aFireFist
A Life in Westeros
Chapter 14 - Part 3
Adian ran his hand slowly down her back, palm gliding over the smooth curve of her spine and the soft swell of her ass. He felt the faint tremors still running through her from the orgasms, the way her body remained relaxed and spent against him. "I'll set everything up here before I leave," he said quietly, his voice low and steady in the quiet room. "Stronger watches on the canals, better contacts in the trading houses, extra coin for the right people. You won't be alone. And I'll send word as soon as I can—routed through the usual channels so no one can trace it back."
She nodded against his neck, her silver hair tickling his chest as she shifted closer. Her full breasts pressed warmly against him, still slightly sticky from the milk that had leaked during their fucking. "Just come back to us. To me," she murmured, the words half plea, half promise. "The manse feels different when you're here. Safer. Warmer. The children… they light up when you walk into the courtyard. Even Viserys, for all his sulking, listens to you more than anyone else."
Adian's fingers continued their slow path along her back, tracing the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. He could feel the faint stickiness of cum on her thighs where it had leaked out, warm and slick against his skin. "I know," he said after a moment. "I see it too. Daenerys follows me like a little shadow now, always wanting 'up.' Rhaenys watches everything with those sharp eyes of hers, learning more than she lets on. And Viserys… he's got fire, but he needs to learn how to point it without burning himself first. I'll make sure the protection here holds while I'm gone. No risks."
Rhaella lifted her head slightly, violet eyes meeting his in the low lamplight. A small, tired smile curved her lips. "You always plan three steps ahead. It's one of the things I've come to rely on. But promise me you won't take stupid chances on the way back. The whispers from Pentos… they worry me. Illyrio's reach is long, and the Iron Bank notices everything that smells of steady coin."
"I don't take stupid chances," Adian replied, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck gently. "I take calculated ones. The routes through the Neck are solid because of Barbrey and the deals we've made. The gold flows, the lords stay fed and paid, and that keeps them useful. I'll tighten everything when I get there. Make sure the web holds no matter what happens with Robert."
She let out a soft breath and rested her head back on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Her fingers resumed their slow tracing of his scars, circling the one on his shoulder with particular care. "That wound from the pirates still bothers you sometimes, doesn't it? I saw you favor the other arm during training with Viserys yesterday."
"It pulls a little when I twist wrong," he admitted, voice even. "But it's healing. Nothing that will slow me down. I've had worse and kept moving."
They stayed like that for a long time, bodies sticky with sweat, milk, and cum, the sheets tangled around their legs. The room was quiet except for their breathing and the distant, muffled sounds of the canal outside—boatmen calling softly, water lapping against stone. Rhaella's hand eventually stilled on his chest, her touch growing heavier as exhaustion settled in. Adian kept his arm around her, fingers idly stroking her back, letting the quiet stretch. These moments were rare—peaceful pockets in a life built on survival and long games. He let himself enjoy it, the warmth of her body, the way she fit against him, the faint scent of lavender soap mixed with the heavier musk of their sex.
Eventually, Rhaella shifted, pressing one more kiss to his collarbone before settling more comfortably. "Stay with me until morning," she whispered. "Just until then."
"I'm not going anywhere tonight," he murmured back.
The next morning Adian moved quickly, the quiet intimacy of the night giving way to sharp focus. He left the manse before the children were fully awake, slipping out through the side entrance with a cloak pulled low. The streets and canals of Braavos were already stirring, merchants calling out, poleboats gliding through the water, the faint smell of fresh bread and fish mixing with the ever-present brine.
He met two of his Braavosi contacts at a quiet warehouse near the Purple Harbor. The building was nondescript, tucked behind stacked crates and hanging nets, the air inside thick with the smell of salt, rope, and old wood. The two men waited in a back room lit by a single lantern. One was a wiry trader with sharp eyes, the other a scarred former sailor whose hands looked like they had spent more time on ropes than ledgers.
They spoke in low voices, maps and lists spread on a rough table. Adian laid out the new watch rotations for the manse—extra eyes on the rooftops, the water gate, and the narrow alleys nearby. A secondary safe house deeper in the city's quieter districts was confirmed, stocked with supplies and a fast boat. Gold changed hands in heavy pouches, enough to buy real loyalty and silence from the right people.
"Double the eyes on the canals around the manse," Adian ordered, his voice calm but firm. "Anyone asking about silver hair, unusual visitors, or the household routine gets reported immediately. No chances. Pay the watchers extra and make sure they know what happens if they slip."
The wiry trader nodded, counting the coins quickly. "It will be done. We've already shifted the kitchen girl's family to a safer district as well. She won't talk."
The scarred sailor leaned forward, voice gravelly. "We also heard the Iron Bank has been asking about steady grain and wool flows from the Neck. Their factors are making quiet inquiries in the trading houses. They smell reliable profit and want to know who truly controls it."
Adian's expression didn't change, but his mind turned fast. "Let them smell it," he said. "But keep them at arm's length for now. We control the routes. That's our leverage. If they push, we'll talk terms on our terms. For now, watch and report."
The meeting wrapped quickly. The men bowed slightly as Adian left, the weight of the new arrangements settling over him. He felt sharper for it—the pieces were moving, protections strengthening. But the whispers from Pentos still sat heavy in the back of his mind. Illyrio's shadow was long, and the Iron Bank never forgot a profitable thread.
That evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the canals in deep oranges and reds, Adian took a poleboat across the water for a final meeting with a masked Braavosi fixer who could arrange even more discreet protection. The boat moved slowly through the narrow waterways, the pole dipping rhythmically into the dark water. Lanterns from nearby buildings reflected off the surface like scattered coins. Adian kept one hand near the hilt of his knife under his cloak, eyes scanning the shadows of alleys and bridges as they passed. The air was cooler now, carrying the faint rot of low tide mixed with cooking smells from the kitchens along the canal.
The attack came fast and without warning.
Three men in plain, nondescript cloaks jumped from a side alley onto the boat, the vessel rocking dangerously with the sudden weight. One swung a short blade at the boatman, the steel whistling through the air. The other two came straight for Adian, faces hidden by hoods, movements practiced and silent.
Adian moved on pure instinct, years of survival kicking in. His left shoulder still ached from the old pirate wound, a dull throb that flared with sudden motion, but adrenaline burned through it. He slammed his elbow hard into the first attacker's throat, the impact crunching cartilage. The man gurgled and staggered back. Adian drew his knife in the same motion and slashed low across the second man's thigh, opening a deep gash. Blood sprayed hot across the deck planks, making them slick.
The boat rocked wildly. The third man lunged with a dagger, blade glinting in the lantern light. Adian caught the wrist, twisted hard, and drove his own knife up under the ribs in a quick, vicious thrust. The attacker gasped, eyes widening, and crumpled. Adian shoved the body overboard with a grunt, the splash loud in the narrow canal.
The man with the slashed thigh tried to flee, slipping on the blood-slick wood. Adian kicked him hard in the face, boot connecting with a crunch, then finished him with a quick thrust to the neck. The boatman had taken a shallow cut to the arm but was still standing, pressing a rag to the wound and cursing under his breath.
"Seven hells," the boatman wheezed, face pale. "Who were they? Thieves? Assassins?"
"Hired thugs," Adian said, breathing hard but steady. His shoulder burned now, but he ignored it. He searched the bodies quickly, hands moving efficiently. A small pouch of coins, a cheap seal on one of the cloaks—nothing identifying, but the style and the quick, coordinated attack pointed toward Pentoshi money. Someone was getting nervous.
"Get us to the next landing," Adian ordered, wiping his knife clean. "I'll pay double for your silence and that arm. Patch it up and forget you saw anything."
The boatman nodded shakily, poling them forward with his good arm. The boat glided on, leaving the floating bodies behind in the dark water.
Adian made it to the meeting anyway, blood on his sleeve and knuckles bruised and raw. The masked fixer waited in a shadowed alcove, face hidden behind a simple grey mask. He didn't ask questions about the blood. They finalized the protection deal in terse, efficient sentences—more gold for more eyes, emergency signals, backup safe houses. Adian paid without hesitation. More protection. More eyes on the manse.
He left the meeting feeling the net tightening around them. The whispers were no longer just whispers. It was time to move.
The walk back through the shadowed streets and narrow bridges of Braavos felt longer than usual. Adian kept his cloak pulled low, one hand near his knife, eyes scanning every alley and passing boat. The blood on his sleeve had dried to a stiff, dark patch, pulling slightly with each step. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a dull reminder of the scuffle on the poleboat. The fixer's words echoed in his head—more eyes, more gold, more contingencies. It was enough for now, but "enough" in Braavos was a fragile thing.
Back at the manse, Rhaella met him at the door the moment he stepped inside. She had clearly been waiting, her face pale in the low lamplight from the hallway. Her eyes dropped immediately to the blood on his sleeve, and her expression tightened with sharp worry. The soft confidence she had worn these past weeks faltered for a second, replaced by the raw fear of someone who had already lost too much.
"It's not mine," he said quickly, closing the heavy door behind him and sliding the bolt into place with a solid click. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway. "Just a scuffle on the way. Nothing I couldn't handle. We're accelerating the plans. I'll sail for Westeros within the week."
She didn't speak at first. Instead she pulled him into a tight hug, arms wrapping around him with surprising strength. Her body pressed close, warm and familiar, the faint scent of lavender soap and the manse's herbs clinging to her hair. For a long moment she just held him, face buried against his chest, breathing him in. Then she pulled back, hands moving to his arms as she looked him over again, checking for other injuries.
"Come with me," she said, voice steady now but still carrying that edge of concern. She led him to the small side room they used for cleaning wounds and minor ailments. The space was simple—a sturdy table, a basin of clean water, strips of linen, and a few jars of salves Rhaenys had helped prepare. Rhaella guided him to sit on the edge of the table, then rolled up his sleeve with careful fingers. Her hands were steady as she wiped the dried blood off his arm, the cloth cool and damp against his skin. She worked in silence for a moment, dabbing at the shallow cuts on his knuckles, her touch gentle but thorough.
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