In Braavos, the arrival of the King of Winter could not pass without a proper celebration – or at least, what the Braavosi deemed proper. A grand banquet was held in honor of Theon Stark at the Sealord's Palace, the hall packed with the cream of Braavosi society: wealthy merchants with ring-laden fingers, the Keyholders of the Iron Bank with their calculating expressions, and famous courtesans whose price for a single night could feed a common family for years.
Theon endured the festivity with the patience of centuries, his impenetrable expression not revealing the disdain he felt for this display of opulence. While others delighted in rare wines and exotic delicacies, he barely touched his food, his thoughts already on more important business. When the last cup was emptied, he withdrew with a discretion that almost went unnoticed – a remarkable feat for a king.
The next morning, after a swift breakfast with the Sealord, Theon went straight to the point: the Iron Bank.
In the bank's inner chambers, where the air smelled of old parchment and gold, Theon and the Keyholders reviewed the contract governing Westeros's most exclusive trade: the sale of enchanted Icesteel blades and weapons.
"The decennial auction will proceed as established," declared Theon, his eyes scanning the document with an attention that made the Keyholders' various assistants unnecessary. "But this cycle's lots will include not only swords, but also spearheads and breastplates treated with the same runes."
One of the elder Keyholders nodded, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted his glasses. "The base price for the breastplates will be thirty percent higher, Your Grace. The demand for armor that can withstand dragonfire... well, I need not say it is considerable."
Theon almost smiled. "Forty percent. And the Bank will receive its standard commission on the total hammer price."
The deals were sealed, other minor businesses were resolved, and when Theon returned to his quarters in the late afternoon, he found a curious scene: his wife Gael was chatting animatedly with the courtesan known as the Black Pearl, while Jack Sparrow was leaning on the balcony, clearly trying to impress both with his stories.
"...and that's how I escaped the island where the natives still believe the moon is made of cheese!" Jack concluded, causing the Black Pearl to hide a smile behind her hand.
Gael rose as Theon entered, meeting his lips with a soft kiss. "How were the negotiations, my love?"
"Concluded," he replied, his gaze shifting from Jack to the courtesan. "We finished what we needed to do here." His eyes settled on Gael. "Would you like to see more of the city? They say the gardens of the Sealord's Palace are worth a visit, even in this season."
Gael accepted with a radiant smile, and to the surprise of both, the Black Pearl offered to be their guide. "I know all the secret corners of these gardens," she said, her Braavosi accent giving a musical charm to her words.
The afternoon passed with the courtesan showing Theon and Gael hidden corners of Braavos that few foreigners ever saw – bridges hidden under less trafficked canals, spice markets where the air was thick with exotic aromas, and a small shrine dedicated to a forgotten god that even Theon, in all his years, had never seen.
The next day, as the Northern ships set sail for Pentos and Myr, Theon watched from the deck of the Queen Anne's Revenge an interesting scene: the Black Pearl was aboard the Black Pearl, her presence beside Jack Sparrow making it clear that the eccentric captain had gotten what he wanted.
Theon chuckled low, shaking his head. "In just two days," he murmured to Gael, who had joined him at the railing.
"Some men have a particular talent for certain... conquests," she replied, her eyes playful.
As Braavos faded on the horizon, Theon felt the journey was progressing better than he had expected. The deals were closed, the alliances strengthened, and now new adventures awaited them in the Free Cities to the south.
The passage through the Free Cities of Pentos and Myr was so brief it barely warranted an entry in the ship's logs. Theon Stark was no tourist to delight in the ephemeral pleasures of the eastern continent. Pentos, with its elected princes and low-ceilinged palaces, and Myr, proud of its lenses and its tapestry-makers, were merely supply points. Fuel, water, provisions, and nothing more. The runic sails of the Queen Anne's Revenge and the Black Pearl swallowed the distances quickly, spitting them out southwards, towards the only kingdom in Westeros still worth a deliberate stop: Dorne.
The scorching heat that greeted the Northern fleet as they approached Sunspear was a violent shock after the ancestral cold of the North and the salty breeze of Braavos. The air shimmered over the sands, and the sun, a white, merciless disc in the sky, seemed to drain the life from everything except the Dornish, who moved with a practiced languor.
They were received by the Prince of Dorne himself, a man with sun-leathered skin and eyes as sharp as a sand serpent's. The relationship between Dorne and the North was old and pragmatically cordial. It was not a friendship, but a marriage of convenience cemented in trade: Dorne sold high-purity silica sand and exotic fruits that not even the magical greenhouses of the North could perfectly replicate. In return, they bought ice – not common ice, but eternally cold blocks carved from the hearts of Northern glaciers, enchanted with runes of preservation, essential for the survival of the Dornish nobility in summer.
The negotiations took place in an open room, where thin curtains danced in the hot breeze. Theon, wearing robes of light linen but with the Ruby Ice Crown pulsing softly on his brow, dispensed with subtleties.
"Northern production will increase," declared Theon, his voice a cold wind in the stifling room. "Our runic forges, our foundries, our glassworks. Everything is expanding. We will need forty percent more of your annual sand shipment."
The Prince of Dorne arched an eyebrow. "Forty percent is a considerable leap, Your Grace. The sand we sell is not what you tread on the beach. It is a valuable resource. The price will, naturally, follow the volume."
"The price will be adjusted," Theon conceded, "but not by forty percent. Our efficiency in transport has also increased. We offer fifteen percent more per unit, not forty. Take it, or we will find other sources in the deserts of Essos. This is not a negotiation. It is a notification."
The authority in his voice was absolute. It was not the threat of a king, but the statement of a geological fact. The Prince of Dorne, a master in the art of negotiation, saw something in Theon's eyes that made him retreat. It was the gaze of one who not only ruled winter but could summon it. The deal was sealed with a nod.
The night in Sunspear was an ordeal. Despite the Dornish fame for liberality, the approaches of several noble women and men, offering "company to warm the Northern King's cold night," were met with a rejection so icy it left the suitors literally trembling. Theon retired to his quarters, where the air was kept artificially cold by runes carved into the walls, and slept an untroubled sleep. At dawn, without ceremony, the fleet set sail. Dorne was business, not pleasure.
The journey across the Narrow Sea was swift, the tide-runes on the hulls cutting through the waves with supernatural ease. Theon ordered them to bypass Lys. "Nothing but perfumes and excessive vices," he told Gael, who watched the perfumed island pass in the distance with a hint of curiosity. Their destination was Volantis, the First Daughter, the oldest and most powerful city in Essos.
Two weeks passed. The scenery changed from blue waters to the murky sea of the Gulf of Grief. Then, it appeared on the horizon: Volantis, with its immense black wall and the River Rhoyne splitting it in half. The Long Bridge stretched over the waters, a feat of engineering even Theon found impressive.
But when the Queen Anne's Revenge docked in the bustling port, something was wrong.
The dock, normally a chaos of merchants, slaves, and soldiers of the Tiger Guard, was empty. Empty, except for a single figure.
It was a woman, tall and slender, dressed in the deep red robes of a priestess of R'hllor. Her hair was the color of charcoal, her eyes burned with a supernatural intensity, and on her forehead gleamed a red flame, like a third eye. She stood, motionless, her hands crossed before her, staring at the flagship's gangplank.
Theon descended, his imposing figure casting a long shadow even under the scorching Volantene sun. Gael was at his side, and Winter, the giant wolf, followed behind, a harbinger of darkness made material. The sailors and the Black Guard remained on board, a silent, threatening presence.
The King of Winter stopped before the priestess, his face a mask of polished ice.
"This," his voice cut through the heavy silence, "is not a reception worthy of a king. Where are the Triarchs? Where is the Tiger Guard? Does Volantis receive me with an empty dock and a devotee? A calculated insult or a colossal stupidity?"
The priestess laughed, a low, melodious sound that didn't match the severity of her face. "The fault is not the city's, King Theon. The fault is mine. I asked... demanded... that they let me receive you alone. They fear the True Flame more than they fear a king, however formidable."
Her flaming eyes burned into Theon, trying to consume him. "I saw you in the flames. Saw your coming. You are the—"
He raised a hand, cutting her off before the word could be spoken. The gesture was swift and final, like the closing of a dagger.
"Stop," the order was hissed, laden with a coldness that made the surrounding air tremble. "I am not the champion of your fire deity. You are not merely wrong, priestess. You are wrong by more than a century."
The woman's flaming eyes faltered. The absolute confidence in her gaze cracked. "W... what?"
"The man you think I am," Theon continued, his voice now low but penetrating as an ice needle, "the one you call Azor Ahai reborn... he will not be born for another hundred years. I know who he will be. And I am not him."
The priestess was speechless. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. The depth and specificity of the statement had stunned her. She, who had spent her life interpreting the nebulous visions of the fire, stood before a man who not only rejected the prophecy but corrected it with an authority that came from knowledge, not faith.
"You... you know?" she whispered, her voice losing all its former strength. "You know who he will be?"
Theon watched her, his own eyes, cold and ancient, seeming to weigh her very soul. He saw the spark of desperation, the frantic need to know. Her faith was hanging by a thread, and he held the scissors.
He said not a word. He maintained his silence, letting the question hang in the air, poisoning the certainty she once held.
"This conversation about prophecies irritates me," he said finally, his voice now filled with a glacial boredom. "I did not come to Volantis to discuss the delusions of a shrieking god. Bring me the Triarchs. All of them. I will meet with them by late afternoon. You have five hours."
He turned, his back to her, an act of supreme dismissal.
"But... how can I... they are powerful, demanding a meeting with so little notice..." she stammered, the arrogant priestess now reduced to a hesitant messenger.
Theon stopped, but did not turn. "Five. Hours."
He then continued walking back to the gangplank of his ship, Gael and Winter following him. The red priestess stood on the empty dock, the reality of her failure settling upon her like a heavy cloak. Then, she felt it. A chill in the air. She looked up.
The sun still shone, but from the clear, cloudless sky, snowflakes began to fall. Light, sparse, but undeniable. And with each passing second, the air grew a little colder, a little sharper.
She understood. The five hours were not a suggestion. They were a deadline. And the winter he brought with him was the clock.
Looking at the black ship, now shrouded in a freezing mist that hadn't existed moments before, she understood perfectly what he meant. He didn't need to threaten. The snow under the Volantene sun was the only threat he needed.
She turned and ran, her flaming red robes a banner of panic against the deserted dock, on the most important errand of her life. She had five hours to convince the most powerful men of a continental city to kneel before the king who commanded winter itself.