Please check out my new story: The Celestial Dwarf [ASOIAF/Celestial Grimoire | Tyrion Lannister SI]
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Dawn broke over Braavos, painting the lagoon in shimmering gold. Laenor's muscles screamed in protest as he parried another lightning-fast strike from Lotho Myrakis, the First Sword's practice blade whistling through the air with deadly precision. A week of daily training had honed Laenor's reflexes, but the bruises layering his arms and torso told the story of just how much he still had to learn.
"Too slow!" Lotho barked, his melodious voice carrying across the Moon Pool. "Your enemy will not wait while you consider your options, boy. The water dancer thinks and acts as one!"
Sweat poured down Laenor's face as he adjusted his stance, the cobblestones slick beneath his bare feet. Around them, early morning mist rose from the surface of the Moon Pool, a circular fountain where water flowed endlessly from the mouths of stone mermaids. The sacred training ground of Braavosi water dancers was both beautiful and treacherous – just like the fighting style itself.
"Again!" Lotho commanded, circling Laenor with the fluid grace of a predatory cat.
Laenor took a deep breath, centering himself as he'd been taught. The slender practice blade felt like an extension of his arm now, though his muscles protested its weight after an hour of continuous drills. He watched Lotho's eyes, not his blade, another lesson hard-learned through numerous welts.
The attack came without warning. Lotho lunged forward, his blade a silver blur. Laenor pivoted on his forward foot, letting the strike pass within a hair's breadth of his ribs. The counter-movement flowed naturally, his own blade sweeping upward in the motion Lotho had drilled into him for days.
For once, his timing was perfect. His practice sword tapped Lotho's shoulder before the First Sword could fully recover his guard.
"Ha!" Laenor couldn't contain his triumphant exclamation. A clean hit – his first against the master in a week of trying.
Lotho froze, his dark eyes widening slightly. The small crowd that had gathered to watch – as they did every morning – fell silent. Even the gondoliers passing by the Moon Pool paused in their songs.
Then, the First Sword's stern face cracked into a smile.
"So the boy can learn after all," he said, lowering his blade. "Good. Very good."
Pride surged through Laenor's chest, momentarily drowning out the burning in his muscles. He'd done it! After countless failures, bruises, and frustrations, he'd finally landed a clean hit on the legendary First Sword of Braavos.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Lotho warned, though his eyes still held that rare glimmer of approval. "One success in a thousand attempts is nothing to celebrate. In a real fight, you would have been dead nine hundred and ninety-nine times before landing that blow."
"But the thousandth blow would have been worth it," called a voice from the gathered crowd.
Laughter rippled through the onlookers as a young man pushed his way forward. He was perhaps sixteen, with olive skin and dark curls framing a handsome face that wore an easy smile. His clothing marked him as wealthy, fine blue silk embroidered with silver thread, but he moved with the same fluid grace as the water dancers.
"Ordello" Lotho acknowledged. "Come to observe our foreign student?"
"I wouldn't miss it," the young man replied, his Common Tongue perfect but flavored with the musical Braavosi accent. "The whole city talks of nothing else, the Sea Snake's son training with the First Sword himself." He turned to Laenor, dark eyes appraising. "That was well done. Most men train for years before touching Lotho's shoulder."
Laenor straightened, recognizing Ordello Prestayn from one of the balls he had attended with his father. He had been briefly introduced as the scion of one of the oldest families in Braavos. from their brief introduction days earlier. "Thank you, but as the First Sword says, once is nothing."
"Modest too!" Ordello laughed. "I like him, Lotho. Can I borrow him when you're finished breaking his arms?"
Lotho's expression softened marginally. "If he survives the next hour, he's all yours." He turned back to Laenor, raising his blade once more. "Now, let's see if that hit was skill or mere luck. Show me the Windswept Leaves sequence."
Laenor suppressed a groan. The Windswept Leaves was a complex series of twenty-seven movements that mimicked the chaotic dance of autumn foliage in a gale. He'd yet to complete it without Lotho finding at least a dozen flaws.
As he began the sequence, feet dancing across the smooth stones surrounding the Moon Pool, Laenor felt the energy of the place flow through him. This was sacred ground to the Braavosi, a place where countless duels had been fought, where legendary water dancers had trained for centuries. The fountain at the center bubbled eternally, water flowing from the stone mermaids' mouths to form the circular pool that gave the location its name.
Merchants and bankers hurried past on their way to the nearby Iron Bank, while tavern workers swept the steps of establishments that surrounded the square. Despite the early hour, the area hummed with life, Braavos never truly slept, especially not around the Moon Pool.
"Focus!" Lotho snapped as Laenor's blade wavered slightly during the twelfth movement.
Laenor corrected immediately, forcing his tired muscles to obey. His body flowed from one position to the next, each stance bleeding into the following one. The water dance was not about individual movements but the continuous flow between them, like water itself, never pausing, always adapting.
"Better," Lotho commented as Laenor completed the sequence. "Your body begins to understand what your mind still questions. This is good."
Coming from the taciturn First Sword, this was high praise indeed. Laenor allowed himself a small smile before assuming the ready position once more.
"No, enough for this morning," Lotho said, sheathing his practice blade. "You've earned a rest." He glanced at Ordello, who had been watching intently. "Try not to exhaust him completely. He returns to me tomorrow at dawn."
With that, the First Sword departed, moving through the growing crowd with effortless grace. People parted before him like water around a stone, some bowing respectfully as he passed.
"He likes you," Ordellos said, approaching Laenor with a grin.
Laenor snorted, wincing as he rolled his aching shoulders. "If that's liking, I'd hate to see his dislike."
"Oh, his dislike is much worse," Castos assured him with a laugh. "When Lotho truly dislikes someone, they tend to end up floating face-down in a canal." He clapped Laenor on the shoulder. "Come! You've earned a proper Braavosi breakfast after that display."
Laenor hesitated, glancing down at his sweat-soaked training clothes. "I should change first."
"Nonsense! In Braavos, a man's sweat is the perfume of honest effort." Castos gestured expansively toward one of the establishments bordering the Moon Pool. "Besides, The Merry Merman serves the finest oysters in the city, and they're best eaten fresh from the shell while the morning tide still ebbs."
Laenor's stomach growled audibly at the mention of food. The brutal training sessions had given him an appetite unlike anything he'd experienced before. With a grin, he relented. "Lead on, then."
The Merry Merman proved to be a cheerful establishment with windows overlooking the Moon Pool. Despite the early hour, it was already half-full with patrons breaking their fast – merchants discussing business over steaming cups, sailors enjoying a meal before heading to their ships, and what appeared to be several water dancers still nursing bruises from the previous night's duels.
"The famous little dragon and a Prestayne!" called the proprietor, a heavyset woman with laugh lines etched deeply around her eyes. "What an honor for my humble establishment!"
Castos waved away her fawning with good-natured ease. "Just hungry men seeking your incomparable oysters, Marian."
"And you shall have them!" she promised, ushering them to a table by the window with a view of the Moon Pool. "With butter and garlic, yes? And bread fresh from the oven?"
"And two cups of your spice piced wine," Ordello added with a charming smile. "The boy has earned it after surviving Lotho's tender mercies."
As the proprietor bustled away, Laenor studied his companion with renewed interest. His father had mentioned the Prestayns during their voyage, an ancient naval family whose influence in Braavos stretched back to the city's earliest days.
"My father says your family helped build Braavos," Laenor ventured, wincing slightly as he settled his bruised body into the chair.
Ordello's eyes lit up with pleasure. "He knows his history! Yes, the first Prestayn was among the original escaped slaves who founded the Secret City. We've been shipbuilders and sailors ever since." He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Three of my ancestors served as Sealord within the last two centuries. My great-grandfather was the last—he commissioned the restoration of the Titan's eastern arm after it was damaged in that terrible storm."
"Three Sealords?" Laenor couldn't keep the impressed note from his voice. No wonder Ordello moved with such confidence through the city.
"Indeed. Though my father chose commerce over politics. He says there's less chance of assassination in the shipping business." Ordello laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Though only marginally less."
The proprietor returned with a platter of glistening oysters nestled in crushed ice, each one topped with a pat of herb-flecked butter melting in the morning warmth. Beside them came a basket of steaming bread and two cups of wine that filled the air with the scent of cinnamon and cloves.
"To new friendships," Ordello raised his cup.
Laenor mirrored the gesture, taking a cautious sip. The wine was watered and warm, spiced perfectly to cut through the morning chill.
"So tell me," Ordello said, selecting an oyster with practiced ease, "what's it like to ride a dragon? The whole city whispers about it. The Sea Snake's son with a dragon of his own—it's quite the tale."
Laenor tensed slightly. His dragon bond was not something he discussed casually, especially with strangers. But Ordello's interest seemed genuine rather than calculating, his expression open and curious.
"It's..." Laenor searched for words that could possibly convey the experience. "It's like nothing else. Like having another self, separate but connected. When Seasmoke flies, I feel the wind beneath his wings even with my feet on the ground."
"Magnificent," Ordello declared, gesturing expansively with an oyster shell. "You know, the oldest Braavosi texts speak of the magic of the sea and sky being kindred spirits. Perhaps that's why your House, with its connection to both water and dragons, has prospered."
The observation was surprisingly insightful, touching uncomfortably close to Laenor's secret abilities with the Nereid Kyrie. He shifted the conversation.
"What about you? You move like someone who trains at the Moon Pool regularly."
Ordello grinned, clearly pleased by the observation. "Since I was five. Not with Lotho, of course, he only takes students he finds interesting, which apparently includes young Velaryons." He tilted his head, studying Laenor with renewed interest. "You must have impressed him tremendously. I've never seen him invest so much personal attention in a beginner."
"Or perhaps he enjoys having someone new to bruise," Laenor replied dryly.
Ordello laughed again, the sound drawing glances from nearby patrons. "That too! But Lotho doesn't waste time on lost causes. If he's training you personally, he sees potential."
Laenor felt a flush of pride at the words. He'd endured the brutal training sessions without complaint, determined to prove himself worthy of the First Sword's attention.
"Your father must be pleased," Ordello continued, selecting another oyster. "The Sea Snake's reputation looms large in Braavos. His voyages are legendary, his trading acumen respected even by the keenholders of the Iron Bank." He leaned forward slightly. "And now his son trains with the First Sword and rides a dragon. House Velaryon's star rises high indeed."
There was something in Ordello's tone, not quite envy, but a keen interest that went beyond casual conversation. Laenor remembered his father's lessons about Braavosi politics, how alliances and connections were currency as valuable as gold.
"My father speaks highly of Braavos," Laenor replied carefully. "He says your city understands the true value of the sea in ways that Westeros often fails to grasp."
"He's right about that." Ordello nodded enthusiastically. "The sea is our lifeblood, our protection, our highway to prosperity. Which is why the Triarchy's actions in the Stepstones concern us all."
And there it was, the heart of the matter, skillfully steered toward by his new companion. Laenor took a bite of bread to give himself a moment to consider his response.
"The Triarchy's tolls affect Driftmark's trade as well," he acknowledged.
"More than affect, they strangle it," Ordello said, his casual demeanor slipping to reveal genuine frustration. "Three years ago, my family's ships could make four voyages to Westeros for the cost of one today. The Triarchy claims they're providing security against pirates, but they've merely replaced random piracy with organized extortion."
The words echoed his father's almost exactly. Laenor nodded, sensing an opportunity to strengthen what could be a valuable connection.
"My father believes the situation cannot continue," he offered. "The Narrow Sea should be open to all who wish to trade fairly."
Ordello's eyes gleamed with interest. "Your father is a wise man. And does the Iron Throne share this wisdom?"
Laenor hesitated, remembering his father's careful instructions about what could and couldn't be said regarding their unofficial mission. "King Jaehaerys values peace," he said diplomatically.
"Peace is valuable," Ordello agreed. "But sometimes peace must be enforced." He leaned back, sipping his wine. "My father says the Narrow Sea needs a new balance of power. The Triarchy grows too bold, too greedy. They forget that Braavos was founded by those who refused to bow to tyranny."
"And what does your father suggest?" Laenor asked, intrigued by the young Braavosi's openness.
"Alliance," Ordello said simply. "Between those who understand the sea's true value." His dark eyes fixed on Laenor's with surprising intensity. "House Velaryon and House Prestayn share many interests. Our families have both built their fortunes on understanding waters that others fear to sail."
The implication was clear. Ordello wasn't just making friendly conversation—he was feeling out potential political connections, perhaps with his family's blessing.
"I'll be sure to mention your family's shared concerns to my father," Laenor said, matching Ordello's intensity with his own.
"Excellent!" Ordello's easy smile returned. "And I hope you'll join me again tomorrow. I know a place where they serve the most delicious eel pie in all Braavos. Unless Lotho beats you too severely in the morning, of course."
"I'll be there," Laenor promised, recognizing the value of this budding connection. A family with three former Sealords in its lineage would have influence throughout Braavos. And Ordello himself seemed genuinely likable, despite the political undercurrents of their conversation.
As they finished their meal, Ordello regaled him with stories of Braavosi duels and festivals, pointing out landmarks visible through the window and explaining their significance. For all his political maneuvering, the young man's enthusiasm for his city seemed genuine.
When they finally parted ways outside The Merry Merman, Ordello clasped Laenor's forearm in the Braavosi style.
"Until tomorrow, dragon rider," he said with a warm smile. "Perhaps after your training, I can show you the Arsenal—
______________________________________
Three weeks later, Laenor found himself seated at a long table in the great hall of the Sealord's Palace, struggling to maintain his diplomatic composure. The farewell feast was in full swing, marking their final night in Braavos before tomorrow's departure. Jeweled cups clinked, raucous laughter echoed off the vaulted ceiling, and the air hung heavy with the mingled scents of roasted meats, exotic spices, and too many perfumes.
"—and then the water dancer flipped completely over the merchant's head! Can you believe it?" Castor Volentin's high-pitched voice pierced through Laenor's thoughts for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. The Sealord's ten-year-old son bounced in his seat beside Laenor, his dark eyes wide with excitement as he recounted yet another tale that Laenor had already heard twice before.
Laenor nodded politely, taking a deliberate sip of watered wine to avoid having to respond. Across the table, a Braavosi courtesan with elaborate silver bells woven into her dark hair caught his eye and winked. He quickly looked away, cheeks warming.
The hall itself was a marvel of Braavosi craftsmanship, with soaring ceilings supported by columns carved to resemble intertwined sea creatures. Hundreds of candles floated in glass bowls across the still waters of narrow channels that ran between the tables, creating the illusion that the feast itself was taking place atop the lagoon. Musicians played on a raised platform, their strange instruments producing melodies unlike anything heard in Westeros.
"My father says your father's ships are the fastest in the world," Castor continued without pausing for breath, sauce from the roasted duck dribbling down his chin. "But I told him they couldn't possibly be faster than Braavosi ships because we have the Arsenal and can build a war galley in a single day, which means our shipwrights must be the best, don't you think?"
Laenor fought back a sigh. The boy hadn't stopped talking since they'd been seated together, seemingly unaware or unconcerned that his conversational partner had offered little more than nods and noncommittal hums for the past hour.
"The Sea Snake was designed by my father himself," Laenor finally said, unable to let the slight against Velaryon shipbuilding pass unchallenged. "She outran three Pentoshi patrol vessels without even unfurling her full sails."
"Yes, but did you know—" Castor launched into another story, this one about Braavosi naval victories that Laenor suspected were heavily embellished, if not entirely fictional.
Laenor's gaze drifted to where his father sat beside the Sealord at the high table, deep in conversation. The two men leaned close, speaking in hushed tones that couldn't possibly be heard over the din of the feast. Whatever alliance they had formed over these past months, it seemed strong. Strong enough, perhaps, to challenge the Triarchy's stranglehold on the Stepstones.
"—and the First Sword said I have natural talent with a blade! Did I tell you that?" Castor was saying, his small chest puffing up with pride.
"Only three times," Laenor muttered, though his comment went unnoticed as Castor plowed ahead.
"He says I might begin real training next year if I continue my exercises. My father says a future Sealord must know how to defend himself with more than just words, though words are important too, of course. Do you think dragons understand words? I've always wondered if—"
A burst of particularly raucous laughter from a group of Braavosi captains momentarily drowned out Castor's chatter, giving Laenor a blessed few seconds of respite. He used the opportunity to scan the hall again, spotting Ordello Prestayn surrounded by a group of admiring young women. The young Braavosi caught his eye and raised his glass in salute. Laenor returned the gesture, genuinely sorry he hadn't been seated closer to his new friend.
Their daily meetings after Laenor's training sessions with Lotho had become the highlight of his time in Braavos. Ordello had shown him parts of the city no visitor usually saw, the hidden temples, the secret bridges, the bustling markets where Braavosi from all walks of life haggled over everything from fresh fish to Qartheen silks.
"—bigger than the Titan, don't you think?" Castor tugged at Laenor's sleeve, demanding his attention.
"I'm sorry, what?" Laenor turned back to the boy, realizing he hadn't heard the question.
"Your dragon! Is he bigger than the Titan?" Castor repeated, eyes shining with excitement.
"Not quite," Laenor replied, unable to keep a small smile from his lips at the absurd comparison. "Seasmoke is still growing. He's about fifty feet from nose to tail now."
"When will he be full grown? Can he breathe fire yet? What color are his flames? Have you ever burned anyone? My father says dragons are the most dangerous weapons in the world, and whoever controls them controls the fate of nations, which is why the alliance with your house is so important to—"
"Careful, young Castor," Laenor cut in, suddenly alert. "Some conversations aren't meant for feasting halls."
Castor's eyes widened, and he clapped a hand over his mouth in an exaggerated display of secrecy that would have drawn more attention than his chatter, had anyone been paying them any mind. "You're right," he whispered loudly. "Father says loose lips sink ships."
Despite his general annoyance with the boy, Laenor couldn't help but chuckle at that. "A wise saying."
"I'm going to be a wise Sealord someday," Castor declared with absolute confidence, reaching for another honey-glazed pastry from the platter before them. "The wisest Braavos has ever seen."
Laenor watched as the boy crammed the entire pastry into his mouth, honey dripping down his fingers and smearing across his cheeks. Perhaps the wisest Sealord might learn to eat without wearing half his meal, Laenor thought wryly.
A troupe of dancers entered the hall then, their lithe bodies painted blue and green to resemble waves. They moved with the fluid grace that characterized all things Braavosi, weaving between the tables as music swelled from the musicians' gallery.
"Oh! The tide dancers!" Castor exclaimed, momentarily distracted from his endless chatter. "They only perform for the most important occasions."
The dancers flowed around the hall, their movements hypnotic. Laenor found himself captivated despite his earlier irritation, especially when they began a complicated sequence that mimicked water surging and receding. Their choreography reminded him of the water dance forms Lotho had drilled into him, the same principles of flow and constant motion applied to pure artistry rather than combat.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" came a woman's voice from behind him.
Laenor turned to find a striking Braavosi woman with silver streaks in her dark hair standing at his shoulder. Her deep purple gown marked her as a member of the Sealord's household, though Laenor couldn't recall meeting her before.
"Mother!" Castor exclaimed, his face lighting up. "Did you see? They're performing the Dance of the Merling King!"
"I see, my treasure," she said fondly, resting a hand on her son's shoulder. "But perhaps you should join your father now. He wishes to introduce you to the captain of the Golden Wave."
Castor practically bounced from his seat, excitement radiating from his small frame. "The Golden Wave? The ship that sailed to Asshai and back? Truly?"
"Truly," his mother confirmed with an indulgent smile. "Run along now."
The boy needed no further encouragement, darting away through the crowd with remarkable speed for someone so small.
"You have my thanks, Lady Volentin," Laenor said sincerely as the woman took Castor's vacated seat.
She laughed, the sound rich and knowing. "You hide your impatience well, young lord, but not well enough for a mother's eye. My Castor can be quite enthusiastic," Lady Volentin finished with a fond smile. "He has his father's passion, though perhaps not yet his restraint."
"He's very... informative," Laenor offered diplomatically, which made Lady Volentin laugh again.
"Such a polite way to say 'exhausting,'" she replied, her dark eyes twinkling with amusement. "You've been most patient with him. He's quite taken with you and your dragon, you know. He's drawn at least a dozen pictures of what he imagines Seasmoke looks like."
Laenor smiled genuinely at that. "I'd like to see them sometime."
"Perhaps before you leave tomorrow." Lady Volentin's gaze drifted to the dancers, who were now performing an intricate sequence that mimicked waves crashing against the Titan's feet. "He'll miss you terribly. It's not often he meets another noble-born child who treats him with kindness rather than mere deference."
The observation struck Laenor more deeply than he expected. Despite Castor's incessant chatter, there was something endearing about the boy's unfiltered enthusiasm.
"My father mentioned a possible future visit," Laenor said, watching Lady Volentin's expression carefully. "Perhaps with my mother and sister as well."
Something flickered in her eyes, knowledge of negotiations Laenor wasn't supposed to be aware of, perhaps. "Yes, that would be... most welcome," she said carefully.
The music shifted, becoming softer as the dancers glided away. In the momentary lull, Laenor found himself struck by a sudden impulse.
"Lady Volentin," he said, surprising himself with his boldness, "would it be considered inappropriate if I were to offer a song?"
Her eyebrows rose slightly. "You sing, young lord?"
"Sometimes," he admitted, feeling a flush creep up his neck. "My mother taught me some old Valyrian ballads, and I've learned a few sailors' songs from my father's crew." He hesitated. "I composed something during our stay here. About Braavos."
Lady Volentin's expression softened with genuine interest. "How delightful! Let me speak with my husband."
Before Laenor could reconsider his impulsive offer, she had risen gracefully and made her way to the high table. He watched as she leaned down to whisper in the Sealord's ear. Moredo Volentin's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look directly at Laenor with evident surprise.
Then, to Laenor's horror, the Sealord stood, raising his jeweled cup for silence. The hall gradually quieted, hundreds of eyes turning toward their host.
"Honored guests," the Sealord announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the vast chamber, "I am told that young Lord Laenor Velaryon has composed a song during his stay in our city and wishes to share it with us." His eyes crinkled with amusement as he looked at Laenor. "We would be most honored to hear the dragon-rider sing of Braavos."
The hall erupted in enthusiastic applause and cheers. Across the room, Laenor caught his father's startled expression, quickly masked with diplomatic neutrality.
Seven hells, what have I done? Laenor thought as a servant approached with a finely crafted harp. He'd only meant to sing for Lady Volentin, perhaps a few nearby guests, not the entire assembly of Braavosi nobility!
Rising on slightly trembling legs, Laenor accepted the harp with a bow to the Sealord. The instrument was smaller than those used in Westerosi courts, its frame carved to resemble waves curling around a ship's prow. He tested the strings gently, finding them perfectly tuned.
"Thank you for this honor, Lord Sealord," he said, his voice sounding impossibly young to his own ears as it echoed in the now-silent hall. "This song came to me while watching your city awaken from the morning mists."
Gathering his courage, Laenor settled the harp against his shoulder and let his fingers find the opening notes. The melody began softly, like fog rolling across water, before building into something that captured the rhythm of gondoliers' oars cutting through canals.
When he opened his mouth to sing, the voice that emerged seemed to surprise even himself, clear and pure, carrying an otherworldly quality that filled the vast chamber without effort. The Valyrian words flowed from him like water, telling of a city born from sea-foam and defiance, of purple sails and silent assassins, of golden domes reflecting sunrise and mist-shrouded temples.
The hall fell utterly silent. Even the servants stopped to listen, pitchers poised mid-pour. Laenor kept his eyes on the harp strings, afraid that meeting anyone's gaze might break the spell he seemed to be weaving. The Nereid Kyrie stirred within him, lending his voice a resonance that carried notes impossibly long and clear.
He sang of the Titan standing guard over the Secret City, as he reache the water dancers, his fingers plucked a complicated pattern that echoed their swift, deadly movements.
The final verses spoke of friendship between sea dragons and the children of the lagoon, of ships sailing side by side through waters freed from tyranny. The melody carried the words so beautifully that their meaning seemed secondary to their sound.
As the last notes faded into silence, Laenor finally dared to look up. What he saw made his breath catch, dozens of hardened Braavosi captains and merchants wiping tears from their cheeks unashamedly. Lady Volentin pressed a handkerchief to her eyes, while beside her, the Sealord himself sat motionless, his weathered face transformed by naked emotion.
Even Lotho Myrakis, standing stoically by a column, had an expression of stunned appreciation on his usually impassive features.
The silence stretched for several heartbeats before the Sealord rose slowly to his feet. When he spoke, his voice was husky with feeling.
"In all my years," he said, "I have never heard our city described with such beauty and truth by an outsider." He raised his cup toward Laenor. "Braavos thanks you, young Velaryon. Your song will be remembered here."
The hall erupted in thunderous applause. Laenor bowed deeply, his cheeks burning with equal parts embarrassment and pleasure. As he straightened, he caught his father's eye across the room. Corlys was staring at him with bursting pride, and raised her glass in a toast.
Ordello Prestayn was the first to reach him as he returned to his seat, clapping him enthusiastically on the shoulder.
"By the gods, Laenor! You've been hiding talents from me," he exclaimed. "Where did you learn to sing like that?"
"I didn't know I could," Laenor admitted, still slightly dazed by the reception. "Not like that, anyway."
"Modest as well as gifted," Ordello laughed. "The Sealord's wife is practically ready to adopt you on the spot. Look at her!"
Laenor glanced toward Lady Volentin, who was indeed watching him with the warmest expression he'd seen on any adult face since arriving in Braavos.
"The old stories say dragon-riders of Valyria could charm even their fierce beasts with song," a soft, melodious voice rang out. The crowd parted like a sea before a ship's prow, and Laenor's mouth went dry at the vision approaching him.
Morella Otherys, the Black Pearl of Braavos, glided toward him with a grace that made even the most elegant ladies of court look like stumbling children. Her gown, midnight-blue silk that caught the light with each sway of her hips, clung to curves that would make grown men weep. Cascades of obsidian hair tumbled past her shoulders, framing a face that artists would kill to capture. But it was her eyes, deep green like the waters of Blackwater Bay before a storm, that truly arrested Laenor. They seemed to see right through him, past his child's form to something deeper.
"For your song, young prince," she said, her Braavosi accent turning the words into music.
Before Laenor could respond, she bent down, her perfume enveloping him like a spell, and pressed soft lips against his cheek.
Laenor sat frozen, internally cursing the limitations of his six-year-old body while his face betrayed him completely, erupting in a blush so fierce he felt he might combust. His mind, a man's mind, recognized the beauty before him, but his child's form rendered him helpless to do anything but gape like a landed fish.
Morella's laugh bubbled up like water from a spring, musical and teasing. "Such a serious little dragon lord! Most boys your age would run away screaming that I've given them the bloody flux!"
The crowd around them tittered, and Laenor's blush deepened impossibly further. He scrambled desperately for his dignity.
"Thank you, my lady," he managed, his child's voice cracking slightly. "Your beauty is... is..." Words failed him completely.
"Is what?" Morella prompted, clearly enjoying his discomfort, those hypnotic green eyes dancing with mischief.
"Is distracting me from proper courtesies," Laenor finished, finding his footing at last. He executed a small bow that would have made his etiquette master proud.
This sent Morella into another peal of delighted laughter. "Oh! The little lord has a silver tongue to match his silver hair!" She turned to the crowd. "Did you hear that? Six years old and already he speaks like a courtier!"
Corlys appeared at Laenor's side, looking both amused and watchful. "My son has many talents, Lady Otherys. Though I confess, turning quite that shade of crimson is a new one."
"Father!" Laenor hissed, mortification complete.
Morella's eyes twinkled as she looked between father and son. "I've embarrassed the young dragon. Forgive me." She tapped a finger against her full lips thoughtfully. "Though I wonder if your dragon is nearby? I've never seen one up close."
"Seasmoke isn't here, my lady," Laenor managed, finding his voice at last. "He remains at Driftmark."
Corlys placed a hand on his son's shoulder, squeezing gently. "And it's well past this young lord's bedtime. We sail with the morning tide."
"What a pity," Morella said, her smile softening as she looked down at Laenor. "Well then, little dragon-singer, until we meet again." She bent once more, this time pressing a kiss to his other cheek, leaving behind the ghost of her perfume and the impression of her lips against his skin.
As she glided away, the crowd around them dispersed, returning to their revelry with fresh excitement. The Black Pearl's attention had marked Laenor as someone of consequence, and he could feel curious eyes following him across the hall.
"Come along," Corlys said, steering Laenor toward the exit with a firm hand. "Before any other famous courtesans decide to bestow their favors upon you."
Once they were in the relative quiet of the corridor, Corlys burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the marble walls.
"What?" Laenor demanded, his dignity still smarting.
"If your mother could see you now," Corlys managed between chuckles, "seducing the most famous courtesan in Braavos with nothing but a song! She'd have my hide for certain."
"I wasn't—I didn't—" Laenor sputtered.
"The look on your face!" Corlys continued, clearly enjoying his son's discomfort. "Like you'd been struck by lightning. The mighty dragon-rider, felled by a pretty smile and a kiss on the cheek."
Laenor groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Must you?"
"Oh yes," his father assured him, guiding him up the sweeping staircase toward their guest chambers. "This tale will make an excellent addition to my repertoire. 'The time my six-year-old son charmed the Black Pearl of Braavos.' Your mother will never believe it."
"Please don't tell her," Laenor begged, knowing it was futile. His father's eyes gleamed with too much mischief for mercy.
They reached their chambers, and Corlys's expression softened as he closed the door behind them. The sounds of the feast faded to a distant murmur.
"Jests aside," he said, his voice growing serious, "that was a beautiful song, Laenor. Truly beautiful."
Laenor felt a flush of pride replace his embarrassment. "Thank you, Father."
"You've done something remarkable tonight," Corlys continued, moving to pour himself a small cup of wine from the carafe by the window. "Music speaks to people in ways that diplomacy cannot. The Sealord's wife was in tears, did you notice?"
Laenor hadn't, too focused on his own performance. "No."
"And that hard-faced treasurer from the Iron Bank, the one who's been giving me grief about interest rates all week? He was dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve when he thought no one was looking." Corlys shook his head in wonder. "You've accomplished with one song what I couldn't manage in three weeks of negotiations."
"I just sang what I felt about the city," Laenor said, settling onto the edge of his bed.
"That's exactly it. They heard truth in your voice." Corlys sat beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. "You have gifts, son. Remarkable gifts. The dragon, yes, and now this voice... and whatever you do with the water." He gestured vaguely, as if trying to encompass all of Laenor's abilities. "The gods have blessed House Velaryon indeed."
Laenor looked down at his hands, feeling the weight of his father's expectations alongside his pride. "I'll try to use them well."
"I know you will." Corlys ruffled his hair affectionately. "Now get some sleep. We have an early start tomorrow, and a long voyage ahead."
As his father moved to leave, Laenor called out, "Father? Do you think the alliance will hold? With the Sealord?"
Corlys paused at the door, his expression thoughtful. "I think you've cemented it more firmly than any contract or handshake could. They'll remember your song long after they've forgotten the details of our trade agreements." He smiled. "Sleep well, my little diplomat."
After his father left, Laenor changed into his sleeping clothes and climbed into bed. Through the open window, he could hear the gentle lapping of water against stone, the distant calls of late-night gondoliers, and the fading music from the feast below. The sounds of Braavos, a city he had come to love in these few short weeks.
Tomorrow they would sail for Driftmark, back to Seasmoke and his mother and sister. Back to the life that awaited him as heir to House Velaryon. But tonight, he would fall asleep to the rhythm of the Secret City, the memory of his song still hanging in the air like mist over the lagoon.
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