Under the warm lantern light, Viserys Targaryen's hair gleamed like spun silver, the short strands catching glints of gold. His half‑black, half‑red doublet shimmered with every movement — courtly elegance hiding a hint of the assassin's poise. The last dragon looked every inch a prince built for legend.
Opposite him, Bellegere Otherys, the fourth Black Pearl, smiled playfully.
"I am the fourth of my name," she said. "The first Black Pearl was the lover of a Targaryen prince — so I, too, carry a little dragon's blood."
Her voice was bright, teasing; her brown skin glowed like polished copper beneath her silks. Youthful, dazzling, and dangerous — the living jewel of Braavos.
The tale of her line was one of scandal and survival. The first Black Pearl — pirate‑queen, daughter of a Sea Lord's son and a Summer Islands princess — had been taken as mistress by Aegon the Unworthy. She bore him a daughter who became courtesan in turn, and from her the line continued: charm, ambition, inheritance, and art passed down like a family business.
"I'm seven generations removed from that prince," Bellegere explained lightly.
"Then you outrank me," Viserys said dryly.
If the family tree were to be believed, she was several branches older than he — kin not in blood but in legend. By the convoluted reckoning of Thrones, she was the great‑great‑something of his great‑grandfather, Aegon IV.
"Which makes me your elder cousin," she teased. "You may call me 'great‑aunt.'"
Viserys—fourteen, regal, deadpan—laughed aloud. "Forgive me, my lady, but I've buried all my great‑aunts. None were quite so beautiful."
That made her laugh in turn, bright and musical. "You have a tongue made for charm. If not a prince, you could have been an actor."
"And lose an emperor's destiny? Never," he quipped.
She regarded him with open amusement. "Some call you the Landless King — the Beggar Prince. Others name you Gourmet, Bard, or Swordsman of the Violet Eyes. Tonight, I call you surprising. You are not what I expected of the last of the dragons."
"All titles sound hollow without land," Viserys replied. "But tell me — how do you know so much about me?"
Bellegere lifted her glass and smirked. "In Braavos, the Black Pearl knows everything. My singers, my jewelers, even the playwrights belong to my circle. When a song rises above the city's noise, I know whose tongue first sang it. And when two lesser courtesans—say, a Swordswoman and a Nightingale—compete for fame, I owe it to myself to study the fashion."
Viserys couldn't help smiling. "So that's your philosophy of survival — charm and information."
"Indeed. The Pearl must shine, and to shine she must see everything."
Her influence was no surprise. The Otherys name tied her to the Sea Lords, the Summer Isles, even the House of Black and White. She was network incarnate — the beating heart of Braavos's whispers.
"I select my protégés carefully," she continued. "I support artists, sailors, exiles, but only those worth the effort. I wanted to see for myself — are you the Mad King's son, or something greater?"
Viserys inclined his head. "And now you've decided?"
Her smile widened. "You've aroused my interest, Your Grace."
The tension slipped between them, replaced by something sharper — mutual respect.
"Then I can remain in your company a while," he said.
"Of course. I admire glittering youth — and the courage behind it."
She poured him a cup of steaming lemon tea. The citrus scent was heady, almost alien — lemons were rarer than rubies in Braavos, imported from warmer seas.
"To new kinships," she said, raising her cup.
"To old blood," he answered.
Then the gifts came.
"I never dine with guests empty‑handed," said the Black Pearl — and lifted the lid of the first cedar box.
Inside rested seven perfect black pearls, smooth as glass, dark as deep water.
"Seven is a lucky number. Consider them an allowance. If I had found you unworthy, this would have been your only reward — and the end of our acquaintance."
Viserys studied the treasure. Even rejection here glittered like victory. "Then I thank the gods for your approval."
"I've something finer still."
The second box revealed dragonbone — hairpins, stylized toys, carved ornaments — and atop them lay a dagger with a black hilt that drank the light.
The steel shimmered faintly blue.
"A Valyrian steel dagger," Viserys breathed.
Bellegere nodded. "It once belonged to your ancestor Aegon the Fourth. Now it returns to a dragon worthy of it."
He bowed his head. "My lady, you honor me."
In truth, the blade pulsed in his palm like a living thing.
"And a third gift," she said, producing a larger box. Books.
"A copy of The Chronicle of the Four Kings. Rare, banned in Oldtown for being too honest. You strike me as one who values knowledge."
Her eyes gleamed over the rim of her cup.
Viserys smiled back — feeling, for once, that the game played between them was even. She was a queen of Braavos; he was a king in exile. They spoke the same language — gold, history, and power.
On the canal, the barge drifted beneath a violet moon. Braavos slept, and the dragon and the pearl sipped bitter lemon tea together, two faces reflected in dark water — mirror images of ambition.
And in his heart, Viserys thought with quiet humor:
I, the Dragon King, have come to collect payments.