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The celebration at the Hall of the Sea King had ended, but its echoes lingered in every wine sink and counting house in Braavos. The image of the three premier Courtesans—The Swordswoman, Nightingale, and the Black Pearl—singing the works of the "Silver Traveler" was a cultural earthquake.
But for Viserys, the sun did not bring peace. Fame, he discovered, was a beacon that attracted both the curious and the predatory. He had successfully used the Black Pearl's influence to secure his position, but in doing so, he had become the obsession of the Preston Family.
In his study the following afternoon, Viserys looked over a series of Myr portraits that had already begun to circulate. They were startlingly realistic; one depicted him in mid-waltz with Bellegere, her dark yellow silk flowing like liquid gold.
"Beauty brings trouble," Syrio remarked, leaning over the desk. "Jaqo Prestan is not just looking for a singer; he is looking for a trophy. He wants the man who has the ear of the Pearl to be a servant of the Preston Tower."
"Rhaegar learned that lesson the hard way," Viserys said, his voice cold. He thought of Lyanna Stark and the crown of winter roses. "Power and beauty are a volatile mix. If you have both but no walls to guard them, you invite a sack."
Ser Roland nodded grimly. "We have two princesses in this house, Your Majesty. Rhaenys and Daenerys are already blossoming. If a lyricist draws this much heat, imagine what a dragon princess will do."
Viserys knew the only way to stop a thief for a thousand days was to break his hands on the first. "We wait. We watch. And we see how the Prestons intend to play their hand."
To bolster his position, the Black Pearl had facilitated a meeting with an unlikely ally: Ringo Commas, the leader of the Rum Association and the most feared man among the Crabfeeders.
Ringo was a man of salt and smoke, his skin toughened by the freezing spray of the Shivering Sea. He represented the "Insurance Conflict"—a deep-seated grudge between the hardworking captains and the noble insurance brokers of the Preston family, who were notorious for dodging payouts when ships were lost.
"The Prestons are money-grubbing peddlers," Ringo grumbled, slamming a bottle of pitch-black rum onto Viserys's table. "They've bled my men for years with their high premiums and their fine-print lies. Any enemy of theirs is a friend of the Rum Association."
Viserys took a drink of the harsh, burning liquor without flinching. "I am a traveler, Captain. Like your men, I know the weight of being five hundred miles from home."
Ringo laughed, a hearty sound that smelled of brine. "A Dragon King who drinks black pitch and sings of the home he lost. I like you, Viserys. You have the spirit of a sailor."
With the Crabfeeders behind him, Viserys felt a moment of security. The Prestons would not dare start a street war against the most cohesive guild in the docks. Or so he thought.
The mists of Braavos are never empty for long. On a rainy, grey afternoon, a message arrived that shattered the quiet of the Red Door manse.
It wasn't an invitation or a threat. It was a report.
Moreau (Moro), Viserys's first Water Dancer instructor—the man who had taught him to "pierce them with the pointy end" and who had been his bridge to the Courtesans—was dead.
He had been found in an alleyway near the Long Canal. His throat had been opened with the surgical precision of a master bravo. There was no sign of a struggle, only a single silver coin left in his cold hand—a Preston family token.
Viserys stood in the courtyard, the rain washing the sweat from his brow. The training sword felt heavy in his hand. The Prestons hadn't gone after the Dragon; they had gone after his friends. They were stripping away his support, piece by piece, to show him that in Braavos, even a dragon could be isolated and bled.
"The waltz is over," Viserys whispered, his violet eyes darkening to the color of a coming storm. "They want a dance of blood? I shall give them a performance they will never forget."
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