The morning after tea with his mother, the house was quieter than usual. Serenya had made her decision.
"I'll go," she'd said, over breakfast. "But only if I get a window seat on the ship and you promise not to bring home any cursed relics."
Vaelros had smiled. "No promises."
Now, he moved through the house like a shadow, sealing jars of herbs with whispered sigils, folding robes lined with protective runes, and tucking away scrolls in oilskin tubes. The plants rare, temperamental things were sealed in glass globes, each one humming faintly with containment magic. His satchel bulged with tools, inks, and a few vials of something that hissed when shaken.
All that remained was a sword.
The blacksmith's forge was tucked into a crooked alley that always smelled of iron and burnt oranges. The smith, a broad-shouldered woman with arms like tree trunks, barely looked up when Vaelros entered.
"I need a sword," he said. "Nothing fancy. Just... curved. Light. Something that moves like thought."
She grunted, rummaged through a rack, and handed him a blade with a gentle crescent arc. "Qohor steel. Not Valyrian, but it'll hold."
He tested the weight. It felt right.
"I'll take it."
"No haggling?"
"I'm going to enchant it. If it breaks, that's on me."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're one of those."
He smiled. "Only on weekends."
With the sword wrapped and slung across his back, Vaelros made his way to the apothecary quarter, where a contact from Westeros was waiting. The man's name was Ser Meryn Lannett, a minor noble from the Crownlands with a sharp tongue and a sharper sense of opportunity. He was flanked by two guards in crimson cloaks, their hands never far from their hilts.
"You're late," Ser Meryn said, not looking up from the vial he was inspecting.
"You're early," Vaelros replied. "That makes us even."
They stood in a shaded courtyard behind a spice merchant's stall. The air smelled of saffron and sweat.
"I hear you're looking for property in King's Landing," Ser Meryn said. "Something discreet. Close to the Street of Sisters, perhaps?"
"Somewhere I can work. Quietly. With a cellar."
"And in return, you want... what? A deed? A writ of ownership?"
Vaelros nodded. "And access. To rare ingredients. Medical texts. Things not sold in markets."
Ser Meryn smiled thinly. "You're not the first Lyseni to come sniffing around for secrets."
"I'm not sniffing," Vaelros said. "I'm offering."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small wooden box. Inside, nestled in velvet, were three vials each one filled with a pale blue liquid that shimmered like moonlight.
"Ice fever," Vaelros said. "Distilled from frost nettle, ghost orchid, and a drop of white basilisk bile. Stabilized with silverroot. It'll break the fever in hours. No bleeding. No madness."
Ser Meryn's eyes narrowed. "You've made this before?"
"Twice. Both patients lived. One even thanked me."
The noble tapped his chin. "I could sell this for a fortune in the North."
"You could," Vaelros said. "Or you could give me the house, and I'll give you the recipe. And... a favor."
Ser Meryn arched a brow. "A favor?"
"I know people. And I know things. You'll need both."
The noble considered. "What if I sweeten the deal? Introduce you to five people. Important ones. Lords, merchants, a maester or two. They owe me. You help them, they help you. And I'll throw in the deed."
Vaelros leaned back. "You're not just buying medicine. You're buying insurance."
"And you're buying a future."
They shook hands.
Later, as the sun dipped low, Vaelros found himself back on the Craftsman's Side, where the streets were narrower and the shadows longer. He ducked into a tavern where Tomas Vell nursed a mug of something dark and probably illegal.
"You look like you've been bartering with snakes," Tomas said.
"Worse," Vaelros replied. "Nobles."
Tomas chuckled. "And the pirate?"
"Tomorrow. I'm saving the worst for last."
"Smart. That man's got the soul of a storm."
Vaelros sat, ordered a drink. "Tell me something. What's the mood in Westeros? I've heard the big things Old King still breathes, Prince Aemon's the Hand, the Sea Snake's still chasing the edge of the map. But what's the ground feel like?"
Tomas leaned back. "Tense. The lords are quiet,