The water of the Narrow Sea is icy and freezing at this time of year, and Bello shivers as it rises up to slosh against the deck of the fisherman's boat he journeys with. He is dressed in a heavy tunic and a wolf fur cloak, with socks of thick wool and high boots, but the cold bite of winter, combined with the wet climate, chills him to his very marrow.

"By the gods, it's freezing," Breo says, teeth chattering. Bello hums in agreement. "Remind me of why we're here again?"

"A man and his apprentice are here because the son of the Lord of the Tides has requested their service, and a reward has been promised." His nephew folds his arms over his chest and frowns deeply.

"We are not vagabonds, uncle. We do not need to go searching desperately for coin. You were a sword to the Sealord of Braavos, once."

"Yes," Bello replies, "But a man would remind his sister's son that was is not is, and once is not now." Breo flushes and the red of his cheeks clashes against the dark blond of his hair. The boy is remembering just why he no longer serves the Sealord, Bello can tell. Breo's jaw clenches and his eyes narrow and his hands curl to fists.

"The coin must be good then," he snaps. "What exactly are we doing?"

Bello places his thumb and index finger against his chin and smiles. "A man and his apprentice are teaching a princess how to dance."

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Laenor Velaryon is a handsome man, with thick silver-white hair and violet eyes and an aquiline nose accompanied by high cheekbones and bowstrung lips. He's dressed in white silks and a sea-green doublet, the fabrics hanging loosely off of his lithe frame. His boots llook soft and not at all like the hard, fur-trimmed leather suited for winter. A cloak is draped over the right arm of his chair, but he has no need for it with the giant hearth in his solar.

Parchments are stacked in neat piles across a mahogany desk, along with a spare bottle of ink and quill. As light from the brazier beside him flickers, shadows stretch along the contours of his face. There are bags beneath his eyes.

When Bello and Breo are announced, he continues scribbling something down on a roll of parchment. A long moment passes. The movements of his wrist are frenzied and his shoulders are stiffly set, and Bello is beginning to think they've caught him at a bad time. Breo shifts with discomfort.

"Ser," Bello says, after it becomes clear that Ser Laenor either did not hear them enter or is willfully ignoring them, "It is an honor to meet someone so esteemed."

The man jumps at the sudden sound, knocking ink across what he was working on. "Damn!" he spits, dabbing at it with the hem of his sleeve. "Seven hells!"

Angry eyes turn to them and Bello winces. "A man apologizes for that inconvenience," he forges on, "But he has been brought here to teach a princess, and wishes to meet her."

Bello frowns. "A princess was praised highly by a lord's messengers, and a man has travelled a long distance and spent much coin to meet her."

Ser Laenor runs a hand across his face. "We are not saying you can never teach her, just that you cannot now. If you have an issue with that, you can speak with my wife."

"And recompense?" Breo demands. "The promise of coin will not feed us or clothe us."

Bello glares sharply at his nephew.

"You may have room and board at Dragonstone and Driftmark until the Princess Visenya is deemed fit to be ready to learn," Ser Laenor replies smoothly. There is an undercurrent of irritation in his voice. Bello knows that aristocracy, especially Westerosi aristocracy, are fickle creatures, so he takes action before his sister's son loses his head.

"A man will take a lord's advice," he says, "And go to his wife. He thanks him for the room and board."

"Wait outside and I'll have a servant bring you to her."

When he hears that, he bows quickly and leaves the room, dragging Breo with him.

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"What was that?" he demands once they're just out of earshot. "Does an apprentice have a deathwish?" His nephew scowls.

"I want to do something with my life, uncle. Training a princess, training the daughter of the heir to the Iron Throne, that is something to live for, something to be proud of. I can bring honor back to my family-"

"And an apprentice is upset because he does not know when he can begin." Bello sighs. "A man understands. It was his blood that was disgraced as well."

Breo opens his mouth to say something else when a servant approaches. "Are you Bello the Braavosi?" he asks. Bello nods. "Excellent. Ser Laenor has instructed me to present you to Princess Rhaenyra. If you'll follow me…"

As they begin to walk, Bello holds an arm out to stop his nephew. "An apprentice will stay behind and let his temper cool," he instructs. Breo glares down at his feet but nods grudgingly. He smiles in approval.

Then he's off to meet the heiress to the Iron Throne.

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The servant leaves just as they reach the Princess of Dragonstone's solar, obviously busy. Before he goes, he points to the door and says, "That's it." Bello thanks him. He makes his way to the spruce door, distinctly uncomfortable. He is painfully aware of where he is, of who built this place. When he'd been a child, he'd grown up on tales of the horrors of the Valyrian Freehold, had sobbed and spat and hissed, and cursed the Dragonlords of old. Now he's here, in a stronghold they created, and it makes his chest twist up into knots.

Then he hears something from the either side of the door and he freezes.

"You… me…" a man's voice says. The noises are muffled, so, against his better judgement, he inches closer. "I know you do."

"Except I don't." This time it's a woman replying. "It happened once and it was a mistake."

"Happened once?" The man scoffs. "'Twas I who took your maidenhead, Rhaenyra. You gave it to me, not to Criston Cole, not to Harwin Strong, but me. Once upon a time, I reckon you even loved me."

A moment of silence passes and Bello gets the distinct feeling that he is not supposed to be hearing this.

"The last time I gave myself to you, Daemon," the woman- Rhaenyra- says lowly, "We brought dishonor to Laena, my best friend and your wife, and that nearly destroyed my family. I almost lost Laenor, and in one fell swoop I could have lost Corlys and Rhaenys as well. The one good thing to come out of it all was Aemon, and even then-"

"You are hesitating at the thought of Laenor? Do not tell me that you actually love your sword swallower of a husband." Daemon laughs, but there is anger behind it. The hairs at the nape of Bello's neck stand straight up. "He whose perversion has humiliated you at every turn. The man who stole the son who should have been mine!"

"Do not insult him!" Rhaenyra snarls. Slowly, Bello begins backing away from the door. He does not need to be caught eavesdropping.

"Have you brought me here only to reject me?" Daemon demands. "Because I find it very hard to believe that pillow biter satisfies you."

"He is a good man, a great friend, and an even better father. And that is all I need. I shall not risk his companionship and the safety of our children to lay with you, uncle. I will not. Harwin was messy enough, but if it was suspected that one of my children's sires was you-"

The sound of scuffling boots drifts away from the door and Bello takes his chance to completely exit the hall. Slipping through the archway, he leans against the wall 'round the corner. Daemon catches something he can't hear, and his niece- Bello grimaces at that- replies with a fierce, "Go, uncle!"

A few moments later a tall man with silver-gold hair and dark violet gaze is storming past him. Their eyes meet for half of a second, and Bello feels a chill run down his spine. He'd known whom the Daemon and Rhaenyra of the solar were, but putting a name to a face after overhearing high treason is a nerve wracking thing. Don't catch on that I know, he thinks desperately. Please, don't catch on that I know.

Then the moment is over and the Rogue Prince forges past him, strides quick and angry, and he sighs with relief. Then he wonders how he is going to make his case to the Princess of Dragonstone after this.

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Rhaenyra Targaryen is not an ugly woman. She is stout and thick of waist and bosom, but she is not unappealing, and in the structure of her face, Bello can see remnants of old beauty still lingering. If Daemon Targaryen truly has affection for her, he can see why he would be so stung by her rejection.

As he bows at the waist, he keeps a straight face. He will show no hints that he overheard her prior conversation, he thinks firmly. "Greetings, Your Grace," he says. "A man is Bello of Braavos, and he has been brought on to teach a princess how to dance, if he is correct?"

The Princess of Dragonstone rubs at her temples, as if she's trying to soothe a headache. "Yes," she replies, "But my daughter was recently stabbed by a dagger, and she has been permanently disfigured because of it. With everything that has happened, my husband and I are reluctant to teach her how to use sharp objects, as are her grandparents. At least for the moment."

Bello chews the inside of his lip. "Water Dancing is not solely a physical practice," he says. "If it pleases Your Grace, a man and his apprentice could hone her mind, first, giving the girl time to recover."

Rhaenyra pauses. Frowning, her eyes narrow in thought. "That… could work. It is imperative that my daughter learn how to defend herself after this, but to do so so soon would be a mistake. If you could ease her into it…" Bello waits patiently as she drifts back into contemplation. "You have a sennight," she decides.

"Begging pardon?"

"You have a sennight to show me how you can train the Princess Visenya without using blades. Her arm has just been freed from her sling, so you have my permission to do basic things such as stretches and meditations as well. Do you think you can do it?"

Bello straightens his back and squares his shoulders. Instinctively, his feet shift and he drops into a loose stance. He smiles broadly. "A man knows he can."

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That night, as he and Breo settle into the rooms that were prepared for them, he warns his nephew to not go too heavily on the wine. "Why not?" Breo complains.

Bello gets up from his chair and sets out his clothing for tomorrow. Once it's set up, he turns back to his sister's son and smiles. "An apprentice wanted to prove himself," he replies, "And now he has a chance to. Upon the order of the Princess of Dragonstone, he and his master will begin teaching the Princess Visenya how to dance."

Breo whoops and grins so widely Bello has to return the look. "When?" he asks, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"The princess meets with them on the morrow, after she breaks her fast."

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A/N: A big thanks to Leonie over on Spacebattles for helping me get the kinks out of this chapter. Also I've decided to split this chapter into two, so even though I said the timeskip would be next chapter, it won't be.