She followed him, winding through the shades created by the dying sun, and alternated between pitying him for being so hopelessly lost and wondering if she had lost her mind for true.

There really was no other explanation as to why she was had sought him out in the streets of her city (not a hard endeavor, his powerful frame and naturally serious countenance set him apart from the lithe, romantic Braavosi) and continued to dog his steps like some sad, unwanted shadow.


No One had known nearly the moment his boots touched the stone of the Outer Harbor.

She had created – through liberal use of the sanctum's faces, patience, gossip, gentle cultivation, and time - a small but highly reliable information network. It consisted of baker boys, street urchins, a few fantastically colorful bravos, the occasional merchant, five mummers from a less than reputable troupe, and one elegant and intimidating brothel madam. They each knew her by a different name and a different face, and were not aware that they were part of a larger ring of informants, a single thread in one of the many invisible webs that stretched across Braavos. They were unwitting pawns in a game, one that was played by everyone and by no one; their eyes and ears made over into tools, and their tiny scraps of harmless information built one on top of the other into a crescendo of power.

Once, she would have thought strength was the root of all power – strength and swords. But no, now she had learned that it was knowledge that made the difference, made the kings or broke them.

It was on the day of his return that one of her whisperers came to report to her of the goings-on of the ports. The boy was named Toggo, a beggar boy that set up his little mat and cup next to a rigging post every day. He was from Qohor, she believed, though how he had worked his way to Braavos she had not asked.

Perhaps he had escaped on a merchant ship under an assumed name, smuggled from the only land he ever knew, a lifetime of fear and desperation and anger ground into his bones.

Whatever the case, he was a scrawny thing on account of being underfed, but he had a wild, dirty mop of hair and a little mongrel pup that followed him everywhere named Hairyhorse. Toggo only knew her in the form of a bravo, so she had risen early from her cell that morning to pull on the familiar skin and shine the thin sword that had belonged to her – Toggo always asked to see the blade, awed by the weapon. She buckled on a second sword for good measure, because a bravo never settled for simplicity when extravagance could be had, and she rather enjoyed the flair that came with fighting with blades in both hands.

They met in the same greasy tavern as usual, the wooden beams of the roof stained black with soot from the large open fire that occupied the center of the room. The bravo ordered food for the boy (it got his tongue wagging – and he could do with the extra nourishment), and nodded to the owner when he glanced up casually from the account book. He would whisper to someone that she had been here, and that whisper would wind its way into the Kindly Man's ear, for the Kindly Man always knew. But so far he had been silent on the matter of her information web, and she did not bother trying to hide from his omnipresent gaze.

"Well, nothing of importance happened today," Toggo mumbled around the chicken leg he was ravenously masticating, "Six ships came in before midday, though all's they had onboard were a couple a' rugs, some painted jars, a few old chests, things like that."

"And past midday?" the bravo inquired, watching the boy toss the bone – with half the meat still attached- under the table to Hairyhorse.

"Well, 'bout three ships came in from the East, an' they had all sorts a' good things! Necklaces and feathers and pretty carved boxes that were prob'ly bursting with gold!" The boy hooted in delight before slurping noisily at the watered-down ale that had been brought out with the meal. "Looked like they were fit for the Sealord's palace and shore 'nuff that's where they went. Well, I'll tell you, Madam bravo, them treasures sure are nice to look at, but they don't do nothin' for an empty stomach when you're lookin' at 'em! Can you eat 'em? No, you can't. Better to have this food than somethin' that only's feels good on your eyeballs."

The bravo had to laugh at that. "Out of the mouths of babes come gems of wisdom, it is known. What else?"

"Well there weren't no news about the dragon queen, nothin' new at least," Toggo shrugged one thin shoulder, seeming a little put out – he loved the stories of the mighty Targaryen and her scaly beasts. "Ah! But there were a giant on board one a' the ships that came from her city. Called the Lusty Maiden."

"The giant?"

"Wha-no! The ship. The giant were one a' the Westerosi – well, I think so, his hair and beard were all sorts a' crazy - and they're usually tall and strong, but this one looked real tough, like he could punch a hole through a horse!"

She almost rolled her eyes. It was a common myth in Braavos that the men of Westeros – more sturdily built than the Braavosi themselves – would display their strength by using only their fist to disembowel a horse. It was ridiculous, but certainly not the worst legend she had heard whispered about the Westerosi.

"I see. Did he have any features that set him apart – other than that? Tattoos, scars?"

Toggo carefully wrapped the second chicken leg in a dirty corner of his tunic. "Hmm, nothin' like that," he answered distractedly.

"Very well, if that's all, this humble bravo will be going. Let us meet again next week, at this hour." She stood and turned toward the door, pretending to have forgotten.

"Wait!" the boy cried, scrambling off the tavern's rough bench. "Please, madam bravo, if it weren't too much trouble, could I look at your sword?"

"Why, of course Toggo, my boy!" the bravo laughed, turning. She drew with a flash and twirled the hilt easily between her fingers, hearing the boy gasp in wonder as her blade whistled through the air. She slowed the speed just a hair as she slid the sword behind her back, and released it. The steel glinted as it slipped easily out of her palm. Its momentum spun it tip over end toward the rafters, and the bravo took the second the boy was distracted to slip a coin under the table to Hairyhorse, before plucking the thin weapon deftly out of the air as it fell.

Toggo whooped at the display, clapping his small hands as she bowed with a flourish and presented him with the blade so he could inspect it.

"Amazing, madam bravo! It's so beautiful and shiny – truly there weren't no treasure on the ships today that was e'en half so pretty."

"High praise, indeed! You know well how to play to this bravo's vanity," she responded with a grin as she sheathed the sword.

Satisfied, the boy skipped to the door ahead of her, Hairyhorse trotting out behind him, the coin hidden surreptitiously inside his mouth. The bravo knew the loyal dog would present it to his master eventually, and they would be able to eat well tomorrow.

"Oh, I just remembered!" Toggo exclaimed at the door, turning about suddenly. "The giant did have somethin' that made 'im diff'rent!"

"Oh?" asked the bravo with curiosity, "What was it?"

"His eyes," the boy said, "They were the bluest eyes I ever saw."


She crouched easily in one of the rickety corners created quite on accident by the latticework of wooden supports below the sad canal houses, watching him struggle.

He was not built for this sort of maze work and maneuvering, and the bravo could not help but grin as his expression grew darker by the second. He started muttering a low, constant string of invectives through gritted teeth aimed at the houses, the canal, and Braavos in general – some of which she had to admit were quite original.

A few times he glanced around him, perhaps trying to gauge how far he'd come through the thicket of beams, and his gaze would sweep over the shadows in which she hid, but she remained unknown to him –though she held her breath until his eyes passed her by.

What was he doing here?

No One had known he had left Braavos rather quickly after their last encounter, and she had believed – deep down, where she kept her most precious thoughts – that she would never see him again.

So when Toggo had told her that a huge, travelling Westerosi man with tangled hair and piercing blue eyes, was in her city, she could not resist seeing for herself. She observed him as he slowly navigated the tangle. He was not as wild as when she last saw him, and she judged that his hair and beard were newly shorn. His clothes were as ragged as ever, though he had a new pack of leather slung over one shoulder, doubtless stuffed with his only possessions. The pack was plain and durable save for a sharp geometric design tooled into its side –a maker's mark, clearly from the East.

She wondered what wonders he had encountered – gems, exotic spices, magic? Dragons? Perhaps more beautiful women; Daenerys Targaryen was rumored to be lovely as a moonrise and stronger even than flame; it was said that the dragons were the children born from her own womb. She wondered if that kind of woman tempted his desires as much as tavern maids, if a woman that was nearly half-beast herself could make his blood run hot.

She was interrupted from her musings by a grunt and a colorful curse as one of the beams snapped in half under his heavy weight, nearly dropping him into the cold muck of the canal below.

She could stay quiet no longer; this was too much fun for a bravo to sit idly by.

"There are many cats in Braavos," she called, "It is known. But this one is more a monkey than anything else. What grace you have!" She felt a stab of satisfaction at his startled reaction, the sharp turn of his head toward the sound of her voice. That feeling only grew when his eyes narrowed.

"Looking for a fight bravo?" She had not been, but the very suggestion sent a spark down her spine. "I have no sword, and a duel against me as I am now, tangled up in here, will not prove your skill at all."

"Ah, but in so saying you admit that a duel against you on fair footing and equal terms would bring me great recompense." No matter what language the Braavosi spoke, words tripped off their tongues like poetry – they reveled in crafting beauty into speech, delighted in inflecting the Common Tongue with their own unique lyrical cadence.

It was not a skill treasured by the Westerosi, clearly, because the man's brow furrowed with incomprehension and impatience. "What?"

She grinned, feeling her lips pull back over her incisors. "It means, monkey, that I will wait for you to get on land, I will give you a sword, and then we will duel."

"I don't wish to duel you," he replied with a growl. It is our fate, she almost responded. For on the day she had chosen to be a bravo he had come to her city. The urge to fight was already bubbling up in her blood, though she had not originally followed him with any such purpose in mind. He had provoked the bravo in her and she had responded.

Or perhaps it was not the bravo he roused.

"It is already decided. Come meet your fate, O great gorilla."

Then she was up, swinging easily through the mess of planks, cartwheeling through the most difficult bit because she liked the way the world blurred like paint before her eyes –and she also wished to aggravate him some more.

She applauded him when he finally heaved himself through after her, her grin turning feral as his scowl melted into surprise.


I tried to make Toggo similar to Rickon by naming his dog Hairyhorse - I was going for an allusion to Shaggydog, but maybe it wasn't obvious enough?