That night, while darkness swallowed the canals outside, the Red Door manor shone with light.
Golden honeyed candles from the Vale burned in the drawing room — rare imports from House Wycliffe, prized across both continents for their clean scent and even flame. Far finer than Braavosi whale-oil lamps, they filled the air with a luxurious fragrance of clover and spice.
Westeros, for all its feudal rigidity, still excelled in its riches — Arbor wine, Dornish summer red, and the Vale's scented wax. These were the small luxuries that bound the noble class of the known world.
At the center of the room, a long oak table gleamed under a black-and-crimson tablecloth, its surface scattered with cut flowers and gleaming dishes.
It was, by all appearances, a feast fit for lords.
But only two men dined.
Viserys Targaryen — slender, silver-haired, violet-eyed.
And Sisa Zhalordin, the young, self-satisfied magistrate of Braavos.
Royal blood and merchant ambition sat across from each other, both talented, both ambitious — yet born of opposite worlds.
The Targaryen prince wore a black silk coat embroidered with a three‑headed red dragon, a proud relic of his house. Sisa came in his usual muted brown-gray tunic, favored by the bureaucrats of free cities — simple, unpretentious, but never cheap.
In this city of former slaves, birth meant little. Power was measured in gold, guild, and cunning.
Viserys knew only fragments of the Braavosi elite. The old Sea Lord who had signed his family's protection pact was long dead, and the new one had no reason to care about the remnants of a fallen dynasty.
To beg an audience now would be humiliation.
One must have worth first; then the Sea Lord would come to him. Until then, better to work through intermediaries — men like the young magistrate sitting opposite him.
Viserys could tell that Sisa's visit wasn't kindness. The magistrate was ambitious, networking upward through whispers and wine. Still, that suited him fine.
"Your help these past weeks has been invaluable, Lord Sisa," Viserys said with an elegant nod. "You spared me a great deal of trouble. The new servants are loyal and capable."
"A trivial favor," Sisa replied, waving it away modestly as his cup was filled with golden wine from the Arbor.
The tone between them was light. Both were young; both still played at diplomacy. Viserys's royal blood lent formality even in exile, and for Sisa, sharing a table with a Targaryen satisfied vanity as much as curiosity.
There was no sommelier, no chorus of servants — only an old butler serving wine. On true noble tables, there would have been heralds, musicians, and silk-clad maids. But their modest staff — aging, plain, and slow — could only serve, not impress.
"You're not quite what the stories say," Sisa remarked after a while. "I heard you were a proud, impossible man. Yet here you are — humble enough to host me like a friend."
Viserys smiled faintly. "Hardship breeds perspective. Pride feeds no one." Then his gaze darkened. "But still, it burns me to think that the usurper sits upon my Iron Throne."
Sisa half-smirked. "Ah… there it is. I wondered how long before that came up."
The old butler returned with the courses: spiced shark-and-crab soup, then cold lime egg broth, followed by honeyed quail, roasted trout, goose liver in red wine, buttered carrots, and sea snails in garlic sauce.
Viserys had spared no expense tonight.
Sisa blinked, genuinely impressed — and a little alarmed. This kind of feast could bankrupt a merchant, let alone a landless prince.
Still, he sampled politely. "Then I'll taste your hospitality." He lifted a spoon and took a careful sip.
The flavor hit instantly — subtle, rich, impossibly refined.
He blinked again. "Gods. That's… incredible."
A bite of the quail followed, then trout crisped to perfect bronze, brushed with pepper and sea salt. One after another, the dishes revealed mastery, not luck.
Viserys ate heartily, sipping wine between smiles. Inside, he could feel the faint flicker of the Glutton's blessing burning brighter.
"Your appetite, Your Grace, could rival a giant's," Sisa laughed, astonished. "A good sign in hard times."
"Merely an active stomach," Viserys replied.
The magistrate tried another spoonful — and another. Every dish astonished him. Even at the Sea Lord's banquets, he'd never tasted food this precise.
No ordinary cook could have made this. The "new staff" he himself had sent to help the Targaryens lacked this level of refinement.
"Tell me," Sisa said, glancing around, "did you hire some secret chef from Lys? Or perhaps one of the Iron Bank's kitchen masters?"
"No," Viserys said smoothly. "The same old cook. I only gave her… direction."
The cook was summoned — a plump, modest woman with flour on her tunic. Sisa handed her a few silver stags, still reeling from the taste. "You are a wonder, madam."
The cook blushed. "Thank you, my lord, but these dishes… weren't entirely mine. The young king guided me."
Sisa looked back toward Viserys, blinking. "You? Truly?"
Viserys shrugged easily. "Don't laugh, Lord Sisa. I've lived in Braavos long enough to develop a taste for the finer things. If I can't reclaim a crown, at least I can command a kitchen."
Sisa laughed aloud. "Ha! That's brilliant. A king of food — a rare sort of monarch. Come, let's drink to that!"
They raised their cups in good humor.
The magistrate remembered the mushroom deaths but dismissed the thought; the Sea Lord's investigation had closed that book. Surely, the silver prince was no killer — only a charming exile with eccentric habits.
"In the end," Sisa said with a grin, "you're a handsome wastrel who eats like a god. But gods must have their talents."
"Talent," Viserys said, swirling his wine, "is just hunger given discipline."
Several cups later, they were laughing like brothers.
"The world, my king, is as round as an orange," Sisa declared loudly.
"Indeed," Viserys agreed, amused.
"The usurper has crushed the Greyjoys. His throne is secure. If I were you, I'd live well. Let the past stay dead."
Viserys smiled without smiling. "You mistake me, Lord Sisa. I do not live for the past — only for the throne."
"Well, in that case," Sisa toasted, "may both of us win ours. Mine happens to be the Sea Lord's chair!"
"An admirable dream," said Viserys. "Ambition deserves a crown of its own."
"True — though our Sea Lord doesn't burn his rivals alive like your kings."
"Then we're fortunate," Viserys said wryly, and they both laughed again.
After a moment, Sisa leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"I have a favor to ask," he said.
Viserys gestured with grace. "Ask."
"I'd like to bring a… guest to your next dinner," Sisa said. "Someone special."
"An official?"
"A courtesan," Sisa admitted with a grin. "A new favorite I've been chasing, and she's close to those who matter. I thought perhaps fine wine might do what words can't."
Viserys nodded slightly. "A wise pursuit. Courtesans rule this city's salons more than merchants or priests. Their whispers travel further than gold."
"Exactly. Perhaps you should meet one yourself. You'd be surprised, Your Grace — half the politics of Braavos are conducted between feathered pillows."
Viserys's violet eyes glinted in amusement. "Who, then? The Black Pearl or the Mer-Queen?"
"Neither," Sisa said, laughing. "Those legends are far beyond my purse. This one's newer — young, clever, and on the rise. I intend to see her ascend… preferably with my help."
Viserys raised his glass. "To your success, then."
"And to yours," Sisa said.
Their cups clinked like soft bells.
Networking, Viserys thought, watching the flicker of candlelight on the magistrate's grin. It always begins with vanity and ends with opportunity.
If courtesans were the keys to Braavos's hidden corridors of influence,
then tonight, the first door had just opened.