Chapter 60: Whispers and Silk
Artos stood before the polished bronze mirror in his chamber, turning this way and that with a frown that didn't quite hide his satisfaction. The doublet was deep grey wool trimmed with silver thread—his choice, not Ronan's peacocking silks. Breeches of supple leather tucked into polished boots, a heavy cloak clasped at the shoulder with a plain direwolf pin he'd had made in Lys. Clean-shaven still, but a touch of oil darkened his hair, taming the wild Stark curls. He looked every inch the lordling, or near enough.
Waymar leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, a grin splitting his face. "Gods be good, Commander. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're off to a bedding. What's her name? Must be someone special if you are putting so much effort. Who is it Commander."
Artos didn't say anything.
Waymar now even more curious but also more knowledgeable of Artos than most " is it the Lady Valen you are going to meet Commander. Is Commander really has grown a soft side for the Lady Valen."
Artos shot him a look, adjusting his cuff. "Piss off, Waymar. It's a walk, nothing more. Fresh air and a bit of talk. Braavos'll choke a man with its stink elsewise."
"Aye, a walk," Waymar drawled, eyes dancing. "With the Valen heiress. Cleaned up like you're facing the Iron Throne. Next you'll be reciting poetry and offering flowers."
Artos snorted, but heat crept up his neck. "Mind your tongue, lad. Or I'll have you scrubbing chamber pots with the Skagosi."
Waymar laughed outright, ducking as Artos chucked a gauntlet at his head. "Fair enough, Commander. Just mind you don't trip over your own finery."
The door banged open before Artos could retort. Ronan stormed in, face tight as a miser's purse, a crumpled parchment clutched in his fist. "What in the seven hells do you think you're doing, Hal?"
Artos raised a brow, sheathing a belt-knife. "Dressing, by the look of it, weren't you the one who bought these and encouraged me to wire these. What's got your smallclothes twisted now?"
Ronan thrust the parchment under his nose—a scribbled note from some dockside informant. "This. This is what's twisting them. Word's spreading faster than pox in a brothel. 'Commander Hal seen laughing with Lady Seraphine Valen.' 'The Northern brute and the Valen pearl, thick as lovers.' They're coupling your names from the Long Canal to the Sea Lord's Palace. Merchants whispering you're after her gold, magisters saying she's your lever into Braavosi trade. Also the rivalry between you and Merchant Prince Glaro isn't a small thing anymore. First the knives and now the girl."
Artos waved it off, grabbing his cloak. "Gossip. Let 'em talk."
"It's not just gossip," Ronan snapped, voice low and urgent. "You're a sellsword captain playing at merchant, Hal. One wrong whisper and contracts dry up. Clients see you chasing skirts instead of steel, they'll hire others instead. And the Valens? Old blood, older grudges. If they think you're trifling with their heir—"
"I'm not trifling," Artos cut in, sharper than intended. "It's talk. She's sharp and enchanting . That's all."
Ronan eyed him, then sighed, rubbing his temples. "Gods save me and Essos from wolves in merchants' clothing. Just... be careful. Braavos quite often eats the careless especially outsiders."
Artos clapped his shoulder, already moving for the door. "Always am. Tell Waymar to stop grinning like a halfwit."
Across the city, in the Valen manse where canal water lapped at marble steps, Seraphine sat before her own mirror. Her gown was sapphire silk that clung like a lover's whisper, hair piled with silver pins that caught the lamplight. A touch of kohl darkened her eyes, lips stained berry-red. She looked every inch the heiress—poised, untouchable, a prize Braavos's wolves circled but never caught.
Her father entered quietly, a shadow in fine velvet, and settled on the bench beside her. Lord Aelor Valen was silver-haired and lean, eyes like chipped flint, voice soft as worn leather. "You look lovely, daughter. As always."
Seraphine smiled, twisting a pin. "Flattery, Father? What's the occasion?"He took her hand, thumb tracing an old callus from her ledger-work. "No flattery. Concern. Word reaches me of your walk with Commander Hal. The streets buzz with it."
She arched a brow, unperturbed. "And? Men talk. Always have."
"Aye, but this is Hal," Aelor said gently, no anger in it. "The man who stormed Unsullied lines and outbid princes for Valyrian steel. Folk say he's after more than conversation—your gold, our alliances, a foothold in Braavos. And you're my heir, Seraphine. Sole branch on this old tree. Rumors alone can wound. Suitors turn to rivals, rivals to knives ."
Seraphine's smile faded, but only a touch. She squeezed his hand. "He's no simpering suitor, Father. Nor some blade for hire. Hal's... different. Blunt. Sees through the world quite stubborn and different manner. If he's after anything, he'll say it plain."
Aelor studied her, then nodded slowly. "Perhaps. But mind the board, girl. You're Valen. Every step echoes. Harm comes easier to heirs than to shadows. Especially you who is the hier despite being a girl."
She rose, kissing his cheek. "I know the board, Father. And I play to win. Don't worry too much about it."
In the Sythan manse, the evening was less measured. Glaro paced his solar like a caged panther, another goblet shattering against the hearth. Servants scattered like startled pigeons, leaving him to his fury. Hal and Seraphine. Again. Walking the streets, laughing where all Braavos could see. The whispers from the party had festered into tavern tales—the sellsword and the heiress, rival to Glaro Sythan in gold and now in bed."Bastard Northern dog," he snarled, kicking a fallen chair. "Thinks he can swagger into my city, steal my prizes?"
Maegor entered without knocking, face thunderous. "Still at it? Gods, boy, you'll drink yourself to an early grave before you win a damn thing."
Glaro whirled, eyes wild. "Win? How do I win when he dogs every step? Auction, now her. Folk call him my rival—like we're equals!"
Maegor seized a decanter, pouring steady where his son shook. "Then prove you're better. Drown the mead and call on the Valens .Try to work on Ledgers, not tantrums. Show your worth here, not your rage."
Glaro slumped into a chair, chest heaving. "She laughed with him. In the street."
"Aye, and she'll laugh with you if you show your capabilities but sadly it seems you focus on other things too much." Maegor thrust the cup at him—Arbor gold, not Northern swill. "Drink this. Sleep. Tomorrow, you court properly. Or watch the People claim what's yours."
Glaro drained it, the fire in his gut shifting from rage to resolve. Rival. The word burned, but Maegor's words kindled something sharper. Hal might have steel and swagger, but Glaro had blood and birthright. The game wasn't over. Not yet."
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