Chapter 61: Rick is a Gentlebird/Simp.
The markets of Braavos thrummed under a pale morning sun, stalls heaped with silks from Yi Ti, hawkers crying their wares over the slap of canal water against stone. Artos moved through it all with an easy stride, well-turned out in grey wool and leather . Clean-shaven, hair oiled , Nobody would say that is the demon of the North as he is called back home. No blood on his hands today, no steel at his hip save a belt-knife for his new Valyrian blades. He felt good—light, even—anticipating the meeting ahead.
Then came the shadow, swift as an assassin's blade. A rush of wind, leathern wings, and thwack—talons raked his scalp, not deep enough to draw blood but sharp enough to sting like a slap.
"You annoying little shit," Artos growled, swatting at empty air as the eagle wheeled overhead. "What grabs you now? Come to beg scraps or peck my eyes for sport?"
Rick—for that was the beast's name, if eagles could bear such things—circled his head in tight loops, shrieking once, imperious as a king. Artos sighed, fishing a twist of salt venison from his pouch. "Missed me, have you? Free skies not enough without your favorite play?"
The bird snatched the meat mid-dive, talons precise, then landed heavy on Artos's outstretched arm. He ruffled the feathers, grinning despite himself. Artos figured he'd tire of groundling company soon enough and take wing again. But the eagle stayed, hopping to his shoulder suprisingly
"Fair enough," Artos muttered. "Come along then, you feathered menace."
They reached the Golden Anchor by noon—a noble haunt perched over the Purple Harbor, its private alcoves shielded by latticed screens and heavy velvet. Privacy was the house's true vintage, worth more than its spiced lamprey or honeyed dormice. No questions asked of well-heeled patrons, no ears pricked at whispers of trade or treason. Artos's two shadows peeled off at the door—Waymar's doing, no doubt—leaving man and eagle to their booth.
He settled into the cushions, Rick shifting and playing on his own, and waited. Minutes stretched. "Lady Valen's late," he murmured to the bird. "Hope she hasn't forgotten, or decided to do some work first."
Footsteps approached, light and sure. Seraphine swept the screen aside, resplendent in sea-green silk that shifted like harbor waves, dark hair braided with pearls. "Hal. Forgive me—Father and I got tangled in some matters. Time slipped."
Artos rose, the old courtesies coming easier than he'd admit. "No matter, my lady. Worth the wait, as they say. Beautiful women command such things."
She arched a brow, settling opposite as a servant ghosted in with wine. "Your experience talking, or just pretty words?"
He grinned, pouring for them both. "My brother's doing, truth be told. He had the silver tongue—taught me all I know of charming lasses."
Seraphine's eyes sharpened, surprise flickering. Hal guarded his past like a miser's vault; He is infamous in Essos to be a very private person. "Your brother? I should thank him—or scold him I don't know.."
Artos's face, smile wry. "Dead for years now, my lady. But aye, he'd laugh himself at the thought."
Her hand paused on the goblet, expression softening to something genuine, unguarded. "Gods, Hal. I wouldn't have pried. My apologies."
"It's old scar," he said, shrugging it off. "Doesn't ache like it used to."
Before the air could thicken further, Rick squawked and raked Artos's shoulder—light, insistent, beak nudging his ear like a nagging wife. Introduce me, YOU FOOL.
Seraphine laughed, bright and startled. "And who's this terror I missed?"
Artos sighed, stroking the eagle's crest. "Rick. Friend, scout, general pain in my arse. Thinks I forgot him."
"Hello, Rick," she cooed, extending a gloved hand slow and steady.
"Careful," Artos warned. "He's prickly with strangers—tantrums like a lordling denied his rights—"
But Rick betrayed him utterly. The eagle hopped across, wings folding as he landed in her lap, head-butting her palm with a croon that was pure surrender. Talons kneaded her skirts gentle as a cat.
"Oh, what a gentle bird," Seraphine murmured, scratching under his beak. "Aren't you a good boy, Rick? Such soft feathers for such fierce eyes."
Artos gaped, betrayed. "Gentle? That's a simp, that is. Never seen him warm to anyone this quick. You're witching him, lady."
She smirked, smug as sin, Rick purring under her touch. "Perhaps I'm special, Commander."
"OH of that I have no doubt ,My lady" Artos said, voice low, meaning it.
Her smile warmed then, fingers tracing Rick's ruff as the servant brought platters—smoked eel on rye crisps, figs stuffed with goat cheese, lamprey in a sauce thick with saffron. They fell to eating, talk flowing easy as the wine: Braavosi trade winds, the folly of magisters, Rick's aerial exploits over the Disputed Lands. Seraphine had a laugh that pulled at him, sharp questions that matched his blunt answers. Rick stayed lap-bound, the traitor, preening under her attention while Artos watched, half-envious, half-amused.
"You've tamed him proper," Artos said after a time, skewering a fig. "What sorcery's this? I've fed him horseflesh and half my pay in venison, and he still pecks me regular."
"Who knows ," she replied, eyes dancing." May be he likes me."
He leaned in, voice dropping. "That is very convincing , Who won't like Seraphine Valen?"
She met his gaze steady, Rick shifting content between them. She smiles
"Honestly, Hal. Rare as it is. Tell me true—why did you come to Bravos if I any ask
Artos paused, fork halfway to mouth. Truth tempted, but old habits died hard. "Chasing purpose, same as any man."
She nodded, "Fair. But it is more than that anyone can tell that. So will you tell me about you or Would I have to wait."
"I have come to Essos because there is money , fight and I like both and I am quite good at later." Artos replied
Seraphine's still not satisfied but did not said anything. Staring at Hal quite fiercely trying to emotionally manipulate him.
Artos sighs " Alright I tell you some more but please stop that emotional glare. It scares me out My lady "
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