The next morning, Lo Quen woke up feeling refreshed and alert, careful not to disturb the lovely figure still fast asleep beside him.
He dressed quickly and made his way to the highest terrace of the castle.
A long, majestic dragon's roar shattered the morning air.
A massive shadow swept over him as a red dragon, nearly ninety feet long, swooped down and landed gracefully on the terrace. Its scales gleamed like molten rubies, flashing brilliantly in the rising sun, and the beating of its wings stirred the air with a scorching force.
This was his mount, Blooddancer.
With the slow resurgence of the world's magic, the growth rates of these magical creatures had accelerated considerably.
Lo Quen gently patted Blooddancer's thick neck and then leapt onto the dragon saddle.
Without any retainers, he rode the colossal beast alone, soaring into the sky, his destination set: Braavos to the north.
He was going there to unleash his fury!
Days later, the silhouette of Braavos appeared on the horizon.
This Free City, known as the "City of Secrets," was built on a series of isolated islands and marshes. Countless wide waterways cut through the city, replacing the carriages and foot traffic common in other places.
Thousands of small boats moved constantly through the intricate network of canals, with the shouts of boatmen, the rush of water, and the noise of goods being loaded and unloaded at the docks blending into a constant hum.
At the city's outer edge, guarding the harbor entrance, stood the legendary Titan of Braavos.
The colossal statue loomed over the city, its immense form glistening in the sunlight. Its hollow eye sockets seemed to gaze down at every ship attempting to enter Braavos' waters, as if it were ready to unleash a thunderous roar at any moment.
The Palace of the Sealord sat on an island at the heart of the city. Though not renowned for its size, the elegance of its arches and the intricacy of its towers spoke volumes of the power and wealth contained within.
Not far from it was the Isle of the Gods.
It was the place where all of Braavos' faiths converged.
Temples stood in abundance, each of a unique and distinct style.
However, just as Lo Quen arrived in this bustling water city atop Blooddancer, an assassination plot was quietly taking shape in its narrow streets.
In a secluded, narrow alley, a lithe figure moved with the grace of a cat.
Arya, having recently regained her sight, was on her first major mission as a Faceless Man, carrying out the will of the Many-Faced God.
Her "gift" was meant for an old man who ran a ship insurance business.
Arya had spent days carefully observing her target.
The old man was extraordinarily cautious, always flanked by two burly guards.
Yet, while tracking him and memorizing his movements, Arya stumbled upon a sight that caused her heart to stir with an icy fury.
Outside a bustling tavern, she spotted a figure she hated with every fiber of her being: Meryn Trant!
He had once been a member of the Kingsguard, a loyal servant to Cersei Lannister.
He had taken part in the capture of her father, his face and arrogant demeanor forever burned into Arya's memory.
What was he doing in Braavos?
Arya's heart began to race.
She slipped into the shadows, remaining unseen as she listened and watched closely.
It turned out that Meryn Trant had come to Braavos on Cersei's orders to recruit sellswords.
He had been quite successful, already sending over twenty thousand sellswords to the town of Duskendale in Westeros.
But he hadn't returned with the ships. Instead, he stayed in Braavos, indulging in revelry and excess.
Aware that the war for the Seven Kingdoms was on the horizon and fraught with danger, he had found an excuse to remain—needing to continue his dealings with the Iron Bank—and was living it up in the meantime.
Upon receiving the Sellsword, Duskendale did not seem to press him urgently to return.
The flames of hatred instantly consumed Arya's thoughts.
Compared to the unfamiliar insurance broker, Meryn Trant was the enemy she despised with all her being.
In that moment, the teachings of the "Kindly Man" felt distant and hollow.
She followed Meryn Trant to a brothel called the "Cattery."
The place was brightly lit, the air thick with the smell of cheap perfume and alcohol, and the sounds of boisterous laughter echoed through the building.
Arya slipped into an empty storage room, closed her eyes, and focused her mind.
She felt her bones shift, muscles rippling like flowing water.
In moments, her form and features changed rapidly, transforming her into a brown-haired girl.
This was the technique she had learned from the Waif.
She adjusted her now-tightened clothes, picked up a tray of drinks, and swayed her hips as she entered the private room where Meryn Trant sat.
Meryn Trant was already half-drunk, his coarse face flushed red as he groped the prostitute beside him.
When he saw Arya, his eyes lit up.
"Hey! New filly? Come here, let Ser see you!"
The prostitute Arya was pretending to be gave a shy, flattering smile and walked toward him.
Meryn Trant grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap, his rough hands roaming her body without restraint as he mumbled filthy words.
The stench of alcohol and sweat hit Arya like a wall. She fought back the nausea and murderous rage rising within her, forcing a coy look onto her face.
"Sir... you're so strong..."
She feigned flattery, one hand weakly resting on his chest while the other quietly slid toward the hard object concealed beneath his skirt.
"Ha! Sweet talk, little darling."
Meryn Trant laughed triumphantly, lowering his head to kiss her.
In that instant, as his gaze was blocked by his own action, Arya's eyes flashed coldly.
The hand resting on his chest shot upward like a lightning strike.
Two fingers jabbed, precise and brutal, into Meryn Trant's eyes.
"Aaah—!"
A piercing scream erupted from him.
Meryn Trant jerked his head back, hands clutching his bloodied eyes as blood poured from the sockets.
Arya didn't pause for even a moment.
Her other hand already held a small, poison-tipped dagger. Taking advantage of his agony and total defenselessness, she thrust her arm forward. The dagger drove with icy resolve, sliding beneath his jaw and stabbing straight into his brain.
The scream stopped abruptly.
Meryn Trant's body convulsed violently before collapsing back into the plush chaise longue, blood soaking through his expensive velvet coat.
The other prostitutes in the room screamed in terror.
Arya swiftly shoved the body off her, calmly wiped the blood from the dagger, and sheathed it.
Without looking at the stunned women, she swiftly moved through the chaotic corridor and disappeared into the labyrinthine back alleys behind the brothel, before anyone could arrive.
...
Not long after Arya vanished into the streets of Braavos, a massive shadow silently descended over the city.
"Head straight for the Isle of the Gods."
Lo Quen issued the command to Blooddancer.
The red dragon let out a low growl, adjusting its flight path, and began diving toward the Isle of the Gods.
...
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