The morning they are set to meet Princess Visenya, Bello and Breo rise early to make themselves more presentable. For the longest time, Bello's only donned worn tunics and cloaks and thick trousers. Today, he wears thick trousers still, but he switches into boots which only reach his calf, and he shaves his beard so it looks less shaggy. As he stands beside a small bason, a little mirror propped up against the bedpost, short, black hair falls to the floor. He puts soap beneath his arms and sniffs to see how bad it is. Acceptable.
Drawing clothes from one of his satchels, he takes out an old doublet along with a white tunic. The former isn't crumpled, for it was folded neatly, but the creases are evident as Bello lays it out across the bed. It's black, with grey slashed across the sides like stripes that don't meet, and made of satin. He runs his fingers along the soft material for a moment. "It has been a while since a man has worn something as well made as this," he murmurs to himself.
He puts the tunic on, and the doublet over it, and sits down on the bed to lace up his boots. Then he takes his sword and places it at his hip. Taking a sip of wine, he looks to Breo and nods in approval. His nephew's dark blond hair is combed and tied back by a loose ribbon. He is dressed in a black doublet simpler than Bello's on, with a grey tunic underneath and black trousers. His sword already rests at his hip. All in all, he looks presentable. Not like some powerful, important lordling, but that is not what he is in the first place.
"Where are we meeting?" Breo asks.
Bello checks the note he received last night.
"A man and his apprentice shall meet the Princess Visenya before she begins her lessons. Ser Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra shall have servants show the way to the will arrive early with food, so we may break our fasts."
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The servants guide them through winding halls that never seem to end, and Bello thinks Dragonstone is more like a maze than anything else. Buttered bread, cheese, and goat meat are in his stomach, and he licks his lips in remembrance. It was a good meal, not gruel or stale bread or anything of that sort, and generous in quantity as well. If the Princess of Dragonstone and her husband continue this, he thinks he will be very happy here indeed.
At last, they arrive to the courtyard. It is not as cold as yesterday, but there is still a chill in the grass is covered by frost, the trees are without their leaves, and the bushes are a yellow color. Bello shivers.
Five other forms are evident. Two are obvious- Ser Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra, and, his mind working quickly, he thinks that the other three, one with a silver-gold head and the other two with brown heads- must be their eldest children. Bello bows and draws to a stop. Breo follows in suit.
"Ah, you're here," Ser Laenor says. His wife beckons them to rise. His eyes flit to Bello's face and then sweep across his frame, assessing him. "You clean up well."
He nearly flinches at the sight of Princess Visenya. She has her mother's silver-gold hair and amethyst eyes, has her nose and her cheekbones and the shape of her mouth, but there is one key difference. The poor girl's scar is a terrible thing. The line (and it is more like a gouge) begins at her left cheekbone and draws closer to her mouth before drawing sharply down to her chin, and possibly below. It is hideous, and though he does not think it immediately makes her the same, he has spent enough time in Westeros to know that that is all anyone will focus on for the rest of her life.
Poor child.
To the right and left of Princess Visenya are two boys who can only be Princes Lucerys and Joffrey, with brown hair, brown eyes, and pug noses. They are tall for their ages, and they look strong. They also look nothing like either of their parents.
"Your Grace," Bello says, "It is an honor to see you again. My princess, my princes, it is an honor to meet you."
Princess Visenya looks at him, her eyes narrowed before they spark with recognition. "You are the men from the fair in Spicetown!" she says excitedly. He nods. Then she turns to her father. "Oh, thank you, Kepa!"
Ser Laenor smiles.
Prince Lucerys frowns. "What men?" he asks. His sister grins, but it looks a tad forced. "Water Dancers, Valonqar."
The prince goes pale. "Aren't they fighters?" he says. "Why are you glad Papa brought you fighters?"
Princess Rhaenyra kneels beside him, decorum set aside in this moment, and Bello feels like an intruder. He twitches uncomfortably. "Vissie is learning how to fight, Luke," she says gently. Prince Joffrey clings to his sister's hand.
"She has me!" he says. "I can protect her!"
Bello notices he did not include Prince Lucerys in that sentence and feels even more awkward. Ser Laenor catches his eye. "Leave us," he says curtly, though his gaze is distracted and the Braavosi thinks he didn't mean to sound like that, "We'll call for you when we've settled the children down."
Grateful, and spying his chance to escape, Bello bows and walks away swiftly, acutely aware that it may look like he's running.
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It is a good while later when Bello and Breo are summoned again, but they do not go to the courtyard. Instead, they go to Princess Rhaenyra's solar. Princess Visenya sits in a chair beside her mother, and her father is speaking with her quietly, eyes soft, as they enter the room.
"Master Bello! Master Breo! It's good to see you. Will we begin sparring immediately?" Princess Visenya asks. There is curiosity in her tone, but a trace of vulnerability as well, and her hand drifts to her cheek. Even though she is excited, Bello realizes, she is still afraid.
This might have just gotten harder.
"No," he replies. "A man has made a deal with a princess's mother, and that is that he must teach her without her using weapons for the time being."
Her brow furrows even as her shoulders relax. "How will I be learning, then?" she asks. Bello can feel the weight of her parents' eyes settling on him.
"To begin with," he says, "A princess will practice observation. To dance, one must have an attention to detail, an eye for the smallest thing. For the first day, a man has thought it would be a good idea to spar against Breo, his apprentice. A princess shall watch, and then, after the duel, shall be questioned on simple things, such as a dominant hand, for example."
"But she won't be sparing physically, yes?" Princess Rhaenyra asks. It sounds more like a command.
"Of course not, Your Grace."
"Good."
She still sends her Kingsguard to observe.
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The good thing about Bello and Breo's clothing today is that while it looks good enough, it can still be used in a spar. Bello's doublet holds personal significance to him- a reminder of a different time- and so he takes it off and places it on the ground. They are using a large room which has been cleared of any and all furniture besides a chair and small table for Princess Visenya as their sparing room. It's too bloody cold to be outside right now. Ser Lorent Marbrand watches a distance away.
"I'll beat you this time, Uncle," Breo says.
Bello rolls up his sleeves, for he knows it's going to get hot once they begin, and grins at his nephew. "A man doubts that."
Drawing their blades, they check to make sure their new student is paying attention.
She is.
Bello's entire body is taught, like a bowstring. His toes curl and he flexes his fingers and he allows a grin to steal across his face. This, the thrill of the fight, will never grow old. In his thirty-six years, there has never been anything else like it. Blood roars through his ears. Then his eyes meet Breo's, and an unspoken message passes between them.
His nephew shifts his weight. He takes a step and rockets forward, such is his style. Water Dancing is as much showmanship as actual combat, a refined and violent artform and real carnage all at once, and Breo is an aggressive performer. Bello side steps easily, dodging the blow, but his apprentice recovers just as swiftly. Instead of stumbling and leaving his back open, he catches himself and spins on the ball of his feet. Eyes narrowed, he advances again. Feigning to the right, he smoothly draws his arm back and goes left. This time, Bello is forced to deflect.
The sound of clanging steel rings out.
"You're getting old, Uncle," Breo taunts.
"An apprentice really should save his breath," Bello retaliates. He blocks a few more blows and weaves around some others, outclassing him in footwork. Breo scowls, and he knows frustration is getting to him. His sister's son is stronger than him, younger, and maybe even faster, but Bello has been at this longer than he, and experience, as well as natural grace, is on his side.
He has gotten tired of defending.
Bello takes a step back, weight evenly balanced between the foot set forward and the foot set back. As Breo advances again, sending flurry after flurry, blow after blow, he waits. And waits. And then, when he sees an opening, satisfaction works its way through his chest. Shooting forward, he takes Breo by surprise. Barely able to parry, his nephew stumbles back. He recovers quickly, but it's too late; Bello smells blood in the water.
It's time to get serious.
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A/N: From now on, I officially give up with announcing my pacing to y'all. Trying to cram this arc into two chapters just wasn't gonna work, and the timeskip is not happening too soon.
I know this chapter was painfully filler-ish, but I hope I made up for it by those little tidbits about how the Aemond incident has affected the kids, and the action scene at the end.
Disclaimer: I'm 'meh' at action scenes on a good day and shit on a bad one. I hope it wasn't too cringe lol.