The gondola slid silently through the silver canals of Braavos, its long hull gliding like a shadow over the still waters. The soft slap of oar against current was the only sound that accompanied them, save for the occasional hiss of distant voices and the cry of seabirds overhead.
Viserys sat with his back straight, flanked by Ser Willem Darry and Prince Oberyn Martell, their little party bound for the Moon Pool. The chill of early morning clung to his cloak, but the waters shimmered with light, and the wind smelled faintly of salt, spice, and wealth. A Braavosi gondolier, clad in muted gray, rowed without speaking.
As they turned into a wider canal, the Moon Pool opened before them like a gemstone caught in the light. Surrounded by fine inns, perfumed brothels, and towering houses of pale pink and sea-green marble, the quarter gleamed with quiet opulence. No rotting hulls or tattered sails here—only black ships trimmed in gold and sleek yachts swaying gently against lacquered docks. Lanterns hung from polished brass hooks. Perfumed Braavosi in silks and dark cloaks drifted along the waterside promenade, chatting in low, lyrical voices.
"This is where old Braavos comes to drink and dance," Oberyn said lazily, reclining against the cushioned seat of the gondola. "No sellswords, no spice-runners, no Myrish traders. Only the true blood of the lagoon."
Viserys watched the passing faces—thin, sharp-eyed men and women, their hair oiled and curled, their cloaks trimmed with lace and pearl. Not a single Westerosi among them. It was as if he'd stepped into another world, one where only the foreign gold was welcomed, not the foreigner.
"They've grown rich from banking, shipping, and old secrets," Ser Willem muttered, his eyes flicking warily from building to building. "But wealth draws knives as surely as honey draws flies."
Oberyn smiled. "All the more reason our young prince must look the part."
Willem's brow furrowed. "You promised a meeting with the Sealord. Not a costume fitting."
"Even a dragon needs fine scales," Oberyn replied. "If you're to stand before Sealord Dontario Dimittis, you must look like a prince, not a fugitive. The Sealord may be gregarious, but he will not waste his time on ragged boys with empty claims."
Willem shook his head. "We agreed to caution. If Robert's men are here—"
"Let them be," Oberyn said coolly. "No one dares spill blood on the Sealord's canal. If Viserys walks into his palace, clothed in silk and shadowed by me, he will not seem a hunted boy. He will seem… under Braavosi protection."
The gondola moored at a slim dock shaded by overhanging vines. They stepped out, and Oberyn led them through a narrow alley and up a curving stone lane, until they came upon a shop with red-painted shutters and gold threadwork on its awning.
The tailor's sign read Vellano's Thread & Needle.
Inside, the shop smelled of cedar and rosewater. Bolts of dyed silks lined the walls—emerald and seafoam, obsidian and ivory, glimmering like precious metal. The tailor, a lean man with silver rings on every finger, looked up from his work and blinked in surprise.
"Prince Oberyn," he said in the Braavosi tongue, then switched to the Common Tongue, bowing low. "It has been some time."
"Too long, Vellano," Oberyn said. "But I'm here on business. This boy is Viserys Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. I want him dressed like it."
The tailor's gaze flicked to Viserys, calculating. "A prince, is he? I'll need two days. Three, to do it properly."
"You'll have one hour," Oberyn said, voice like silk stretched taut. "You owe me, remember?"
Vellano hesitated. "I haven't forgotten. The day you saved my brother's tongue from a Myrish blade. Still... an hour?"
"Make it enough," Oberyn said. "Or I'll ask my debt repaid another way."
The tailor bowed again, more deeply this time, and clapped his hands. Two apprentices came hurrying from behind a velvet curtain. Bolts of cloth were unfurled, measured, held against Viserys's frame. The boy stood stiffly as Vellano muttered to himself, occasionally tugging at a sleeve or lifting his chin with a firm hand.
It was nearly an hour before the tailor returned with the garments.
"Try it on," Oberyn said, lounging in a chair and sipping from a skin of sweet red.
Viserys retreated behind a partition and changed, the silks whispering against his skin. When he emerged, Ser Willem actually took a step back.
Gone was the silver-haired exile in worn wool and patched boots. The figure before them wore an embroidered deep navy tunic, lined with silver thread. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped with a brooch in the shape of a seven pointed star. High leather boots gleamed, and his belt was set with mother-of-pearl.
He looked taller. Regal.
Oberyn smiled. "There. Now you look the part."
Viserys glanced into a burnished silver mirror on the wall and saw someone he barely recognized—a prince, yes, but more than that: a man becoming the image of the crown he would claim.
"Come," Oberyn said, rising to his feet. "We mustn't keep Dontario waiting."
They left the tailor's shop under a sky of pale blue veined with wisps of gold. The city was stirring to life around them—fishermen casting nets from slender bridges, hawkers crying out the price of oranges and lamprey pies, Braavosi nobles gliding along the promenade like actors taking their mark upon a grand stage.
Viserys walked with careful purpose, his new boots clicking softly on the stone. He could feel the eyes upon him. For once, they did not glance away in pity or disinterest. They watched him.
Not as a beggar.
As someone who mattered.
The Palace of the Sealord stood at the heart of the islet like a carved jewel, its domes and towers rising over the canal like the spires of a dream. Gleaming black marble shaped into columns, steps, and arched facades met the sunlight and returned it in hard brilliance. Statues lined the front walk—figures of Braavosi captains, warriors, even poets—all rendered in silver-veined stone with eyes of sapphire or jet.
The guards at the gate wore breastplates of polished brass and robes of deep crimson, halberds resting in hand but held loose, with no hint of unease. One of them stepped forward and bowed shallowly as Oberyn approached.
"Prince of Dorne," he said. "The Sealord is expecting you."
They were ushered through without delay.
The interior of the palace was cool and vast. High ceilings opened like the hulls of ships turned skyward, and tapestries of naval victories and treaties gone by hung from brass hooks. The floors were veined green stone, and light poured in from long stained-glass windows, painting the walls with drifting color.
A servant in soft slippers led them through echoing halls to a chamber of polished teak and glass. There, seated beside a pool filled with pale koi fish, was a man in robes of sea-gray and indigo, his white hair drawn back into a simple braid, a carved walking staff resting against his chair.
"Prince Oberyn," he said, smiling warmly. His voice was calm, unhurried—but each word landed like a stone dropped in still water. "And this must be Viserys Targaryen."
Viserys bowed. "Sealord Dimittis. It is an honor."
The Sealord did not rise, but he inclined his head.
He was older than Viserys had imagined—sixty, at least—but his eyes were clear as polished glass, and sharper than any blade.
"A rare thing," he said, "to meet the last dragon in Braavos. You wear your name well."
Ser Willem said nothing. He stood behind Viserys, rigid as a carved sentinel.
Oberyn offered a half-bow and said, "We come in good faith. The young king wishes to formalize a pact with Dorne, and I believe there is no better witness in Braavos than its ruler."
The Sealord gestured to a carved table of black cedar. "Sit. Speak your vows."
There, in the hush of that hall, with koi fish circling beneath the glass floor and old Braavosi steel glimmering in niches upon the walls, Viserys Targaryen pledged himself to the Princess Arianne Martell, sight unseen, for alliance and shared purpose. Oberyn spoke in her name. A quill was brought, and a document in common and Valyrian was signed.
The Sealord did not interrupt.
Only once it was done, and the parchment sealed with gold wax, did he speak again.
"This pact," said Dontario Dimittis, "is now witnessed. In the eyes of Braavos, it stands."
Viserys exhaled slowly. The weight of the moment pressed into his bones.
But the Sealord was not finished.
"I have no love for Westerosi kings," Dontario said mildly. "But I respect a man who moves to reclaim what is his. And so I will offer a word… and a bargain."
Viserys sat straighter. "I'm listening."
"When the storm breaks—and it will break, if you are bold enough—Braavos may provide ships. Galleys, cogs, and perhaps even black-sailed fire-ships. But such favors are not free."
Viserys glanced to Oberyn, who simply watched in silence.
"I would ask two things in return," said the Sealord. "First: when you take the throne, all tariffs on Braavosi goods will be lifted for a century. And second: one man from the Iron Bank, a trusted name, shall serve as your Master of Coin. Not to rule, merely to ensure your debts are honored."
Willem's face darkened.
"And if I fail to gather support ?" Viserys asked.
"Then this conversation never occurred." Dontario's tone remained pleasant. "Braavos is nothing if not discreet. We back winners. Not ghosts. You are still just a boy."
A silence fell, broken only by the slow ripple of fish beneath the floor.
Viserys nodded. "If I succeed, you shall have your reward."
The Sealord smiled. "Then we are in accord."
[Skill Acquired: Basic Eloquence]You have learned to carry yourself with poise and speak with grace. Courtly presence begins in bearing, not just in words. (+0.1 Charisma)
They departed the Sealord's Palace as the light grew long and golden across the canals. Servants saw them out with crisp bows, but no escort followed. None was needed. The city seemed to breathe a little slower in that quarter, as if even Braavos deferred to the Sealord's will.
Back in his rented chambers, Viserys stripped off the fine cloak and laid it across a velvet-backed chair. The silence pressed in around him, thick with meaning.
He had done it. The pact was signed, sealed, witnessed by the highest power in Braavos.
And yet...
He stared at the reflection of the Moon Pool rippling against the windowpane. The memory came unbidden: next year, Jon Arryn would visit Dorne to negotiate peace. He knew this. In his old life, that meeting had ended the Martells' rebellion before it ever truly began. That was why the marriage pact was never pursued.
Ser Willem had known. Of course he had. And he hadn't told him—not out of malice, but out of shame, for this failed attempt.
But that wasn't the only thing.
Viserys's hand tightened around the back of the chair.
Five years from now—after Willem's death—he had returned to the Sealord's Palace in desperation, begging for ships, for safety, for hope.
But he hadn't met Dontario Dimittis.
He had met Ferrego Antaryon—a younger man with cold eyes and a cruel smile. A new Sealord.
Sealords served for life.
So what had happened to Dontario?
Dead, most likely. Perhaps not long from now. And with him, any chance of Braavos helping Viserys. He remembered how Ferrego had made him perform—how he had used Viserys like a court fool, a curiosity, a child with a crown and no kingdom.
He had been laughed at. Dismissed. Thrown into the streets when the amusement wore thin.
Now he understood. This pact was fleeting. This audience, this favor—nothing more than a temporary foothold.
But this time, he would not waste it.
He would use it.
Before the tides turned against him once again.