aemond's new acquisition. The Dromond's sails hung limp, its once-pristine hull appearing almost provincial next to the Braavosi galley's dark sleek majesty.
A small, knowing smile played on her lips. A frivolous purchase, she had once thought. But Aemond was not a man prone to frivolity. He was methodical, calculated, and usually several moves ahead. Whatever purpose The Absolution was meant to serve, it was undoubtedly a piece in a much larger game she could yet see.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her reverie. Turning, she beheld her aide—Medgar—clad in his usual dark green tunic, the Merchant Guild's sigil embroidered on his right breast. The young man inclined his head respectfully.
"Madam, you are running late. Shall I inform the Grandmaester to proceed without you?"
Mysaria regarded him for a moment before shaking her head. "No need for that. Lead the way."
Casting a final, lingering glance at The Absolution as a group of Red Cloaks prepared to board it, Mysaria drew a slow breath. Then, with measured steps, she turned and allowed herself to be led away, her curiosity now tempered by a measure of satisfaction.
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It was a truth universally acknowledged—if not spoken aloud—that the affairs of the Merchant Guild were seldom conducted with haste, nor with undue enthusiasm for change. Thus, when the guildmasters of King's Landing found themselves summoned to the grand hall of the Merchant Guild, they arrived with expressions ranging from studied indifference to thinly veiled consternation.
The great chamber, panelled in dark oak and adorned with the sigils of the various guilds, was filled with the rustling of fine robes and the subdued murmurs of whispered speculation. It was an assembly of men and women, each a power unto themselves within their respective domains; masters of their crafts, accustomed to deferring to none but the weight of coin and tradition. Some had grown fat and complacent with their wealth, others sharp-eyed and lean. Their conversations carried the undertone of unease that Mysaria had come to recognize over the years—angst hidden beneath civility, doubts masked by bluster.
At the centre of it all was a circular table of polished ebony. Grand Maester Orwyle loomed at its head, his expression as inscrutable as ever. He wore his chain of office with the weariness of a man long accustomed to its weight. A stout ledger rested in front of him, and every now and then he made an idle notation, as if to suggest that the proceedings were of no greater consequence than the tallying of barley stocks. Mysaria caught his eye; he inclined his head in silent acknowledgement, though his lips pressed into a thin line.
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The Secretary let her gaze sweep the room once more before entering. "Guildmasters," she greeted them as she reached the table, her Lysene accent a whisper against the Common Tongue. Conversations tapered off as heads turned her way. "Thank you for your attendance. I trust the summons was not too inconvenient."
A few polite nods followed though suspicion lingered in more than a few eyes. Mysaria had grown used to such scrutiny. Her role as Prince Aemond's aide placed her at the nexus of power and secrecy, and mistrust clung to her like a shadow.
A polite cough from Orwyle drew the room's attention, and silence fell with the inevitability of a closing door. Mysaria sat then and leaned forward, offering a thin, measured smile.
"Shall we begin?"
The guildmasters settled reluctantly, and she waited until she held the room's full attention before speaking again.
"The Crown, as you know, has long valued the contributions of this esteemed collective," Mysaria began, her words measured and deliberate. "Your endeavours fuel the prosperity of the realm, from the lumber that builds our fleets to the grain that feeds our people. But we live in... uncertain times. The prosperity we enjoy today cannot be taken for granted, nor can we afford to stagnate while the world changes around us."
Her gaze swept the table, pausing briefly on each guildmaster. Some returned her look with guarded curiosity; others with mere confusion. She pressed on, her voice steady.
"It is for this reason that the Crown has issued a series of reforms to strengthen and unify our industries. You have before you the Merchant Guild's newest provisions regarding the operation of your respective vassal guilds, as prepared under the auspices of the Small Council and ratified by His Grace, Prince Aemond Targaryen, Master of Coin."
A rustle swept through the room as each guildmaster turned their attention to the thick sheaf of parchment laid before them by the servants lingering at the edges of the hall. Prince Aemond's blue-lipped clerks had ensured every document was immaculately penned, the decrees precise and unyielding in their scope. The wax seals gleamed in the candlelight, heavy with significance.
Gormon of the Perfumers' Guild, a man whose substantial girth was outmatched only by his fondness for self-importance, adjusted his spectacles with an affected sigh. "It is no small thing, Madam Mysaria, to present us with such... comprehensive reforms," he said, his voice tinged with condescension. "Standardized production quotas? Resource-pooling? Mandatory use of bank-issued promissory notes for internal trade and taxation matters—I trust the Crown has given due consideration to the... practicalities of such measures?"
Mysaria's smile did not waver. "His Grace," she said smoothly, "has considered every aspect, Guildmaster. I am certain you will find his instructions both clear and compelling."
"Indeed," murmured Marbrand of the Shipowners' Guild, his fingers tracing the gold trim of his velvet doublet. "And yet, one cannot help but wonder if there is not some room for discussion. Economic autonomy is the lifeblood of our prosperity. These mandates would see the Prince alone dictating terms that have long been the province of the guilds themselves. Surely the Crown does not intend to impose such sweeping changes without—"
"A measure of negotiation?" Mysaria interjected, her voice deceptively mild. "No, Guildmaster, I am afraid not. His Grace has deemed these changes necessary and final. The Merchant Guild will conform to the new order as outlined within these documents. Naturally, your cooperation will be expected."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the gathered guildmasters, some exchanging uneasy glances, others feigning composure. Madam Embreth of the Market Guild tapped the edge of her parchment. "Forgive me," she said, "but I cannot help but observe that should these mandates be enacted, our once-autonomous guilds would become little more than extensions of the Crown's treasury."
"That is not the intent," Orwyle intoned mildly, looking up from his ledger. "Alas, efficiency requires certain sacrifices, Madam."
Mysaria watched as the words settled, their meaning sinking into the minds of the assembled. The guildmasters shifted in their seats, some frowning down at their parchments, others stealing glances at one another as if seeking reassurance.
"His Grace is wise in many things," Madam Embreth spoke again, her words carefully chosen, "but wisdom is best tempered with counsel. I trust he will not disregard the experience we offer in favour of expediency."
"Perhaps you would prefer to express this to His Grace in person when next he is available?" Mysaria offered with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Embreth blanched, shooting her an equally hollow but far less confident smile. She did not speak again.
The room fell silent, save for the distant chiming of bells from the harbour. Mysaria allowed the quiet to stretch, watching until she caught it—the first real glimmer of understanding dawning behind their carefully composed expressions. The guildmasters were not fools; they knew what was being asked of them, and more importantly, what was being taken.
"Shall we proceed with the specifics, then?" Mysaria said at last.
And with that, the first tether of their independence was drawn tighter.