The night sky above Tarth was a velvet dome pricked with stars, but it was the fire below that drew every eye.
The tourney grounds had transformed. Where once there were only tents and tilting lists, now there were pavilions of silk and gold, stages of polished wood, and braziers that burned with scented oils. Music from Essos drifted on the salt breeze flutes and drums and the haunting wail of a Myrish stringed harp. The air was thick with spice, perfume, and the sweet sting of Lysaro's infamous Firemilk.
A ring of nobles had gathered around the central stage, their cloaks trimmed in fox and sable, their goblets brimming with wine the color of bruised violets. Laughter rippled through the crowd as a fire-dancer from Lys spun twin torches in a blur of gold and crimson, her movements hypnotic, her bare feet barely touching the earth.
Lord Estermont leaned toward his wife, eyes wide. "By the Seven, I've never seen anything like it."
Lady Estermont, cheeks flushed from wine and wonder, clutched her pearls. "It's indecent," she whispered but she didn't look away.
Nearby, Lord Caron of Nightsong chuckled, his fingers tapping to the rhythm. "The fool from the Reach may be mad, but he knows how to throw a feast."
At the center of it all, lounging like a crowned satyr, was Ser Lysaro Waters.
He reclined on a cushioned dais beneath a canopy of green and gold, his goblet filled with a purplish wine so thick it clung to the sides like syrup. Grapes floated lazily within, and he plucked one between his teeth as if it were a pearl. His robe was open at the chest, revealing a necklace of carved bone and polished glass. His gloves the ones with the wire loops rested beside him, coiled like sleeping snakes.
Around him moved three women tall, graceful, and unmistakably Valyrian. Their hair shimmered like moonlight, their eyes the color of amethysts. They wore silks of pale lavender and seafoam green, and though some lords whispered about them as if they were Lysaro's playthings, the truth was far stranger.
They had once been pleasure slaves in Lys, trained in the arts of seduction and silence. But Lysaro had bought their contracts not for their bodies, but for their minds. He had seen the ledgers they kept, the way they tracked coin and cargo with a precision that would shame half the master accountants in Oldtown.
Now, they were his quartermasters, his treasurers, his whispering council.
"Lord Tarth will be pleased," said Nyra, the eldest of the three, as she handed Lysaro a scroll. "The profits from the wine stalls alone have doubled since sunset."
"Fifty percent to the Evenstar," Lysaro said, waving a hand. "Let him see that madness pays."
"Already done," said Vaela, the youngest, her voice like silk over steel. "We've also secured a meeting with House Morrigen. They're curious about your distilling methods."
Lysaro grinned. "Curious is the first step toward desperate. Desperate men make excellent partners."
The third woman, Saerys, leaned in close. "And the fire-breather from Norvos nearly set Lord Penrose's beard alight. He laughed. His wife did not."
"Then we're doing something right," Lysaro said, raising his goblet in salute.
The crowd roared as the fire-dancer finished her set with a flourish, flames spiraling into the night sky. Coins rained down like silver hail. Children clapped. Lords whispered. Ladies fanned themselves, unsure whether to be scandalized or seduced.
This was no mere entertainment. This was theater. This was conquest.
Lysaro stood, his robe billowing behind him like a banner. He raised his goblet high.
"To Tarth!" he called. "To wine, to wonder, and to the madness that makes men kings!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. Even the skeptical lords found themselves clapping, their reservations drowned in drink and spectacle.
And in the shadows, the black cat watched it all silent, still, and knowing