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"Duels are very dangerous, Viserys," said Old Preston, his dark brown robes rustling as he stepped forward. The superficial humility of his posture could not conceal the shrewdness flashing in his eyes; he looked less like a patriarch and more like a cunning innkeeper weighing the life of a traveler against the weight of his purse.
The Preston family was an old fox in a city of wolves. Though not of the "Big Three," they were a pillar of Braavosi industry, and Old Preston knew that once blood was demanded, mediation was merely a delay of the inevitable.
"I once performed the Water Dance in the Moon Pool; I know the dangers," Viserys replied, his violet eyes locking onto the old man's. He saw the trap in the patriarch's words—Old Preston was binding him to the stage, ensuring that this grudge would be settled with steel, not diplomacy.
"Agree to it! Little Preston, come out!" "Coward! Stand and fight!"
The sailors on the canal roared, their voices echoing off the stone facades. Jaqo Prestan's face shifted through shades of grey and sickly red. He was a master of the insurance ledger and the courtesan's bed, but he had no stomach for the stench of a battlefield.
"Madman," Jaqo cursed under his breath, looking at Viserys. "The Targaryens are all lunatics."
"Since that is the case," Old Preston said, sensing his son's collapse, "my son Jaqo is not skilled with the sword. In Braavos, it is permissible for a proxy to fight for honor. We shall use a champion."
"Coward!" the Crabfeeders jeered. "King Coward Preston!"
Viserys held up a hand to quiet the sailors. "Syrio will not act for me," he declared, glancing at the former First Sword. This was a personal blood debt for Moro; he would not hide behind a master's reputation.
Old Preston breathed a sigh of relief. Without Syrio, the odds shifted drastically. He began to calculate who among his hired blades could gut a teenager, even a talented one.
"The Sea King is here!"
The cry rippled through the crowd as a magnificent pleasure boat, carved with smiling faces and draped in purple silk, glided along the canal. Sea Lord Ferrego had arrived.
Protected by the Hall of the Sea King guards and the current First Sword, Quilo, Ferrego ascended the marble steps. His face was a mask of weary displeasure.
"You've caused such a stir that the river is blocked," Ferrego noted dryly.
"Forgive us, Your Grace," Old Preston bowed low.
"What exactly is happening here?" Quilo demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his rapier.
Viserys didn't flinch. "Preston's guard, Mero, murdered my instructor as a threat because I refused a contract. I have brought a gift of truth, and I demand a duel."
Ferrego looked at the bloody sturgeon head, then at Jaqo's trembling form. "Enough," the Sea Lord snorted. "Little Preston, you are a poor broker and a worse noble." He turned his gaze to Viserys. "And you... Silver Traveler, Violet Swordsman, Viserys. You are a magnificent troublemaker."
"You may call me Viserys," the boy replied.
Ferrego touched the signet ring on his finger, his voice gaining the weight of law. "The farce ends. But since honor has been invoked, the duel shall proceed. However, I declare an edict: the Preston family may only choose a proxy from within their current household guards. And Viserys must fight for himself. No independent masters, no retired First Swords."
It was a masterstroke of balance. It kept the great houses from hiring legendary assassins, and it kept Viserys from using Syrio's legendary skill.
"I represent myself," Viserys said.
"Then Mero shall be our champion," Old Preston announced. The Titan's Bastard grinned, his red-gold beard twitching. He was older, stronger, and far more brutal than any student.
"The duel will take place seven days from now in the Moon Pool," Ferrego decreed. "Seven is a sacred number. My swordsman Quilo, Syrio, the Black Pearl, and the patriarchs will witness."
"Seven days," Viserys agreed.
"I hope you don't die as miserably as your teacher, silver boy," Mero sneered as the Sea King's party began to depart.
"I think you will be the one providing the misery," Viserys countered.
The crowd began to disperse as the Preston servants cleared away the fish head, but the tension remained. Syrio leaned in close to Viserys's ear. "Time is short, boy. The Titan's Bastard is a butcher, but a butcher knows where the bone is. For the next seven days, you must not just practice. You must observe the ebb and flow of the tide—you must find the beauty in the water before you find the blood."
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