The streets of Braavos humd with the evening clamor of hawkers and canal-boats, the air thick with the scent of salt and fish frying on braziers. Artos wandered them with the restless energy of a man seeking distraction from his own thoughts, two of his rougher n trailing a few paces behind. He'd grumbled when Waymar insisted on the escort—I'm not so pampered lordling needing wetnurses—but the threat that followed had silenced him quick enough.
"You want to play bodyguard yourself, Commander?" Waymar had said, arms crossed. "Fine. Then you can negotiate the next three contracts with the clients instead of . All the smiling, the posturing, the endless talk of percentages and tilines."
Artos had relented imdiately. Better rough n at his back than a rchant's table.He sighed now, kicking at a loose cobble as they passed a row of seal-sellers. Waymar had changed since those early days in Essos. Once he'd followed every barked order like a pup at heel. Now the lad had learned the trick of it—how to prod, how to maneuver, how to make his commander work without ever raising his voice.
"Damn Waymar," Artos muttered, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "You've got dancing in your palms now, don't you?" He laughed low, the sound carrying genuine warmth. Harsh words, aye, but his trust in the Manderly ran deeper than blood. Waymar was one of his own—family, if not by na.
Lost in the thought, Artos nearly missed her. There, amid the evening crowd stepping out from a perfur's shop: Seraphine Valen, her dark hair catching the torchlight, a simple cloak doing little to hide the fine cut of her gown beneath. Curiosity pulled him forward before common sense could intervene.
He closed half the distance before her guards spotted him—two Braavosi swordsn in chainmail and oiled leather, hands drifting toward sword-hilts. They stepped between him and their lady, steel whispering free."Halt where you stand," the larger one barked, blade half-drawn. "Na yourself and state your business."
Artos's n bristled instantly, hands snapping to their own weapons. One—a Skagosi brute with a face like hamred iron—actually bared a foot of steel, eyes gleaming with that familiar killing hunger. A spark in dry grass, and blood would flow right there in the street.
Artos raised one hand sharply. "Easy." His n froze, then sheathed their blades with sullen glares, stepping back. They knew better than to test him.
"Now, now," Artos said, palms open, voice mild as sumr ale. "No need for steel. I'm Commander Hal of the Northern Brutes."
The guards exchanged a glance, then barked laughter.
"Aye, and I'm the Titan's cock. Piss off, Princess."
Artos's n growled low, but he just sighed. The fine robes Ronan had stuffed him into—silk and silver thread, clean-shaven jaw without a speck of road-dust—did him no favors. He was built like a bulwark, aye, with muscle earned from years breaking n's bones, but scrubbed clean he looked more rchant's son than bloodied captain. The single scar across his cheek only lent him a rakish air, not the terror it did unshaven and gore-splattered.
Before he could find words to defuse it, her voice cut through clean as a bell. "Guards, stand down. The commander is known to ."
Seraphine stepped forward, her expression equal parts amusent and apology. The guards stiffened, paling as realization hit.
Artos flashed a grin. "See? Now let through to the real princess." He nodded to his n, who lted back into the crowd, giving him space.
The guards looked fit to soil themselves, but Seraphine waved them off. "Forgive them, Commander Hal. Assassins and suitors have made them wary. Braavos breeds both in equal asure."
Artos chuckled. "Just Hal will do. And lumping killers with suitors on the sa pedestal? Intriguing, to say the least. Here I thought beautiful ladies craved attention."
She smiled, sharp and knowing. "They're not so different. Both hunt the Valen coffers. I welco attention, Hal—but only from those capable of earning it."
He laughed, warm and unforced. "A demanding lady. Quite different from what the tales paint."
"And you look different from the tales of you," she countered, eyes flicking over his finery.
"Aye, as we just saw," he japed, nodding toward the guards. "A fine demonstration."
Seraphine laughed outright, the sound drawing glances from passersby. "You jape well, Hal. New layers to the legend."
"Plenty more where that ca from, my lady," he said, cheeky edge creeping in. "Though I'd rather you didn't peel them all away at once."
"A charr with that face," she said, arching a brow. "Now I see the rumors about your... exploits with won. Exaggerated, no doubt, like the rest."
Artos coughed, rubbing his neck. "What exactly have you heard, my lady?"
Her gaze pinned him, direct and unblinking. "That you're a womanizer who beds every skirt that catches your eye."
He grinned awkwardly. "Well... not every skirt. My reputation's not that poor among the ladies."
Seraphine held his stare. "Your reputation's poor everywhere, Hal. It's fear that trails you. n whisper you slay with a look—so fool even claid a foe died staring into your eyes. Exaggerations, yes, but a quarter must hold truth?"
Artos shifted, scratching his jaw. "Not a lie, exactly."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"An old scrap," he said with a shrug. "Battle in the Disputed Lands. Covered head to toe in blood, roaring like a demon. Maester who tended the dead swore the man perished from 'shock and trauma'—heart burst clean from terror, or so such. Probably bullshit, but..." He spread his hands. "Who am I to argue with ink and parchnt?"
Seraphine stared, shock lting into fascination. Their talk deepened then, the street noise fading as they leaned closer—her questions sharp, his answers blunt, the space between them shrinking with every word.
Across the city, in a canal-side palazzo lit by a hundred candles, the air shimred with wealth and whispers. Braavos's high rchants and magisters mingled amid velvet drapes and tables groaning under roast swans and honeyed figs. Ronan drifted through it all, goblet in hand, playing the part of connected facilitator. But tension knotted his gut tonight.
The talk was all Hal—Commander Hal,who'd stord the auction and claid Valyrian steel for a king's ransom. But it was Hal with her that set tongues wagging. Seraphine Valen, sole heir to one of the greatest shipping house in the city, seen laughing with him in the streets not an hour past. Heads bent close, guards dismissed like afterthoughts.
"Did you see it?" a Myrish lensmaker murmured to a Pentoshi trader, voices carrying despite the music. "The Valen girl and that Commander .Thick as thieves—or lovers."
"More than that," the Pentoshi replied, eyes gleaming. "He outbid Glaro Sythan at auction like it was a tavern wager. Now this? The boy's carving a path straight through Braavosi power."
Ronan sipped his wine, forcing a smile as a Braavosi shipmaster clapped his shoulder. "Your Westrosi friend moves fast, Ronan. First the daggers, now the Valen chit. What's his ga?"
"Business," Ronan lied smoothly. "Hal's a man of opportunities." Inside, his mind raced. Seraphine was no light conquest—smart as a whip, richer than sin. If Hal tangled with her, it complicated everything: contracts, alliances, the delicate web he'd spun. And Glaro Sythan watching from across the room like a man chewing coals...
Glaro stood rigid by the hearth, jaw clenched, fist white around his cup. The whispers stung worse than the auction loss. Rival. They called him Hal's rival now—as if a Sython prince and a ragged sellsword stood equal. Rage boiled beneath his skin, hot and directionless. Hal with her, laughing in the street while Glaro nursed grudges and father's lectures. The man was a barbarian playing at nobility, and yet here he was, stealing glances, stealing prospects.
A magister sidled up, voice oily. "Your thoughts on the match, Glaro? Hal and Lady Valen—quite the pairing. Rivals in the bidding, now rivals for her bed?"
Glaro forced a thin smile, but his eyes burned. "Rivals? Hardly. The dog's a stray sniffing scraps. Seraphine deserves better than Westrosi filth."
The magister chuckled. "Bold words. But he's got the gold, the steel... and apparently her ear."
Glaro turned away, draining his cup. Rivals. The word festered. Father wanted the Valen alliance, aye—but he'd be damned if he'd let a sellsword claim it first. Tomorrow, he'd call on the Valens. Tomorrow, he'd remind Braavos who truly held power.
The candles burned low, and the whispers grew darker. In Braavos, where canals ran deep and grudges deeper, rivals were made in a night.
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