The Black Pearl's pleasure barge drifted through the canals of Braavos, its sails trimmed, its prow draped in banners of glossy silk stitched with her personal sigil — a single luminous pearl against dark velvet.
The Secret City was water-born. Its streets were waterways; its horses were boats. And tonight, the channels were bright with lanterns as her gilded barge glided onward, shadowed by the echoing hum of the city that never fully slept.
Viserys Targaryen leaned on the rail, watching the pageant of ships float past. Snake-slender skiffs slipped in and out of the arches — boats with painted prows and tall curling sterns, poled by hooded men in gray and moss-green cloaks. Larger flat-bottomed barges moved sluggishly under their cargo of crates and barrels, each crowded with oarsmen pushing at the shallows.
And among them were the "floating houses" — gaudy houseboats hung with glass lanterns and velvet curtains, their decks crowded with laughter, music, and perfume.
Every vessel, great or small, drew aside to give passage to the famous barge of the Black Pearl. Sailors gawked, half in envy, half in hopeless lust. They knew the first courtesan of Braavos was not for their coin; a ship sold entire might buy a single evening in her cabin.
---
Through stained windows Viserys took in the heart of the water-city: arches and domes rising from gray tides, bridges spanning mist, towers standing like sentinels over the hundred small isles that were Braavos.
Far off, a colossal aqueduct spanned the skyline — three stone arcs thrusting southward into fog. The Sweetwater Canal, he realized, the lifeline of the city.
A city of stone and sea, but almost no wood. Everything built from granite, marble, bronze — strength carved to defy decay.
"No walls," he observed aloud.
"Our Purple Fleet is our wall." The Black Pearl smiled with a hint of pride. "No army dares the Sea Lord's wrath."
Viserys pursed his lips. "And what if someone shattered the Sweetwater Canal — cut off the flow? Or brought down the Titan?"
Her eyes flickered sharply. "You have a frightening mind, Viserys. Are you the demon of power itself?"
He lifted his cup. "Only a student of strategy. Just reasoning things out. Another glass of lemon water, please."
"You think like a war machine," she said, refilling his cup. "But this city has other defenses than ships and stone. Beware them. There is one order here whose sacred trade is death."
"The House of Black and White?" He met her gaze evenly.
She nodded. "I know them. But don't ask me more, Viserys. This is a city built on secrets. I never asked too deep about you; do the same for me."
He drank quietly, piecing together the connection himself. Her charm extended everywhere — even to those nameless assassins. It made sense; the Black Pearl's influence touched every guild and stage.
Perhaps some of the Faceless Men learned their trade by masquerading through her domain — living as minstrels, beggars, or lovers. The Pearl, in turn, offered the perfect theater for their transformations.
Her barge slid beneath bronze domes and granite spires. The green copper crown of the Palace of Truth flashed overhead; the high towers of the Temples of Pleastan and Antarion rose on either side like watchmen; the vast stone bridge of the Sweetwater loomed above them, rumbling faintly with rushing tides.
"That tower line marks the old families," she said. "Those who have bred Sea Lords generation after generation. Others who produced only one are called 'new blood.'"
He nodded slowly. Power was heritage here, not dynasty. Commerce had replaced crowns; fortunes ruled instead of thrones.
"How many of those families have daughters?" he asked suddenly.
She choked on her laugh. "Greedy boy. You think to court a Sea Lord's heir? This Sea Lord has none — and if he did, you'd find ten Braavosi swords at your throat before dawn."
"Merely curiosity," he said lightly, patting the dagger at his side. "Networking."
"Networking," she repeated, mocking his tone. "You sound dangerously like Prince Daemon the Rogue."
"Good. He was a remarkable man."
---
The barge passed between two rows of weather-stained statues — the Sea Lords of ages past, their bronze robes dulled by time and the droppings of gulls.
One held a book, another a hammer, a third a star of gold; one poured from a stone amphora, so that clear spring water fell forever into the canal.
"Each ruled Braavos once," Bellegere explained. "Each built something that lasted."
Viserys watched the light slide off their faces. "I might add my mark here one day."
She smiled slowly. "Bold words, Silver Traveler. Fame has its price. You will find trouble soon enough."
"Trouble always finds those who build."
"A young stranger with a golden tongue and no roots?" She leaned closer. "They will envy you, and they will hunt you."
"Will they offer to be my agents, too?" he asked dryly.
She laughed. "Possibly. In this city, every beauty and every swordsman has a patron. Except you. That makes you… dangerous."
He shrugged. "The Nightingale and Moonshadow already belong to the Moonsingers. Why should I belong to anyone?"
"Because without a shield, the world will bleed you. Let me be your shield. My influence could keep you safe."
He smiled. "Tempting — but I prefer to fight my own wars."
---
"Then prepare for them," she warned. "Fame draws leeches. Merchants, swords, investors will all want their portion of you."
Viserys looked past her shoulder, toward the fog lit by torches. "I've dealt with parasites before. If they come for me, I won't be merciful."
"That's your independence talking." She sighed with something between admiration and exasperation. "Very well, Silver Traveler — but if you fall, remember I warned you."
"I'll survive. And your investment will not go to waste."
She poked a finger against his arm. "Braggart dragon. You're turning my barge into a wish-well."
"I'm just a hungry one," Viserys said with mock gravity. "I need dragonbone, Valyrian steel — and I've developed a taste for Sea-King crab."
She laughed outright. "Your appetite could bankrupt Braavos. Dragonbone is rare and faked thrice over; Valyrian steel belongs to old blood; and crab of the north sea costs more than a horse."
"Then keep lending," he grinned. "I always pay my debts."
Bellegere tilted her head. "I'll advance you credit — a little. A thousand gold first. Perhaps two. Prove your worth and we'll see more."
"How many others have your 'loans'?"
She smiled, stretching like a cat. "Enough. Some want coin. Some want chance. The Swordswoman, this singer Sissa you mention — they're mine already. Now you join my collection."
Viserys took her hand briefly, his fingers warm and sure. "Then you'll find your investment most profitable, my lady."
Bellegere withdrew, smiling with a hint of warning. "Show me, then — whether you're a fortune or a fire."
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