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Thassos was a man who spoke too much when the wine was flowing. Perhaps it was his vanity, or perhaps the sheer novelty of drinking with a Targaryen, but the Magistrate had shed his official mask for one of boisterous familiarity. In Braavos, the laws against slandering royalty were nonexistent; the city had been founded by those who fled the lash and the crown alike. To them, the Westerosi were little more than armored barbarians with a penchant for cutting out tongues.
"This is not the Sunset Continent," Thassos said, his chest swelling with civic pride. "We do not bow to iron chairs. Here, our queens wear silk and lace, and they do not inherit their power—they earn it. Our Courtesans are the true architects of Braavosi society."
Viserys leaned back, swirling the crimson wine in his glass. He had lived in the city long enough to know the names that were whispered with more reverence than the Sealord's. "The Seven Great ones," he mused. "The Black Pearl, the Mermaid Queen, the Nightingale, Moonshadow... even in exile, one hears of their grace."
"Grace? It is more than grace, Viserys. They are proficient in music, poetry, dance, and history. They are the white-cloaked knights of our culture."
"The current Kingsguard are not all first-rate," Viserys countered dryly. "The generation of legends has passed, replaced by men of... lesser substance."
Thassos laughed, a loud, sharp bark. "A metaphor, Your Grace! Just as only a few families truly rule Braavos—the Antaryons, the Freygas, the Zaynyns—only the Great Seven command the tides of the city. A sea captain might sell his ship just for a smile from the Nightingale. With my purse, I can only dream of such things. That is why I pursue a girl of the second tier."
He looked Viserys over, his gaze lingering on the boy's silver hair. "You, however... you have the look. The Courtesans of Braavos have a weakness for the exotic. Some of them even claim your blood."
"The Black Pearl," Viserys stated. It wasn't a question.
"Exactly. The first of her line was a pirate queen, the mistress of a Westerosi prince—Aegon the Unworthy, if the tales hold true. Every Black Pearl since has been a descendant of that union. You have kin in the brothels and ballrooms, dragon-cousin."
Viserys felt no offense; the Targaryen family tree was a tangled thicket of bastards and broken vows. "Kinship is a cold comfort when one is penniless."
"Do not be a fool," Thassos said, leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Men do not seek them out just for a night of pleasure. Every prominent Courtesan is a nexus. They are the bridge between the Iron Bank, the religious zealots, the merchant princes, and the assassins. If you want to move through the mists of this city without drowning, you need a guide who knows where the stones are hidden."
"Even the House of Black and White?" Viserys asked.
The laughter died in Thassos's throat. He glanced toward the shadows of the hall, his face paling. "There are two things we do not joke about in the Mhysas City: dragons and the Faceless Men. Do not speak of the Many-Faced God so lightly. The devotion of his servants is... absolute."
"Then let us speak of women," Viserys pivoted, noting the Magistrate's genuine fear.
"Good. Even if you lack the gold to pay their fees, remember: Courtesans are already wealthy. They do not need your coin; they need your value. Provide them with something unique—a story, a secret, a taste of a lost world—and they will open doors that the Sealord himself keeps locked."
"I have no intention of selling myself," Viserys said, his voice hardening with royal steel. "I want them to send me gold, and I want it for free. I am the King."
Thassos roared with laughter, slapping the table. "An exiled King! If you manage to get a Braavosi Courtesan to pay you, I will spend the rest of my life as your footman."
Viserys raised his glass, his purple eyes reflecting the candlelight. "I shall hold you to that, Lord Thassos."
He wasn't looking for lust. He was looking for Varys's equivalent in the Free Cities—a network of 'little birds' wrapped in silk and song. A Courtesan could tell him which Westerosi lords were visiting the Iron Bank in secret. She could identify which sellsword captains were looking for a new master. She could make a name famous or a man disappear.
Rather than trying to leap for the Black Pearl, he would start with Thassos's companion. He would turn his kitchen into a trap, and the bait would be a meal so divine it would make the gossip of the canals turn into a roar.
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