Braavos was a city of secrets.
Mist, masks, whispers, and hidden schemes filled every corner of the ancient city. Nothing here was ever as simple as it appeared.
Braavosi ships used the Purple Harbor, which stretched from the flooded town to the House of the Sea Lord. Ships arriving from the other Free Cities and distant lands, however, usually docked at Ragman's Harbor.
Compared to the Purple Harbor, Ragman's Harbor was rougher, dirtier, noisier, and far less refined.
Sailors, merchants, adventurers, and travelers from every corner of the world crowded its docks and narrow streets. Some came looking for business, others for entertainment, and many were simply searching for easy prey.
Of all the places in Braavos, Myrcella liked Ragman's Harbor the most.
Perhaps it was because she could occasionally hear the familiar accents of Westeros.
"There are no trees here," Myrcella said sadly.
She had grown up in King's Landing, where the southern bank was surrounded by greenery. Even the Red Keep contained beautiful gardens.
"Braavos is a city of stone," Ser Allar said. He, too, found the place strangely different from Westeros.
Then he lowered his voice.
"My Lady, this is not a place for a respectable girl."
Ser Allar carefully scanned the crowd around them.
The weather was cold, and he had changed into gray-brown clothing to blend in with the local people. Most importantly, he had concealed his white cloak.
If anyone discovered that he was a Kingsguard escorting a Lannister princess, both he and Myrcella could become targets.
Especially dangerous were the sailors who spoke with Westerosi accents.
Stormlanders, Dornishmen, Northerners, Vale men, and Riverlanders had little love for the Lannisters. Sailors from the Triarchy were equally unpredictable, while those from Volantis might see Myrcella as nothing more than a valuable bargaining chip.
Myrish and Tyroshi merchants were usually eager to please their superiors, but that did not make them trustworthy.
"I want to see if there are any ships that can take me home," Myrcella said softly.
She wore a gray cloak, and her hood covered most of her golden curls. However, it could not completely hide her beautiful, doll-like face.
Myrcella looked around the harbor.
She recognized many different peoples.
There were loud Tyroshi sailors with colorful beards and booming voices. Fair-haired Lyseni merchants argued over prices. Short, stout Ibbenese sailors with thick hair muttered curses in deep voices.
Then there were the people from the Summer Isles.
Myrcella knew them better than most.
A prince from the Summer Isles had once visited the royal court in King's Landing. Her mother had called him a vagabond and a beggar.
The people of the Summer Isles had smooth, dark skin like polished teak. They wore cloaks decorated with red, green, and yellow feathers, while their famous swan ships possessed towering masts and enormous white sails.
I am a wanderer too, Myrcella thought.
But unlike them, I have a duty.
She looked toward the sea.
More than anything, she both hoped for and dreaded seeing ships from the western lands.
Broad-sailed ships from Oldtown.
Merchant vessels from Duskendale, King's Landing, and Gulltown.
Wine barges from the Arbor.
Whenever ships arrived from Westeros, they seemed to carry nothing but bad news.
"My brother is dead," Myrcella whispered. "And my uncle has been captured."
Ser Allar nodded heavily.
"Indeed."
The news from Westeros had become increasingly grim.
Cersei and Tywin had barely escaped the war, retreating from King's Landing toward the Westerlands. Meanwhile, songs praising the Storm's victories were spreading throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
The Lannister cause was rapidly approaching the brink of collapse.
Myrcella lowered her head.
What can I do?
She wasn't a warrior.
She was only a girl.
"Let's go, My Lady. It's time to return," Ser Allar said.
Among the crowds were guards sent by the Sea Lord, as well as Westerlands soldiers. Many others who had come from King's Landing had already scattered like frightened animals as the situation deteriorated.
Some had become lost in Braavos's mist, wine, pleasures, and women, completely forgetting their responsibility to protect the princess.
"Then let's go back, Ser."
Myrcella was ready to leave. The cold air around the harbor had begun to make her uncomfortable.
"As you command."
Ser Allar led her along the cobblestone streets beside the canals.
Eventually, Myrcella climbed into a narrow sedan chair.
Braavos was unlike any city she had ever seen.
Waterways ran everywhere. Smaller streams flowed into larger canals, and countless tributaries branched off in different directions.
Some houses had even been built directly over the waterways, creating dark tunnels beneath them.
Narrow, snake-like boats traveled through those tunnels. Their prows were brightly painted, while their sterns curved sharply upward. Instead of oars, the boatmen pushed themselves forward using long poles.
In the distance, Myrcella spotted a massive gray limestone aqueduct.
Three enormous arches supported the structure as it stretched into the southern mist.
The aqueduct carried water from the mainland, crossing marshes and shallow waterways before delivering clean freshwater to Braavos's fountains and pools.
"So many boats," Myrcella murmured.
She lifted the curtain and counted them.
There were narrow boats resembling snakes, large flat barges stacked with barrels and boxes, and even strange floating houses decorated with colored glass, velvet curtains, and brass ornaments.
Then Myrcella saw something particularly interesting.
A pleasure boat belonging to the famous courtesans of Braavos.
"It's the Black Pearl," one of the Sea Lord's guards whispered excitedly.
The magnificent pleasure boat carried large black pearl banners at both ends. Servants stood aboard, carefully guiding the vessel toward its next appointment.
Myrcella had heard countless stories about the famous courtesans.
"The Poetess always carries a book," she quietly recalled.
"Moonshadow wears nothing but white and silver."
"The Mermaid Queen is always surrounded by her four mermaids, young women who lift her skirts and arrange her long hair."
"And only a lover personally approved by the Veiled Lady is allowed to see her face."
She paused.
"And then there's the Black Pearl."
Among them all, she was the most famous.
People whispered that she possessed the blood of ancient dragonlords.
Myrcella had memorized the reputations of each woman.
She wasn't merely watching them.
She was learning.
"My Lady, they are just…" Ser Allar began awkwardly.
He didn't finish.
In his mind, they were simply extremely expensive whores who manipulated powerful men.
Yet even he knew better than to underestimate them.
Every famous courtesan in Braavos possessed an enormous network of connections. Powerful men could become obsessed with them, and some would even draw their swords simply for the chance to earn one of their smiles.
"To sleep with the Black Pearl even once would make a man's entire life worthwhile!"
An oyster seller leaning against the canal railing spoke dreamily.
His skinny female companion immediately mocked him.
"What are you dreaming about? Women like that are for nobles. Someone like you can't even get close to her."
She snorted.
"Even if a wealthy merchant wanted to meet her, he'd probably have to sell his ship first."
The oyster seller ignored her.
"Delicious oysters! Miss Black Pearl!"
Everyone knew that the famous courtesans were generous with their money. They could easily pay ten times the normal price for the finest seafood.
Then the female vendor suddenly noticed a glimpse of golden hair beneath Myrcella's hood.
"Beautiful young lady! Would you like some oysters?"
Myrcella stopped.
"What flavor?"
Ser Allar immediately stepped forward.
"My Lady, we cannot—"
"Mine have hot sauce!" the oyster girl enthusiastically announced. "There are oysters and scallops inside."
Myrcella looked at the guards.
"Buy some for the people protecting us."
Ser Allar hesitated, then nodded.
He couldn't bring himself to refuse the princess's kindness.
Half of the guards ate while the others remained alert, keeping watch over their surroundings.
The Black Pearl's pleasure boat soon moved away, leaving a trail of ripples behind it.
Taking advantage of the noise and excitement, the female oyster vendor quietly approached Myrcella.
"I'm often here," she said.
Myrcella looked at her ordinary face.
"I know. You disappear for three days, then spend the rest of your time here."
The woman was surprised.
"You recognize me?"
"Of course."
Myrcella smiled faintly.
"Your face is ordinary. You're neither particularly tall nor short. But you have a black mole beneath your ear."
She paused.
"And your oysters always taste like hot sauce."
The vendor stared at her before breaking into a smile.
"You really are a clever girl."
Then her expression softened.
"And kind-hearted too."
She studied Myrcella for a moment.
"You seem sad."
Myrcella nodded.
The vendor lowered her voice.
"Death looks upon everyone equally. And sometimes, it comes without warning."
Her voice was so soft that only Myrcella could hear it.
At the same time, her male companion loudly began advertising the oysters again, drowning out the conversation.
"This is for you, kind young lady. Eat it well."
She handed Myrcella a large, plump scallop that resembled a white moon.
Myrcella hesitated before accepting it.
She hadn't noticed the cold hatred hidden behind the woman's ordinary appearance.
Instead, the vendor had treated her gently.
"Let's go, My Lady," Ser Allar called.
Myrcella followed him.
Only after they had gone some distance did she carefully open the scallop.
Her eyes widened.
Hidden inside was a small coin.
It was old and precious.
Written upon it were words she didn't understand:
All men must die. All men must serve. If you wish to find us, give the coin to any Braavosi and say: Valar Morghulis.
Myrcella carefully concealed the coin.
She said nothing.
It was only slightly larger than a copper penny, with an iron edge that had already begun to rust.
One side bore strange writing.
The other showed the worn image of a man's head.
The words written on the scallop slowly faded, disappearing like ink washed away by water.
But one phrase remained firmly etched in Myrcella's mind.
Valar Morghulis.
"My Lady, was the scallop delicious?" Ser Allar asked hesitantly.
Myrcella smiled faintly.
"More delicious than anything I've ever eaten."
She lowered her eyes.
Am I one of them?
Am I a lion? A stag?
Or am I simply myself?
Compared with the cruel and beaten Joffrey, King Robert remained, in Myrcella's memories, a reckless but kind-hearted father.
---
Behind the curtains of the Black Pearl's pleasure boat, Belysa Otherys sat quietly.
She was so beautiful that the lanterns seemed to shine brighter whenever she passed beneath them.
In truth, she might have been better described as the Brown Pearl.
She wore a dark yellow silk gown with a daring neckline. The color contrasted beautifully against her smooth brown skin.
Her black hair was gathered into an elegant arrangement held together by a golden net.
Around her neck hung a necklace of black jade and gold.
"Are you really going there?" her attendant asked.
"Westeros?"
She grimaced.
"The stinking King's Landing?"
The Black Pearl laughed softly.
"Why shouldn't I go?"
"It's a wonderful opportunity. Perhaps I'll even find myself a pleasant suitor."
Her smile widened.
"Women are better at judging men than men are at judging themselves."
"I want to see the Storm with my own eyes."
"And once I have gathered enough information, everyone will value what I know."
"The Sea Lord, other nobles, merchants… they'll all have reasons to thank me."
"I understand," the maid replied with a nod.
The Black Pearl looked at her.
"Do you know what is most important for a courtesan?"
"Beauty?"
"No."
"Legend."
The Black Pearl smiled.
"The more legendary the story surrounding a courtesan, the more valuable she becomes."
"For example, me."
"The first Black Pearl was a pirate queen. Her father was the son of the Sea Lord, while her mother was a princess from the Summer Isles."
"She was even the lover of a dragonrider from Westeros."
The maid nodded, though she only half understood.
After leaving the room, she quietly closed the door.
The Black Pearl remained alone.
"So many people want information about him."
"The Storm."
"The blasphemer."
"The descendant of the dragonrider."
"An extraordinary bloodline…"
A single piece of information could be exchanged with several different parties.
The Sea Lord.
The next Sea Lord.
The commander of the naval fleet.
This was the true web of Braavos.
Courtesans were part of that web.
They exchanged secrets, rumors, and intelligence, connecting powerful people without them even realizing it.
And sometimes, their information reached even darker organizations.
"The Faceless Men…"
The Black Pearl whispered the words.
"Valar Morghulis."
She had her own relationship with the Faceless Men.
They had helped one another before.
They owed each other favors.
That was simply how she survived.
---
Meanwhile, on the Kingsroad, a group of Dornishmen traveled north.
They had crossed the Boneway and turned east near Summerhall.
At the head of the group rode the Red Viper, Prince Oberyn Martell, alongside his niece, Arianne Martell.
Arianne was visibly pleased.
This wasn't merely a diplomatic mission.
It was also an opportunity to demonstrate that she was the heir to Dorne.
"I hope the gifts we prepared will please the King and Queen," Oberyn said.
"I'm sure they will, Uncle."
Arianne smiled.
She was a beautiful young woman with olive-colored skin, large black eyes, and glossy black curls.
Her only obvious flaw was her height.
Like her mother, she was barely five feet two inches tall.
Oberyn glanced at her.
Arianne was considered one of the great beauties of Dorne.
She was charming and alluring.
Unfortunately, her short stature made her less suitable for certain marriage alliances.
Her private life was also notoriously complicated.
She might be capable of ruling Dorne, but Oberyn wasn't convinced she would make the ideal bride for a powerful foreign alliance.
"It would be better if you were taller," he said.
"But if it were your brother, he'd look more like an Yronwood."
Quentyn had been sent to Lord Anders Yronwood as a foster son when he was very young.
He had served as the lord's cupbearer and squire.
When he grew older, Quentyn rejected Oberyn's offer and instead chose to be knighted by Lord Yronwood.
Arianne secretly felt relieved.
For years, she had feared that her father, Prince Doran, would favor her brothers and eventually strip her of her position as heir to Dorne.
"It's a shame we couldn't find the best gift," Oberyn said with a hint of regret.
"I brought the Mountain's head, but that alone may not be enough."
Arianne looked at him.
"Where do you think it is?"
"The King died on the Boneway, and the dragonrider was captured there."
Oberyn narrowed his eyes.
"I suspect Aegon the Conqueror's crown was lost somewhere around that battlefield."
"And your brother refuses to tell us anything."
He clicked his tongue.
"I still suspect House Yronwood."
House Yronwood was one of the strongest houses in Dorne, second only to House Martell.
Their titles included Bloodroyal, Lord of Yronwood, and Warden of the Stone Way.
They controlled the valleys and green hills surrounding the Stone Way, while the mountains provided a natural barrier around their territory.
Their lands were rich in timber and mineral deposits, making House Yronwood one of the wealthiest and most powerful houses in Dorne.
"Would they really dare?" Arianne asked.
"Why wouldn't they?"
Oberyn's expression was calm.
"House Yronwood joined the Cold Iron three times. They even participated in the Blackfyre Rebellion."
"But they were never truly punished."
"Because Dorne's population is too small."
Oberyn looked toward the road ahead.
"Long ago, the Young Dragon greatly exaggerated the population of Dorne and the number of soldiers we could field."
"We were happy to let him believe it."
"But the truth is that Dorne has the smallest population among the great regions."
"Because of that, we cannot afford a full-scale war with the Lords of the Marches. Such a conflict would bleed Dorne dry."
Dorne had its sand snakes, salt snakes, and stone snakes.
House Martell had always struggled to maintain control over the proud Lords of the Marches, and tensions between them had existed for generations.
Oberyn looked toward his niece.
"Summer is gone, Arianne."
"The Long Winter is coming."
He paused.
"It is our duty to protect Dorne."
Then his eyes narrowed.
"And perhaps…"
"Perhaps the Long Winter is not only a crisis."
"It may also be an opportunity."
________________________________________
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