Branston, captain of the Red Woman, had been sailing the seas for nearly two years. When he first left King's Landing, the Baratheon dynasty was still in power—King Robert still sat the Iron Throne. He could still recall the grand tournament King Robert held to welcome his new Hand, Eddard Stark.
Who could have imagined that in just two short years, the Baratheon dynasty would vanish, along with the legendary figures that had once ruled it—Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Tywin Lannister, and so many others.
In their place rose the new Tarran Dynasty, along with an entirely new class of nobility. But these new nobles were… perhaps a bit too new. The Warden of the North and Lady of Winterfell was Sansa Stark. The Warden of the Stormlands and Lady of Storm's End was Shireen Baratheon. The Warden of the East and Lord of the Eyrie was Robert Arryn. They were all still children. Fortunately, the new dynasty was led by the Chosen One—Lynd Tarran. As long as the Chosen One remained, it didn't matter if the wardens were infants.
It wasn't just the people who had changed over the last two years. The transformation of the realm's cities and infrastructure was just as striking. The first change Branston noticed came at the dock outside the Mud Gate.
Once a ramshackle, chaotic mess, the wharf had become neat and orderly. The piers had been fully repaired. Roads had been widened. The surrounding slums had been cleared away, and the people who once lived in those shanties had become dockworkers. The unruly and troublemaking? They'd been sent off to the Wall.
But what truly stunned Branston wasn't the harbor—it was that the stench of waste and filth that had once choked King's Landing had completely disappeared.
Though Branston wasn't born in the city, he had lived in King's Landing for over twenty years—he knew its streets and smells as well as anyone. That sour stench had been a part of daily life, a part of the city's very identity.
Yet when he passed through the Mud Gate and entered the city proper, there was no trace of it. In its place was the fresh fragrance of plants and blossoms, so much so that Branston momentarily wondered if he'd stepped into the wrong city.
The floral scent came from fragrant trees and shrubs planted along the newly widened boulevards—brought in from Highgarden and carefully cultivated. Nearly every home had flower baskets hanging from walls or under eaves, bursting with color and greenery. With the city surrounded by such fragrance, the stench of waste had no chance—it had simply vanished.
But the flowers were only part of the reason.
The real reason the city no longer reeked was that the massive cesspit in Flea's Bottom had been completely leveled. That, more than anything, was what made King's Landing feel transformed.
Branston's old home had been near Flea's Bottom—a two-story building facing the worst of the slums. He'd spent years living with the unbearable stink, dreading every moment inside his own walls.
Still, it had been his home for over two decades. But when he returned, he found that not only had Flea's Bottom been wiped clean, but his home had vanished too—nothing remained but an open lot.
Flea's Bottom had become a roaring construction site, with hundreds of workers laboring around the clock. Rumor had it they were building a library the size of the Citadel—open to all, so that common folk could learn to read. The stone for the library was being hauled in from the ruins of the Dragonpit on Rhaenys's Hill, just nearby.
The ruins of the Dragonpit had once been the ugliest scar on the city, like a festering wound pressed against the skin of King's Landing. Compared to it, even Flea's Bottom had been a minor blemish.
Now, the ruins had been flattened. The bones that once littered the area were cleared away, the broken ground filled and leveled. The Dragonpit had become a vast stone platform—its purpose unchanged. It was still for dragons.
And at that very moment, stretched out across the great stone square, lay a terrifying dragon—its scales pitch-black, its body veined with glowing fissures of fire.
"Branston? You're back!"
As Branston stood where his home once was, marveling at the immense changes in King's Landing, a middle-aged man walking past after a day's work suddenly stopped. He looked Branston up and down, his gaze lingering on the scar on Branston's forehead before exclaiming in surprise, "Branston, you're alive! And—what, did you strike it rich or something?"
"Barrel Bill? What happened to you?" Branston stared in astonishment at the man before him. In his memory, Bill had been a filthy drunk, a beggar who could barely scrape together enough to eat. But now, while not dressed like a noble, he looked well-off—one of the better-off townsfolk, at least by King's Landing standards.
Bill scratched his head awkwardly, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. "All thanks to His Majesty Lynd. He gave us folks at the bottom a chance to live like proper people. The work's tiring, sure, but I get enough to eat, a roof over my head, and I'm even saving a little. Might settle down with a woman. Actually—funny you don't know yet—I already did! Got married last month. You should stop by sometime for a drink. I can finally pay back what I owe you from all those years ago."
Branston blinked, stunned by what he was hearing and seeing. Barrel Bill, once the most hopeless case in the neighborhood—a man who had burned every bridge, owed everyone copper, and whom even the loan sharks had written off—now stood tall, clean, sober, and smiling.
He looked like a completely different person—not just in appearance, but in spirit.
Curious, Branston asked what had caused the change.
Bill explained that after ascending the throne, Lynd began overhauling King's Landing. All the labor was sourced directly from within the city—sometimes even through forced conscription. As long as someone could work, whether child or elder, they were enlisted. Bill had been among them.
Those with health issues, like Bill, were required to undergo training from the Sons of the God's Chosen before they could take on jobs. Only after fully recovering were they allowed to work.
"What? You had to go through warrior training?" Branston asked, incredulous.
Bill puffed out his chest proudly. "That's right. We all got combat training—we're the reserves for the Sons of the God's Chosen. If they ever take heavy losses, we're the first to step up."
Branston could hardly believe it. The reverence and conviction in Bill's eyes—he'd only seen that kind of fervor in the disciples of the God of Calamity back in the Holy City. Now here was Barrel Bill, who once couldn't stand upright, dreaming of joining the God's Chosen.
In less than half a day, Branston had already seen the sweeping impact the new king, Lynd Tarran, had on King's Landing and its people. It was nothing short of miraculous. No wonder across the Narrow Sea—in Tyrosh, Myr, even the Holy City—people had started calling him the God-King.
"Wait—I remember. Your old house used to be right around here, didn't it?" Bill suddenly pointed to an open patch of land nearby.
Branston gave a bitter smile and nodded. "Yeah. That was my place. But it's all gone now. Looks like I'll be staying at an inn tonight."
"Congratulations, Branston—congratulations!" Bill said cheerfully, a flash of envy in his eyes.
Branston frowned in confusion. "What are you congratulating me for?"
Bill grinned. "Back when His Majesty requisitioned this land, he gave everyone living here a hefty compensation. Plenty of folks walked away rich. Just bring your land and house deeds to the supervisor at the Library of Miracles—they'll pay you the full amount on the spot. For your place, you'll get at least two hundred God's Chosen gold dragons."
"Two hundred?" Branston's eyes widened. He knew full well his home had only ever been worth fifty gold dragons, tops. To get four times that was beyond anything he'd imagined.
Bill the drunk rolled his eyes at him and said, "You think that's a lot? Remember those old shacks Old Dog owned? The ones that had been falling apart for years?"
Branston frowned, thinking for a moment. "You mean those ruins with just a few crumbling walls? No roof, barely a structure? People paid for those?"
"Of course they did! He got four hundred golden dragons for the lot. Now he's living it up in a villa out in the suburbs, married to some girl in her twenties—a refugee from the Riverlands. Could be his granddaughter, easy." Bill shook his head in envy, then spat dismissively to the side.
"Hey! You there—spitting on the street, that's two copper coins!"
A shrill whistle rang out, and a white-haired man wearing a red badge hurried over, holding out a small notepad of patterned paper. He tore off a slip and handed it to Bill.
Bill grumbled under his breath, fished two copper coins from his pocket, handed them over, and took the slip.
Branston took the paper and studied it. It was made of a smooth, crisp material—new paper, said to be Lynd Tarran's invention. It had been in use across Essos for years, quickly replacing older types of parchment. But here in Westeros, its adoption had been slow, thanks to resistance from certain factions.
"It's a sanitation fine," Bill muttered, clearly annoyed. "His Majesty is too obsessed with cleanliness, if you ask me. Toilets have to be emptied on schedule by waste haulers, the streets get cleaned every day, and there's an army of sanitation officers keeping an eye on us. Spit on the ground, toss trash—bam, you're fined. Starts at two coppers, goes all the way up to a full golden dragon if you're unlucky."
"A golden dragon? That's ridiculous!" Branston said, shocked.
"Depends who gets fined," Bill said. "When Lord Mace left King's Landing, he got hit with a golden dragon fine for littering."
Branston muttered, "Unbelievable..."
"Oh, right—one more thing," Bill added, pulling a few copper coins from his pocket. "The king's unified the currency. This here is the God-Chosen Coin. Private minting's banned—no more using old local coinage. You'd best head to the God-Chosen Bank and get your money exchanged."
Branston took the coin, examined it, then handed it back. "That's no issue. Over in the Free Cities, they've already switched entirely to God-Chosen Coins."
Unifying the currency had long been one of Lynd's goals. With his control over most of the Free Cities and Nymeria's Kingdom of Lorne, he had the power to enforce it. Anyone doing business with the Miracle Guild had to use God-Chosen Coins.
At first, Essosi merchants were hesitant, but as the advantages of a single currency—no exchange fees, no rate confusion—became clear, they eagerly switched over. Even Braavos, despite its hostility to Lynd, had been forced to adopt the coin.
Branston chatted a bit longer with Bill, then they agreed on a time and place to catch up over drinks before parting ways.
Following Bill's directions, Branston made his way to the supervisor of the Miracle Library construction site and explained his situation.
The supervisor carefully reviewed Branston's land deed and house deed. Once everything checked out, he filled out a form, stamped it with his personal seal, and wrote in the compensation amount, instructing Branston to collect his payment from the God-Chosen Bank.
Branston looked at the form in surprise—the amount listed was twenty golden dragons more than he'd expected.
He headed straight to the Miracle Guild. Once he presented his documents—the deed, the form—they promptly paid him the full amount in golden dragons.
Even though Branston now had over a thousand golden dragons in total assets, holding more than two hundred in his hands all at once still left him feeling stunned.
As he exited the Miracle Guild, a crowd swarmed toward him. Instinctively, Branston tensed—he thought he was being mugged. That had happened plenty of times before.
But it was a false alarm. The people weren't robbers—they were sellers. Word had spread that he'd just completed a house requisition deal and walked away with a hefty sum. Now they were all eager to sell him a new home.
As luck would have it, Branston was in need of a new place. He ended up buying a small villa in the newly developed district just outside the city walls, from a man who at least looked honest enough.