I quickly wargaed in to A-train, but only thing I able to see about that person was a shadow—as it disappeared in crowded street.
"Jon Stark?" sametime someone call me from behind.
Two men stood about ten paces. Both wore the purple cloaks and silver badges of Braavosi city guard.
My hand didn't go to my sword, but every muscle tensed. "Yes."
"The Sealord requests your presence," the guard said. His tone was polite but firm. Not a request, despite the wording. "If you would accompany us, my lord."
My mind raced. The Sealord of Braavos was the closest thing the city had to a ruler—but he held no absolute power. The Iron Bank answered to him, at least in theory.
"When does the Sealord wish to meet?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
"Now, my lord," the guard said. "He is waiting at the Sealord's Palace. It's not far."
"Lead the way," I said.
The guards exchanged a glance, and I saw a flicker of relief.
We walked through the city, attracting curious glances. Two guards escorting a young foreigner—it wasn't common, but it wasn't unheard of either. Braavos was a city of laws, and those who broke them were brought before magistrates.
I hadn't broken any laws. At least, none that anyone knew about.
The Sealord's Palace rose ahead of us—not as grand as the Red Keep, but impressive in its own way. White marble and bronze, with gardens that must have cost a fortune to maintain.
We climbed the steps, passed through bronze doors tall enough for giants, entered a hall where moonlight streamed through stained glass windows depicting Braavos's history—the breaking of the chains, the founding of the city, and the carving of the Titan.
At the far end of the hall seated on a chair of dark wood and purple cushions—
The Sealord of Braavos.
He was older than I'd expected, perhaps sixty, with grey hair and a beard trimmed in the Braavosi style. His robes were purple and silver.
"Jon Stark," Sealord said "Welcome to Braavos. I've been very curious to meet you."
"You may leave us," the Sealord said without turning to the guards. They bowed and left.
We were alone. Or at least, apparently alone. In a place like this, I suspected there were always eyes watching, ears listening from behind walls and beneath floors.
"Please, sit," the Sealord gestured to a cushioned chair positioned before his seat. "I am Ferrego Antaryon, in my sixth year as Sealord of this great city."
"I'm honored by your attention, Sealord Antaryon."
"The Iron Bank informed me of your arrival—a courtesy they extend for significant depositors." He leaned forward slightly. "I make it my business to know everyone who enters my city with both gold and secrets. You, Jon Stark, have an abundance of both."
"I seek only to live quietly," I said carefully. "To study and work without interference."
"Quietly?" Ferrego's eyebrow rose. "You arrive with a direwolf the size of a destrier. You purchase a fortified manor outside the city walls. You deposit enough gold to fund a small war. That is many things, young lord, but 'quiet' is not among them."
Fair point.
"What is it you want from me, Sealord?" I asked directly. Dancing around the issue felt pointless with a man like this.
"Information, first. Then, possibly, an alliance." He stood and walked to the windows, hands clasped behind his back. "The Iron Bank's reports mentioned King Robert's gratitude for your healing of Lord Jon Arryn. They say you brought him back from death itself. Six days dead, and you restored him to life."
I said nothing, waiting.
"They also say the Faith of the Seven has declared you an abomination. That the Citadel considers you a threat. That several assassination attempts have already been made on your life—attempts that failed rather… spectacularly, if reports are to be believed."
So he'd heard about the Septon's ship. Of course he had. Braavos had eyes everywhere.
"I defend myself when necessary," I said.
"Indeed." Ferrego turned back to face me. "Here is what I know. You possess abilities that defy conventional understanding. Healing, certainly. Perhaps more. Your direwolf is no natural creature—it's been enhanced somehow."
He returned to his seat, studying me with those calculating eyes.
"Now, here is what I want. Braavos prides itself on freedom, on practical thinking unburdened by superstition. We don't fear what others call magic—we use it, if it proves useful. The warlocks of Qarth, the red priests of Volantis, even the faceless men—all practice arts that the Citadel would call impossible. We don't care. We care only whether something works."
"And you think I can be useful," I said.
"I know you can." Ferrego leaned forward. "You revived man who was dead for days, Imagine what you could do for the living. Braavos has many wealthy citizens who would pay fortunes to extend their lives, heal their ailments, restore their vigor. The Sealord's position gives me influence, but not absolute power. I must maintain support among the great families. And nothing maintains support like offering them something they desperately want."
"You want me to be your pet healer," I said flatly.
"No, I want an alliance. You gain the Sealord's personal protection. You gain legitimacy, respectability, freedom to pursue your work. In exchange, you provide healing services to those I designate. Discreetly. Selectively. And profitably."
Before I could respond, a door to the side of the hall opened. A young man entered—perhaps twenty, with the same grey eyes as Ferrego but a softer face.
"Ah," Ferrego said. "Jon Stark, may I present my son, Qorro Antaryon."
The young man—Qorro—approached and gave a slight bow. "An honor, Lord Stark. I've heard remarkable things about you."
"Nothing too terrible, I hope,"
Qorro smiled. "On the contrary. My father tells me you brought a man back from death. That you can heal any wound, cure any illness. And…" he glanced at his father, who nodded permission to continue, "that you somehow enhanced your direwolf. Made it larger, stronger, more intelligent than nature intended."
"Rumors tend to exaggerate,"
"Do they?" Qorro pulled a chair closer and sat, leaning forward with barely contained excitement. "Then let me ask directly. Can you modify all living things? Not just heal them, but improve them? Change them at a fundamental level?"
I studied him, trying to understand where this was going. "Why do you ask?"
"Because if you can do to plants what you've done to your wolf…" Qorro's eyes gleamed. "You could revolutionize agriculture. Imagine crops that grow twice as fast, produce three times the yield. Grain that thrives in poor soil. Fruits that stay fresh for months. Braavos imports most of its food—we're vulnerable to blockades, bad harvests, political upheaval. But if we could become self-sufficient…"
"Strengthen Braavos's independence." I finished.
"Exactly." Qorro looked at his father.
Ferrego was watching me carefully, gauging my reaction. This was clearly something they'd discussed before summoning me.
I thought quickly. What they were proposing was dangerous—revealing more of what I could do, becoming entangled in Braavosi politics. But it was also an opportunity to prepare for long night and even make gold.
I'd have freedom to work without constantly looking over my shoulder. And modifying crops was far less conspicuous than my other experiments.
"I can do it," I said finally. "But I'd need to conduct tests first. Experiment with different species, understand their biology. And I'd need access to various seeds—a wide variety to work with."
Qorro's face lit up. "That can be arranged! We have seed merchants from across Essos. Whatever you need—"
"Start small," I interrupted. "Basic grains. Vegetables. Things you already grow here. Let me improve those first. Then we can expand to more exotic species."
"How long would it take?" Ferrego asked.
"For initial results? A few weeks, perhaps. To develop fully modified strains ready for planting? Months." I paused. "And this stays quiet. We test privately, confirm the results, then scale up slowly. The last thing I need is every merchant prince and magister from here to Qarth banging on my door wanting miracles."
"Agreed," Ferrego said immediately. "Discretion serves us both. Very well, Jon Stark. I'll have Qorro work with you on acquiring seeds and setting up testing grounds."
It was better than I'd hoped, honestly. Limited obligation, substantial protection, and resources to advance my work.
"Acceptable," I said.
"One more thing." Ferrego stood as well. " The Faith and the Citadel are moving. if you need assistance dealing with threats, don't hesitate to call on my guards. Better to prevent problems than clean up the aftermath."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Qorro accompanied me to the palace entrance, chattering enthusiastically about crop yields and growing seasons and soil composition. I half-listened, already planning how I'd approach the problem. Modifying plants was simpler than animals in some ways—less complex biology, easier to control. But making changes that would breed true, that wouldn't revert after a few generations, would require careful manipulation of their genetic structure, but I won't do it.
I will make crop who can be planted for only few generations, so they have to constantly buy seeds from me.
"I'll have seeds delivered to your manor within three days," Qorro promised as we reached the bronze doors.
…