Fallen Heirs

Ronan was no longer certain which side Bavan truly served.

"Has the Sealord of Braavos forgotten the war with Pentos so quickly?" Ronan tested.

Bavan shrugged.

"Braavos does not make enemies lightly. The war with Pentos was fought to prevent slavery. Beyond that, surely His Highness the Sealord has every right to take part in ordinary trade."

When Bavan spoke of the Sealord, his respect was obvious. He even paused in the middle of the sentence, as if the title deserved its own space.

"Has Magister Illyrio come here as well?" Ronan asked, trying to draw out something useful.

Bavan was no novice. He understood the value of information. Giving Ronan a direction had already been the limit of the bait. Anything more would cost him.

As a Braavosi, he would not make such a basic mistake. He did not answer. He only smiled back at Ronan. The silence said enough.

This loan would not be easy to obtain. Ronan had prepared another piece of leverage, but he had no intention of showing it first.

Bavan had said only that Illyrio was interested. Whether the Pentoshi magister was already in Braavos or not, Ronan had the answer he needed.

The Iron Bank had confirmed that the last Targaryen heirs were still in Braavos. That was enough.

He left the Iron Bank without achieving his original purpose, but he had gained something more valuable.

For one thing, he now had a direction for the next force he meant to build. In Westeros, the name Targaryen was dangerous.

East of the Narrow Sea, however, a few coins in the right palm could buy the answer he wanted.

A beggar with more sense than most told him that a king would soon be joining their ranks.

When the beggar spoke of this great king, there was no respect in his voice. Only contempt and mockery.

Clearly, the king about to become one of them had not conquered even the people beneath him.

Just as Ronan remembered, the house with the red door stood before him, its painted door unmistakable.

It was large, almost as large as some temples. It was hard to imagine anyone who had lived in such a place being driven to the streets.

But a roof that belonged to another man could be taken away by another man.

Once, Ser Willem Darry had fled here with the last direct heirs of House Targaryen. Their arrival in Braavos had been desperate enough.

If the Sealord had not valued the shine of their former station, an old knight and two helpless heirs would have had a far harder time surviving in the city.

Now Ser Willem was dead. The two heirs he had protected looked neither powerful nor useful, and the Sealord no longer had much reason to trouble himself over them. Respect rested first on strength.

House Targaryen had lost its dragons long ago and was sinking deeper into ruin.

Without power, wealth, or a force strong enough to make men afraid, the Sealord had little reason to care for allies who could offer him nothing. So the result was simple.

Viserys could not even defend the place where he slept. His endless threats of waking the dragon frightened only his own sister. No one else cared.

A prince with no support who still tried to carry himself like a prince would find only mockery and betrayal.

Ronan did not interfere with the servants driving them out. The timing was wrong. Help offered too early would be treated as insult or pity.

To teach an arrogant prince gratitude, one first had to strip him of pride. Let him taste enough contempt to understand that he had lost everything.

Only then would Ronan's arrival look like a rope thrown to a drowning man. At that point, Ronan would not need much effort to take what he wanted.

Why would he refuse such an advantage? Before long, a prince and princess, both still dressed better than their circumstances, were thrown out by their own servants. Once, that would have been unthinkable.

Now it was simply true. This was Braavos, not Westeros. No loyal house would come to aid them.

Viserys cursed wildly, spilling his humiliation and helpless rage into the street. The moment a servant opened the door again, however, he shut his mouth like a whipped dog.

He had just been beaten and thrown out. The pain was new, and he had no wish to feel it again.

So he saved his posturing for his sister. He did not notice that Daenerys had already seen through the act.

Still, slight and frightened as she was, she did not dare show her brother what she felt.

She did not want to wake the dragon. That was terrifying.

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