The great fountain of Braavos thundered beneath the moonlight, its waters spilling into the wide basin known as the Moon Pool.
The pool lay northeast of the city, just south of the Sea Lord's Palace and opposite the Iron Bank, where the great Sweetwater Aqueduct poured its final rush of clean water.
This was the heart of the noble quarter — the district of palaces, brothels, and taverns, a jewel of marble and stone where wealth pooled as thickly as the water itself. To live here was to flaunt fortune.
Only Braavosi citizens could dock their ships in the Purple Harbor, from the Flooded Town all the way to the Sea Lord's domains. Foreign vessels — Tyroshi, Pentoshi, Lyseni — were confined to the Old Cloth Wharf, where the smell of tar and desperation thickened the air.
The Moon Pool's nightly duels had already left one man dead, but blood was a common sight here. As merchants drank and musicians sang, assassins still paraded, blades flashing beneath jeweled lamplight.
Amid the chatter of peddlers, a girl's voice rose clear:
"Fresh clams! Fresh clams!"
She might sell them to pilgrims at the Temple of the Many‑Faced God, or by the bridge to the Iron Bank.
Viserys Targaryen bought a basketful. He and Moro ate them by the water's edge, warm brine dripping from their fingers.
"Remember, boy," said Moro between bites, "never flinch from a Water Dancer. You must strike harder, faster, crueller. Otherwise, you'll end up stripped to your boots — and lucky if they let you keep those."
Viserys laughed softly, swallowing a mouthful of clam and sea salt. "These taste good… though a bit of lemon would make them perfect. Shame lemons cost more than rubies here."
Moro studied him carefully. "You're not much like the dragon princes people tell stories about. Those were proud, angry men."
Viserys smiled, a slow, self‑aware curve of the lips. "Even dragons sleep, Moro. The fire burns longer that way."
The swordsman grunted. "You know, you're famous now. Everyone in Braavos is talking about that song — the Silver Wanderer's song."
"Let them talk," said Viserys.
"Be careful," Moro warned. "Too much fame draws eyes — especially the wrong ones."
"What sort of eyes?"
"The courtesans' circles are wide," Moro said quietly. "But behind each beautiful face is a nest of investors. Do you know what keeps that world alive?"
"Coin?"
"Exactly. They're the venture markets of Braavos. Every leading courtesan has backers — retired courtesans, rich merchants, even magistrates. They groom, dress, and promote their girls hoping to double their fortunes in favors and influence. The most successful courtesans feed dozens, even hundreds of mouths."
Viserys nodded slowly. The logic was familiar: profit wrapped in satin.
"So you're saying," he said, "that now they'll come for me too?"
"Of course," Moro said. "You're a mystery — a talent worth owning. A famous songwriter without a face? Every courtesan in the city will want you in her salons. But fame's a sword with no hilt, boy. The sharper it gets, the closer it cuts."
Viserys smiled faintly. "Then let them chase my shadow."
In truth, he welcomed the attention. His alias — the Silver Wanderer — was his best disguise yet, a mask that could walk into banks and parlors without fear.
Money would follow, and he needed plenty of it.
"Do they ever fight among themselves?" he asked.
Moro snorted. "It's Braavos. Of course. But the Sea Lord keeps their claws sheathed — mostly. Their rivalries stop short of blood. Usually."
Ruthless but managed, Viserys thought. Even chaos here follows rules.
They rose from the steps of the Moon Pool and followed the torch‑lit streets.
Past the taverns and canals stood a row of high‑end inns, their lanterns glowing like fireflies above banners fluttering in the sea wind.
These were the lodgings of mercenary captains.
In the open courtyard beyond, a row of tall spears stood planted in the ground, each bearing a tattered banner. Moro gestured toward them.
"See those?"
Viserys nodded. "Mercenary insignias."
The blacksmith's forge light caught on the colors:
— a blue‑and‑white swallowtail banner for the Windblown;
— a red hunting cat for the Company of the Cat;
— and one, shimmering faint gold in the lamplight, marked by a painted skull — the Golden Company.
Their flags stirred in the gentle night wind.
"The big three," Moro said. "Windblown, Company of the Cat, and those bastards — the Golden Company. The others are small fry."
"The Golden Company," Viserys whispered, eyes narrowing.
A thousand memories stirred — blood, exile, his family's ruin.
"They number ten thousand strong," Moro explained, "and fight like regular armies. Veterans of everything from the Disputed Lands to the Stepstones. Windblown has two thousand. The Cat's three. But the Golden Company — they're soldiers and statesmen. Discipline as tight as kingsguard."
Ten thousand disciplined men. Enough to crown or kill a king.
"They're the best money can buy," Moro added, "and they know it. They've turned their exile into business. Their banners fly wherever war pays."
Viserys nodded slowly. "Even across the Narrow Sea, their name's a legend. The Golden Company…"
He knew their story well — founded by the Blackfyre pretenders, born of rebellion and treachery. Descendants of bastards who once swore loyalty to his own house, now turned mercenaries for gold.
Once dragonspawn. Now scavengers.
"I've heard worse devils," Moro said, chewing another clam. "They recruit yearly, here and in Pentos. Young men too proud to beg and too poor to eat. And every one of them ends up swinging a sword for a coin prince who promises glory."
Viserys stared at the golden skull, feeling old fury rekindle in his gut.
In another life — in the story he knew — he would go to them, humbled, desperate, begging their aid. He would host a feast, spend everything he had, and still they would laugh at him.
That humiliation had burned in him for years.
This time, he swore, would be different.
Right now, the Golden Company wouldn't spare him a glance. He had no coin to feed ten thousand blades, and they already had patrons aplenty — Pentoshi princes, Lyseni merchants, and, worse still, secret Targaryen claimants backed by the Spider and the Fat Magister of Pentos.
Only one thought crossed his mind — fleeting, dark, but satisfying.
If that false prince were gone, I'd be all that's left of the dragon's line.
He dismissed it as quickly as it came. There was time enough for daggers and destiny later.
For now, pride would not feed his sisters, and fury could not buy armies.
"Come," Viserys said finally. "We'll leave them to their banners."
Moro nodded.
As they turned toward the canals, the faint gleam of the golden skull shivered in the night breeze.
Someday, Viserys promised himself, they would follow his banner instead.
But not yet.
For now, he would move quietly — and build the power that no one could ever laugh away again.