Chapter 28: The Braavos of the West
Rhaegar sensed a subtle yet wondrous presence. In truth, he found that he rather liked Ser Barristan Selmy.
Barristan was brave and perceptive, and he guarded his vows with unwavering sincerity.
He was no hypocrite of the Kingsguard. For a knight sworn in white, the hardest enemy to defeat was not steel, but desire itself.
Some knights broke their oaths for women—or men. Others allowed themselves to become tools of great lords and hidden powers. Barristan Selmy was different. He had truly renounced lust and ambition alike, remaining faithful to his vows and his honor.
Yet Barristan possessed little sense of humor. He was what smallfolk called a dull man—earnest, rigid, and solemn. Though many admired him, few could truly call him a friend.
Even so, to be guarded by such a knight was an honor beyond measure. Barristan Selmy was a living legend of the age, as though a faint halo clung to him wherever he stood.
"I will defend you with my life, Prince Rhaegar," Ser Barristan said, looking upon the boy with quiet fondness. Having forsaken worldly passions, he now felt that guarding the blood of the dragon was his destiny.
"The honor is mine, ser," Rhaegar replied earnestly.
The prince had many tutors—history, letters, music, courtly conduct—but those were the foundations of a noble's education. The men who spent the most time with him were his instructors in arms.
One was Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold.
The other was Syrio Wul of Braavos.
Perhaps there was even a third teacher, buried deep in the dust of forgotten history—the shadow of Lys.
"Syrio Wul, of Braavos."
"Ser Barristan Selmy, of Harvest Hall."
The two men studied one another—alike in skill, yet worlds apart in temperament and origin.
Rhaegar watched with fascination. They truly represented two different realms.
Barristan was the heir to Harvest Hall, a knight of Westerosi soil and stone. Syrio was a landless bravo, shaped by the canals and shadows of Braavos.
Barristan wore the white plate of the Kingsguard and favored the lance, shield, and heavy cavalry. Syrio dressed plainly, cared nothing for appearances, and devoted his life to the Water Dance.
More than that, Barristan was disciplined and severe, while Syrio was carefree, sharp-tongued, and fond of wine.
"I sense fire within you, ser," Syrio said with a grin. "It seems we are conducting an experiment—fire and water dancing together, for the sake of the prince."
"In Westeros, only fire dances," Ser Barristan replied coolly. To him, the Water Dance was a foreign affectation, ill-suited to true battle.
Syrio merely laughed and let the matter rest.
At times, Rhaegar dined with his parents or grandparents. At other times, he insisted on eating with Barristan and Syrio. Though unconventional, King Jaehaerys II indulged the prince. Prince Aerys agreed only reluctantly, while Queen Rhaella approved wholeheartedly, saying it would nurture the boy's warmth and spirit. She feared the lingering gloom of Summerhall more than unfamiliar company.
Even Barristan marveled at Rhaegar's thirst for learning.
The prince absorbs knowledge like water—music, arms, history, anything that sparks his curiosity. His talents exceed those of other children his age. He is quick, focused, and gifted, especially in music and the sword. One might think the queen consumed books and candles, a lion's heart and a minstrel's harp while she carried him.
—Ser Barristan Selmy, in a private letter
At supper, Queen Rhaella sent a flagon of fine Arbor red.
Bound by his vows, Ser Barristan refused the wine. The cup was therefore claimed by Syrio, who fell in love with it at the first sip. It was a good drink—one that dulled old pain.
"Care for a cup, friend?" Syrio asked, raising his goblet toward Barristan.
"Wine clouds judgment," Ser Barristan replied, shaking his head.
"What a joyless life," Syrio sighed, drinking alone. The wine burned as it went down, and with it came memories long buried.
Rhaegar watched the two men with interest. They were an oddly fitting pair. Though Barristan disapproved of Syrio's habits, he respected the bravo's character. Syrio loved wine and cats, never harassed maids, and shunned brothels. His life revolved around the sword—and the bottle.
When Syrio drank too deeply, however, he sang old Braavosi ballads.
"Good wine helps a man forget the world's cruelty," he declared.
Then, his voice softened.
"Your Highness, one of Braavos's great courtesans—the Black Pearl—is said to carry dragon blood," Syrio said. "Some claim her line descends from King Aegon IV Targaryen."
Braavosi courtesans were famed across the world. Each commanded her own barge and attendants. Merchants, nobles, even assassins sought their favor—not merely for pleasure, but for the prestige such favor granted.
They were trained in music, poetry, dance, history, and wit—companions refined over years. Among them, the title of Black Pearl was the highest honor.
Rhaegar knew the rumors well. If any king had scattered dragonseed freely, it was Aegon IV, whose bastards later gave rise to House Blackfyre. His excesses had reached even across the Narrow Sea.
Rhaegar and Barristan listened in silence as Syrio continued.
Syrio Wul was a true Braavosi bravo.
In Braavos, bravos fought as readily for pride as for love. Duels were common, sometimes daily, and courtesans were often the spark.
Syrio, too, had once loved.
"Her name was Fala," he said quietly. "She was no great courtesan—only a girl who fled the pleasure houses. We danced beneath the moon, walked past the statues of the Sealords. Those days still haunt me—perfume, love, and blood, always together."
"I won a hundred duels… yet I could not save her. Another Water Dancer poisoned her, hoping grief would make me reckless. I killed him—left his throat unrecognizable. The Sealord summoned me after, but I refused."
His voice hardened.
"I will never return to Braavos. It is a city of sorrow."
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