The sun hid behind a curtain of thick gray clouds. The secret city of Braavos woke that morning under a veil of gloom — the weather matching the darkness of its news.
At the Red Door estate, the gates stood half-open as soldiers from the Braavosi City Watch carried bodies out into the yard. Their chatter cut through the cold dawn.
"What a mess."
"Blood mushrooms — deadly stuff."
"Deadlier than a sailor's wife's smile," one guard said, and the others laughed grimly.
The "Sailor's Wife" was a working girl down at the Happy Port, known for marrying every man who paid her price — three or four weddings a night, sometimes more. Many men had bankrupted themselves for her and died poorer than beggars.
Like most of Braavos, their words rolled in a street-born dialect of High Valyrian.
The corpses were laid out under gray shrouds in the courtyard — the steward, the cook, the laundress, the doorman, and the old knight, Ser Willem Darry. Their faces were ghastly, throats locked like stone, eyes bulging open in terror.
But none of it shocked the guards. In Braavos, people died of bad food all the time — fish gone rotten, crab turned strange, or mushrooms mistaken for something safe. Mushrooms killed as easily as they nourished, and gluttony was as common as fog.
Rumor even claimed that one day, across the sea in Pentos, a high lord would die at a feast from the same mistake — poisoned mushrooms.
Viserys Targaryen stood on the steps of the red-bricked veranda, flanked by two crying girls — Rhaenys and Daenerys. The silver-haired boy's hands hung stiff at his sides. He stared into the yard with the blank stillness of someone trying to understand what power had just cost.
Adults' tears often seemed forced. Children's tears, never. Their crying stirred the pity of even hardened soldiers.
Playing the helpless orphan was the easiest mask he had ever worn. After all, in Braavos, Viserys truly had been one — weak, idle, slowly forgotten.
Ser Willem had burned the Dornish marriage pact and taken the secret to his grave. Perhaps that was for the best. Depending on others was a fool's game. Allies failed. Blood did not.
Besides, Viserys had never felt any real interest in Arianne Martell — or in the promise of her faraway homeland.
Dorne had its reasons for silence. Their people were few, their armies smaller still. They chose patience over ruin. Even so, Viserys felt a sting of guilt. His family's fall had cost Dorne dearly — a dead princess, her children slaughtered, and ten thousand spearmen wasted in the Mad King's wars.
"All cleared, Ser Sisa," one of the guards reported.
The officer — young, sharp-featured, with dark hair bound neatly at his nape — nodded. This was Sisa, the district's justice and commander of the watch.
He wore a brown-gray coat with the slender Braavosi blade — the bravo's sword — at his hip. It was long, narrow, and deadly fast, built for grace and stealth rather than brute strength.
At his side stood a tall, broad man in plain clothes, another sword at his waist. He moved with quiet poise — not a servant, then. A protector.
In Braavos, only assassins wore finery. The powerful dressed plain. Even the officials and magistrates chose dull browns — the color of moderation, humility, and hidden wealth.
Unlike the docks and slums, the noble district rarely saw crime, let alone mass death. That alone drew Sisa's full attention.
Young as he was, he came from one of Braavos's old, respected families — not the great houses that had produced Sea Lords for generations, like the Antaryans, Zanyns, or Freygas, but from the class just beneath them: bankers, officers, administrators.
Had the victims not included exiles of House Targaryen, Sisa might have delegated this case entirely. The Sea Lord himself had witnessed the secret pact to shelter them years ago — a fact known only to Braavos's ruling elite.
"Physician," Sisa called.
The city's healer knelt by the corpses, examining their eyes, fingers, and throats. Then he scraped remnants from their lips and the inside of a bronze pot nearby. Steam still rose faintly from the mushroom and oxtail broth.
"The scene is untouched," the doctor said after a pause. "A tragic case of blood-mushroom poisoning. Rare — but always fatal."
He sounded almost bored. In Braavos, accidents were simpler than murders.
Sisa nodded slowly. "So the cook made a mistake?"
"Most likely. Blood mushrooms are prized for flavor — lethal, too. One careless hand in the kitchen is all it takes."
It was clean. Too clean. The story had no rough edges.
Sisa's eyes slid toward the silver-haired boy and his sisters. "Viserys," he said mildly, "why did only the servants eat the soup?"
Viserys didn't flinch. "Ser Willem was very sick. We'd been tending to him all night. When the soup was ready, I let the others eat first."
The answer was soft, reasonable — perfect.
Sisa exchanged a glance with his guard. Odd. For a city watch captain, he deferred to the man beside him.
"Any quarrels with the servants? Any trouble among them recently?"
Viserys shook his head. "They served us faithfully. We had no disputes."
Sisa studied him for a moment, then smiled a little. "Still… perhaps we could continue this talk elsewhere? Privately?"
Viserys's face reddened. He seized the hilt of Ser Willem's sword and shouted, "I go nowhere! I am the King!"
His voice cracked — high and unsteady, but it carried across the courtyard.
Sisa raised an amused eyebrow. He looked at the trembling boy and saw not a monarch, only a frightened orphan pretending at power.
He let out a brief laugh. "Relax. No one's arresting you. But word of advice, Your Grace — real kings don't need to shout it."
"You insult the crown!" Rhaenys snapped. "In Westeros, you'd lose your tongue for that."
"Adorable little princess." Sisa grinned. "But this isn't Westeros. This is a Free City. That'll be all."
He turned and walked off toward the gates, hand loosely resting on his sword. The guards began collecting the shrouded bodies for disposal.
Viserys watched them leave, heart beating like a drum. The officer's last words were half-warning, half-invitation. The man knew something… and suspected more.
Only one question gnawed at him: who was the quiet swordsman beside Sisa?
When they were out of earshot, the taller man spoke first. "What do you think of him?"
Sisa shrugged. "Pretty face, decent manners. Otherwise unimpressive. His hands don't show a fighter's calluses."
"Exactly. A boy too soft to fight, too proud to beg."
The older man — Quairo, the First Sword of Braavos and the Sea Lord's own champion — studied the house again, his tone low. "Do you truly think it was an accident?"
Sisa straightened. "Of course. You saw him — barely able to hold that sword. If he had any guilt, he hid it well."
Quairo's lips twitched. "The steward wasn't innocent. I heard he bragged in a tavern about coming fortune. Gold. There's only one way he could have found sudden wealth — theft. Likely from these exiles."
He paused. "And now he's dead."
Sisa hesitated. "Coincidence?"
"Perhaps," Quairo said softly. "Or perhaps not. Either way, the boy gained much from their deaths. But…" He shook his head. "No. He's too young. Too quiet. Sometimes, justice means leaving the dark thoughts in the dark."
"You wish to drop it, then?"
"For now. Send a few new servants their way — reliable ones. Watch them quietly." Quairo's eyes gleamed in thought. "They're still under the Sea Lord's protection, after all. And a king in exile, no matter how small, is still a piece on the board."
"Yes, my lord."
As the two men disappeared into the fog, the whispers of their boots faded into silence.
Somewhere in the Red Door estate, a boy stood at the window, watching. He didn't know his name had already reached the Sea Lord's ears — nor that the First Sword had kept him alive, not out of mercy, but out of curiosity.
For Braavos, the fate of Westeros mattered little — unless it threatened their trade.
And Viserys Targaryen, the landless prince, remained to them exactly what he was: a small, unproven piece on an enormous chessboard.