The Long Bridge of Volantis swarmed with hagglers, zealots, grifters and prospective purchasers alike. Each man compelled by some desperation or anther to hawk his wares or beliefs in a city that didn't give a shit about either. Acolytes of R'hllor in their deep burgundy robes sang tales of Azor Ahai come again: The White Wolf of Westeros who defeated darkness and who brought the Dawn. R'hllors own chosen Warrior of Light. Below the bridge, the brackish waters of Mother Rhoyne churned past. The end of a journey that spanned thousands of miles across Essos, one which brought with it the spirits and demons of old who've long been forgotten. Laid to eternal rest in the Summer Sea.
The hooded Westerosi man shouldered his way through the crowds, silently refusing bolts of myrish lace and roasted capons. The raven said the vendor in question would be on the western edge of the long bridge, and would answer to the name of Moreo.
"Would the gallant man like try our fermented crab?" A stout woman, her breasts all but bared, appeared in front of the Westerosi, blocking his path entirely, in her hands a bowl of stinking strips of white flesh. "A necessity for any gentlemen wishing to visit our pleasure houses. Madam Palla just purchased three young Yunkish women… All trained in the ways of the seven sighs." She cocked an eyebrow at the man in an attempt at what the Westerosi assumed was charm. The man lowered his head, concealing his face from her as he impatiently side-stepped the woman, and continued his trek through the ordered chaos. Over the past month he had learned that opening your mouth on the Long Bridge was trouble, either in acceptance or rejection, so it was best to keep it shut altogether.
He had walked nearly the length of the bridge was getting nervous Moreo didn't actually exist. No, he thought, he wouldn't lie to me. That the raven had been sent at all and was delivered unmolested was a miracle in itself. If the sender had been caught, or the raven intercepted, it would surely mean death for everyone the Westerosi had left behind. It was a thought he couldn't stomach. So he pushed the thought from his mind, as he did with everything else, pressing it deep down in the black depths. If it hadn't been for another haggler intercepting his progress he might have missed the book vendor altogether. His stall was unmarked and there was not proprietor to be found, but it was the only vendor of books on the bridge.
"Hello?" The Westerosi softly called out, his northern burr so foreign among the rolling lilt of Volantene dialect of Valyrian. He ran a nervous hand through the curls of his black hair. "Hello?" He said once more. Damn. An entire day wasted. The Westerosi turned to go but without warning, a waifish man, green of hair and clad in roughspun sprung from the ground like a spring daisy. The man took a moment to compose himself as he brushed dirt from his tunic and slicked his forked beard between two bony fingers.
"Moreo, humble vendor of literary antiquities at your service." His voice was frail, but the Tyrosh accent was unmistakable. He stuck a withered hand out for the Westerosi to shake which he took obligingly.
"What were you doing down there?"
"Looking for purple horned beetles of course! Winter has ceded and it's their mating season." He said nonchalantly as he strapped a leather band about his head, attached to which was a large circular lens. Moreo positioned the glass lens in front of his right eye, magnifying it to a preposterous size. He must have caught the Westerosi slack-jawed in wonder for he said, "To better see the scripts in the book, my boy. These eyes aren't what they used to be," he chucked to himself. "Bought this contraption off a traveling hedge wizard from Westeros! Claimed it was from Qarth. Doesn't matter to me either way. What can I do for you?" The Westerosi took a few steps forward and leaned in toward the book vendor, his hood still drawn, his face shrouded in shadow.
"I'm looking for a book, an old book, written in Valyrian," he said quietly, almost a whisper. The Tyroshi cocked his head, eyed the Westerosi intently, and brought the lens closer to his eye as he turned to thumb through the shelves.
"Most of my titles are written in Valyrian, my boy," he called. "We are in Essos, not Westeros," he laughed to himself. "And what is in this book of Valyrian, hm?"
"Dragonbinding," the word came from the Westerosi's mouth like a whetted steel blade. The vendor stood and turned rigidly from the shelves, his face darkened.
"Dragonbinding." He repeated, his voice quiet and aghast. He shook his head. "That is dark magic. Dark, old blood magic. Who are you? Did Maester Sam send you?"
"Who I am is none of your concern." The Tyroshi eyed the Westerosi for a moment, as though the clues to his identity laid somewhere in the brown of his eyes, and in the scars that ran along his forehead. Suddenly the vendor drew in a quick breath, his eyes had gone wide in astonishment. "You…"
"Not a word. I am here for the book and the book alone. You are not to speak of this day, or you will rue the day you do." The vendor nodded wordlessly and turned to an old trunk to produce the book. It was ancient looking and bound in tattered black leather. The Westerosi nodded, accepting its condition and asked the vendor to wrap it.
"What do I owe you?" asked the Westerosi.
"My Lord," the vendor's voice trembled. "You honor me with your presence alone. It is a gift. A gift for Azor Ahai."