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Myrish artists, perched at a distance with their easels, worked feverishly to capture the evening. Their style was vivid and starkly realistic, a visual record of a night that would be discussed in every tavern from the Ragman's Harbor to the Isle of Gods. In many of those portraits, a recurring figure stood out: a tall, lithe swordsman with silver-white hair and a matching half-mask, shifting from the arms of one legendary Courtesan to another.
Viserys was a crane among chickens—magnificent, radiant, and utterly infuriating to every young noble in the hall. He knew he was drawing glares of pure, unadulterated jealousy, but he didn't care. Fame was the currency he needed to buy his way out of the shadows, even if the interest was paid in resentment.
"The silver-haired one is the Silver Traveler," the whisper rippled through the hall. Some were relieved; it was easier to accept a genius creator than a mere upstart. Others, however, felt their pride sting even more.
The Black Pearl had vanished into a different wing of the palace, likely to attend to her own web of connections. Viserys found himself back at a table with the Daughter of Darkness, the icy beauty in the black gown.
"Why aren't you dancing?" Viserys asked, nursing a cup of wine.
"I don't like joining in the fun," she replied coldly. "My patience for performing is limited."
"We have that in common," Viserys said. He looked at her, tempted to ask about her ties to the Faceless Men, but he held back. In Braavos, a man who asked too many questions often found his own life being questioned by the steel of a bravo.
"I see you as very proactive," she noted, her gaze sharp behind her mask. "But gain and loss are a cycle. You have gained a name tonight, but you have also gained a pack of wolves who want to tear it from you."
"Then why do you keep dancing with me, putting me on the spot?" Viserys rolled his eyes. "First I only offended the Black Pearl's admirers. Now I've offended the whole city."
"I don't care about their pride," she snorted. "I needed to see what she sees in you. But be warned, Silver Traveler—don't forget where you stand. The deep sea is dangerous for those who cannot breathe beneath the waves."
As they spoke, the air around the table grew cold for a different reason. An uninvited guest stepped forward—the brown-haired young man from the Preston family.
"The silver-haired Silver Traveler?" he asked, his voice dripping with forced politeness.
"I am," Viserys replied. Through his [Insight], he watched the subtle twitch in the man's jaw and the tightening of his fingers.
Behind the young Preston master stood a mountain of a man—a bodyguard with light green eyes and a thick, waist-length red-gold beard. Viserys's blood ran cold for a moment. He recognized that face from the memories of the future: Mero, the "Titan's Bastard," the future butcher who would lead the Second Sons. In his youth, it seemed, the butcher was still a hound for the old noble families.
"The Daughter of Darkness is here too?" Preston asked, his jealousy flaring as he saw Viserys sitting comfortably with the city's most mysterious woman. "I am Preston. My family's towers overlook the Long Canal. I would like to invite you to a private banquet at our estate."
"I love a good feast," Viserys said with a shrug, "but I am a traveler. I come and go as I please. I don't sign contracts, and I don't belong to any house."
He saw the trap immediately. Preston wanted to own the Silver Traveler—to secure his songs for the Mermaid Queen and likely to take a cut of the Traveler's rising fortune.
"Outsider," the Titan's Bastard rumbled, his voice like grinding gravel. "Don't be ignorant of propriety. When a Preston offers friendship, you listen."
"My dance partner is waiting," Preston said, sensing the tension but choosing to maintain his noble mask. He slid a heavy, wax-sealed invitation across the table. "Consider it carefully, Traveler. Braavos is a large city, but it can feel very small for those without friends."
He left, the red-bearded Mero looming behind him like a storm cloud.
The Daughter of Darkness watched them go. "Your trouble has arrived. The Prestons are not what they once were, but they are still a great family. If you want peace, you could beg the Black Pearl for protection."
Viserys looked at the invitation, then at his own hands. "Trouble has arrived," he said, a glint of steel appearing in his violet eyes. "But I will let him know that I am not a piece of fat to be chewed. I am the dragon. And the dragon does not take invitations from sheep."
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