Daemon stood before the shipwright's shop, staring up at the sleek hull of the Blackbird, its sails furled against the mast. The master builder had already departed for home, leaving Daemon alone with his crew of roughspun builders. The ship seemed to stare down at him, mocking him with her beauty.
"I'll need four oars, and two ballistae," he told the nearest man. "Two dozen bolts of black silk for a new sailcloth, and twenty yards of rope."
"Black silk?" asked the man. "Why so many colors? What makes you think the ship needs all this?"
Daemon frowned. "What makes you think I know why?"
"Well, you're the captain."
"No," Daemon replied patiently. "I'm the owner. My reasons are my own."
The shipwright scratched his chin. "It's a big ship. That's a lot of cloth."
"A big ship needs a big sail."
The man shrugged. "You say. But what's wrong with the old one? Why do you need so much silk?"
Daemon stared up at the Blackbird once more. "Because I'm going to sail her around the world."
The next morning, the winds were kinder. The waves were higher and the seas rougher, but the sky was clear and blue, and the sea was calm. The sailors raised the anchor and unfurled the great square sail, and the Blackbird slid forward over the water. Daemon stood at the prow, gazing out over the rolling green swells, feeling the salt spray in his face and smelling the tang of the sea on the wind.
"You seem happy today, Captain."
Daemon turned to see Ser Garlan Wylde standing beside him. The knight wore a heavy cloak lined with sable fur, and his fingers were gloved in black leather. His swordbelt hung loosely, and the hilt of his longsword poked above his shoulder. "I feel... contented, ser."
Ser Garlan nodded. "That's good. Contentment brings success. Success leads to wealth. Wealth buys power. Power allows you to buy love."
"Love?"
"Yes. Love."
"I have never understood men who speak of buying love."
"Oh, they understand it perfectly well." Ser Garlan grinned. "They just won't admit it."
"Is that what you bought, ser?"
The knight chuckled. "Not quite. Though I did enjoy myself."
"Enjoy yourself?" Daemon snorted. "You enjoyed your wife. Who wouldn't?"
"I suppose you might be right, my friend. Some people are blessed enough to find true love. Most of us are cursed with false loves."
"False?"
"Women come and go. We learn to deal with it."
"Somehow I doubt that."
"We're fools if we let it break our hearts. Women are fickle creatures, and they change their minds often. If you want a woman to stay, you must offer her more than lust."
Daemon laughed. "Do you mean marriage?"
Ser Garlan gave him a sour look. "Marriage is the most powerful weapon in any man's arsenal. Once wedded, a woman becomes yours. Even if she finds someone else, she cannot betray you. Your children are also your heirs, and your heir's heir. In a marriage, a man gains the respect of his peers. And a man who has heirs has a future indeed."
"I hope the whores in Braavos don't think so highly of themselves."
The Chequy Port of Braavos was busy with ships coming and going. As Daemon steered the Blackbird past the quayside warehouses, he saw a pair of galleys loading grain, three merchantmen unloading cargoes of wool, a large cog loaded with barrels of salted fish, and a small caravel bound for Volantis laden with silks and spices. A few smaller vessels were being readied for departure.
The city was bustling with activity, and the air smelled sweetly of flowers. Daemon felt himself relaxing as he sailed through the narrow channel between the docks and the outer wall. The streets were crowded with merchants hawking wares, porters carrying sacks of coins, and beggars asking for alms. Children ran ahead shouting "Gulliver!" while dogs barked at the strangers passing by. At the far end of the harbor stood a castle high atop a hill, crowned by a tall spire that pointed heavenward. From the top of that tower came the sound of music.
"Music?" Daemon said curiously. "In the middle of the day?"
"It's a wedding," said Ser Garlan. "One of those rich young girls is getting married, so everyone comes to celebrate."
"Wedding bells ring out in every port," Daemon observed.
"This one rings louder than most."
As they passed beneath the drawbridge, Daemon caught sight of a crowd gathered near the entrance to a temple. He slowed the ship as he approached, wondering what could bring such a throng to the doors of a place of worship. Then he realized that the people were watching a procession approaching from the other side of the street. It was led by a priest in white robes bearing a silver censer, followed by two acolytes holding torches. Their garments were spotted with blood, and each bore a bloody knife in his belt.
"Bloody priests," muttered Ser Garlan as he climbed aboard. "Always trying to get into my bed."
The priest's followers halted before the steps leading up to the temple's doors, and waited until the crowd had thinned sufficiently before continuing on into the building.
Daemon watched them pass. One of the acolyte's faces had been slashed open, and one eye socket was empty. Blood dripped down the front of his robe.