"We look up at the same stars and see such different things."
―Jon Snow to Mance Rayder, A Storm of Swords
…
Larys Strong paused on the wide marble steps leading up to the sept, his gaze drifting across the bustling plaza. Already the late-summer sun began its slow descent, bathing the building's domed spires in a gold so bright it bordered on blinding. Smallfolk milled about—some with the reverent hush of true worshipers, others only seeking shade within these high walls. Larys bore little devotion to the Faith, but on this day—well, necessity made a man devout of a sudden.
He ascended in his halting way, leaning on his cane more than usual. The footmen guarding the sept's doors barely spared him a glance, for in the eyes of many, Larys Strong was a man of diminished consequence, relegated to trifling duties in the realm's labyrinth of rites. Exactly as the prince had intended—and precisely as Larys wished them to believe.
Within, the air grew cooler, perfumed by incense and echoing with quiet footfalls on polished stone. The sept's grand dome soared overhead, ringed by tall windows depicting the Seven in brilliant shards of tinted glass. A choir of novices rehearsed a plaintive hymn near the altar; their voices rose and fell like the tide, but Larys had little ear for their music. He was here for a holier transaction still.
He made his way past the worshipers kneeling before the Mother's statue, threading between slender columns supporting the central nave. At last, near a dimly lit side passage that disappeared behind a half-drawn tapestry, he found a solitary Holy brother standing in silent meditation. The man's hood was drawn low, hiding most of his features, but the glint of his eyes briefly caught Larys's approach. No words were exchanged as the brother turned, guiding him through the tapestry's narrow opening and into a cramped alcove not meant for public worship.
A single candle burned upon a small wooden bench, casting flickering shadows that danced across the brother's hands. Larys let the silence stretch. To speak first was to yield an advantage in this game, and he had been bested quite enough of late.
"Lord Strong." The voice was soft, intentionally ever so lightly accented—Braavosi, if one knew what to listen for. "To what do we owe this most pious visitation?"
Larys inclined his head in a show of deference he did not feel. "I fulfill my duty, Brother, to pay respects to the Seven and to bestow alms upon the poor souls I occasionally find." His tone was dry, but the dance must be had. "Though my… new office demands I observe certain rituals, I do not forget the old tasks set before me."
A beat of quiet. A flick of candlelight. The brother's cowl shifted, revealing neither face nor expression, only a slight tilt—acknowledgment, or invitation to continue.
Larys exhaled, feigning regret. "The cutthroat you placed within the Red Keep… the woman I brought in—she is gone. Dead, so rumor tells. I only discovered her fate by idle talk in the stables. The body was found, they say, but not the details of how she was dispatched or by whom." He paused, letting a note of simmering grievance enter his voice. "I suspect Aemond had a hand in it, though I cannot say precisely."
"The House of Black and White is not unaccustomed to failure," the brother said softly, as though remarking on a passing shower. "That is the nature of a mission such as ours. Some seeds do not bear fruit."
"But you assured me she was skilled," Larys pressed. "And I risked much to see her smuggled inside. Now I find the Butcher has grown even more… attentive."
"Prince Aemond does seem to have a heightened watchfulness," the brother agreed, the shadows flickering across a hooded visage. "Hence, we shall plant another seed. You will embed another of my kin, at a time and place I shall name soon."
Larys tightened his grip on the handle of his cane. One-eye's guard dogs had grown sharper teeth of late. But he forced calm into his voice. "Your men—your… order—will have my assistance. But my meager freedoms have grown even more restricted these days. I am not certain how much I can offer."
"And yet you slip away to meet me here." A hint of cold amusement undercut the Faceless Man's whisper. "You remain resourceful, Lord Strong."
Larys replied only with a curt nod. "Yes, but I am not omniscient. The scraps I glean of Aemond's business come through channels I had in place before he tore apart my web." He allowed a wry twist of the lips. "I believed them reliable. You wrote claiming otherwise. Now… I find the source wanting."
"Indeed. The last morsels you sent while valuable, were incomplete. We require more precise knowledge of the Prince's next moves—particularly regarding his naval maneuvers in the Sea of Dorne and his negotiations with Prince Qoren. If we cannot access the information in its fullness, it's no better than a child's gossip."
A prickle of annoyance kindled in Larys's gut. Addam assured me his intel was solid. That whelp. "You'll have it," Larys said through gritted teeth. "I shall… redouble my efforts. My contact in the Red Keep will press deeper." He did not mention Addam by name. One never knew how these Faceless Men gleaned their own intelligence, but he thought it wise to play his cards close to the chest.
"Good. This war does not favor the timid."
Larys cleared his throat, fighting a pang of personal frustration. "And what of my other request, Brother?" he asked. "The matter regarding Mysaria?"
The Faceless Man's gloved hand dipped briefly into his robe, only to emerge empty. "Your whore-lady with the silver hair, yes. The one assigned to that task remains with her… but has not yet completed the contract."
Larys blinked. "They remain with Mysaria?" He had heard not a whisper of the Mistress of Whispers leaving on a journey. "What do you mean? Where is she?"
"She took a fast ship east down the Summer Sea. Your assassin travels with her retinue. No success has been reported. No failure, either."
"But why would she depart?" Larys hissed, confused. "She only just ascended as Master of Whispers. It makes no sense that she would abandon King's Landing—her seat of power—for some errand across the sea."
"Sense or not, that is her path." The Faceless Man shrugged, an almost lazy motion. "If you wish the kill done surely, you must discover her intent and location. Relay that knowledge to me at your earliest convenience—I will handle it. Or wait for her return. That is… if you fancy letting fate shape her demise."
A taut silence followed. Larys realized he still had no notion why she would leave. "I will look into the matter," he said in the end. "Perhaps a clerk in the Bank or the Merchant's Guild can be coaxed to speak. Or one of her own subordinates—though the new watchers are thorough."
The Faceless Man inclined his hood. "Good. We shall speak again soon."
Larys did not reply. Instead, he pulled his cloak tighter, as though a chill wind had swept through the alcove. He turned to go, leaning on his cane. But as he reached the tapestry's edge, the Assassin's soft voice stopped him.
"Lord Strong."
Larys paused, half-glancing over his shoulder. A single glint of candlelight caught the brother's eyes—a silver spark in the gloom.
"You have lost much," the Faceless Man said, "and stand to lose more should your game be discovered… Be certain you can finish it."
✥✥✥
Excerpt from the Journal of Damios Haar, delegate of Myr
...
They led us through Braavos with minimal pageantry, as if our arrival were a nuisance best rushed underfoot. Still, I'd rather pass unnoticed than parade beneath sneering eyes. My companions—six of us in all—stepped cautiously through the Palace of Truth's broad corridors, guarded by Braavosi sentries who spared little courtesy for slaver outlanders. Stone pillars rose around us, carved with designs of sword-dancers and flamboyant braids, each telling fragments of Braavos's proud, defiant history.
It was near twilight when we entered the antechamber: a lofty hall lined with columns of smooth granite, each wrapped in swirling mosaics of the Titan. Braavosi envoys waited there in austere violet robes—stern men and women, some as pale as driftwood, some with ink-dark hair and lined faces. Their leader and her chief patron, a solemn fellow called Armeno Sarren, gestured for our delegation to remain silent as he parted the carved double doors to the main hall.
And so we found ourselves before Rhaenyra Targaryen—the fallen queen, the exiled claimant—and her Braavosi patrons. She stood near a raised dais surrounded by a wide half-circle of high-backed chairs. A wisp of silver hair framed her face, and a worn tension clung to her features. Still, there was a quiet steel in her eyes. Behind her loomed the Sealord's personal advisors, though the Sealord himself was absent. In his stead, a tall figure in embroidered robes presided, face set with grim resolve: Koja Terys, rumored to be a chief strategist for Braavos's war council.
I was no stranger to halls of power—Myr's Counting Houses are famed for their cunning deals and endless wrangling—but the tension in that Braavosi hall brought a cold sweat to my back. Two braziers smoldered on either side of Rhaenyra's dais, casting her shadow large upon the mosaic floor: a slender woman with a crest of silver hair, overshadowed by flame. An image that might have been awe-inspiring in better days.
Yet the hush that fell was not for her alone, but for the war that pressed upon us from across the Narrow Sea. Westeros. The Butcher Prince. The blockade that strangled our city's lifeblood.
I cleared my throat and bowed stiffly. "My lords… and Your Grace." Titles felt strange on my tongue, but a man must be polite if he wants to acquire what he desires. "I am Damios Haar, delegate of Myr, bearing official word from the Council of Twelve. We… come to pledge support to the Braavosi cause against the Greens of Westeros, under Her Grace Rhaenyra Targaryen."
Rhaenyra watched me with measured calm, eyes rimmed with unreadable emotion. So many losses in her life—her husband, home, her throne. Yet I saw a flicker of relief in her posture. Perhaps one more ally—even one so reluctant—was a precious balm.
"Welcome, Master Haar," Rhaenyra said at last, voice low but unwavering. "I was informed you attempted negotiations with Aemond. Did he entertain them in good faith?"
A harsh, humorless laugh nearly broke from my lips. I stifled it, offering only a small, brittle smile. "We were promised an audience with the Crown's representatives, yes. But when we arrived at King's Landing, we were greeted by an underling from the Dragon's Bank—no lords, no mention of the Prince. They demanded we pay tribute, disclaim all merchantile ties to Braavos, and accept their 'favorable' shipping levies… or remain blockaded."
One of the Braavosi—an older man with an aquiline nose—spoke with bridled disdain. "Aemond Targaryen does not bargain. He dictates."
"At sword-point," added another, an echo of resentment underlying every word.
Rhaenyra nodded, her expression pinched. "Aemond has declared a total blockade on any city that dares side with me. I regret that, Master Haar. The path he lays is submission, or war."
I forced a sigh. "We Myrish do not relish war, Your Grace—but we are left with little choice."
Across the dais, Koja Terys gave a crisp nod. "You've come to join us, then—to fight?"
"Yes." The word weighed heavily in my mouth. Once, Myr might have shied from direct confrontation with the Targaryens. But we were out of options. "We will commit our ships and soldiers to the alliance with Braavos—and with Her Grace," I said carefully. "Our crossbowmen, known across Essos for their skill, are at your disposal. And though our fleet is not so grand, it carries keen-eyed mariners with experience on these waters."
Rhaenyra stepped forward, her eyes lingering on me—almost searching for signs of falsehood. "What do you ask in return, Master Haar?"
We'd hashed it out in Myr's council, with hours upon hours of bickering. In the end, the demands were steep, but if Braavos wanted Myr's unflinching service, we wanted redress for the blockade's ruin. "First: If we break Westeros's hold on the Stepstones, Myr shall have favorable terms in any new trade pacts. Second: Should we be forced to land armies on Westerosi soil, Myr's injuries must be repaid from seized Westerosi assets. And third: Once Her Grace takes the throne…" I paused, aware of the delicacy. "Myr humbly requests exclusive rights in certain crafts. Tapestries, especially, and our famed laces, so that we might recoup the costs of this war."
I braced for offense. Targaryen and Braavosi pride were similarly formidable; their needs might clash with Myr's demands. But Koja Terys exchanged a glance with the Queen, then nodded with visible reluctance.
Rhaenyra spoke then, her voice tight. "I will not lightly sign away the realm's resources to foreigners. But we are not ungrateful. If Myr stands by me against Aegon—if you help us loosen One-eye's chains—then I shall see your city rewarded with open ports, minimal duties. As for the lace and tapestries… we will talk further." She exhaled, a trace of weariness in the lines of her face. "We must all do what is needed to win this war."
"How soon can you muster your fleets in Tyrosh's waters?" asked a Braavosi admiral, stepping forward. I did not catch his name, but he wore a sea-green cloak embroidered with a thousand tiny waves.
I spread my hands. "I can only speak for Myr's main flotilla. We can be at Tyrosh in a moon—perhaps sooner, if we press the admirals and their crew."
Koja Terys nodded, imposing a brisk close to the matter. "The details can be hammered out in the counting halls," he said.
Rhaenyra managed a wan smile. "Come, then. We have letters to sign, routes to finalize. The Butcher Prince grows bold with each passing day. We have none to waste."