The sky over Braavos was gloomy today, heavy black clouds pressing down from above. This dreariness was the norm.
Braavos experienced three main types of weather: fog, rain, and freezing rain.
Perhaps it was because the city sat on a cluster of islands in a lagoon, surrounded by the sea. Every kind of weather here was miserable; a sunny day was a rare treasure.
In ages past, this was how Braavos hid from the sight of the Dragonlords.
Viserys Targaryen, dressed in black, strode forward with purpose. At his waist hung Flash Silver and a Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt.
His gaze swept past the green copper domes of the Palace of Truth, landing on the tall square towers of Prestayn Hall and Antaryon Hall.
These towering structures were symbols of the ancient history and immense wealth of these families.
Beyond the massive grey arch of the bridge spanning the Sweetwater Canal lay the Silty Town. The buildings there were smaller and less magnificent.
Beside the great buildings ran the Long Canal. By now, it was bustling with serpent boats and cargo barges.
Among these traversing vessels were ships belonging to the "Rum Association" of crabbers.
Their emblem—crossed bottles of black rum and a massive Sealord's Crab—marked them clearly. Ordinary vessels dared not provoke them.
Seeing the commotion at Prestayn Hall, many boatmen paused their work to watch the spectacle.
Although Prestayn Hall was private property, the great families of Braavos were as wealthy as princes, and their compounds were like palaces.
Viserys slowly ascended the white veined marble steps of Prestayn Hall, his gaze lifting with each step.
This would be his grand finale in Braavos. Having stirred up so much trouble, the Sealord likely wouldn't appreciate a political refugee who caused such a scene.
But all that was in the past. First, he would avenge Moro; then, he would leave Braavos.
The Prestayn guards, hands on their slender swords, wore grave expressions. This visitor clearly did not come with good intentions.
But they dared not strike lightly. From his build and bearing, this silver-haired man was a dangerous killer.
Moreover, the crabbers from the icy seas had caused trouble here before; they were all blacklisted individuals.
Beneath the high arch of the Prestayn family courtyard, Viserys lifted the cover of the silver platter, revealing the head of a dead tuna.
He had originally thought of a horse head or a pig head, but in this harbor city, a fish head was more fitting.
The bloody, severed fish head sat beneath the Prestayn archway like a silent, gory accusation.
"Gods, is that a fish head? Did I see that right?"
"Who is that silver-haired young man? He's provoking the Prestayns. Old Prestayn will be furious."
"It's the descendant of Dragonlords, the exiled Viserys."
"Isn't that the Beggar King?"
The sight of the fish head brought the atmosphere to a boiling point. Fishermen and sailors pointed and whispered.
For the Prestayn family, such a naked provocation was a rare occurrence.
"I have a gift for Yoro Prestayn. A gift he cannot refuse," Viserys announced.
The guards' faces were long. Some gift. It's clearly a dead fish head.
Alarm bells began to ring, echoing through the Prestayn courtyard. Even the neighboring Antaryon compound took notice of the commotion.
The great doors opened, and the patriarch of the Prestayn family walked out first. He was very old; Viserys saw him as a decaying relic.
Yoro Prestayn followed behind him, flanked by the towering Titan's Bastard, Mero, and other guards.
The guards were tall and burly, carrying the slender swords characteristic of the Free Cities.
"You seek death," Yoro saw the fish head and burned with rage.
He hadn't expected Viserys Targaryen to be so ungrateful.
To make such a scene at the Prestayn gates over the life of a mere Water Dancer.
Especially seeing the men Viserys brought with him—those fierce sailors reeking of salt and dried fish.
These crabbers had old grudges against the Prestayn family.
"Silence, Yoro." Old Prestayn stopped his heir, looking at the young man before him—the exiled king.
His son was as stupid as a fish, and his henchman, the "Titan's Bastard," was a greedy, crude fool.
Even if they wanted to recruit talent, there was no need to be so vicious.
Some people respond to soft tactics, not hard ones. Besides, this Viserys was skilled at maneuvering.
In his short time in Braavos, he had built connections with the Black Pearl, the Nightingale, the Crab Tycoon, and the former First Sword.
Most importantly, there was the Sealord's attitude. The Sealord was silent and reserved; no one knew which side he would support.
And what could escape the Sealord's eyes? The Prestayn courtyard was right next to the Antaryon courtyard.
This was embarrassing enough. As soon as this matter was settled, he would kick that crude thug Mero out immediately.
"Young man, such rudeness is not the way of etiquette. Especially for one born of the ancient and noble Dragonlord family. You should not act like a street ruffian," Old Prestayn said, glancing at the crowded canal.
Regardless of how this was handled today, the Prestayn family had lost face.
"Your son's dog killed my friend," Viserys stated.
"Such is the life of a Water Dancer, young man. They often choose duels," Old Prestayn said patiently, trying to stabilize the situation. "But bringing a dead fish head and a mob of reeking sailors... have you lost your mind?"
"I have not. I believe I have found the path to truth. I demand a duel with Yoro Prestayn." Viserys drew Flash Silver and pointed it at Yoro.
"By the gods above, perhaps we shall see a splendid dance."
This wasn't the first duel between a Dragonlord descendant and a Braavosi. Years ago, the "Rogue Prince" Daemon fell for Laena Velaryon. He provoked her fiancé—the son of a former Sealord who had squandered his fortune—and easily killed him in a duel.
"Viserys, we could discuss this properly. We can offer gold to compensate for your loss," Old Prestayn gritted his teeth. This boy went straight for the kill. He knew his son; Yoro was not built for this.
"Truth lies in the sword. I do not need money. I am here to avenge my friend."
"Accept it!"
"Accept it!"
The sailors, never ones to shy away from a spectacle, booed loudly seeing Yoro cowering in the back.
Jeers and catcalls filled the air.
Judging purely by appearance, Yoro wasn't fit to lick Viserys's boots. In terms of physique and ferocity, the gap was even wider.
Yoro's face turned blotchy, red and white, but he didn't dare step forward to speak.
However, to be challenged to a duel and remain a silent coward meant his reputation in Braavos would be ruined forever.
"He is no prince! He is a mad dog, a lunatic!" Yoro Prestayn shouted.
"Duels are dangerous, Viserys." Old Prestayn's face remained grim, but his mind raced. If he dies in a duel, he can only blame his own bad luck.