"What do you think of this room? Ten iron coins a day." The innkeeper pushed open a creaking, weathered door, his voice tinged with the habitual impatience of the harbor districts.
The room was on the ground floor, its windows opening directly onto the street. Pedestrians passing by could easily peer inside—a poor choice for anyone seeking privacy or a secret tryst. Those who knew the city preferred rooms overlooking the canals; they were more scenic and far more secure, as climbing through a window from a bobbing boat was significantly more troublesome than stepping in from the pavement.
Jon, however, had little to hide. Aside from Ellie, the longsword Kevin had lent him, his only worldly possessions were a small bag of coins and the clothes on his back. "Ellie" was a masterwork of the forge, but to an untrained eye, it was just steel. He carried his belongings with him by day, and by night, Ghost kept watch. He did not fear for his safety.
"I only have Westerosi coin," Jon said. "Copper stars and silver moons. Will you take them?"
"Copper? Better yet." The innkeeper nodded, his eyes gleaming. Foreign bullion was always more profitable than local iron.
Thoros of Myr caught Jon's sleeve before he could reach for his purse. He turned to the innkeeper. "My friend is a stranger, but I am not. We will exchange his silver for iron squares and return to pay you. Hold the room."
The landlord thinned his lips, but seeing Thoros's faded pink robes—the mark of a Red Priest—he conceded. "As you wish, Acolyte."
Once they cleared the threshold, Jon frowned. "Why stop me? That room seemed fair enough."
"It was," Thoros explained, "but if you pay in silver, you'll be a beggar before the week is out. Braavos is an island city; they produce nothing but vegetables and salt. Even their goats must be shipped in. To maintain their trade, the Sea Lords stockpile gold and silver for foreign debt, while using square iron coins for internal commerce to keep prices stable. Taxes must be paid in iron. If you use Westerosi copper for rent, you're paying triple the true value."
"How do you know this? You haven't been home in years."
"I visited several times while serving King Robert," Thoros chuckled. "Once even with Petyr Baelish. You learn a great deal about the weight of a coin when traveling with the Master of Coin. He recruited many of his 'flowers' from this city."
"I wouldn't know. I've never been to the capital."
"You will, eventually. Though you may find it a disappointment. It is grand, yes, but it is a gilded rot. As a Sunwalker, you will see much there that defies your Word."
They wound through the bustling streets to a quiet alley marked by the sign of a pair of scales. Inside, a man in black robes and a small, stiff cap greeted them.
"My friend wishes to trade for iron," Thoros said in Braavosi. "A fair rate, for a brother of the temple."
The money-changer tallied the pile: three silver moons, five silver stags, twenty-six copper stars, and five pennies. He handed Jon a heavy handful of square iron coins of varying sizes.
"Don't come here alone," Thoros warned as they stepped back into the mist. "Without a local at your side, he'd have skinned you for half that. These 'hat-men' are discreet, which is good—you won't be mugged in the next alley—but they are as sharp as razors."
After parting ways with Thoros, Jon walked the streets of Braavos alone. The city was a jarring contrast to the Winterfell of his youth. Old Nan used to say that when winter came to the North, the wind bit like the teeth of a direwolf. Snow would bury a man to his knees, and ice would hang from the eaves like daggers. People would huddle by the hearth, sharing their last oats while the wolves howled at the green ghost-lights in the sky.
In Braavos, the fountains of the Sweetwater still flowed. Thin sheets of ice floated on the canals, reflecting the sun like shattered diamonds. Ships arrived caked in frost, their sailors blowing on their fingers as they traded iron for mulled wine. Even in deep autumn, the Braavosi maintained an air of elegance. Noblewomen wore velvet cloaks trimmed in silver-fox fur; beggars huddled under the temple steps, wrapped in colorful patchwork blankets, clutching empty iron bowls.
Jon's own gray cloak was faded, his sleeves frayed and stained with the mud of the Green Fork. This city was stone and mist, a gray maze in a green sea.
He wandered aimlessly for an hour, searching every face for a girl who looked like him. But there were too many people, too many masks. He didn't fear Arya being sold as a slave—Braavos forbade the trade—but she was a child alone. She might be a servant in a high house, or a cutpurse in the markets. The odds of a chance meeting were vanishlingly small.
He returned to the inn and found the landlord, Mr. Reggie. "Reggie, if a man sought a girl of ten years... where would he look?"
"A girl of ten?" Reggie's eyebrows nearly retreated into his bald scalp. His greasy apron heaved with a sharp intake of breath. "Listen, lad, last year a merchant from Pentos tried to buy a pair of twins. The Faceless Men hung him from the bronze knockers of the Isle of the Gods. Know how high those knockers are? You'd need to stand on three corpses to reach them!" He leaned in, his finger leaving an oily smear on the counter. "You're too young for such dark thoughts."
He softened his tone with a touch of pity. "You haven't tasted a woman yet, have you? The best are at the Happy Port, near where the mummers' boats moor. Many beautiful women there will take your iron for a night's warmth. Go find Merry. Merrelyn is her name, but she's called Happy Merry because she is—and she'll make you the same. Besides, she has the largest breasts in all of Braavos."
"The porters all go to the Port," Reggie continued, "to unload the ships. Merry says her girls unload the sailors. It's natural for a young man to be... ambitious. But a ten-year-old?" He shook his head sternly. "That is not the way, lad. There are dark corners in this city with monsters who like such things, but you aren't one of them. Turn back while you can."
"I am looking for my sister," Jon interrupted, his voice flat. "She ran from home. I believe she is here."
"Oh." Reggie rubbed his nose, looking embarrassed. "Why didn't you lead with that?" He thought for a moment. "Searching for one soul in Braavos is like looking for a needle in the sea. If I were you, I'd seek the shadows. The cutpurses and the bravoes live in the dark; they hear everything. If you can win their respect, they might spread the word."
"Do you know such men?"
"Me? I am an honest innkeeper," Reggie waved him off. "But I know where they gather. The Moon Pool. The bravoes duel there at night."
Jon returned to his room. Ghost was sprawled across one of the straw mattresses, his ears twitching as Jon entered.
"You stay here, Ghost," Jon whispered.
The wolf let out a low, protesting whine.
"You're too loud, brother. I need to walk soft tonight. Guard the coins." He placed his coin-pouch on the table. Ghost nudged Jon's palm, his cold nose a reminder of the North. His golden eyes contracted into slits in the gloom.
Jon scratched the soft fur behind the wolf's ear, tracing an old scar. "Watch the iron, brother."
The Moon Pool sat south of the Palace of the Sea Lord, near the headquarters of the Iron Bank. It was the northeast heart of the city, where the Sweetwater River finally merged with the salt. The area was a forest of taverns and brothels, far more expensive than Reggie's humble inn.
Jon walked through the quiet alleys as darkness claimed the Secret City. Honest folk barred their doors and shuttered their windows. The night belonged to the duelists and the whores.
And what am I? Jon asked himself.
He was a lone wolf without a pack. A wanderer far from home.
He reached a massive, circular fountain—the Moon Pool—surrounded by a wide stone plaza. There were no duels yet. Instead, a garishly dressed singer was serenading a second-story window of a nearby brothel.
As the first shadow leaped from an arched bridge, the sound of steel leaving a scabbard was softer than a cricket's wing.
Jon didn't understand the lyrics of the singer's song, but the melody was a haunting, lilting romance. When the man finished, Jon approached. "Fine song."
The singer offered a flamboyant bow. "I am Lute. Your ears are as sharp as your blade, Westerman."
"I was told I could find the duelists here," Jon said. "But the plaza is empty."
Lute blinked. "You are not a bravo?"
"I am a traveler."
"Ah. Then you are early. The men who live by the sword are only just waking up."
Jon nodded and moved to a stone wall, leaning back to wait. The spray from the fountain shattered into silver motes under the moonlight, falling over the bronze statue of a long-dead Sea Lord. The statue wore a cryptic half-smile, its left eye a piece of obsidian, its right a hollow socket.
A string on the singer's lute suddenly snapped with a sharp twang. A glass shattered in the brothel above. A drunk stumbled into the alley, startling a swarm of rats. Jon felt the cold moss of the wall dampening his cloak. It reminded him of the Mole's Town tunnels near the Wall, where smugglers huddled in the dark.
It was going to be a long night.
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