Braavos was the City of Secrets, a place of mist, masks, and whispers.
Only Braavosi were permitted to use the Purple Harbor, from the Drowned Town all the way to the Sealord's Palace. Ships from the other Free Cities and from across the world used Ragman's Harbor instead. Compared with the Purple Harbor, it was poorer, rougher, dirtier, and far noisier. Sailors and merchants from every land crowded the docks and streets, entertaining others while searching for prey.
Myrcella liked Ragman's Harbor best. Perhaps it was because here she could hear the Westeros accents she missed.
"There are no trees here," Myrcella said sadly. The southern bank of King's Landing was thick with green woods, and the Red Keep had gardens.
"Braavos is a city of stone," Arys said, finding it strange as well.
"Lady, this is no place for a proper girl," Ser Arys said in a low voice, scanning the surrounding crowd warily.
It was cold here, and Arys had put on gray-brown clothing, blending in with Braavosi custom like the city's nobles. He had to hide his white cloak, lest the Storm's claws come after him and the Princess.
Especially dangerous were sailors with Westeros accents, as well as those from the Three Daughters and Volantis. Men from the Stormlands, Dorne, The North, the Vale, and the Riverlands all hated the Lannisters. Myrish and Tyroshi would flatter their masters, while Lyseni and Volantenes would treat them as bargaining chips.
"I want to see if there are any ships that can take me home," Myrcella said softly, her voice sweet.
Myrcella was also dressed in gray. Her hood hid her head of golden hair, though it did not fully conceal her lovely, doll-like face.
Myrcella recognized the sailors around her: loud, boisterous Tyroshi with beards dyed in every color; blond Lyseni haggling over every coin, trying to drive prices down; short, stocky, hairy men from the Port of Ibben muttering curses in low, hoarse voices; and the Summer Islanders, whom she knew best. There had also been a wandering Prince from the Summer Isles at the court in King's Landing, though her mother had called him a vagabond and a beggar.
The Summer Islanders had skin as dark and smooth as teak, and wore feathered cloaks of red, green, or yellow. Their swan ships had tall masts and white sails, splendid and magnificent.
"I am a vagabond too, but this is my duty as a Princess," Myrcella told herself.
What she most longed for, and most feared, were the ships from the Sunset Lands: broad-sailed ships from Oldtown, oared merchant vessels from Duskendale, King's Landing, or Gulltown, and fat-bellied, flat-bottomed wine barges from the Arbor.
The sailors on those ships always brought black news.
"My brother is dead, and my uncle has been captured," Myrcella said.
Princess Myrcella was a strong girl. She never cried.
"Mhm." Ser Arys nodded heavily.
News of defeat. Black news.
The tidings from far away grew heavier and heavier. Cersei and Tywin had narrowly survived the war and fled from King's Landing to the Westerlands.
People sang of the Storm's heroic deeds, while the Lannister cause tottered on the brink.
"What can I do?" Myrcella asked herself.
She was not a warrior. She was only a girl.
"Come, Lady. We should return," Ser Arys said.
Among the crowd were guards sent by the Sealord, as well as guards from the Westerlands. The other men from King's Landing had long since scattered like birds and beasts as the situation worsened. They had lost themselves in Braavos's sea mists and women, forgetting their duty to protect the Princess.
"Then let us go back, Ser," Myrcella said. She was ready to leave as well. The docks were still bitter with cold.
"As you command."
Along the cobblestone road, Ser Arys led Myrcella past the canals while she sat in a narrow sedan chair. Smaller waterways flowed into the canals from either side, and more branches flowed into those in turn.
Some houses were built over the waterways, turning them into tunnels. Narrow boats shaped like water snakes slipped in and out of those tunnels, with painted prows and high, upturned sterns. The boatmen moved them with poles rather than oars.
Myrcella looked beyond the distant channels and rooftops, where the largest gray-stone conduit stood, supported by three tiers of sturdy arches as it stretched into the southern mist. The Sweetwater River crossed marshes and shallows through that conduit, bringing fresh water from the mainland until fine sweetwater finally poured into the fountain pools.
"So many boats."
Myrcella lifted the curtain and counted them. There were narrow, snake-like boats, and broad, flat-bottomed barges piled high with crates and barrels. There were also strange houseboats hung with stained-glass lamps, decorated with velvet curtains and brass figureheads.
They were lucky today. They even saw the splendid boats of the courtesans.
"It's the Black Pearl."
The Sealord's guards stared eagerly as the pleasure boat passed. Huge black pearl banners flew at both ends of the Black Pearl's gorgeous boat, while servants poled her onward to her appointment.
"The Poetess always carries a book. Moonshadow wears only white and silver. The Merling Queen is never apart from her mermaids, four young maidens in the bloom of youth who hold up her skirts and long hair. Only lovers approved by the Veiled Lady may see her face. And the Black Pearl has some Dragonblood and is the most famous of all."
Myrcella knew the image of every courtesan. She watched, and she remembered.
"Lady, they are only..." Arys said in shame.
Only higher-class whores. Women who toyed with men. Arys felt ashamed. Sometimes he, too, thought of those beautiful women. That was a disgrace for a white knight.
But Arys did not dare say too much. Every courtesan had great influence and countless connections. Mad assassins would draw their swords for a single smile from them.
"If I could sleep with the Black Pearl, even just once, it would be worth a lifetime," said a man pushing an oyster cart by the canal. His eyes were fixed on her as he leaned lazily against the railing.
"In your dreams." His small, thin female companion in a felt hat mocked him without restraint. "Fool. Women like that are for lords. Someone like you can't even touch the edge of her world. Even a great merchant would have to sell his damned ship before he could hope to meet her."
"Delicious oysters, Miss Black Pearl!" the male peddler called out eagerly.
Everyone knew courtesans were generous. They were never short of money, and might pay ten times the price for scallops.
"Care for oysters, beautiful Lady?"
The female oyster seller caught a glimpse of Myrcella's golden hair and called out loudly.
"What flavor?" Myrcella stepped forward and asked.
Arys immediately followed behind her. "Lady, we cannot..."
"Mine come with hot sauce, kind Lady!" the oyster girl cried. "Oysters and scallops inside."
"Buy some, for the people protecting us," Myrcella said softly.
Ser Arys nodded and did not stop the Princess's kindness. But only half the guards ate. In the cold, hot seafood was a pleasant treat, while the other half stayed alert and watched their surroundings.
The Black Pearl's boat moved away, leaving ripples behind. Amid the noise and bustle, the female peddler began chatting with Myrcella.
"I'm here often."
The peddler lifted her face. It was an ordinary face.
"I know. You disappear for three days, and you are here the rest of the time," Myrcella said.
"You recognize me?" the peddler asked.
"I do. Your face is very ordinary, and you are neither tall nor short. But you have a black mole below your ear, and your oysters are flavored with hot sauce."
"You truly are a clever girl. Clever and kind-hearted."
The peddler smiled at Myrcella.
"You are a little sad."
Myrcella nodded.
"Death looks upon everyone equally, and comes without warning," the peddler said softly, her voice so low it was astonishing. Just then, her companion also began calling out to sell oysters.
"This is for you, kind young Lady. Be sure to eat it well."
The peddler raised her voice again and handed over a plump, large scallop, white as the moon.
Myrcella hesitated for a moment, then accepted it. She saw no cold hatred there. The ordinary woman was very gentle toward her.
"Let us go, Lady."
Ser Arys waved his hand, and the party continued on.
Myrcella carefully opened the scallop. It was a lovely, beautiful shell, and inside it was a coin, small and precious. Words were written on the shell.
"All men must die. All men must serve. If you wish to find us, give the coin to any Braavosi and say valar morghulis."
Myrcella carefully put the coin away and said nothing more.
The coin was little larger than a copper penny, its iron edge already rusted. One side bore strange writing she did not recognize, and the other held the worn image of a man's head.
The words on the scallop shell slowly faded like flowing water, but valar morghulis carved itself deep into Myrcella's mind.
"Lady, are the scallops good?" Ser Arys asked hesitantly.
"Better than anything I've ever tasted," Myrcella replied.
"Am I someone else? Am I a lion, or a stag? Or am I only myself?" Myrcella asked herself softly. Compared with Joffrey, who had been beaten bloody, King Robert was still a kind-hearted, rough father in her heart.
Behind the curtains of the Black Pearl's flower boat, Bellegere Otherys was so beautiful that the lights seemed to brighten wherever she went.
In truth, she might better have been called the Brown Pearl. She wore a low-cut silk gown of dark yellow, its color setting off her glowing brown skin to breathtaking effect. Her black hair was gathered in a golden hairnet, and a necklace of black jade and gold hung down over her full breasts.
"Are you really going there? To Westeros, to stinking King's Landing?" the Black Pearl's maid asked.
"Why shouldn't I? With such a fine chance, why should I not take a pleasant man beneath my skirts?" The Black Pearl laughed lightly. "Women are better than men at seeing through things. I am going to observe the Storm. And everyone else will thank me for my information, whether the Sealord or other nobles."
"I understand." The maid nodded.
"Do you know what matters most for a courtesan?" the Black Pearl asked.
"Beauty?" the maid asked.
"No. Legend. The more legendary the story and the more legendary the experience, the higher our worth. Take me, for instance. The first Black Pearl was a pirate queen. Her father was the Sealord's son, and her mother was a Princess of the Summer Isles. She was also the lover of a Westeros Dragonlord," the Black Pearl replied.
The maid nodded as if she half understood, then left the room.
"So many people want news of him. The Storm, the Blasphemer, the Dragonlord's descendant. Extraordinary blood," the Black Pearl murmured to herself.
A single piece of information could be traded by the Black Pearl to several different people: the Sealord, the next Sealord, the commander of the naval fleet. In the spiderweb of Braavos, courtesans moved sideways through it all, exchanging clues and intelligence.
Even with the Faceless Men.
"Valar morghulis."
The Black Pearl whispered the words. The Faceless Men and she helped one another, and owed one another. This, too, was how she survived.
...
On The Kingsroad, the Dornishmen rode north along the road. They climbed the Boneway, then turned east near Summerhall.
Horses thundered forward, led by the Red Viper and Arianne.
Arianne was rather pleased. This was no simple mission as an envoy. It made her appear as the heir to Dorne.
"I hope the king and queen will like the gifts we have prepared," Prince Oberyn Martell said.
"I believe they will, Uncle," Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell said. She was full-figured and beautiful, with olive skin, large black eyes, and a head of glossy black curls.
Her only flaw was that, like her mother, she was short, only five feet two inches tall.
Oberyn glanced at his niece. She counted as a great beauty, very tempting. Unfortunately, she was too short. Looks like hers might not be enough to attract the Storm. Her private life was also as chaotic as that of some Dornish people, making her unsuitable as a marriage candidate.
She could govern Dorne, but she was not ideal to send out for a political marriage.
"It is better that I brought you. If it were your brother, he would look more like a Yronwood."
Quentyn had been sent to Lord Anders Yronwood as a foster son when he was very young, and had served him first as cupbearer and then as squire. After coming of age, Quentyn refused Prince Oberyn and chose instead to be knighted by Lord Yronwood.
Arianne felt secretly delighted. For many years, she had feared that her father Doran's preference for her brothers would strip her of control over Dorne.
"It is a pity we did not find the best gift," the Red Viper said regretfully. "I brought The Mountain's head."
"Where do you suspect it is?"
"The king died on the Boneway, and the Dragonrider was taken captive. I would say Aegon the Conqueror's crown was most likely lost there as well. And your brother would not leak a single word to us." The Red Viper curled his lip. His suspicions still lay with House Yronwood.
House Yronwood of Yronwood Castle bore the titles "Noble of Blood, Lord of Yronwood, and Warden of the Stone Way." Aside from House Martell, it was the strongest house in Dorne.
House Yronwood had established its rule over the valleys and green hills near the Stone Way. The mountains formed a natural barrier protecting those fertile lands, and their domain also held various mineral deposits and timber, making House Yronwood one of the richest and most powerful houses in Dorne.
"Would they truly be that bold?"
"Why would they not?" the Red Viper said calmly. "House Yronwood joined Bittersteel three times and took part in the Blackfyre Rebellion."
"But they were not punished."
"That is still because Dorne's population is too small," the Red Viper said to his niece. "Back then, the Young Dragon exaggerated Dorne's population and our soldiers, and we were happy to let him. But in truth, Dorne has the smallest population. That is precisely why we cannot wage total war against the Lords of the Road. The losses would be too great."
The Dornish had sandy Dornishmen, salty Dornishmen, and stony Dornishmen. House Martell's relationship with the proud Lords of the Road had always been tense.
"Summer is gone, Arianne. Protecting Dorne is our duty," the Red Viper told his niece. "Winter is a crisis. Perhaps, perhaps it is also an opportunity."
***
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