"The more you depend on forces outside yourself, the more you are at the mercy of those forces."
―Leto II Atreides
…
The green walls of the chamber absorbed sound, muffling the murmur of activity beyond its heavy doors. The light within was muted, filtering through thick curtains drawn against the midmorning sun, pooling instead from a single candelabrum of polished brass. Shadows flickered against the embroidered fabric covering the walls, the scene upon the great tapestry—Nymeria's fleet scarlet atop the storm-tossed seas off Dorne—distorted by the shifting glow of the flames.
Larys Strong sat alone upon a cushioned bench, his hands folded atop the head of his cane. The silver ewer and goblet upon the table before him caught the candlelight in brief flashes, yet he made no move to touch them. He had been waiting for some time.
Long enough to understand that he was being made to wait.
Mysaria was not a woman known for lapses in efficiency. She had built her power on timeliness, on the ruthless culling of wasted hours and misplaced efforts. That he had been seated here for so long, listening to the distant footsteps of Guild functionaries passing in the hall, meant only one thing: she wanted him to feel his position.
And that, Larys reflected, was the greater indignity. That he was in such a position at all.
He had known, of course, that there would be consequences. The prince was not a man to be crossed lightly, and he had wagered poorly in his last play. Had he succeeded in upturning the balance of authority between Aegon and Aemond, the landscape of power in the Red Keep would have been a different thing altogether. Better still, and of more pressing importance, certain influential allies—both among the nobility and within the Merchant's Guild—would have found their positions reaffirmed at a time when the prince's policies had rendered him increasingly irksome to those whose interests he had disrupted. But Larys had miscalculated, and Aemond, in his own fashion, had made sure that he understood the cost of failure. A cold shoulder at court was one thing—tedious, perhaps, but hardly insurmountable. But this?
Sweeping arrests. Confiscations. A sudden and urgent review of his accounts within the Dragon's Bank, funds frozen under suspicion of misconduct. His network of informants, spies, and whispered contacts—cut off at the root. The streets had been reshaped overnight, his careful web of control sundered by a single decree.
And now he was here. Begging for an audience with the prince's whore.
The door opened at last.
A young man stood in the threshold, dressed in the green and gold livery of the Merchant's Guild, his dark tunic bearing the embroidered insignia of his mistress—a merchant's scale, silver against the fabric. He had a clerk's face, sharp-eyed and expressionless.
"Madam Mysaria will receive you now, my lord," the aide announced.
Larys did not move at once. He shifted his cane slightly, adjusted the fall of his sleeve, then, with the deliberate ease of a man unconcerned by snubs or slights, pushed himself to his feet. He gave a slow, shallow nod to the young man before making his way past him into the office beyond.
The room was warm, lined with dark wood, lit by several lanterns, its furnishings chosen for comfort rather than ostentation. A brazier smoldered in one corner, scenting the air with the faint bite of citrus and spice. At the far end of the chamber, seated behind a broad desk of carved oak, Mysaria signed her name upon a parchment with slow deliberation.
She did not look up.
"Sit."
Larys did, settling himself into the chair across from her. The cushions were softer than he expected, though not deep enough to be a trap.
She continued writing, her quill scratching against the parchment, her hand moving with careful economy. The silence lengthened. Larys, long accustomed to such tactics, did not fidget. He did not clear his throat, nor shift in his seat. Instead, he watched her.
Mysaria was not a woman of great height, nor of great physical presence, yet power clung to her in a way that needed no embellishment. Her hair, silver as the prince's, fell in neat waves about her shoulders, her dress cut finely but simply. Jewelry had never been her way; the only adornment she wore was the narrow chain of office clasped at her throat.
When she set her quill aside and at last raised her gaze to him, she smiled.
"My lord," she said lightly, as though his presence were some unexpected delight, "to what do I owe this honor?"
The pleasantries of feigned surprise. A courtesy that was not a courtesy at all.
He returned her smile, equally false. "Had I a choice in the matter, madam, I would have preferred to seek an audience with Prince Aemond himself. Yet, regrettably, his present engagements have left him most… inaccessible."
"Indeed," Mysaria murmured, tilting her head. "A great pity."
"It was suggested to me that you might resolve my concerns in his stead."
She made a soft sound in the back of her throat, something between a hum and a laugh. "I see. And what pressing matter has led you to my door, I wonder?"
Another performance. Another step in the game.
Larys had spent his life understanding the roles that people played. The lies they told and the truths they hid. Mysaria knew why he was here. There was no way she didn't.
But she wished to hear him say it.
He obliged.
"The prince's recent reforms," he said smoothly, "while admirable in their intent, have, unfortunately, created certain… difficulties. The city's brothels, gambling halls, and similar establishments have long served a purpose beyond their outward function. Information flows where wine and coin are free. The closures, the arrests, the seizures of property—these have disrupted my ability to conduct my work effectively."
Mysaria's brows lifted slightly. "Your work?"
"The work of the Master of Whispers," Larys corrected. "And, by extension, the work of the realm."
A pause.
Then she leaned back in her chair, studying him with idle amusement. "You would have me believe that the prince's actions are detrimental to the Crown?"
"I would have you understand that they have consequences."
Mysaria did not answer at once. Instead, she traced a single finger along the polished edge of her desk, considering.
"And this," she said at last, "is why you have come to me?"
"There is also the matter of my accounts," Larys said, with just the right note of reluctance. "It appears the Dragon's Bank has been instructed to audit my holdings. My assets are frozen. It has made… certain efforts rather difficult."
Mysaria tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "A most serious charge."
"Indeed."
Another silence stretched between them.
Then, with exquisite slowness, she reached for another document, unfolded it, and began reading.
Larys waited.
And waited.
And when she finally spoke again, her voice was smooth as silk, carrying all the weight of an iron door closing on its hinges.
"I shall pass your complaint along to the prince. He will decide how best to proceed."
Larys inclined his head, but the tension in his shoulders did not ease.