Chapter 2
Advice
A low, distant roar startled Illyen awake, causing him to sit bolt upright for a moment before letting out a low groan and laying back on the taut linen cot, draping his arm over his eyes. The Titan roared every morning to announce the sunrise, but like most of the denizens of Braavos, Illyen was so accustomed to the sound that, usually, he may as well be deaf to it. Thus, he was surprised that it had woken him this morning. Still, he had slept fitfully, as his conversation with Regoro kept running through his mind, and the more forcefully he told himself not to worry over it until morning, the more he thought of it. The few times he had finally drifted off, he found himself once more sitting across from Regoro at the Emerald Lagoon, the magister staring at him intently, awaiting his reply. As such, he doubted that he had slept more than a few hours, and what little he had enjoyed had been very light, so perhaps waking to the Titan's roar wasn't so strange. Perhaps it might have been easier if he had simply stayed awake throughout the night, he mused bitterly, as he reluctantly pushed himself up. He might have actually felt less tired than he did at that moment.
With a soft sigh, he rubbed his eyes and glanced around. In the dim light of the backstage chambers, he noticed that he was not the only one who had spent the night in the Dome. A few other mummers were sprawled out on cots, and one had simply collapsed on the floor, where she was snoring loudly. Illyen was hardly surprised. It was common practice for the mummers to visit the local inns and taverns for a few drinks after a performance, and oftentimes a few would be too drunk to stumble home. They would invariably make their way back to the Dome and pass the night backstage, before leaving in the morning – provided their throbbing heads allowed them to rise before noon.
Illyen folded up the cot and carefully stepped around his fellow mummers to lean it against a nearby wall, and then he folded up the quilt he had been sleeping under and stuffed it into a chest. He took another few minutes to quietly pull his linen shirt and boots back on, while also tying his belt and pouch back around his waist, and then he donned a simple brown jerkin, which he fastened halfway up. Fully dressed, he wandered out onto the stage and folded his arms as he gazed out at the empty auditorium. The golden light streaming in through the rose window set in the opposite wall confirmed that it was early morning. The golden rays provided enough light to illuminate the rows of stone benches below the stage, while the upper balconies of the playhouse remained cloaked in shadow. He could just barely make out the beautifully painted walls beyond the stone railings, decorated with frescos detailing scenes from famous, ancient tales, such as the building of the Titan of Braavos, a depiction of Azor Ahai standing triumphant with his flaming sword Lightbringer held aloft, and Nymeria's ten thousand ships sailing across the sea. High above him, completely hidden in darkness, was the hollow domed ceiling that gave the playhouse its name, with yet more scenes decorating every ribbed section.
Illyen let out a slow breath and jumped down from the stage, then made his way past the rows of benches towards the front entrance of the playhouse. Reaching into his pouch, he withdrew his iron key and unlocked the door, then stepped out into the early morning light, squinting as he did.
The sun was less than halfway up the horizon, but already the sky was a cheerful golden color. A mild fog muted the brilliant light of the morning sun, however, as it rolled off of the lagoon and partially shrouded the city in silver. Despite this, the air was fairly warm, and much of the city was already awake. Dockworkers and ship crews were already hard at work, hauling crates and ropes down the street, while the most punctual merchants were already at their stalls, calling out to passerby and inviting them to browse their wares. It would be a while before the bankers and day laborers roused themselves, however, so the streets were still relatively empty. A pleased smile spread across Illyen's face at this.
Reaching behind him, he pulled the door shut again and relocked it, and then he began making his way down the street at a brisk walk. It was a fair distance from the Dome to his parents' house, but if he hurried, he could arrive in less than an hour, especially so long as traffic remained light. He briefly considered hiring one of the many canal boats to quicken the journey, but he soon dismissed that thought. Though he had more than enough coin to pay for a short voyage – especially this early in the morning, when there were fewer customers, and the boatmen were more receptive to haggling for a lower fee – he decided that there was little reason to pay for a service he did not need. After all, it wasn't as though he was in a hurry, especially since he was uncertain if his parents were even awake yet.
At first, Illyen was so fatigued from his restless night that he was yawning frequently, but he gradually found himself awakening the longer he walked. To his mild surprise, despite the early hour, the journey was actually quite pleasant, especially since he had a rare opportunity to enjoy the scenery without needing to endure the press of the crowds that usually occupied the streets. The lavish buildings near the Purple Harbor were splendidly designed and well-maintained by the servants of the wealthy bankers and magisters who resided in the district. There was little refuse on the streets, and a few of the wealthiest manses even had trees growing just outside their entrances – a novel rarity that stood out amongst the heavy grey stone of the city.
After walking for about fifteen minutes, Illyen reached a long stone bridge that stretched across the lagoon that separated Braavos' many islands from one another. He quickly made his way over the water, which slowly rippled like molten lead, and had a sharp, briny scent. Lining the bridge were small stalls, operated by poor merchants, who were hawking simple goods – mostly fish, crustaceans, oysters, clams, and cockles, though some were instead offering rough-spun clothing and trinkets. Illyen stared straight ahead, intentionally avoiding their gaze so that none thought he was interested in their wares, until he reached the other side and set foot on his home island.
While far from destitute, the buildings nearer to the Arsenal of Braavos were decidedly less opulent than those near the Purple Harbor. Here, the homes of the craftsmen and artisans that worked at the Chequy Port in the shadow of the Titan were tightly clustered together, often leaning against one another, and built as high as five stories, to pack as many families as possible into the limited space. The roads were narrower as well, and even the shadows seemed longer and darker. Still, the denizens of the island enjoyed fairly comfortable lives, and with the Arsenal so close by, there were several guardsmen patrolling the streets. Thus, Illyen did not feel as though he was in any particular danger from a cutpurse or robber, especially since the sun was already starting to pierce through the morning mist, dispelling the last of the shadows. Besides, this island had been his home for many years, so it was difficult for him to feel threatened here.
Illyen quickly wove his way through the narrow streets while barely noticing his surroundings. It was a route he had followed thousands of times. Pass under the bridge, he thought. Take the second left down the narrow alleyway. Follow the stairs down. Step over Glyndos, who's sleeping in the street again. Wife most like shoved him out the door when he returned home drunk. Pass by the well and follow the circular road. Third building from the left, just to the right of the Titan's left leg.
As he came to a halt in front of the narrow three-story building that was his childhood home, he stood on his toes craned his neck to peer in through the window. To his relief, he could see that his parents were already awake. His mother, Nessina – a slightly plump woman with long, straight, dark brown hair shot with grey – was tending to the hearth, while his father, Ferrico was hunched over the table, scribbling on sheets of paper while irritably running his free hand along his close-cropped grey hair or thick mustache, visibly muttering curses to himself as he did. He did not see his sister just yet, so she was either still asleep or making her way down the stairs. Illyen stepped back and took a long, slow breath to steel himself, and then he ascended the four stone steps leading to the front entrance of his house. He then pushed open the door and cheerfully called inside, "Good morning! May I join you?"
The door opened into a tiny entrance hall, and as he stepped inside, his parents both peered at him through the doorway leading into the kitchen and dining room. His mother smiled pleasantly, while his father let out an annoyed huff and returned his attention to his work.
"The prodigal son returns," he muttered, motioning for Illyen to come inside with his left hand, while his right hand resumed furiously scribbling on the paper laid out before him on the round stone table.
"Good morning to you as well, Illyen," Nessina added, motioning to a free chair at the table. "You are, as always, welcome to join us."
"Though if you intend to eat with us, you'll work for your food, boy," Ferrico added, shoving a stack of papers towards him as he sat down. "Start copying."
Illyen briefly appealed to his mother with a sidelong look, but she responded with an unsympathetic nod, even as she set a clay cup of mint tea in front of him. Sighing, he took the first paper and glanced it over, while simultaneously pulling a blank sheet from the other stack in front of his father. "Thank you, mother," he added with a polite nod as he picked up a spare quill and dipped it into the inkwell by his father's left hand. "Though… I must confess, I did not simply come here to share breakfast. If you would indulge me, there are questions I wish answered."
"And those are?" Nessina asked, setting a platter of soft, warm bread onto the table beside a bowl of raspberry preserves.
"By any chance, do you recognize the name Regoro Telerys?" Illyen asked, looking up from the document that he was copying.
His mother frowned faintly as she made her way over to a copper kettle that was hanging over the fire. "That is a name I have not heard in years, but yes. He was a distant cousin of mine, if I recall," she said slowly, her tone uncertain. "A sailor, I believe."
"Did you know he became a magister?" Illyen asked.
"Did he?" Nessina asked absently with a shrug. "I suppose fortune has favored him."
"Quite. And he says that he wishes to name me his heir," Illyen said.
Both his mother and father stopped and turned to stare at him, disbelief plain on their faces. "That is a rather poor jape, boy, especially this early," Ferrico admonished him.
"I thought so as well," Illyen agreed with a frown. "Yet his offer seemed sincere." He then glanced at his mother. "In truth, I was skeptical of his claim that we were even kin. You never mentioned that you had a cousin who was a magister."
"I hardly knew him. We only met once or twice at the funerals for my grandparents, and even then, I only vaguely recall being briefly introduced to him and told his name," Nessina shrugged. "I cannot even remember speaking with him. Besides, it's not as though I expected him to suggest that you might one day inherit his estate, so I did not care to take note of what he was doing." A sardonic smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "I believe I have a third cousin who is a fisherman. Must I tell you all I know of him as well, should he perchance leave you his boat when he dies?"
Illyen scowled at her as she chuckled to herself. "Then do you believe that his offer is genuine?" he asked.
Nessina spread her arms helplessly. "How should I know? Does he not have a son of his own?"
"He died at sea, apparently," Illyen said softly.
"A pity," Nessina replied absently, before letting out a soft sigh. "In answer to your questions: Yes, I have a cousin named Regoro. I do not know for certain if he ever became a magister, and I do not know if he can be trusted. You must decide that for yourself."
Illyen exhaled heavily as he set down his quill and reached across the table to take a steaming slice of bread. "Then let me pose another question," he said as he picked up the spoon in the preserves and used the back of it to smear some of the jam onto the bread. "Would you think it wise if I were to accept his offer?"
His mother and father once again traded glances. "I cannot say," Nessina admitted. "It is a generous offer, but you are no merchant…."
"Has he offered to take you on as an apprentice?" his father interjected, looking up from his work. "To teach you his trade?"
"He apparently intends to, yes," Illyen said slowly.
"Then you should accept his offer," Ferrico stated firmly. "At least that would be a respectable profession. Far better than dancing in farces for drooling simpletons."
Illyen narrowed his eyes. "So you have said. Many times," he muttered.
"And so shall I continue to say!" Ferrico snarled back, slamming down his quill and looking up to match his son's glare. "I still cannot fathom why, after I spent so many years teaching you to read and write, you refused to accept a stable, respectable position as a scribe at the scriptorium in favor of running off to join some band of prancing mummers!"
"Because, as I have told you time and again, I wished to create stories, not merely copy them!" Illyen snapped. "These tales you copy day after day were not delivered unto us from on high by R'hollor or the Seven or whatever gods may exist! Men created them, and I wish to be one of those men!"
"And what have you to show for it?!" Ferrico shot back, slamming his hands on the table and standing up to glare down at Illyen. "You are seven-and-twenty, yet do you own a house?!"
"Why bother?" Illyen retorted dismissively. "Derro provides us all with free lodging in nearby apartments."
"Could you buy a house, if you wished?" Ferrico pressed.
Illyen looked away. "In time-" he muttered uneasily.
"Then you are an indentured servant in all but name," Ferrico sneered. "What of a wife? You are nearing your third decade, yet you still have not courted a single woman. We both know why, even though you are fair of face and do not want for charm. It is because no woman wishes to pledge herself to a man who cannot support her."
"Or because I have no interest in taking a wife right now," Illyen shot back.
"And that is your chief fault, boy!" Ferrico barked. "Talented as you are, you lack ambition and focus. You have no desire to put actual effort into anything outside of your capricious whims. That is why you would not accept my offer to make you a scribe, because it did not strike your fancy. Yes, the work can be dull and tedious, but it is also stable and profitable. You refused, however, because you lack discipline! You would be quite content to drift through life, wasting away in a tiny room that you cannot even claim as your own, allowing that obese bastard who runs that playhouse to steal all the coin that should be rightfully yours from the very plays you penned! It is almost as though you are afraid to reach the heights that I know you are capable of! And so I ask again – what have you to show for all your efforts as a mummer?!"
Illyen glowered up at his father, then slowly smirked. "Apparently? A manse and a nobleman's title," he replied smugly.
Ferrico's face turned red. "Then why are you even asking our advice?!" he bellowed, jabbing a finger at the front door. "Go accept the offer and be done with it!"
Before Illyen could reply, footsteps echoed from the hallway as his younger sister, Jyn, tromped down the stairs before strolling into the room. "I see Illyen decided to join us," she remarked absently as she walked over to take a seat at the table, brushing her long, dark curls out of her deep brown eyes. "And you almost made it through an entire meal without shouting at one another. You and father must both be in remarkably good moods this morning."
Illyen felt the anger start to fade at his sister's cheeky remark, and he even chuckled slightly while his father glared at her. "I do not tolerate insolence from him, and I will not tolerate it from you, girl," Ferrico snarled, before pushing a stack of papers towards her as well. "These need to be painted. See to it."
"After I've eaten," Jyn replied airily as she plucked a slice of bread from the plate in the center of the table. As she bit into it, however, she made her way over to a small cupboard and began withdrawing small bottles of brightly colored paint. While Jyn could read and write as well as the rest of the family, her true talents lay with a paintbrush. From a young age, she had demonstrated exceptional skill in drawing and painting pictures. As such, Ferrico had encouraged her to focus her efforts on decorating the pages they were commissioned to copy with colorful drawings and intricate designs. Jyn, unlike Illyen, did not seem to mind working for the scriptorium, and she also gladly painted portraits and landscapes for those who asked. Illyen privately suspected that the reason their parents had not pressed her to find a husband yet was so that they could monopolize her artistic talents for as long as possible. Much to Ferrico's disapproval, however, she also occasionally worked with his troupe, painting both the backgrounds of the sets and the faces of the mummers.
"By the by, Illyen," Jyn asked, turning back towards him with a bottle of red paint in her hand. "Who was that magister who requested an audience with you last night?"
Illyen quickly recounted his meeting with Regoro while Jyn began mixing paints on a small palette in between bites of bread. When he finished his tale, she looked up and shrugged.
"It seems a rather tempting offer to me," she remarked as she dabbed a clean brush into the crimson paint she had mixed and began delicately stroking it across one of the sheets.
"Yes, but I know so little about him," Illyen countered. "And if our own family cannot tell me more…."
"Then ask another," Jyn suggested. "Surely Balerion must know something of him."
"He said that he did not," Illyen pointed out.
"But most like he knows someone who does," Jyn countered. "Why not speak with him instead?"
Illyen smiled faintly as he set down his quill. "Well… in truth, I had intended to speak with him once I was finished here," he admitted. He then glanced at his mother. "Are you certain you know nothing more about him, though?"
Nessina shook her head. "Nothing," she stated firmly as she took the final seat at the table and held her hand out to take a stack of papers from Ferrico so that she could begin scribing as well. Before she began, however, she looked up and met Illyen's gaze. "I agree with your sister – it would be better to ask your friend. However, I do wish to praise you for approaching this as the serious matter that it is. I also wish to assure you that, no matter what course you choose to pursue, we will support your decision. Don't you agree, Ferrico?" she added with a pointed look at her husband.
Ferrico glanced up from his work with a scowl. "I suppose," he grumbled before resuming scribbling on the papers before him. "Though if you make a foolish decision, kindly refrain from begging us for coin. We have little to spare, and if a magister who seems fond of you cannot support you…."
"Your kindness is overwhelming, Father," Illyen retorted drily. When Ferrico glared at him, however, he softened his tone and added, "But thank you."
"Mm," Ferrico grunted, before sighing and pushing aside his stack of papers. "Are you off to see the courtesan, then?"
"I suppose I am," Illyen nodded, pushing himself up and inclining his head towards his mother. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"It is hardly a matter of hospitality to host your own child," Nessina smiled as she looked up from her own work. "You are always welcome here. Though if you intend to visit next time, please try to send some warning."
"And if you are passing by the Dome, please also inform Derro that I will not be able to help him for the next three days," Jyn added without glancing up. "I had a request from a keyholder to paint his portrait, and he claims that he will pay double my usual fee."
"I shall inform him," Illyen assured her as he stood up from the table and straightened his jerkin.
"Ah! Before you leave," Ferrico said, motioning towards him with his free hand. Illyen pushed his completed stack of copied papers towards him, whereupon his father picked them up and looked them over. As he read them, his scowl slowly deepened, and when he finished the first page, he sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Terrible. There are no errors, but your script is atrocious," he muttered. "I should not have even bothered asking you to help us."
"Yet you insist that I should become a scribe," Illyen retorted drily.
Ferrico's eyes narrowed angrily. "I insist that you leave now before I cut out your tongue!" he snarled.
Illyen grinned and beat a hasty retreat before his father could make good on his threat, waving gratefully over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him.
By the time Illyen had made his way out from under the Titan's shadow, it was midmorning, and most of the fog had dissipated, though clouds had begun to gather overhead, turning the sky a surly grey. He doubted that there would be a storm, though, as he had heard no rumbles of thunder nor smelled any rain on the wind. As such, he calmly made his way down the street towards one of the staircases leading into a canal, where a boatman was lounging against the prow of his gondolas.
"Good day, my friend!" he said in a cheerful tone, standing up as Illyen approached him. "Where might I take you?"
"You have not seen the Black Drake's barge on the water yet today, have you?" Illyen asked.
The boatman tilted his curiously head at the question. "I have not personally, no, but if memory serves, I believe his barge can usually be found near the Purple Harbor."
Illyen smiled faintly. "Could I ask you to ferry me there, perchance?"
The boatman hesitated, his face turning pale. "I… can take you to the Purple Harbor, certainly. Unless you are asking me to sail directly to his ship…?"
"I could pay you extra for the trouble," Illyen assured him.
"Absolutely not!" the boatman said sharply. "To dare approach a courtesan's barge without invitation-!"
"I have an invitation," Illyen stated firmly. The ferryman gave him a sidelong look, doubt written clearly on his face, though Illyen was speaking truthfully. Balerion had told Illyen many times that was always free to speak with him, so long as he was not entertaining a customer. Still, the boatman continued to eye him suspiciously until Illyen sighed and reached into his pouch. When he opened his hand, he was balancing ten coins in his palm. "Here is my offer," he said. "If the guards demand to know our business, you may lay the blame upon my shoulders, and I shall suffer the consequences. Either way, you shall earn enough coin to match five such voyages." He then shrugged and began to put his hand back into his pouch. "And if you are still unwilling, there are scores of other ferrymen throughout the city that I can ask instead. It is your decision."
The ferryman grimaced, glancing from Illyen's coins to his face. Then, with a heavy sigh, he held his hand out. Illyen grinned and climbed into the boat as he placed the coins into the ferryman's hand, whereupon he reluctantly began paddling through the murky grey waters of the canal.
Illyen settled onto the seat in front of the ferryman and lazily gazed up at the passerby wandering the streets above them. It was something of a novel experience, as he rarely used the canals. It was far cheaper to simply walk from place to place, and since he spent most of his time near the Dome, there was rarely any need for him to take a boat anyways. Nevertheless, he found himself enjoying the gentle rocking of the boat while watching the pedestrians above. He could certainly understand why the keyholders and magisters preferred to travel on the water.
After about fifteen minutes, the canal opened into the lagoon, and the rich buildings lining the Purple Harbor came into view, along with the large merchant ships that lined the docks. The carracks and cogs did not hold Illyen's attention for long, however. Floating near the middle of the water was an ornate barge, roughly as long as some of the smaller carracks in the harbor, though instead of sails, this vessel was propelled by a dozen oars that were presently resting in the water on either side of it. Much of the ship was dominated by a rectangular frame, carved from rosewood and gilt with delicate gold leaf. The frame held up a low, sloping roof of wooden tiles that extended out over the edges of the barge. Hanging from the frame were opaque curtains of shimmering red silk, which were presently drawn to allow the occupants their privacy. A sextet of guards – bare-chested and clad in blue silken pants with yellow sashes tied around the middle, and with flanged maces hanging at their hips – stood at the bow and stern of the ship, diligently gazing to and fro. One of them eyed Illyen and the boatman warily as they drew near, his hand dropping threateningly to his mace as they approached.
"I… do not wish to sail any closer," the boatman said nervously.
Illyen chuckled easily. "You needn't fear them," he assured the pilot. "I know that man. Liryo!" he called out suddenly to the nearest guardsman, whose scowl deepened. "Might I come aboard?"
The grizzled guard narrowed his eyes at Illyen, who ignored the irritated look on the man's face. "Master Balerion is presently with a patron," he warned.
"I presumed as much," Illyen replied easily. "Might you know how much longer he will be?"
"I cannot say. Supposedly, the client requested an hour of his time, but Master Balerion has been occupied with him for at least two," Liryo admitted, casting a quick glance at the sky. "If not longer. Either way, he asked not to be disturbed."
"I understand," Illyen nodded, slowly standing up in the boat as it bobbed in the water. "Even so, would you mind if I were to wait outside until he's finished?" When Liryo hesitated, he quickly pointed out, "I have waited for him in his manse several times before, and not once have I so much as made a sound until he was ready to see me. You know this. Furthermore, Bale has said that I am free to request an audience with him whenever I wish. If he sends me away, I shall do as he asks without complaint, but this is a matter of import. Please."
Liryo grit his teeth as the other two guards on either side of him raised an eyebrow. Finally, he let out a defeated sigh. "Agh… very well," he muttered. "You may come aboard, but I must ask you to remain near the bow of the ship. And if Master Balerion is displeased with your visit…."
"Then I shall bear the brunt of his fury. I shall also claim that I insisted upon speaking with him, and that you, his most loyal guardsman, tried to send me away, but I obstinately refused," Illyen assured him.
Liryo glowered at him for a moment longer, but eventually nodded, seeming mollified by Illyen's offer. "Very well. Come, quickly, before I decide otherwise."
Illyen nodded to the ferryman, who blinked at him, stunned, then shook his head in disbelief as he maneuvered his small boat next to the barge. Illyen quickly pulled himself onto the larger ship, then turned around and smiled warmly at the boatman. "Thank you for your service," he said, offering another two coins for his trouble.
The boatman snatched the coins from his hand with a curt nod. "And thank you for your patronage. Now please, never ask me to do anything like this again. I have no wish to lose my hands or my head by offending a courtesan."
Illyen didn't have a chance to respond as the man rowed his boat away from the barge as quickly as he could. Illyen grinned to himself as he walked over to the prow of the ship and took a seat at its base, leaning back against the wood and staring up at the silvery sky overhead. He could hear the occasional muttered comment and merry laugh floating out from inside the central pavilion, but he could not truly make out any part of the conversation Balerion and his client were having. Nor did he wish to, for that matter. After a short while, he was able to block out the faint noises completely, and he was left daydreaming for several minutes until the curtains abruptly parted and a dark-skinned face poked out through the opening.
"Nezzio!" Balerion said sharply. "You-!" He abruptly fell silent when he noticed Illyen sitting on his ship, and as Illyen nodded and held his hand up in greeting, he raised an eyebrow. He recovered a moment later, however, and he turned back to his guard and continued, "Kindly see us to shore. We are almost finished here."
"As you say, Master," one of the other guards answered. The burly servants immediately made their way to the oars, and Illyen shifted into a cross-legged sitting position as they began propelling the ship slowly but smoothly through the murky grey waters of the canal. He watched, mildly interested, as the barge drifted into an open space on the wharf and the servants swiftly tied it to the docks. Once it was anchored, the curtains rustled open again, and Balerion – dressed in a yellow, silken robe that was open to reveal his bare chest, and a pair of loose, scarlet pants tied with a blue sash – led a tan-skinned man with a dark, curly hair and a short beard out onto the deck.
"I have so enjoyed your visit, sweetling," Balerion said, reaching up to run his fingers along the man's jawline. "A pity you cannot stay longer."
His companion took his hand and squeezed it with a longing look. "I wish you would let me stay forever," he said softly, bringing Balerion's hand to his lips. "You needn't submit yourself to the attentions of others. Allow me to take you from all of this! We could-!"
Balerion reached up and pressed a finger to the man's lips. "I am sure we would be quite happy together. However, were I to accept your offer, half the bravos in the city would be baying for your blood. I cannot have your death on my conscience, nor can I deprive my city of their courtesan. I would love to settle with you, if I loved not Braavos more." He smiled apologetically. "You understand, of course."
The man let out a deep sigh as Illyen rolled his eyes. "I suppose so," he murmured reluctantly. He then looked up and added, "In two weeks, then?"
"Indeed. Until then, I shall eagerly await your embrace once more," Balerion said, before pushing himself up onto his toes to steal a quick kiss. The man eagerly returned the gesture, then smiled faintly and turned to hurry off the docks. Illyen shook his head and chuckled to himself as Balerion watched him with a pained look in his eyes until he was out of sight. Then, his expression abruptly dropped into neutral indifference, and he turned towards Illyen, who pushed himself up and stretched.
"He was rather fetching," Illyen commented as Balerion padded across the deck towards him.
"Rich, too," Balerion remarked absently. "He said that he wished to sail around the world with me in a ship made of solid gold."
Illyen blinked, then raised an eyebrow. "That'd be a rather short voyage," he drily pointed out.
Balerion shrugged. "I said that he was rich and handsome. I didn't say he was bright," he replied. He then folded his arms over his chest, a genuinely pleased grin spreading across his face. "So! To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"I was wondering if I might ask you for some advice," Illyen replied, folding his hands behind his back. "If you must see to another client, though-"
"Not until this afternoon," Balerion assured him. "One of the elder daughters of the Antaryon family has requested my company, and I can hardly refuse her. Until then, though, I am at your service. Shall we speak inside?"
"Please," Illyen replied. Balerion nodded as he walked over to the entrance to the pavilion and held the curtain open for him. Illyen ducked inside and briefly glanced around. He had been in this small area a few times before, and he noticed that Balerion had done little to change it. A plush Myrish carpet lay across the floor, with velvety pillows and cushions surrounding a low, circular table made of wood. A coal-filled brazier burned from a golden chain above them, bathing the tent in a dim, orange light. Illyen also suspected that Balerion had been burning incense, as the air smelled of cinnamon and rose petals. Balerion stepped around him to take a seat on the other side of the table, motioning for him to sit as well as he leaned back against a pile of four or five stacked cushions.
"Nezzio!" he called out. One of the servants stepped inside, and Balerion added, "Would you be so kind as to fetch… some tea?" he offered, tilting his head at Illyen to confirm his preference, who nodded in reply. The servant bowed and stepped away as Balerion turned back to Illyen. "Now then. What's this about?"
"As I said, I was hoping you might be able to offer me some advice," Illyen replied. He then spent the next few minutes recounting his meeting with Regoro, as well as the offer to become his heir and inherit the title of magister one day. Balerion listened silently, languidly lounging on the cushions, until Illyen finished. By then, Nezzio had returned, carrying an ornate porcelain pot filled with what smelled like a heavily spiced tea.
"That is quite the offer, isn't it?" Balerion asked rhetorically as he sat up to take the steaming cup that Nezzio poured for him. "But you said that you were asking for advice. About what, exactly? Whether you should accept?"
"Partially," Illyen admitted, pausing to smile and quietly thank Nezzio as he accepted a cup of tea as well. "Though I suppose my real question is whether you feel the offer is worth accepting."
Balerion raised an eyebrow. "And why do you believe I should know the answer to that?"
Illyen responded with an irritated scowl. Balerion was a scion of House Otherys, a powerful house which was currently one of the preeminent noble families in Braavos thanks in large part to the escapades of Bellegere Otherys, a famous swashbuckler who had later become a courtesan nicknamed the Black Pearl of Braavos. Arguably her most notable tale involved her tryst with the former King of Westeros, Aegon IV, which had produced three children – one of which was Balerion's father, also named Balerion. Even before her escapades, however, Bellegere had boasted an extremely prestigious lineage herself, as she was born of a union between the son of a Sealord of Braavos and a princess of the exotic Summer Islands, far to the south. As such, royal blood flowed strongly through Balerion's veins, and he possessed the wealth and prestige that accompanied such a high pedigree.
"Well, I do feel you would know better than I, at least," Illyen replied drily. "Call it a stray thought."
Balerion chuckled lightly as he sat up from the pillows, eyeing Illyen smugly as he sipped his tea. As always, Illyen could not help but note how strongly he resembled his grandmother, despite his opposite gender. His skin was the same dark shade as hers, and he kept it covered as little as possible. Even now, his robe remained open to reveal his lean, toned torso, and his bare feet were dug deep into the plush rug. He also had her dark hair, which he wore in thick dreadlocks that he often kept tied in a loose ponytail that fell to the nape of his neck, and he also sported a short, neatly trimmed beard and mustache. There were, however, traces of his Valyrian heritage as well, most notably in his eyes, which were a deep purple, so dark as to almost appear black. Those unusual eyes lingered on Illyen for a few more moments before he finally lowered his cup with a soft sigh.
"That is a difficult question to answer, Illyen," Balerion replied as he turned his cup around in his hand. "What do you mean by 'worth?'"
"Magisters gained their titles by attaining a great deal of wealth and purchasing them, yes?" Illyen asked slowly.
"Sometimes," Balerion nodded. "Other times, they might have inherited it by wedding a member of a magister's family."
"And must they maintain their wealth in order to retain their title?" Illyen asked.
Balerion tilted his head from one shoulder to the other. "Not always," he finally said, after briefly pondering the question. "In truth, the title can almost be treated as a deed. Were they to become impoverished, they might choose to sell their title to another, along with their other assets – a manse if they own one, land, ships, and so forth. Others, however, might stubbornly cling to their title even after their coffers have run dry, as a matter of pride, especially if their line is particularly ancient. They are magisters in name only, to be sure, but none can take that from them… unless they are willing to sell it." He then tilted his head. "Why?"
Illyen sighed as he set the cup down and folded his arms on the table. "I fear that Regoro made a mistake offering me this opportunity," he admitted. "To be sure, he did say that he would teach me the art of trade, but… what if I am ill-suited for it? What if I squander his wealth and bring shame to the legacy he's clearly worked so hard to build?"
"And what if you do not?" Balerion countered simply.
Illyen looked up with a frown. "Pardon?"
Balerion chuckled and set his cup down. "It sounds to me as though you have already decided that you will fail. You know nothing of him, do you? His trade, how he attained his wealth, how he intends to train you?" When Illyen nodded, Balerion swept his hand around. "Then how can you be certain you are ill-suited for it? Is it not equally likely that you could be exceptionally skilled at his craft?"
"Perhaps. But if I am not?" Illyen pointed out.
"Then you are not," Balerion shrugged. "But I feel that it is better to know for certain than to presume that you will fail and therefore refuse to try at all." He then smiled faintly. "In truth, I'm surprised you're hesitating. I thought you far more courageous than this. After all, few mummers would be so bold as to approach a powerful courtesan and ask them to sponsor the first play they have ever penned. And about said courtesan's grandmother, no less!"
"I… did not think it that courageous," Illyen admitted sheepishly.
Balerion smirked. "Had you offended me, I have no doubt my adoring clients would have been all too eager to murder you and toss your corpse into one of the canals. The guards likely would not have even batted an eye."
Illyen swallowed hard. "W-well, yes, but I presumed that you would find a play upon the Black Pearl flattering, not offensive. Especially since I did all I could to portray her in a positive light…."
Balerion laughed and held up a hand. "And I did," he said reassuringly. "The story was charming, which is why I chose to not only sponsor it, but to play the part of my grandmother. And I have counted you as one of my few true friends ever since… even though you seem frustratingly immune to my sensual charms," he added with a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. Illyen rolled his eyes, which prompted another grin from Balerion. "My point is that I'm surprised you are now balking at this offer, which would certainly elevate you far more than any mere play could."
"Yes, but when I presented my play to you, I was still in an arena I was familiar with," Illyen countered. "I have been surrounded by scripts and tales all my life, so I was fairly confident in my ability to craft one. A magister, though… wealth, power… I am unfamiliar with all of it. Hence my apprehension." He then lowered his head. "And, as you said, I know very little of him. My own family knows almost nothing of him, and you said the same. That also worries me."
Balerion sank back against the pillows and tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Well… Regoro Telerys, was it?" he asked. When Illyen nodded, he frowned slightly. "Yes, sadly he is unfamiliar to me. I presume that he is newly come to his title?"
"And his wealth," Illyen confirmed. "According to him, he was a mere sailor for several years, and only made his fortune in the past few decades. Do you have any thoughts about how he might have acquired so much wealth so quickly?"
"I do not," Balerion admitted, returning his gaze from the ceiling. "While I may be part of the upper echelons of Braavosi society, when it comes to trade, I only know what my clients tell me." Illyen's face fell, until he noticed Balerion grinning. "However, I may have a thought as to how we can find out."
"Do you?" Illyen asked hopefully, sitting up a bit straighter.
Balerion pushed himself up and walked to the entrance of his tent, then poked his head out of the opening. "Nezzio – set a course, if you would?" Illyen overheard him say. "Make for the Ragman's Harbor."
Illyen gazed at him curiously as Balerion walked back over to his cushions with a smug smirk on his face. "The foreigners' harbor?" he asked. "Why not the Purple Harbor?"
"For one, I doubt that the merchants of Braavos would speak truthfully about one of their rivals – especially one who has not even counted himself as their peer for a full generation. Though, plainly, there are few merchants from this city that I trust anyways," Balerion added with a wry grin. "But more importantly, if you wish to measure how successful a trader Regoro is, then it is wiser to ask those who call other ports home. If he has a reputation, good or ill, they will know of it, and will likely speak much more candidly about it. Especially since they have far less to gain or lose by praising or slandering him."
"You trust foreign merchants more than our own?" Illyen asked with a frown.
"Not most of them, no," Balerion admitted, a smirk starting to creep across his lips. "But there are a few… and one in particular. Did you know that the Grapevine is in port?"
Illyen's eyes widened slightly, and then he began to grin. "I see…." he said slowly.
Balerion matched his grin, his expression rather smug. "We can ask once we arrive. Until then, you were working on a new play, yes? 'The Doom of Valyria?'" When Illyen nodded, he settled back on the cushions. "Very good. I would like to make a request, then. While I enjoyed playing the hero in both 'The Black Pearl' and 'The Uncloaking,' I was wondering if, this time, you might be willing to cast me as the villain…?"
The two spent the next several minutes discussing Illyen's new play as Balerion's servants rowed through the canals of the city. They made excellent time despite the ship's size – smaller boats were careful to give the barge a wide berth, as no one wished to draw the ire of one of the most popular and powerful courtesans in the city. While he and Balerion spoke, Illyen noticed the scenery outside the thin curtain changing as they traveled. The buildings gradually became shabbier and more run-down as they drifted away from the Purple Harbor and headed towards the Ragman's Harbor.
Whereas the Purple Harbor was exclusively reserved for ships of Braavosi origin, the Ragman's Harbor was open to any ship, regardless of origin… so long as there were no slaves aboard. As such, the closer Balerion's barge sailed towards the Ragman's Harbor, the dirtier and more crowded the streets became, and those clad in exotic dress became far more common. There was a noticeable shift in the most common language being spoken as well. Like much of western Essos, most of the citizens of Braavos spoke a variant of the Valyrian language. However, the other cities of Essos had their own corrupted versions of the mother tongue, and while a citizen from Pentos could generally understand a trader from Volantis or Braavos, there were notable differences between the tongues, which could prove disastrous when one was trying to sell goods. As such, the most common language being shouted throughout the harbor was the trade tongue, which blended elements from over a dozen other languages. The common elements of the myriad Valyrian dialects – as well as a few other languages, such as Westerosi, Summer Islander, and Qartheen – were distilled and reduced to a shorthand language that nearly anyone in Essos could understand to some degree.
During a lull in their conversation, Illyen pushed the curtain aside slightly and peered outside. While he had been on the courtesan's barge before, they had always remained in the Purple Harbor, and never ventured into to the poorer parts of the city, so he was curious how the denizens of the Ragman's Harbor would react to their presence. As he expected, most who caught sight of the ostentatious barge eyed it with curiosity, while others gazed at it with envy, or even open hostility, as though incensed that a high-class courtesan like the Black Drake was deigning to leave his rose-filled pond to walk amongst the unwashed masses. However, none would dare accost them – it would be tantamount to suicide. Even so, Illyen only gazed outside for a few moments before letting the curtain drop again. While Balerion might be protected by his status, Illyen certainly was not, and he didn't want jealous passerby spotting him, remembering his face, and harassing him later.
As they neared one of the docks, Balerion began stripping off his garments and rummaging around a nearby bag. Illyen barely paid him any mind until he pulled out a pair of rough woolen trousers, a loose white linen shirt, and a simple vest of faded blue cloth. Illyen raised an eyebrow at Balerion as he pulled on the clothing, whereupon he paused and shrugged.
"I can hardly hide my barge, of course, but there is no reason to draw more attention than necessary while we're walking the streets," Balerion pointed out.
Illyen tilted his head, but before he could respond, Balerion had finished pulling on a rough pair of boots and was already making his way off the barge. Illyen quickly followed him onto the loud, crowded street, and though a few of the passerby did glance at him and Balerion curiously when they first left the boat, they were soon able to slip into the flow of foot traffic along the streets. They made their way eastward towards another dock, where some of the larger merchant vessels were moored. One in particular caught Illyen's eye, and a slight grin spread across his lips as he did.
The ship in question was a common, single-masted cog, hardly any different from any of the dozen other cogs lined up beside it, save for how it was decorated. While the furled mast was simple white cloth, the hull was painted with distinctive horizontal stripes of wine-red and forest green. A wooden ramp extended from the ship to the dock, which a few men and women had already used to climb aboard. Balerion led the way up the ramp, with Illyen following on his heels.
The main deck of the ship was being tended to by about a dozen sailors, who were seeing to various tasks, such as re-tying rigging and patching holes in the rough woodwork. Towards the rear of the ship, however, in front of the captain's cabin, was a crude wooden bar, with crates set in front of it to serve as stools. Behind the bar was a collection of barrels, and on the shelves above them were various wines stored in glass bottles. Three of the crates were presently occupied by customers, who were having wine poured for them by the young woman behind the bar.
The woman was quite short, standing a hair under five feet tall, and had a buxom, curvaceous frame. Her loose, shoulder-length hair was dyed a medium-purple color, which matched her amethyst eyes, suggesting that she was descended from Valyrian stock. Her skin was pale, and was marked with a smattering of freckles along her cheeks, nose, shoulders, and arms, indicating how much time she had spent under the harsh sun while at sea. She was dressed in a sleeveless blue tunic and rough brown trousers that only fell to her calves, and through a gap at the bottom of the bar, Illyen noticed that she – like most of her men – was barefoot.
As Balerion and Illyen approached, she looked up and flashed a warm grin at them. "Welcome aboard the Grapevine! I was wondering when you two would come visit!" she called out. Though her Braavosi was flawless, she spoke with a fluid Tyroshi accent.
"I only just received word that you had arrived today, else we would have come sooner. Our apologies, Saera," Balerion replied as he and Illyen climbed onto two empty stools in front of her.
"Yes, well, so long as you order at least two drinks each, I shall forgive you," Saera replied cheekily as she strode over to stand in front of them, crossing her arms on the bar with a grin. "In truth, we only just arrived two days ago. Given that neither of you live near here, I'm actually amazed you caught wind of our return so soon. It's good to see you both," she added, turning to Illyen with a nod. "So! What can I get for you two?" She glanced at Illyen briefly. "Apricot wine, I presume?"
"As always, if you would," Illyen nodded, unable to keep an amused smile off his face.
"And a pear brandy," Balerion added, giving Illyen a look of mock disgust. "The lady is Tyroshi. Why would you not ask for Tyrosh's specialty?"
"Perhaps because she is a wine merchant, not a brandy merchant?" Illyen pointed out, chuckling. "And is it not a touch early for such strong spirits?"
"It's nearly noon!" Balerion protested.
"As though that matters," Illyen shot back with a smirk. "How many drinks did you have when you were entertaining that last customer?"
Balerion ignored the question, turning back to Saera as she poured their drinks into two clay goblets. "By the by, Saera, this one has a few questions for you," he added.
"Does he?" she asked airily. "I may be willing to answer them, depending on what you're willing to offer in exchange."
Illyen raised an eyebrow. "Ever the merchant," he muttered.
"Very much so," Saera agreed easily. "Besides, my price is not particularly high. Merely a free ticket to your next performance of 'The Three Daughters.'"
"Ah. I'm afraid Derro has decided that we're not going to perform that one for a while," Illyen grimaced. "If ever again."
"Has he? That's a shame," Saera remarked, sounding genuinely disappointed as she pushed the goblet full of amber liquid towards Illyen. "I rather enjoyed that one. I thought it quite clever – Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr as squabbling triplets, Volantis as the vain, pompous eldest sister, Valyria as the long-suffering mother… it was witty!"
"While I am flattered to hear that, you're one of the few who thought so, I'm afraid," Illyen sighed. "Mind you, it's not as though it was unpopular, just… mediocre, so far as the audience was concerned." He then tilted his head. "In truth, I'm surprised you enjoyed it, given that it was satirizing your homeland."
Saera shrugged. "It's not as though admitting that my homeland has faults means that I despise it. At times, one should laugh at themselves."
"I can offer you a ticket to the next performance of 'The Unmasking of Uthero,' though," Illyen offered.
Saera sighed and looked away briefly, theatrically considering the offer, then grinned and nodded. "An acceptable compromise. Very well. Now, what is this about?"
"That one has been offered the chance to become the heir to a magister's title and fortune," Balerion explained, before Illyen could respond.
Saera's eyebrows lifted. "Really now?" she asked. A playful grin spread across her lips as she leaned across the bar to run her fingers under Illyen's chin. "You know, I've always found you so handsome…." she purred coyly, her tone teasing.
"I'm certain," Illyen replied drily, refusing to take the bait, though he couldn't help grinning as well.
"Even so, what would you ask of me?" Saera added, her smile fading and her tone turning more serious. "It is not as though I am a noblewoman myself."
"No, but you are a merchant," Illyen said. "I was wondering if you had heard of a man by the name of Regoro Telerys."
Saera tilted her head thoughtfully at Illyen as he brought his goblet to his lips and took a sip of the sweet wine. "Is that the name of your patron?" she surmised. When Illyen nodded, she let out a soft hum. "I do not know him personally, but I know of a few who have had dealings with him."
"Good enough. What can you tell me of him?" Illyen asked, setting his goblet down on the bar.
"Well, for one, he is not particularly well-liked," Saera admitted. One of her other customers pushed himself up and left, leaving a pile of coins behind. Saera wandered over and scooped the coins into a lockbox that she kept under the bar, then picked up his empty cup, which she began wiping down with a wet cloth as she turned back to Illyen. "Any time his name is mentioned, I have heard nothing but grumbling."
"Is that so?" Illyen asked, his stomach starting to sink. "What does he trade?"
"That's just it," Saera said with a frown. "He did not specialize in any particular commodity. Rather, it seems that he watched the markets and waited until a particular good became dear, then bought as much of it as he could in one location and sold it at an exorbitant rate where the need was greatest, where his prices could not be refused. Mind you, he's far from the only merchant to do this, but according to the tales, he was particularly cutthroat about it."
"You are speaking in the past tense," Illyen noted.
"Indeed. Strangely, it seems as though he has not been particularly active for the past two years or so," Saera said.
"Truly?" Illyen frowned. "Do you know why?"
"No one does, though there are rumors that the loss of his son made him lose the will to continue trading," Saera suggested. "Perhaps he is in mourning. It would explain why he is looking to pass his title on to you now, though it is unusual that he would wait so long to name a new heir." She shrugged as she walked to the other end of the bar to place a fresh goblet of wine in front of another of her patrons. "Though who can truly say for certain?"
"I see," Illyen said slowly, his stomach sinking even further. "Then allow me to ask you one other question. Do you enjoy the life of a merchant?"
Saera paused, considering the question for a long moment. "I do not mislike it," she said finally. "For one, it is one of the most honored professions in Tyrosh. Merchants are held in far higher esteem than warriors and laborers. And I am very much aware of how fortunate I am. Most who live in the southern Free Cities are slaves. I am a free woman, able to choose the sort of life I live, and I am eternally grateful for that." She glanced away for a moment, a soft, almost sad smile briefly crossing her face.
"What of the work itself?" Illyen pressed.
Saera set down the now-clean cup and turned back to him. "It can be difficult at times," she admitted. "Much of my ability to make coin depends upon the winds of fortune. Since I sell wine, my stock is reliant upon the grape harvest, which could easily be spoiled by a harsh drought or a plague of insects. I could also lose my cargo at sea, whether to a storm, thieves, or pirates. And even if all goes well and I arrive at my destination without incident, there is still no guarantee that I shall make even a single coin. Perhaps my wine is not desired in a certain port, or the market in a city has been flooded with the particular vintage I've brought, meaning I must sell my stock at a loss, or else spend yet more coin to sail to another city where I might hope to salvage a bit of profit." She then shrugged. "But I suppose that every peasant is subject to the same whims of the harvest, and every merchant experiences the same hardships. What's more, I am free to sail wherever I wish. I do enjoy traveling, and I have met many fascinating people in my journeys, which have taken me across much of Essos. There are times when I wish for more, of course, even if I know I cannot attain it. For instance, I would love nothing more than to dock in the Purple Harbor, where the real coin in Braavos is made, but as a foreigner, that is impossible." A quick smirk crossed her lips. "To answer your question in short, though… I cannot say that I dreamt of being a merchant ever since I was a child, but I enjoy it well enough."
"No? Then what would be your dream profession, given the choice?" Illyen asked.
Saera considered the question for a moment, then shrugged again. "I don't know. Dragonrider?" she suggested with a cheeky grin.
Illyen rolled his eyes, though he was unable to keep from smirking as well. "Sadly, it seems dragons are all but extinct," he pointed out.
"Pity. Yet another dream dashed," Saera sighed wistfully. "I suppose I shall settle for this life, then."
"So… allow me to ask you one more question, if I may?" Illyen asked. Saera nodded, motioning for him to continue. "With all you have said, and knowing what you know of Regoro, do you believe I should consider accepting his offer and becoming a merchant?"
"I cannot say," Saera replied, walking over to pick up another empty cup from the bar. "Do you wish to become a merchant?"
Illyen grimaced. "I… am uncertain," he admitted, glancing away. "But it seems that if I were to accept Regoro's offer, I would have little choice in the matter."
Saera smiled slightly. "Then I would say no," she replied simply. Illyen blinked, mildly surprised by her answer. When she noticed his perplexed expression, she asked "How long have we known one another, Illyen?"
"About seven years, I believe," Illyen replied, taking a slow sip from his nearly-empty cup.
"And in all that time, you have never expressed a desire to be anything but a mummer and playwright," Saera continued calmly. "Every other time we have spoken, you have enthusiastically told me of the tales you have read and the plays you intended to pen. It was delightful to listen to you, especially since you spoke with such joy. To that end, I believe you have already found what you wish to be. Are you unhappy with the path you've chosen?"
"I… am not," Illyen admitted.
Saera smiled warmly, crossing her arms on the bar in front of her. "Then why bother pursuing any other profession?" she asked. "For the sake of this magister's offer? For wealth? A title? An estate? What would be their cost? How would you maintain your status? Would Regoro force you to become a merchant? If so, I would consider declining his offer, generous as it is." She smiled apologetically at Balerion, who had been listening quietly to their conversation, blithely sipping his drink. "I mean no offense, Balerion, but I wonder if wealth and power are overrated. Certainly, they solve some problems, but they create many more. As such, if you do not mislike the life you have now, why trade it for one you presently have little interest in, and may in fact grow to hate?"
"That… is certainly something to consider," Illyen admitted slowly, staring pensively into his empty cup.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Saera and Balerion trade glances. "Wise words. With that said, Illyen, I do also believe it is worth discussing this more with Regoro," Balerion chimed in. "I would suggest you meet with him again and press him for further details about his terms. How would he train you? If he intends to allow you to be both a mummer and a merchant, how could you balance your time? What are his assets, and what would he ask you to manage? Those are the questions you should ask of him." The courtesan drained his glass, then rested one elbow casually on the bar, holding his empty goblet loosely with his fingertips. "I concur with Saera. There is no shame in declining if you do not care for his answers. However, I also believe it is worth learning those answers first."
"Yes… I'd say that's a fair compromise," Saera nodded.
Illyen smiled softly as he pushed his goblet across the bar. "Indeed. Thank you both," he added, bowing his head to the pair. "If-"
Before he could continue, he suddenly heard heavy footfalls thundering up the ramp. He turned on his seat to see four armed guards charging towards them, clad in steel breastplates and kettle helms, and carrying crossbows, with long, slender blades swinging at their hips. When they spotted Illyen, they leveled their crossbows at him.
"Hold!" one of them barked. "Raise your hands!"
Illyen's eyes went wide, and he immediately lifted his hands over his head, his heart hammering in his chest. One of the guards lowered his crossbow and approached him cautiously, clutching a pair of manacles in one hand and drawing his sword with the other, which he pointed at Illyen threateningly. Illyen swallowed hard and remained frozen in place as the guard grabbed his arms and roughly yanked them down to bind his wrists in the iron chains.
"Stand," the guard growled, nudging Illyen to his feet. Once he did, he shoved Illyen forward. "Now, walk."
"Wh-where are you taking me?!" Illyen stammered with confusion as he staggered forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Balerion had pushed himself to his feet and was shouting something at the guards, while Saera nervously glanced back and forth between the men and Illyen.
"To the dungeons," the guard snarled as he roughly pushed Illyen down the ramp, his eyes narrowed with disgust. "For the murder of Regoro Telerys."
