A sword recounts to a weasel
"Have you ever been to Braavos?"
The girl's question hung in the stale air of my chamber. I wondered why a girl from Westeros was asking this so instead of just answering, I leaned forward.
"Why do you want to know?"
She hesitated, fingers fidgeting as she drummed them against her side. "I once was able to meet a man from Braavos, and he always told me how beautiful it was."
I stroked my chin, considering.
"Well, if you really want to know," I began, "yes, I've been there a few times. In fact, around two hundred of my men are Braavosi." The memory of the canals came flowing back, along with the stench of fish and salt water. "As for how beautiful it is... I suppose the dialect is also the closest we have to High Valyrian. It's not called the Bastard of Valyria for nothing."
The girl's eyes widened slightly. She knew something of languages then. Another interesting piece.
"Though for me in particular, I really didn't think it was that great," I continued, "especially since wood is so gods-damned expensive there. Like seriously, if you had to fix the bow of a ship in Braavos, it would cost you an arm and a leg." I shook my head, remembering the coin I'd had to part with. "The shipwrights there act like every plank is carved from the Titan's own balls."
A smile almost broke across her face at that, but she suppressed it quickly.
"The fact that they also have temples for almost every god is something cool too, I guess, not that I'm religious mind you." I thought of the Isle of the Gods, that strange collection of shrines and temples where men prayed to whatever god might answer. "You can find nearly any faith there—the Lord of Light with his eternal flames, the Weeping Lady, the Lion of Night. There's even a temple for the Stranger, though they call him by a different name."
I paused, remembering the darker aspects of the city—the canals that ran like veins beneath the mist, where bodies sometimes floated face-down with a particular coin clasped between stiffened fingers.
"The courtesans are also quite good," I said, more to myself than to her, remembering warm skin and perfumed hair. Then I realized I was talking to a child and cleared my throat. "The people are kind, I guess you could say, but the fact that they sing songs of glory is definitely a pro in my book. Nothing like a Braavosi sailor drunk on wine, belting out 'The Burning of the Ships' at the top of his lungs while dancing on a table."
The memories were thick as honey now, slowing my words as I drifted through them.
"As for their ruler, the Sealord, my last visit to the city was a year ago, so I don't know if he's been changed, but his palace was certainly something. The best part of the city, however, was most certainly the sword dancers of Braavos." Now my blood quickened at the memory of steel on steel. "I fought quite a few of them every time I visited the Free City. I think I've fought eight different ones, even fought two First Swords. You know, to gain some infamy."
The girl's face transformed instantly. The mask of subservience dropped away, replaced by naked excitement.
"You fought a First Sword?" she nearly jumped from her seat. "Did you fight a man named Syrio Forel?"
The name struck a chord, and I raised an eyebrow at her sudden change in demeanor. "Don't interrupt me while I am recounting," I told her, more curious now than annoyed.
"Sorry," she replied quickly, quieting herself down and taking seat once more.
"As for your question, I'm guessing this Syrio Forel is the man you met."
She nodded her head vigorously, a strand of brown hair falling across her face. She didn't bother to brush it back, too intent on my answer.
"Well, I'm not really great at names, but I think I did meet him." I scratched at the stubble on my jaw, trying to recall the faces of the men I'd crossed blades with. "He was one of the more talkative sword dancers, that's for sure. Always going on about seeing with your eyes, how the blade is just a part of your arm, and that water flows around obstacles rather than breaking against them. That sort of poetic nonsense."
She looked quite angered, of how I talked about the man. Weird.
"As for his skill with the blade, while it couldn't match my own," I said with a slight grin, "it was quite a fun experience fighting him."
"Could you tell me about the fight?" Weasel asked, her eyes shining like twin stars.
"Are you sure this is what you want as payment?" I asked, giving her one more chance to reconsider. "I could just give you a few gold coins." Gold could buy a lot in war-torn Westeros, especially for a servant with no prospects.
"I'm sure," she replied without hesitation.
"Well, okay then." I stretched my arms above my head, making a show of relaxing, but I was trying to think back, to my first visit to Braavos. "It was about four years ago..."
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Braavos, Four Years Past
I stood in the Moon Pool, a giant fountain south of the Sealord's palace, where sword dancers dueled, an audience had gathered around us, probably because it wasn't everyday you saw someone request a dance with the First Sword.
Courtesans draped in silks lounged on cushioned benches, magisters with jewel-encrusted fingers whispered behind painted fans, and soldiers with purple cloaks stood at attention along the walls. The Sealord himself sat high on a carved chair of black wood, his aging face a mask of dignified boredom.
Before him stood a man of middle years, lean as a blade with an olive complexion and a crown of tight dark curls shot through with gray at the temples. His posture was perfect, his stance was that of a master sword master if there had ever been any.
"I am Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos," he announced, his voice carried by the salty winds of Braavos. "Nine years I have been the protector of the Sealord."
I stood across from him, barely more than a boy but already with a reputation that had spread across Essos. My white-gold hair was tied back, my gray eyes cold as iron.
"Uh-huh," I replied, shifting my weight impatiently. "So are we fighting or what?"
The older man's lips quirked up at one corner, amused by my youth and arrogance. "I will take on this challenge," he said with a slight bow. "I will try not to take away the water of someone so young."
I unsheathed my blade, letting the scabbard fall to the floor with a clatter, the Sealord, courtesans, even the other sword dancers leaned forward expectantly. The First Sword and I faced each other with only our swords—no armor, no shields, and no spears.
The sword hung loosely in the Braavosi's hand, almost as if it was another extension of his arm. He stood there waiting, still as the surface of a pool on a windless day. So I rushed at him.
I was smaller and such I had lesser reach, so I needed to close the distance between us. My heart pounded in my chest, the familiar rush of battle already singing in my veins.
CLANG
Our swords met for the first time, steel kissing steel. The sound was sweet music to my ears, a lullaby I had grown accustomed to, a sound I could not live without, a sound which had been bred into me, the sound of battle.
I slid my sword past the length of the Braavosi's, trying to close the distance, but he used my force against me, redirecting my blade to the side like water parting around a stone. He lunged forward with his own attack, but I was already moving my sword back to defend.
CLANG
Our swords met once more, the impact should have jarred my arm, but that was only if I were a normal man.
He pushed with some force downward, trying to fly the sword from my grip, but I held strong. Even young, I was much stronger than most grown men, something he hadn't expected from my slender frame.
He seemed to notice this as he smiled, disengaging and hacking at me from the other side. I raised my sword to block, then another sword strike came from my right—blocked again. One from above—blocked. One from the right again—our blades scraped together, throwing sparks.
"You are quite good for your age," he said, his breath still even, his movements fluid.
I stayed quiet, solely focusing on the battle, but my silence was its own kind of answer. The older swordsman's eyes narrowed slightly.
The sword once more was thrust forward, this time I met it not with my blade but with my body. At the last second I turned my torso, the blade whistling past me, cutting nothing but air as I lunged forth with my own attack.
My blade drew closer by the second but—
CLANG
The Braavosi was able to bring his sword back in time, deflecting my thrust with a graceful twist of his wrist. A surprised smile graced the man's face, one which mirrored my own. I wasn't sure why he was smiling—maybe he was just impressed by the audacity of my move—but I was smiling for a much better reason.
I understood the dance.
The First Sword was fucked.
From then on, the flow of the fight changed. While I had always been on the defensive before, now we had reached a sort of stalemate, our swords finding gaps where they could but never quite reaching their target. The audience leaned forward, their boredom evaporated like morning mist beneath a hot sun.
We moved around the place like dancers, our feet barely making a sound on the polished floor.
Until at one point, he extended slightly over what he used to—it wasn't much, less than a finger's length. A mistake so small no one else would have noticed it. But I did.
My sword flashed forward, faster than a striking snake.
"I yield," the Braavosi said, my blade hovering a hair's breadth from his throat, poised to open his windpipe. I, however, remained untouched by his blade. I had proved myself.
"You are quite skilled for your age," he said, his dark eyes evaluating me with new respect. "Or maybe my senses have grown too old."
I withdrew my sword from his neck when I heard a guttural voice boom across the hall.
"Bravo, bravo! What a fight, young Achilles!" The Sealord clapped from his seat, as did the other magisters and courtesans who had been enjoying the spectacle. The women's painted lips curved in appreciation, their eyes lingering on me with new interest, I was going to have some fun later on.
I didn't bother replying for a moment and simply looked at the First Sword, seeing both the man he was and the fighter he must have been in his prime.
"You are the third most skillful opponent I have ever faced," I told him. "Feel proud, First Sword of Braavos, Syrio Forel."
Syrio laughed at my words, though there was no bitterness in it—only the laughter of a man who recognized truth when he heard it.
"Haha, third! Hahaha, maybe I have grown old," he said, directing himself to the Sealord with a bow. "Sire, I wish to retire. It seems I am no longer fit to protect you. Choose another sword dancer."
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"And that was it," I said to the staring Weasel, her face filled with fascination, though it also seemed to be filled with dissatisfaction. She had hung on every word, barely breathing during parts of my tale.
"So you defeated him," she said, her voice small but certain.
"Indeed I did," I reached for a cup of water on the table, suddenly aware of how dry my throat had become from all the talking.
"Wait, you said he was the third most skillful you ever faced, right?" She leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the table.
"At that time, yes, he was third," I confirmed, setting down my cup. "However, right now I think he would be seventh or eighth. He is still above the other First Swords I fought, though."
Her brow furrowed slightly at this, as if she couldn't imagine anyone besting her Braavosi friend.
"Can you tell me about the others?" she asked, her voice eager again.
I looked out the narrow window of my chamber. The sun was no longer at it's peak and had begun to lower, not much mind you, but still enough for me to notice. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I'd had nothing since the previous night.
"Maybe some other day, but not now," I said. "You have received your payment, so return to your other duties, as I am quite hungry."
A/N: Remember that I said their was a power outage yesterday, welp university classes got cancelled, hahahaha. So I wrote this chapter since I didn't wanna study, hope you enjoyed it.