"Duels are dangerous, Viserys," said the decaying Old Prestayn, dressed in the dark brown attire favored by Braavosi nobles.
His outward humility couldn't mask the flash of shrewdness in his eyes.
Old Prestayn looked more like a cunning innkeeper than the patriarch of a great house. But these top-tier Braavosi nobles were all seasoned foxes; mediocrity was merely their protective coloring.
While the Prestayn family wasn't one of the Big Three, they were certainly within the top ten noble families of Braavos, with investments in various industries.
"I have danced the Water Dance at the Moon Pool. I know the dangers," Viserys replied, looking at Old Prestayn.
This old man was a master provocateur. His words were clearly designed to trap Viserys on the duel stage.
"Accept him! Accept him, Little Prestayn!"
"Little Prestayn, come out and fight!"
The Free Cities were filled with sellswords and bravos; duels were nothing unusual to these people.
Yoro Prestayn's face grew uglier by the second. Ask him to chase courtesans, drink, feast, or manage the insurance brokerage, and he was in his element. But facing a battlefield of blood and stench? He dared not show his face.
Besides, Old Prestayn had more than one son. Even if Yoro died, there were others to take the heir's seat.
Madman. The Targaryens truly are full of madmen, Yoro cursed inwardly.
"In that case," Old Prestayn looked at Viserys, "my son Yoro is not skilled in the song of steel. Even in a duel, it is permissible to use a champion to fight for his honor. You should know we have the custom of whipping boys here."
A whipping boy was usually a child of low birth raised by a wealthy family to take physical punishment in place of the young master when he erred.
Old Prestayn didn't want to say more. Since enmity had been forged, he needed to use thunderous methods.
This Viserys was aggressive and fierce, unlike a typical noble scion. He resembled the cruel and dangerous "Rogue Prince" Daemon more than anyone else.
After all, he was a descendant of Aegon the Conqueror; the fiery temper was in his blood.
An exiled Viserys with ability, ruthlessness, and—most importantly—a strong sense of loyalty was a threat.
Since the Prestayn family had thoroughly offended the exiled dragon, they should leave no room for mercy.
"Coward!"
"Coward!"
"Chicken Prestayn!"
"Once upon a time, there was a coward named King Prestayn!"
The sailors laughed uproariously, especially the crabbers from the icy seas.
The surrounding boatmen and merchants joined in with booing.
The principal refused to duel, sending a servant instead.
People preferred to watch nobles kill each other personally. Seeing them use champions took a lot of the fun out of it.
"Syrio?" Old Prestayn asked.
"Syrio will not fight," Viserys answered.
This was his personal grudge; he didn't want it spreading to Syrio.
Old Prestayn breathed a sigh of relief. Syrio Forel was the former First Sword to the Sealord, his reputation immense. In current Braavos, aside from the reigning First Sword Qarro, few could match him.
Even if the Prestayn family wanted to hire a champion, no one could rival Syrio.
If Viserys fought personally, the pressure on the Prestayn family would be significantly less.
"Who should we choose?" Old Prestayn began to consider candidates. The Prestayn family had money; they could bribe famous swordsmen.
"The Sealord is here."
"The Sealord has arrived."
A commotion rippled through the crowd. The Sealord, aboard a pleasure barge festooned with smiling faces, arrived alongside the Prestayn Hall via the canal.
Though not large, the barge was magnificent, a symbol of the Sealord's power in Braavos.
Viserys had caused enough of a stir to bring the Sealord himself to the scene.
Sealord Ferrego Antaryon, protected by Qarro and the Sealord's guard, ascended the steps to the domed gate of Prestayn Hall.
"It is lively today," Ferrego said with dissatisfaction. "You are making such a racket that the canal is blocked."
"Please forgive us, my Sealord," Old Prestayn apologized immediately.
They were acquaintances—Prestayn and Antaryon were neighbors—but the Sealord was the Sealord, and the Antaryon family was far more powerful.
"What exactly are you doing?" demanded First Sword Qarro angrily, clearly with the Sealord's authorization.
This Viserys Targaryen... even in exile, he wasn't quiet. He really knew how to create a spectacle. Though talented, he was a thorough troublemaker.
"My friend Moro died at the hands of the Prestayn guard, Mero. It was a threat to me because I refused to sign a brokerage contract with Little Prestayn—much like those insurance contracts of yours," Viserys answered calmly. "Because of this, I brought a gift and demanded a duel with Little Prestayn."
"Is what he says true?" Sealord Ferrego asked. Though his voice wasn't loud, it carried unquestionable authority.
Yoro Prestayn flushed red. "My Sealord, there is a reason for this. I thought the Silver Traveler's songs were good and simply wanted Viserys to attend a banquet, with the hope of signing him. It was out of love for talent. As for the Water Dancer, it was indeed my subordinate who was too heavy-handed."
"Enough," Sealord Ferrego huffed. "Little Prestayn, you don't qualify as a shrewd insurance broker."
"What should I call you? Silver Traveler, Violet Swordsman, or Viserys? You truly are a troublemaker," Ferrego looked at Viserys.
Silver Traveler, Violet Swordsman... no, they were all Viserys.
From this day forward, as the news spread, Viserys would truly make a name for himself.
"Viserys will do," Viserys replied.
Sealord Ferrego examined the dead fish head carefully. "This is your gift, Viserys Targaryen?"
"Yes," Viserys nodded.
"Alright, the farce is over. I suggest you all return to your respective places," Ferrego advised.
A duel between two parties wasn't something power could easily stop; he could only offer advice.
"My Sealord, we have decided on a duel," Viserys stated.
"Correct. This duel also concerns the face of the Prestayn family," Old Prestayn emphasized.
"Very well. Since you are both so stubborn... regardless of the outcome, I must decree one condition," the Sealord touched the ring on his finger. "For fairness, the Prestayn family can only choose a champion from within their household. And the same applies to Viserys."
The Sealord's words effectively eliminated the possibility of outside reinforcements. Famous swordsmen usually operated independently, not as household guards. As for Viserys, he wasn't allowed to use Syrio.
The Sealord had considered this clash carefully.
"I represent myself," Viserys responded.
"In that case, Mero, you will serve as my son's champion," Old Prestayn said. Mero was in his prime, and though crude, his skill was undeniable.
Mero was a dangerous killer, larger and older than Viserys. Generally, such a matchup would be heavily weighted against the boy.
The Prestayn family thought victory was within reach.
"Then it is decided. Seven days from now, the duel will be held at the Moon Pool. I hear seven is a sacred number. My swordsman Qarro, Syrio, the Black Pearl, and Old Prestayn will serve as witnesses."
"I accept. Thank you, my Sealord. Seven days," Viserys nodded. If it was Mero, he could handle it.
"Thank you, my Sealord," Old Prestayn replied.
"Silver boy, I hope you don't die as miserably as that Moro," Mero sneered.
"I have a feeling you'll die much worse."
Sealord Ferrego resolved the immediate trouble with a few words. Since they wanted to fight to the death, let them. He was tired.
After the Sealord's intervention and the setting of the date, the crowd was left wanting more. It was sure to be a spectacular fight.
The noisy scene began to quiet down, and the Prestayn family had the large fish head removed.
"Let's go," Syrio whispered to Viserys. "Time is tight. The Titan's Bastard might hire someone for training. And you... I think you should observe the falling tide and the stacking waves. There is beauty in that."