Viserys Targaryen opened the sealed invitation from the Black Pearl. The handwriting was bold yet graceful, each inked flourish gleaming like wet silk under the lamplight.
> "Words are poor for gratitude.
> In apology for any slight, the Black Pearl invites His Grace Viserys of House Targaryen, scion of the dragons,
> to join her upon the canals of Braavos when the moon is high, three nights hence."
>
> — Bellegere Otherys
"She wants a meeting," Viserys said simply.
But there was no flutter of vanity in his voice. He was no lovestruck boy — he was the last exile of a fallen dynasty, a prince building an army from shadows.
And the Black Pearl, brightest of Braavos's courtesans, rarely stretched a hand without expecting gold or influence in return.
A negotiation, then. Which suited him perfectly.
"A fortunate thing," said Syrio Forel with a grin. "After all, she is kin to you."
Viserys snorted. "Distantly. My ancestor bedded her great‑grandmother. A king's folly, long cold."
The first Black Pearl had been a pirate queen, taken as mistress by Prince Aegon the Unworthy — a man whose bastards outnumbered his virtues. She bore him several children, one of whom became courtesan herself, and the lines of beauty and ambition had spread ever since.
"That makes hundreds of cousins between us," Viserys added dryly. "Too many to count, fewer to trust."
"What power stands behind her?"
Syrio grew thoughtful. "The Sea Lord himself keeps her favor, as does the Iron Bank. Merchants of the guilds bow to her, and envoys from half the world seek her ear. At her level, she is both courtesan and patron — no investors above her, no leash but her own."
Indeed, among Braavos's seven famed courtesans, the Black Pearl stood apart. She was not sponsored; she sponsored others.
"Then I'll make myself presentable," Viserys said.
He wasn't thinking of seduction. A woman like her was not a lover to be won but a power to be bargained with. Through her, one reached the upper circles of Braavos — merchants, bankers, and perhaps even the Sea Lord himself.
Money, allies, leverage — all of it lay behind a door she could open.
---
That night, in his own hall, Viserys supervised a dinner to mark the occasion: a full feast built around the rarest delicacy — Sea‑King crab.
Stewed with cream, baked in shell over saffron rice, poached in butter until the meat melted like cloud‑fat — a meal fit for legends.
"A fitting prelude," he remarked.
Ser Roland Lych devoured his portion with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't tasted luxury in years. In Braavos, even veteran knights struggled to feed themselves decently, and courtesans were creatures of rumor, never reality.
Now he dined as the companion of a prince.
No wonder his eyes shone with fierce belief.
A bankrupt prince who could earn his own coin and dine with queens of the night — such a man might well be destined to return home crowned.
Viserys ate slowly, studying the texture of the flesh. As he suspected, the crab tingled faintly with that same strange vitality that had accompanied the sea snails and dragonbone — a slight, almost imperceptible surge of strength.
High cuisine as alchemy.
When they had finished, he lifted his cup.
"To the Nightingale," he toasted. "To our masters and teachers — and to better fortune yet."
The cups clinked. Silver laughter echoed off the marble walls.
"The crabs are fine," Syrio said between sips of wine, "but the guild that sells them is not. Best never cross the crabbers' guild."
Roland raised a brow. "A guild of fishermen? So terrible?"
The Braavosi swordmaster chuckled. "You think it simple labor? Braavos stands on three pillars — the banks, the bazaars, and the sea. The sea feeds us, but the crabbing guild feeds the sea. Its men are hardened sailors, killers of cold and storm. To fish the Shivering Sea or the Frozen Bight is to face death daily. Those who live long enough to return band together as brothers — fierce, unbending, and armed."
"Not unlike the Northmen," Roland mused.
"Exactly," Syrio said. "Do not anger those who dine with death."
Viserys absorbed the lesson. Braavos was no mere marble dream — it was a web of guilds, banks, and powers intertwined, every one with its own army.
Courtesans navigated them better than most nobles ever could.
He could use that.
And to use it — he would meet the Black Pearl.
### Three Nights Later
Midnight on the Canals of Braavos
Mist draped the city in silver ribbons. Lanterns floated above the water like scattered stars.
In the heart of the lagoon, a pleasure barge drifted between the bridges. Golden torches burned on its deck; its silken banners bore a single emblem — a black pearl.
Viserys stepped aboard.
Syrio Forel served as his escort and guardian, silent but watchful. The one‑eared black cat padded at their heels, eyes catching the firelight.
And then she appeared.
The Black Pearl was young, younger than rumor — no older than Viserys himself, her beauty still bright with youth rather than polish. Her skin gleamed warm brown under the lanterns, smooth as satin; her gown of deep yellow silk clung lightly to her form, low‑cut yet regal.
Dark hair coiled in a net of gold thread; an onyx and topaz necklace rested against her skin like moonlight on bronze.
"Your Grace," she said with a smile as soft as song. "I never dreamed my distant cousin from the dragon line would truly accept my invitation."
"The honor is mine," Viserys replied, offering a courteous bow.
He wore black and crimson — the colors of his house — cut in the doublet style favored by Westerosi princes. In the torchlight, his silver‑white hair glimmered; he looked every inch the dragon reborn.
The Black Pearl's eyes lingered, appreciative but calculating.
Whatever else this meeting would become, it would not be a lover's tryst. It was a bargain between two predators disguised as nobles.
And somewhere in the dark water beneath the barge, Braavos itself seemed to listen.