Sisa had drunk too much, and his tongue had loosened with it.
Maybe he believed that with Viserys Targaryen's backing, he finally had a chance with the courtesan he was pursuing. Or maybe it was simply his pride — Braavosi men often grew talkative when wine burned in their blood.
Whatever the reason, wine made him confessional.
"This city," he said proudly, "is nothing like your Westeros. Our courtesans are known across the world."
He wasn't bragging idly. Every Free City had its share of courtesans, but none could rival Braavos — neither in fame, influence, nor cost.
"I've heard of their renown," said Viserys, swirling his cup. "Especially the Seven Great Courtesans — the Black Pearl, the Mermaid Queen, the Veiled Lady, the Lady of Shadows, the Poetess, the Nightingale, and Moonshadow."
Each was legendary for beauty and wit — but also for their power.
The Black Pearl, for instance, wasn't merely a courtesan. She was a dynasty. Four generations had carried that name. The first had been a pirate queen who took a Targaryen prince as her lover. Her descendants, one after another, had ruled Braavos's salons as queens of conversation and desire.
"Exactly," Sisa said eagerly. "Those seven are like your white knights — exalted, untouchable. They stand above the thousand others who call themselves courtesans."
Viserys chuckled softly. "Our white knights these days are hardly paragons. Some have traded honor for gold."
"Then it's only a metaphor, Your Grace. No insult intended," Sisa laughed. "Every city has its highborn few — those who set the tone for the rest. Here, that means the old families: the Antaryons, the Freygas, the Zanyns, and the Plaestans. Then come the rest — the Oseris, Torlonis, Prannis. The lesser great."
Viserys nodded. He knew those names — the dynasties whose towers and trade fleets made up the bones of Braavos.
"I'd never court one of the seven myself," Sisa went on, smiling ruefully. "The price alone would sink a ship. One smile would cost what most captains make in a year, and that's before the gifts."
"So you aim lower," Viserys quipped.
"I aim practical," Sisa said. "Second-tier courtesans — beautiful enough, clever enough, and far more approachable."
His sly look carried implication. "Though someone like you might fare better. Some of them might kill to claim a dragonlord as a lover — a prince of ancient Valyria. But dragons burn bright and then vanish, Your Grace. You'll need more than a pretty face to keep their attention."
Viserys smiled faintly. "I have no wish to invite their attentions."
"Then perhaps they'll invite yours," Sisa said, grinning. "Braavosi don't jest about dragons — but we'll toast one if we can. And as it happens, one of the Seven, the Black Pearl herself, shares your blood."
"The Black Pearl," Viserys said quietly. "So it's true."
"Yes. The first of her line was fathered by a Targaryen prince — the feckless one they called the Unworthy. He came as an ambassador, left as a scandal. The Pearl's line never forgot."
"The children of folly often inherit more than their fathers' sins," Viserys murmured.
Sisa chuckled. "Perhaps. But they're still your kin, however distant. And in Braavos, that might count for more than a crown."
"I doubt it," Viserys said.
"You'd be surprised," Sisa replied. "With their help, you could move mountains here. Men don't visit the great courtesans only for pleasure — it's for their connections. Each of those women stands at the center of her own web. Through them, deals are made, fortunes traded, and enemies undone."
Viserys nodded thoughtfully. The logic was familiar. Influence disguised as intimacy.
Each courtesan was like a celebrity and a spymaster rolled into one — adored, untouchable, and indispensable to the city's machinery.
It reminded him of another name — Varys.
The difference was that courtesans used beauty instead of whispers to weave their networks.
Sisa tossed back another sip of wine. "To succeed in this city, Your Grace, you need someone to guide you. Braavos is a labyrinth — built on secrets, fog, and masks. Even the Sea Lord sees only what he's allowed to."
"And you think a courtesan would lead me through it?"
"It worked for half of our merchant princes," Sisa said with a shrug. "She can open doors no banker or guard could."
Viserys stared into his glass. "Then I suppose I do need one."
"Everyone does. Bankers, sailors, assassins — all joined together by women in silk."
There was a pause. Then Viserys asked quietly, "Even the Faceless Men?"
Sisa froze mid-breath.
"That's not a name we say aloud," he warned softly. "In Braavos, there are two things no one jokes about — dragons and the Faceless Men. Perhaps they know the courtesans; it's said some of the great ladies once visited the House of Black and White. But their faith is deep, sacred. I would not test it."
"Then we'll stick to women," Viserys said smoothly.
Sisa exhaled and laughed again, tension fading. "A safer subject indeed."
"You talk as if courtesans could be bought with gold. I can't afford that luxury."
"Not all transactions require coin," Sisa said with a sly grin. "Many of them have more wealth than princes. What they value is novelty — and leverage. Offer them something the rest cannot, and they might just feed you sweet wine instead of draining your purse."
Viserys arched a brow. "I'd rather take their gold than lose mine. I am a king, not a client."
"A dispossessed king. If you can charm one of them into giving you money rather than taking it — then, my friend, I will personally kiss your crown." Sisa burst into laughter.
Their cups met again, red wine spilling like firelight between them — ambition blending with intoxication.
Perhaps it's possible, Viserys thought, a calculating glimmer in his eye. After all, every empire begins with a single fool willing to invest.
He knew better than to underestimate the courtesans of Braavos.
Here, they were more than entertainers — they were power incarnate.
Sculptors begged them to pose, jewelers competed for their favor, and assassins killed in their names. Each could turn nobodies into celebrities and merchants into lords — all with a whisper, a dance, or a smile.
Viserys saw the truth clearly now. The courtesans were Braavos's invisible rulers — women who connected banker, soldier, priest, and killer through the oldest language of all: desire.
And desire, he realized, was an influence no throne could command.
Still, he wasn't planning to seduce one for lust. He planned to find information: to learn which Westerosi royalists had escaped to Braavos, who still had gold, who might still whisper the dragon's name in secret.
But patience — always patience. Nothing good came from rushing.
For now, he would entertain Sisa's little fantasy.
If this "second-tier courtesan" would open the door to Braavos's upper web, then the game would begin.
Not with sword or dragonfire —
but with honey, silk, and charm.