Chapter 145: Passion
After taking a deep, steadying breath, Ian centered his emotions and continued walking forward.
He passed through a gate that belonged in a dungeon, fashioned from cold-rolled steel bars as thick as a man's arm. At last, he arrived underground. The air that greeted him was cold and humid, raising a shiver across his skin.
It did not take him long to realize that this place was, in fact, a dungeon.
Cells lined both sides of the long corridor, their floors covered with relatively clean straw. Inside each, slave warriors wearing heavy chains stared out with vacant eyes.
The corridor stretched on and on, making Ian feel as though he had been walking for an eternity. It wasn't until a sudden eruption of fanatical cheers reached his ears that he realized they had finally reached their destination.
Passing through a set of heavy bronze doors engraved with ancient Valyrian script, Ian discovered a world unlike any he had imagined. It was a far cry from the dark, filthy, and chaotic underground arenas of his mind's eye; this place had been built with a palpable atmosphere.
The chamber was not especially large. The entire auditorium could accommodate a hundred spectators at most, and the fighting platform erected in the center—built like a giant animal cage—was only large enough for a duel.
The surrounding rock walls were adorned with glazed tiles depicting dragons and beasts of myth. Marble sculptures inlaid with gems and crystals were scattered artfully throughout the hall.
There were few people present, only twenty or so, leaving most of the tiered seating vacant. Judging by their fine clothes, they were the scions of Pentos's nobility, and at that moment, they were all cheering a particularly beautiful sword strike from one of the gladiators in the cage.
Ian followed their gaze to the platform. Slaves were just entering the cage to drag away a corpse, its entrails spilled across the dirt floor. Another slave followed, spreading a fresh layer of loess over the blood-soaked ground.
The victor, a broad-shouldered swordsman, held his hands high, catching the gold coins that rained down from the cheering nobles.
"Earl Darry, Master Yada, Earl Grafson. Welcome to the White Blade Arena."
A woman in a purple velvet, off-the-shoulder gown greeted them, curtsying gracefully to the three men. Rolle and Keith, who followed a few paces behind, were treated as common attendants and utterly ignored.
Ian had seen this woman before, at Khal Drogo's feast.
Delif Hauket. The woman who, according to Illyrio, could make the "terrible" Prince Hazan let his passions overrule his reason, compelling him to accept Suda Tetrus's challenge to the death.
Smelling the rich, natural spices of her perfume and seeing the deep shadow of her cleavage, Ian suddenly felt that perhaps Hazan was not entirely to blame for his rashness. The thought was fleeting, immediately replaced by Illyrio's warning that Hazan was extremely possessive and irritable when it came to this woman. Ian calmly took a step back, establishing a more polite and considerably safer distance between them.
Delif did not seem to notice his subtle retreat. Her mind was on another matter.
When she had curtsied, she had addressed them by name, beginning with Ian on the left, then the Water Dancer, Yada, on the right, and leaving Earl Darren Grafson, who stood in the center, for last. Yet none of them had reacted to such a breach of protocol. In their subconscious, it seemed, the sequence of the greeting was perfectly reasonable.
This confirmed Prince Hazan's conjecture: Darren's true status was indeed lower than Ian's, and even lower than that of Yada, who was supposedly his subordinate.
"You are as bright and charming as ever, Miss Delif," Darren complimented her.
"Thank you for your kindness, my lord Earl," Delif replied with a radiant smile. "This way, please. His Highness the Prince is awaiting you in the stands."
With that, she led them toward the main viewing box.
"I have a question, Miss Delif," Ian said, his eyes scanning the hall. "Why is your arena underground? Suda Tetrus's is on the surface, and on a much grander scale."
"Do you wish to hear the truth?" Delif asked, her eyes twinkling.
"If it is convenient."
"Because our Braavosi party are abolitionists, Lord Earl," she said, her tone entirely without shame. "After Hazan accepted Suda's challenge, we also needed an arena to recruit a champion. But we could not revive such a sport as blatantly as Suda has, so we rented one of the few underground arenas left in Pentos."
"That is indeed a significant distinction," Ian nodded.
By now, they had arrived before the main stand. Hazan rose to his feet and cast an inquisitive look at Delif, who gave him a subtle, confirming nod. Satisfied, Hazan walked straight to Ian.
"Hazan Morharis," the prince said, extending a hand. "Son of Trigg Mohharis, Prince of Pentos. The Keykeeper of Braavos, Marion Freyga, is my mother."
Hazan's attire today was far from the gorgeous silks he had worn at Drogo's banquet. He was dressed in high-quality armor, an ivory-hilted dagger and a longsword hanging at his waist. He finally looked the part of a warrior.
"Ian Darry," Ian replied, taking the offered hand and shaking it lightly. He introduced himself with his hollow title, not a hint of a blush on his face. "Earl of Darry, Hand of the King to His Majesty Viserys."
"I have long heard your name, Ian," Hazan said, his smile warm. "May I call you Ian? And you must call me by my name."
*Overenthusiastic.* It was Ian's first impression. If Hazan were acting this way after Ian had warned him about the two Water Dancers, he would have understood. But as things stood, Ian was of no obvious use to the prince, which made his effusive welcome intriguing.
*Or perhaps,* Ian mused, *it is merely condescending humility.* When a man of high status and commanding presence acts humble and casual, most people feel flattered, which allows him to easily seize control of the conversation.
"Of course," Ian nodded slightly, deciding to test him. "Do as you wish. There is no need for such restraint."
Hazan was momentarily stunned. Ian's casual attitude flipped the dynamic completely, inexplicably making him feel as though Ian were the Prince of Pentos, and he the wandering knight in service to a Beggar King.
After a brief, frozen moment, Hazan burst into a hearty laugh. "Hahaha! I like your character, Ian. I hope we can become friends."
"I was only making a joke," Ian said, smiling apologetically as he lowered his posture once more. "It would be my honor to be friends with Your Highness."
"Please, sit," Hazan said with a gesture of invitation, guiding them to their seats in the main stand before clapping his hands for a servant to bring red wine.
When the goblet arrived, Ian merely pretended to take a sip before setting it aside.
"The next match is about to begin," Hazan said, seating himself next to Ian. "We have recruited many powerful fighters. You should know, both Suda and I have offered a very, very high reward."
He gestured toward the caged men below. "See the one with the *arakh*? He was once a Dothraki Khal, sold into slavery after a defeat. I bought him. The short, dark man beside him with the hand-axe is a mercenary king from the Summer Islands."
He turned back to Ian, his voice earnest. "In short, please tell His Majesty Viserys for me that I am certain of victory in this contest. Choosing to help me is his opportunity to let the name Targaryen bloom once more."
"Your Highness, you may have misremembered," Ian said calmly. "It is Earl Grafson's task to examine your chances of winning. You should be telling this to him."
"I thought we were already friends, Ian," Hazan sighed softly, his eyes locking with Ian's. "From the moment you offered me your help at Drogo's banquet, I have considered you so. And all who know me know that I have always been sincere and generous to my friends."
He leaned in slightly, slowing his speech until he was uttering each word with deliberate weight. "So. Are you my friend?"
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