Chapter 55: Braavos and Nobles
The sight of Braavos rising from the waters of the Narrow Sea was impressive even to men who'd seen a hundred ports. The great Titan dominated the skyline, its bronze form green with age and salt, watching over the city like some ancient god. Artos stood at the bow of the merchant vessel that had carried them across the sea, stretching his arms and back with a groan that suggested the journey had taken more of a toll than he cared to admit.
"Finally we've reached this damned city," he muttered, his voice carrying the particular satisfaction of a man who'd endured something unpleasant and lived to complain about it. "Aye, aye—we made it."
Waymar appeared at his shoulder, similarly stiff from days aboard ship. "It was a long journey, Commander. But we're here now."
On the dock, a familiar figure awaited them. Ronan stood with the easy confidence of a man in his element, his merchant's robes catching the afternoon light. The smile on his face was genuine, though Artos read the calculation beneath it immediately.
"Welcome once again to the City of Braavos, my friends," Ronan said, spreading his arms in an exaggerated gesture of hospitality. "I trust your journey was uneventful and reasonably comfortable?"
Artos laughed, the sound carrying genuine amusement even as his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Rest with your gestures, Ronan. I know you're a merchant, and I can read that smile like a ledger. That particular expression means I'm about to be scammed somehow. Or at the very least, you've arranged something that will cost me more than I initially agreed to pay."
Waymar and several of the men laughed, recognizing the familiar dynamic between their commander and the merchant who'd become something like a business partner.
Ronan grinned wider, clearly unbothered by the accusation. "You wound me, Commander. Here I am, genuinely pleased to see you, and you immediately assume the worst of my intentions."
"Because your intentions are always something," Artos replied, but there was warmth beneath the accusation. "Though I'll grant that they're usually profitable intentions, at least."
Ronan replied, his expression becoming more genuinely pleased. "Your mead is selling faster than anything right now. I've seen the numbers myself. So don't think I will not call on you that you're also a merchant now. Between the mercenary contracts and the business ventures, you're accumulating wealth at a rate that would make most nobles weep with envy."
"We also have a long relationship backing all this," Artos added. "And aren't I invested in you through the Manderlys as well? It's all one enterprise, really. We profit together or suffer together. That's how partnerships work."
"Exactly," Ronan agreed. "Which is why I've taken the liberty of making certain arrangements. But that can wait. Your men look exhausted from the journey. They need rest, food, and most importantly, they need to drink something that isn't sea water."
" Now that," Artos said with genuine satisfaction, "is something I can appreciate. Lead on, Ronan. Let's see what accommodations you've arranged."
Morning light filtered through expensive shutters as Artos emerged from his chamber, feeling substantially more human than he had the previous evening. The tavern Ronan had arranged was more akin to a small inn. His men had spread throughout the establishment, sleeping off the journey with the contentment of soldiers who'd learned to sleep whenever and wherever possible.
A knock at his door preceded Ronan's entrance, the merchant carrying an armload of expensive-looking cloth that he deposited carefully on the bed.
"What in the seven hells is this?" Artos demanded, eyeing the fabrics with suspicion.
"Clothing befitting a man of your current station," Ronan replied, already beginning to sort through the garments. "Noble wear, well-made, clearly expensive. You're no longer just a sellsword captain, 'Hal'. You're a merchant yourself now, a man of considerable wealth and influence. You need to look the part."
Artos groaned. "You're going to make me play dress-up like some lord. I hate this, Ronan. Truly, I hate everything about this."
"And yet you'll do it anyway," Ronan said with the confidence of a man who'd already won this particular argument before it began. "Because tonight, we're attending a gathering of some of the most influential figures in Essos. Magisters, merchants, minor nobility—people who can either become valuable contacts or dangerous enemies, depending on how you present yourself."
"This is punishment for something, isn't it?" Artos asked, examining the clothing with growing resignation. "What did I do that was so terrible that I deserve this?"
"You're a successful man now," Ronan replied, selecting a deep blue tunic with silver threading. "Successful men have to engage in politics. They have to network. They have to present themselves as more than just competent swordsmen."
Artos muttered curses under his breath, but he began to undress nonetheless. Within the hour, he was standing before a mirror wearing clothing that he had to grudgingly admit fit him well. The blue brought out his eyes, and the silver threading suggested wealth without being ostentatious about it.
"You look like a proper merchant now, Commander" Waymar observed, appearing in the doorway. The young knight had already dressed in his own finery, which suited him far better than it suited Artos.
"I look like a fool playing dress-up," Artos replied. "But if it must be done, let it be done quickly."
The gathering Ronan had arranged was taking place in a grand residence overlooking the harbor. Elegant men and women moved through the rooms with the particular grace that came from generations of inherited wealth and power. Servants circulated with wine and small foods, and the air was thick with the kind of quiet conversation that suggested significant negotiations were occurring beneath the surface pleasantries.
Ronan moved through the crowd with practiced ease, introducing Artos—still going by the name Hal—to various figures of importance. Most of them had heard something of his reputation, and their reactions ranged from cautious respect to barely concealed wariness.
"You should meet Illyrio Motapis," Ronan said at one point, guiding Artos toward a man with and the kind of calm authority that suggested power. "One of the most influential magisters in Pentos. He has connections throughout Essos and considerable resources. A useful man to have as an ally."
Illyrio greeted them with the courtesy of a man accustomed to dealing with important people. He was knowledgeable about Artos's recent victories and made polite but pointed inquiries about his future intentions in Essos. There was calculation in those pale eyes, though Artos couldn't quite determine if it was calculated interest or calculated threat.
"I've heard remarkable things about your abilities," Ilarrio said, his accent carrying traces of Pentosi origins. "The business with the Unsullied was particularly impressive. Not many men have successfully defeated soldiers trained since childhood for that specific purpose."
"The Unsullied are formidable," Artos replied, accepting a cup of wine from a passing servant. "But they're not invincible. They rely on discipline and formation. Break the formation, scatter the discipline, and they're just men with spears like any others."
"A pragmatic assessment," Ilarrio observed. "Most would romanticize such a victory. You simply state facts. I appreciate that quality in a man."
The conversation continued, touching on various topics—trade routes, the current state of military contracts, the economics of the Free Cities. Ronan interjected occasionally to clarify certain points or to steer the conversation in particular directions.At one point, Illyrio mentioned a rival magistrate named Lysandro Vex, whose interests apparently conflicted with his own in several key trade disputes. The way Illyrio spoke suggested that he might be interested in hiring someone like Artos to address those conflicts through more direct means, though he was careful not to say so explicitly.
"I'll bear that in mind," Artos said diplomatically. "
But it was as they were moving away from Ilarrio that Ronan suddenly took Artos's arm and steered him toward another part of the gathering.
"There's someone I want you to meet," Ronan said, his tone suggesting he'd planned this particular introduction with some care.And that was when Artos saw her.
She stood near one of the great windows overlooking the harbor, the evening light catching her dark hair and illuminating her profile in a way that seemed almost deliberately artistic. She was tall for a woman, with the kind of bearing that suggested noble birth and considerable confidence. Her features were striking rather than conventionally beautiful—high cheekbones, dark eyes that seemed to hold intelligence and amusement in equal measure, a mouth that suggested she smiled readily but not foolishly.
"That," Ronan said quietly, "is Lady Seraphine Valen. One of the most prominent nobility in Braavos, daughter of a wealthy merchant family with significant holdings and connections. Unmarried, remarkably sharp-minded, and according to the gossip, completely interested in stories of warriors"
Artos felt something shift in his chest—not quite attraction, not quite interest, but something in between."Why are you telling me this?" he asked carefully.
"Because she's expressed interest in meeting the mysterious commander who's been making such waves in Essos," Ronan replied. "And because I think you two might find each other's company... stimulating. Though Knowing your habits I suggest a bit calmness"he smiled after that.
Artos wanted to protest, Ronan guide him toward the woman by the window.
"Lady Seraphine," Ronan said with a slight bow, "may I present Hal of the North? A military commander and merchant of considerable repute. Commander, this is Lady Seraphine Valen, one of Braavos's most respected families."
Seraphine turned from the window, and her dark eyes focused on Artos "The legendary commander," she said, her voice carrying an accent that marked her as Braavosi born and bred. "I confess I was curious to meet you in person. The stories circulating about your exploits have become somewhat extravagant."
Artos found himself smiling. "Most legends bear little resemblance to reality, lady. Reality is usually far less impressive and considerably bloodier."
"Most men of your repute spend considerable effort maintaining the mystique. You seem disinclined to do so."
"I find honesty simpler than maintaining fiction," Artos said. "And truth, whatever its disadvantages, has the virtue of being consistent."
Seraphine's expression suggested she found this response amusing. "That's either remarkably wise or remarkably naive. I haven't yet determined which."
"Perhaps both," Artos suggested.They talked for the remainder of the evening—about Braavos, about the Free Cities, about the nature of power and reputation. Seraphine was intelligent in a way that went beyond mere education; she possessed the kind of analytical mind that could cut through pretense and false reasoning with surgical precision. She questioned his assumptions, challenged his conclusions, and generally made it clear that she considered him an interesting puzzle that deserved serious examination.And Artos found himself genuinely engaged in conversation for the first time in months. Not the careful political negotiation that business required, not the casual banter of soldiers preparing for war, but genuine intellectual engagement with someone who met him as an equal rather than as a legend or a resource.
Ronan finally indicated that it was time to depart.
"I trust we'll meet again, Commander Hal," she said as he prepared to take his leave. "Braavos is not so large that chance encounters are impossible. And I confess, your company has been considerably more entertaining than the usual fare."
As Artos and Ronan made their way back through the streets of Braavos, the merchant was grinning like a satisfied cat.
"What?" Artos demanded.
"Nothing," Ronan replied. "Just enjoying watching a legendary warrior completely unmoored by conversation with an intelligent woman. It's rather satisfying, actually."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Artos said flatly.
"Of course you don't," Ronan agreed, still grinning. "But you will. Before we leave Braavos, you'll have figured it out."
Artos said nothing, but as they walked through the night-time streets of the City of Traders.
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