I was near as poor, a bravo in soiled silks, living by my blade. Perhaps you chanced to glimpse the statue by my pool? Pytho Malanon carved that when I was six-and-ten. A lovely thing, though now I weep to see it –Illyrio Mopatis, 300 AC

Pentos, 261 AC

The red priest raised his arms up towards the darkening sky. "R'hllor, come to us in our darkness," he called out in a deep, almost musical voice. "The Lord of Light made the sun and moon and stars to light our way, and gave us fire to keep the night at bay." I wonder if he meant for that to rhyme, Illyrio Mopatis thought to himself, near the back of the massive throng of worshippers. Almost certainly he had. The red priests had always had a penchant for the dramatic. Illyrio could hardly see him, he was so far near the back of the crowd, but he could see the flowing red robes draped over High Priest Azarlan. The Red Temple rose up behind him, a behemoth of pillars, steps, buttresses, bridges, domes, and towers; by far the biggest building in Pentos. It was carved from rocks of half a hundred different hues; reds, yellows and oranges all melded into one. Atop the towers, the colossal nightfires raged against the sky, fighting to keep the darkness at bay.

Azarlan swiped a finger through the air, and a tendril of flame burst from the tip. The crowd gasped and made ooh sounds, as if there was some true magic afoot here rather than the cheap tricks he had learnt as a slave boy, sold to the Red Temple. Priests of R'hllor strutted about as if they were fabled mages of old Asshai, but in reality they were just men. Illyrio kept faith with red R'hllor just like any man in Pentos, but he had yet to see any real proof of the god's power. Better to put faith in the strength of your sword arm than in a god, had always been his philosophy. His hand twitched to touch the hilt of his blade, out of habit.

The priest was almost finished. "Lord of Light, we beseech you, return your light to us with the dawn. Return to vanquish the shadows, to shield us from the Great Other, who shall not be named. Let us walk always in your light." He swished a finger through the air, and the fire traced a Valyrian glyph in the air – the symbol for light, Illyrio guessed, although it was too far away to see - which lingered for a few seconds before vanishing. Azarlan had vanished too. Another trick, though how he had done it was not something Illyrio would ever know. The crowd began to dissipate, returning to their homes. There was no such home waiting for Illyrio. For him, the day was only just beginning.

The bravos of Essos were mostly associated with Braavos, but they could be found strolling the streets of all the Nine Free Cities. Pentos was no different. As soon as the sun went down, they could be seen on any corner, wearing their brightly coloured finery and dyed hair, competing like peacocks to outdo each other's display. The sword fighting was almost an afterthought to many of them. Many were only interested in the status that came with being a bravo – most respectable folk would put their heads down if they crossed paths with a bravo, not wanting to risk their ire, and the girls swarmed around them like bees around a flower. Cross them, however, and you had better know how to use a blade, or they would cut you to pieces.

Illyrio was not looking for a fight. He was meeting someone regarding a contract. Some puffed-up whoremonger, too fat to sit a horse, needing some young muscle to solve his problems for him. It pricked Illyrio's pride to serve such men, but it paid well, and he was desperately in need of coin. I was meant for more than this, he often thought to himself. Destiny did not keep a roof over a man's head and food in his belly, however. The here and now were all that mattered right now.

Illyrio hurried through the streets of Pentos. It was approaching night-time, and the shopkeepers were emptying their stalls and preparing to turn in for the night. Illyrio was dressed modestly for a bravo, in dirty white silken tunic and breeches, and younger than most at only fourteen, but they still made sure not to look him in the eye. Many bravos would challenge a man for looking in their eye, or for fingering his sword hilt in their sight. Illyrio made sure to keep his hand away from his own blade. It would not do to be delayed.

He arrived at his destination, the Maiden's Sigh, one of the most expensive brothels in the city, and an establishment owned by Vaylon Glorandal, Illyrio's client. The building was many-storied, with vines and roses covering much of the exterior, so thick that it would be easy for a man to climb up them and steal into a whore's bedchamber, if not for the two Unsullied guards standing watch. The Unsullied made no move to stop Illyrio as he passed them.

Nothing could have prepared him for the wealth and splendour that he found within. He was no stranger to brothels, but this place was like nothing he had ever seen. The air was pungent with the smell of exotic perfume, a scent of fruits and flowers, sweeter than Illyrio could have imagined. The floor was tiled, and as Illyrio inspected it he realised it was a mosaic, seeming to display a huge red dragon unleashing its inferno upon some poor city. The fifth Ghiscari War, perhaps? Illyrio wondered. He drew his gaze away to take in the rest of the room. Behind a Myrish screen, a handsome man with long brown hair was playing a tune on the pipes. The room was bathed in dim coloured light streaming in through the stained glass windows, which also depicted scenes from the annals of history and legend. The window to Illyrio's left seemed to depict the Doom of Valyria, while the one to his right showed the Rhoynish Princess Nymeria burning her ten thousand ships. Luxurious sofas with velvet cushions were dotted around, with girls from all across the known world sprawled across them, either chatting with each other or entertaining patrons. A black-skinned girl from the Summer Isles was playing cyvasse with an identical girl who could have been her twin. They were staring so intently at the game board that they didn't notice Illyrio walk by. A girl with skin as pale as the moon and hair as black as night was sat on the lap of a grossly fat and hairy Ibbenese man. If she felt disgust to be on the lap of such, she was hiding it very well. A well-dressed and handsome man with the look of a Westerosi lord was sat on a sofa with his arms around two girls, who were laughing at something he had said. Several of the girls took notice of Illyrio as he came in, and smiled flirtatiously at him. Illyrio was well aware that he was handsome by anyone's standards, and attention from girls like this was nothing new. But he barely noticed any of them. His attention was drawn by a boy his own age, with copper skin and a mop of black curly hair, sat in an alcove with a red-haired girl several years older. Cyrus. What is he doing here?

Many bravos travelled in pairs, and Cyrus had been Illyrio's partner for many years. He had taught Illyrio how to use the slender, curved swords of the bravos, which he had struggled to get used to having been trained by his father in the use of longer, heavier swords. They had taken contracts together and split the earnings, they had fed and sheltered the other when one of them was struggling for coin, and they had each other's backs when other bravos were spoiling for a fight. They had been more than friends, they were brothers. And Cyrus had been the only family Illyrio had after the death of his father, and the disappearance of his mother and sister. But he had betrayed him, and Illyrio had sworn to kill him if they ever crossed paths again. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, walking away from Cyrus, but this contract could not be put at risk. He turned away.

Vaylon Glorandal was an obscenely fat man, completely bald but with a bushy grey moustache. He sat in a seat that could have supported three of Illyrio, and he stank of a mixture of sweat and garlic. He was flanked by two guards, not Unsullied, but rough-looking men with the same suspicious blue eyes, black messy hair and stubble. They could easily be brothers, twins even. The servant who had led Illyrio here bowed before the fat man. "Master, the sellsword Mopatis is here for you."

"Thank you, Myron. You may go," Vaylon replied in a deep, gravelly voice. He did not wait for the man to leave, but turned immediately to Illyrio. "You were recommended to me by a colleague. It seems you have quite a reputation in Pentos. A man who gets things done, with no questions asked. Is that true?" Illyrio nodded. He had certainly questioned some of the things he had done inwardly, but he could not mount an outward protest if he wanted to eat. "You have heard correctly."

"I am a magister of this fine city, and would prefer you to address me as such." He waved his hands as a sign of dismissal. "A social etiquette surely lost on such as you. You are here to help me with a problem." Illyrio ignored the sally and tried to keep a straight face. "A former ship hand of mine had the nerve to make off with the coin I was due for a shipment of young boys I sold to Yunkai. I would have the coin back and I would have him dead; however I was loathe to send one of my own guardsmen after him in case he was recognised. If he should be seen that might be something of a deterrent to other men who work for me, or men I would like to hire in the future. A nameless bravo, however … well, you lot kill each other every night over trifling matters, I shouldn't think anyone will bat an eyelid if you are seen to kill him. His name is Orson. He was the head oarsman on my ship the Lysene Kiss, and I have been told he is a very large and strong man. But I'm sure you'll be more than capable."

Illyrio smiled his most charming smile. "You can count on it, Magister Vaylon."

As Illyrio stalked back out of the Maiden's Sigh, he thought once again that he was meant for more than an errand boy for fat scumbags like Vaylon Glorandal. If I was as fat as him, I'd throw myself from the Long Bridge of Volantis. He put the fat magister from his mind. At least he would be fighting soon. There was a simple beauty to the clash of steel upon steel. Despite the knowledge that one misstep could mean death, Illyrio never felt so calm as he did when performing the water dance, that elegant style of sword fighting made famous by the bravos of Braavos.

Orson lived in the poorest district of Pentos, down by the harbour with all the other labourers. The houses here were one-storied, some with just one room, and built with crumbling, sun-baked brick. Illyrio could hardly blame him for trying to escape this place. But he had made the fatal mistake that most commoners made when trying to rise above their station – he had been seen. Now he would pay dearly, and Illyrio would be his reckoning.

It was dark when he reached the house that he had been told Orson lived at. He knocked hard several times on the door, and it swung open before him. That was his first hint that something was afoot. Drawing his blade, he stepped across the threshold into a room that was as dark as the streets outside. The hearth fire was cold. Stepping into what seemed to be the master bedroom, he discovered that it too was empty. A large wooden chest, simply made but sturdy looking, stood open, its contents gone. Realisation dawned, and Illyrio turned to leave with haste. Orson was gone – for how long, Illyrio could not know, but he must move fast if he was to find him.

It was a smart move on Orson's part, to be leaving Pentos. He would have known that the magister he had stolen from would not forget his crime, and he had wasted no time in making his escape. It was a big world out there, and with the money he had stolen he could make a new life for himself anywhere – Westeros, another of the Free Cities, the Summer Isles, even the fabled lands of the Jade Sea. To get to any of them, he would have to book passage from the harbour, and finding a captain heading where you want to go can take time. He may not yet have left.

Illyrio resisted the urge to break into a run – it would not do to raise suspicion. He arrived at the harbour with the moon high in the night sky, staring down at its twin reflected in the waters. Ships from all across the known world were at dock – the purple hulled war galleys of Braavos, magnificent swan ships from the Summer Isles, Ibbenese whaling ships with hulls black as tar, and trading ships from every city with a port, even as far flung as Qarth and Lannisport. Traders came from all over the world to Pentos, filling the pockets of merchants like Vaylon Glorandal, and it was oarsmen like Orson who made it possible. Why shouldn't he be entitled to more of the coin? Illyrio thought for a second. It was impossible though. That could only happen in a fair world, and this one was anything but.

Orson was easily identified. He was a foot taller than any other man at harbour, and built like an aurochs. His head was shaven, and his face was tattooed with an anchor, marking him as a shipman slave out of Volantis. Maybe he was heading back there. He didn't appear to be armed, however, which made Illyrio feel better. Feeling confident, he sauntered up to Orson, who was stood by the gangplank of a ship sporting blue sails emblazoned with a grape cluster. Some ship out of Westeros, Illyrio thought. He drew his blade.

"Don't make a sound, unless you want to get a closer look at the bottom of this harbour."

Orson tensed as he felt the cold steel against his neck. He didn't turn to look at Illyrio. "I'm not gonna do anything," he said. "Just, please don't …"

"Quiet. I'll be deciding what happens here. You stole something from someone, and I'm here to get it back."

"One of Vaylon's thugs. I had expected you sooner."

"Then you know what it is I'm after. Are you going to give it to me?"

Orson made no sound for a time. Then he said, "It's not here."

"Oh, how convenient for you. Perhaps you'd like to-"

Illyrio stopped mid-sentence. A young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, came hurtling down the gangplank towards them. She had waist-length brown hair and was wearing a brown woollen dress. "Father! Father! She was shouting in an excited voice. Come and look, there's a-"she cut herself off when she saw what was happening. "Don't scream, my child," Orson said, sounding calmer than he looked. "Everything's alright. Just go back on the ship. I'll be with you soon."

Illyrio did not miss the opportunity he had been presented with. Striding up the gangplank, he grabbed for the girl. She stumbled as she stepped backwards to escape him, and he pulled her back up by the front of her dress. "I'm going to ask again," he said to Orson, in a louder, angrier tone this time. "Are you going to give me what I'm after, or do you want to see your girl's blood in the sea?"

Orson gaped at him in horror. "Ok! Take it. Take it." He drew a bag from his pocket and threw it to the ground with a metallic rattle. "Just don't hurt my girl. She's done nothing to you."

"I won't need to hurt her. You've made the right choice." He drew his sword away from the girl's throat. He walked casually back down the gangplank. He stood in front of Orson for a second, considering. Then he plunged his sword into the man's heart.

The girl screamed.

"My brave bravo has returned!" Vaylon said with interest as Illyrio came into his solar. Illyrio dumped the bag of coin on his desk with a thump so loud that the old man flinched. "You didn't tell me he had a daughter," he said accusingly. "I just had to kill a man in front of his own child. I expect to be paid extra for that."

Vaylon's eyes narrowed. "You will address me as magister, as I've told you once before," he said in a cold voice dripping with malice. Nobody moved for a few seconds. Illyrio resisted the urge to look at what Vaylon's guards were doing. Finally, the fat man opened the bag, drew out a handful of coins and dumped them in front of him. "That's barely anything," Illyrio gasped with incredulity. "That will barely pay for-"

"Enough. I will not be held to ransom by some up-jumped, arrogant cut-throat. Get out of here, unless you'd like to get better acquainted with my friends here." He gestured to the two guards, who both had hands on their sword hilts. Illyrio sized them up, and then thought better of it. They were older, taller, stronger, better armed, and there were two of them. He might be able to cut the fat man's throat before they reached him, but what would be the point? Scowling, he grabbed up the coins and backed out of the room.

Illyrio barely made it to the street outside before his breakfast, meagre as it had been, came spilling up his throat and out of his mouth. He knelt on the street, coughing and spluttering, with the two Unsullied either side of him, neither of them moving a muscle. When he was done, he got back to his feet, although his legs were shaking violently, and sauntered away. Only when he was in an abandoned street did he let the tears flow. "Forgive me, father," he said through heaving sobs. "I have no choice … I didn't want to do it …" But his father didn't hear him. Illyrio was alone.