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The weather in Braavos was as melancholic as a funeral shroud, with dark clouds pressing down on the lagoon in a familiar weight of fog and freezing rain. For centuries, the city had used this gloom to hide from the dragonlords' sight; today, it served as the backdrop for the return of a dragon who refused to be hidden.
Viserys Targaryen, a figure of sharp lines and black silk, strode toward the Prestan towers. At his waist hung Mull's, the slender rapier of a Water Dancer, and the Valyrian steel dagger with its dragonbone hilt—a relic of a past he was currently reinventing.
His path took him past the green dome of the Palace of Truth. To his left, the Grand Canal was choked with vessels, but the usual chaos had parted for the "Rum Association." The crab boats, marked by their crossed rum bottles and Sea King emblems, loomed like wooden fortresses. The sailors, reeking of salt and defiance, watched as the silver-haired prince ascended the white marble steps of the House of Prestan.
Viserys knew this was a gamble. The Sealord did not like refugees who brought blood to the doorsteps of the nobility. But Moro was dead, and in the game of power, a king who does not avenge his house is a king who will soon be a corpse.
Under the tall archway of the courtyard, Viserys reached for the silver platter. He whipped away the cloth, revealing the bloody, severed head of a massive sturgeon.
"Oh my gods, look at that!" a sailor shouted from a nearby barge.
"He's provoking the Prestans! The 'Beggar King' has finally lost his mind!"
Viserys ignored the jeers of the crowd. "I have a gift for Jaqo Prestan," he announced, his voice carrying over the ringing alarm bells of the courtyard. "A gift he cannot refuse."
The main gates groaned open. The patriarch, Old Preston, stepped out first. He looked every bit the decrepit nobleman, his eyes narrow with a mix of fury and calculation. Behind him followed Jaqo—pale and trembling—and the towering, red-bearded Mero, who watched Viserys with a predatory grin.
"You are looking for death, boy," Jaqo hissed, his eyes darting to the bloody fish head.
Old Preston raised a hand, silencing his son. He looked at the sailors behind Viserys, then at the prince himself. He knew this was a disaster. Jaqo's arrogance and Mero's cruelty had invited a storm to their front door. The Prestan courtyard sat right next to the Sealord's own; every drop of blood spilled here would be seen by the master of the city.
"Young man," Old Preston said, his voice a dry rasp. "You come from the ancient blood of dragonlords. You should not act like a common ruffian throwing offal at a nobleman's gate."
"Your son's dog killed my friend," Viserys replied, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"A Water Dancer's life is a series of duels," the old man said patiently, trying to salvage their dignity. "He died by the steel. We will offer gold—a generous sum—to compensate for your loss. Let us speak of etiquette and commerce."
"Truth is on the sword," Viserys countered. He drew Mull's in a flash of silver, the tip pointing directly at Jaqo's throat. "I do not want your gold. I want justice. I demand a duel with Jaqo Prestan."
The crowd on the canal erupted. "Agree to it!" the sailors roared. "Show us the 'Preston pride'!"
Jaqo's face went white. He looked at Viserys—tall, dangerous, and radiating a lethality that the young noble could never hope to match. He cowered back toward the safety of Mero's shadow.
"He is a mad dog!" Jaqo stammered. "A lunatic!"
Old Preston's expression remained gloomy. He saw his son's cowardice and knew that if Jaqo refused, the family's name would be a joke in every tavern in Braavos. He looked at Viserys, then at Mero.
"A duel is a dangerous thing, Viserys," Old Preston said, his mind already turning to a darker solution. "If you insist on this path, you must understand: there is no turning back once the steel is drawn."
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