Chapter 146: Enthusiasm
Taking a deep breath, Ian composed himself and continued forward.
Passing through a large gate resembling a dungeon door, constructed of arm-thick iron bars, Ian finally arrived underground. The cold, damp air sent a shiver down his spine.
Ian quickly realized that this truly was a dungeon.
He saw rows of cells neatly arranged along both sides of the corridor, each with relatively clean straw bedding, and each cell held chained slave warriors.
The corridor was incredibly long; Ian felt as if he had walked for an eternity until he suddenly heard a burst of frenzied cheers, realizing they had finally reached the end.
Passing through the bronze door inscribed with ancient Valyrian script, Ian discovered that the world inside was truly extraordinary.
Unlike the dark, filthy, and raucous atmosphere he had imagined underground fighting pits to be, this place seemed to have a rather sophisticated atmosphere.
The chamber wasn't very large; the entire seating area probably held no more than a hundred people, and the central arena, resembling a giant cage, was only suitable for one-on-one or two-on-two combat.
The surrounding stone walls were covered with glazed tiles depicting ancient dragons and mythical beasts. Marble sculptures inlaid with gems and crystals were scattered around the hall.
There were only about twenty people in the hall, and most of the seats were empty.
Judging from their clothing, they were clearly all noble sons of Pentos, currently cheering for a gladiator's brilliant strike in the arena.
Ian followed the crowd's gaze to the pit. Slaves were entering the cage to collect the scattered entrails of a corpse, then covering the bloodstains with a layer of yellow sand.
The victorious swordsman, amidst cheers, was being showered with gold coins thrown by the noble youths.
"Count Darryl, Master Yada, Count Grafton, welcome to the White Blade Pit," a woman greeted them. She wore a purple velvet off-the-shoulder gown and bowed to each of the three.
Rol and Case, following behind the group, were treated as ordinary servants and ignored.
Ian had seen this woman before at Khal Drogo's banquet.
Delilah Haukott, a woman who could make Prince Hazan, whom Illyrio described as 'capable,' 'lose his mind over his cock' and accept Suthra Tetrus's life-or-death challenge.
Smelling the natural perfume so close to his face, and seeing the deep cleavage beneath that pale skin, Ian vaguely felt that perhaps Hazan wasn't entirely to blame.
Suddenly, Ian remembered Illyrio's intelligence about Hazan's possessiveness and volatility regarding this woman, and immediately took a step back, maintaining a more polite and safe distance from Delilah.
Delilah didn't notice Ian's action; she was pondering a question.
When she greeted the group, she first greeted Ian on the left, then the Water Dancer, Master Yada, on the right, and left Count Daeren Grafton, who stood in the central position, for last.
Judging from their reactions just now, they didn't seem to realize the slight, meaning that subconsciously, this order of greetings was reasonable.
This confirmed Prince Hazan's guess: Daeren's true status was indeed lower than Ian's, even lower than Yada, who should have been under his command.
"You are still as radiant as ever, Miss Delilah," Daeren complimented.
"Thank you for your praise, my lord," Delilah smiled. "This way, gentlemen. His Highness the Prince is waiting for you in the viewing stand."
After saying that, Ian and his group followed Delilah toward the main viewing area.
"I have a question, Miss Delilah," Ian said, observing the entire underground hall. "Why is your fighting pit underground? While Suthra Tetrus's is above ground, and much larger in scale than yours."
"Do you want the truth?" Delilah blinked.
"If it's convenient."
"Because we, the Braavosi faction, are abolitionists, my lord," Delilah said without a hint of embarrassment. "After Hazan accepted Suthra's challenge, we also needed a fighting pit to recruit champions, but we couldn't openly revive the sport like Suthra did. That's why we rented this underground pit, one of the few remaining in Pentos."
"That's certainly important," Ian nodded.
They had arrived at the main viewing stand. Hazan stood up and looked at Delilah questioningly, who nodded to him.
Hazan then walked straight to Ian.
"Hazan Moharis," Hazan introduced himself, extending his hand. "Son of Prince Treig Moharis of Pentos, and my mother is Marian Fregar, the Keyholder of Braavos."
Prince Hazan's attire today was not as flamboyant as it had been at Drogo's banquet. He was now wearing quality armor, with an ivory dagger and a longsword at his waist, finally looking like a warrior.
"Ian Darryl," Ian extended his hand and lightly shook his, introducing his empty title without any embarrassment. "Count of Darry, Hand of the King to Viserys Targaryen."
"I've heard so much about you, Ian," Hazan paused. "May I call you Ian? You can also call me by my first name."
Excessive enthusiasm was Ian's first impression.
If Hazan had acted this way after Ian told him about the problems with the two Water Dancers, Ian could understand.
But now, from Hazan's perspective, Ian shouldn't have much value to him, so his enthusiasm was intriguing.
Or perhaps, it was just condescending humility.
When someone of extremely high status, with a strong presence and who seemed difficult to serve, interacts with you in a humble and casual manner, most people would feel flattered, which would allow him to easily seize the initiative in the conversation.
"Of course, you can be casual. Don't be so formal." Ian nodded slightly, making a tentative move.
Hazan was stunned. Ian's attitude made him feel inexplicably that the other was the prince of Pentos, and he was the wandering knight serving the Beggar King.
"Hahaha!" After a brief moment of surprise, Hazan burst into hearty laughter. "I like your spirit, Ian. I hope we can become friends."
"I was just jesting," Ian said with a forced smile, lowering his tone again. "It would be an honor to be friends with Your Highness."
"Please, make yourself comfortable." Hazan gestured for Ian and the others to sit in the main viewing area, then clapped his hands to signal a servant to bring in some wine.
Ian took it, pretended to sip, and then set the cup aside.
"The next match is about to begin," Hazan said, taking his seat beside Ian. "We've recruited quite a few formidable fighters. You know, this time Suthra and I have offered very high rewards, extremely high ones.
Look at that fellow wielding the arakh; he used to be a Dothraki ko, sold into slavery after his defeat, and eventually bought by me. And that short dark-skinned man next to him wielding a hand axe is a sellsword captain from the Summer Isles.
In short, please convey to His Grace Viserys that I am confident of victory in this duel. Choosing to help me is definitely an opportunity for him to restore House Targaryen to its former glory."
"Your Highness, you may be mistaken," Ian said calmly. "Assessing your chances of victory is Lord Grafton's task; you should tell him that."
"I thought we were friends, Ian," Hazan sighed softly, then met Ian's eyes. "From the moment you offered me help at Drogo's feast, I acknowledged your friendship, and everyone who knows me knows I'm always sincere and generous to my friends."
"So," Hazan softened his tone, almost emphasizing each word, "are you my friend?"
(End of Chapter)
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