Braavos was a labyrinth of stone and shadow — islands and canals threaded together like veins beneath a gray sky.
There were no trees, no fields; only towers, bridges, and waterways. Its people spoke a coarse, blurred Valyrian tongue. Clean water ran through massive Sweetwater Aqueducts, vast brick arches that fed the fountains of the rich. The poor queued with wooden pails by public basins.
Here, horses were rarities; boats ruled instead. Narrow snake‑boats slid through the canals like gliding blades, carrying merchants, courtesans, priests, and killers alike.
And when night fell, Braavos became dangerous.
The assassins came out then — flamboyant, reckless, dressed in garish silks, their swords gleaming like serpents' teeth. They fought for honor, for insult, or simply for the thrill of it. In Braavos, death could begin with a drunken glance.
At midnight near the Moon Pool, crowds gathered to watch yet another duel.
A tall bald man with a heavy beard — Moro, the Water Dancer — walked among them, and behind him followed a hooded boy with silver hair and violet eyes.
Viserys Targaryen had lived in Braavos for years, but this was his first time watching a street duel up close.
Moro said this was an important lesson: to see the Dance when it truly becomes death.
Viserys carried no sword tonight — a precaution, for in Braavos, anyone armed was fair game for a challenge. Still, a dagger hid beneath his belt.
No one looked twice at them. The assassins of the Moon Pool disdained middle‑aged duelists like Moro or silent spectators like Viserys; they preferred preening in front of each other, testing speed against pride.
Two young swordsmen stepped into the circle as onlookers parted. One's hair shone gold; the other's was dyed purple.
"The fairest woman in all Braavos!" the gold‑haired one shouted.
"The Nightingale!" called the purple‑haired.
"You lie," sneered the other. "The most beautiful is the Swordswoman — the singer of Five Hundred Leagues! I challenge you!"
The purple‑haired assassin shouted back, "A swordsman never retreats."
"Then dance," said the gold one.
They drew their slender Bravo's blades, curving lightly toward each other, and the circle tightened around them.
Viserys's breath caught.
This was no tourney, no knightly duel — this was the Water Dance, the true rhythm of Braavos.
The blades clashed with ringing precision — thin, flexible, full of speed and grace. It was both art and slaughter, like a duet between danger and elegance.
Viserys watched every motion, memorizing the way they shifted their weight, the flicks of their wrists, how they turned a heartbeat of hesitation into an opening for death.
Neither wore armor. Every thrust drew blood.
"They find the human weak point," Moro murmured beside him. "They spill blood like pouring water. You must strike before you're struck. Use the point — always the point — and show no mercy."
Viserys nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as blades flashed in the moonlight.
The Water Dance relied on speed, precision, and balance — all agility, little brute strength.
The Iron Dance of Westeros was its opposite: heavy armor, crushing power.
One was silk, the other steel.
The gold‑haired duelist lunged and struck — a glint, a gasp, and then the purple‑haired youth jerked as his heart burst open.
Gasps broke from the crowd, followed by scattered cheers.
The victor, bleeding from his own shoulder, wrenched his blade free and stood over the body.
"The Swordswoman is the finest courtesan!" he proclaimed triumphantly. "Five Hundred Leagues is the greatest song! Remember my name — Quickblade Rodo!"
"Quickblade!"
"The Swordswoman!"
"Quickblade Rodo!" the crowd shouted back.
Applause, roars, laughter — more from fear than admiration. In Braavos, not cheering could be fatal.
Rodo crouched beside his fallen foe and began rifling through his corpse, taking coin, trinkets, anything of value. No one stopped him; no one cared.
Viserys grimaced. "That's… permitted?" he whispered.
Moro shrugged. "The Sealord forbids it publicly. But here, it's custom. Winner keeps what he takes. Loser's body is gone by morning — the Moon Pool guards clean up."
"In Westeros," Viserys murmured, "knights claim their opponent's armor or horse. But this… it's savagery."
"All fighting is savagery," Moro said simply.
When it was over, the crowd dispersed as if nothing had happened. Blood seeped into the cobbles, blending with still water as the victor vanished into the alleys to drink and bandage his wounds.
Soon, the onlookers began their usual argument — not about the dead man, but about the song.
"What's your favorite ballad?"
"The Titan and the Sea Gull, of course."
"Old trash. Every tavern girl and sailor's whore sings Five Hundred Leagues now. The Swordswoman's voice — gods, it's everywhere!"
"She's overtaken the Nightingale! The Nightingale's finished."
Each courtesan had her legend: the Poetess for wisdom, the Black Pearl for heritage, the Mermaid Queen for grace, the Veiled Lady for mystery, the Daughter of Shadows for her chill.
And now, the Swordswoman's claim was her song.
The melody of Five Hundred Leagues had spread like wildfire through the docks, the taverns, and the ships that sailed for Pentos or Yi Ti. Sailors wept to it. Merchants paid to hear it again.
The courtesan had become the city's new flame.
"Who wrote that song, anyway?" a man nearby asked.
"No one knows. They say his name's the Silver Wanderer. Strange fellow."
"Never heard of him. Not one of those pampered Bard‑Guild sheep?"
"Too clever for them," someone laughed. "The best singers were already bought by the Nightingale and the Black Pearl. This one's new. Mysterious. Word is the song's not like anything heard before."
Viserys listened but showed no reaction. The Silver Wanderer had nothing to do with him, after all.
Beside him, Moro turned and studied his student with a grin.
The boy's hood cast half his face in shadow, but not enough to hide the quiet pride burning behind his eyes.
At only fourteen, Viserys Targaryen — nameless exile, would‑be king — had already left his first mark on Braavos.
Not with sword or flame, but with a melody that made killers duel and courtesans famous.
The city whispered of the Silver Wanderer.
Only Moro knew that the wanderer was no nameless artist — he was a dragon learning how to fly again.