The sea was calm, but Lysaro Waters was not.
He stood at the prow of The Pride, his first ship the one he'd bought with coin earned from sweat, charm, and a dozen half-truths. She was no longer the lean, creaking vessel he'd found rotting in the docks of Oldtown. No, The Pride had been reborn in the image of her master: broader, bolder, and dressed in gold-trimmed sails that caught the sun like a noblewoman's smile. She was his floating court, his traveling circus, his altar of indulgence and trade.
The other ships of his fleet The Lust, The Wrath, The Glutton, and their vicesome sisters were scattered across the Narrow Sea and the Summer Coast, peddling Arbor gold, Myrish lace, and his own fire-brewed spirits. But The Pride was his alone. She carried no cargo but spectacle.
He was bound for the Stormlands, to the heart of the land where thunder kissed the cliffs and the wind howled like a mourning widow. House Dondarrion had summoned banners for a tourney in honor of King Robert's first year on the throne. Lysaro had no love for Robert Baratheon too loud, too sober but a melee was a stage, and Lysaro never turned down a stage.
Before the Stormlands, though, came Tarth the Sapphire Isle, a jewel of the narrow sea. He'd anchored in Evenfall Bay under a banner of trade, but his true purpose was mischief. The tourney at Tarth was smaller, more intimate, and perfect for a man like him to reintroduce himself to Westeros.
He had been gone for years. Essos had changed him. The Reach remembered him as a fourth son with a crooked grin and no inheritance. They did not know the man who returned the merchant prince with fifteen ships, the distiller of madness, the fighter with dancing steel and a tiger's soul.
The docks of Tarth bustled with color. His ship spilled forth a parade of entertainers, merchants, and curiosities a fire-breather from Lys, a blind bard from Norvos, a pair of twins who danced on stilts and whispered fortunes in tongues no one understood. They set up tents and stalls, hawking Lysaro's wines and wire-blades, his perfumes and poisons. Gold flowed like mead.
And Lysaro? He lounged on a velvet couch beneath a silk canopy, sipping a goblet of Firemilk his own creation, a spirit so potent it made lesser men weep or fight or both. He wore a robe of Arbor green, embroidered with golden grapes, and a fur-lined cape that trailed behind him like a shadow. His hair, sun-kissed and tangled, caught the breeze like a banner of defiance.
He watched the melee lists being posted. His name was there, scrawled in a hand that didn't know how to spell it right. Lissaro Waters. He chuckled.
"Let them misspell it," he muttered. "They'll remember it when I break their noses."
A cat brushed against his leg a sleek black thing with eyes like molten gold. He reached down, scratched behind its ear, and felt the familiar pull in his mind. Somewhere, far away, in a forest of snow and silence, a great beast stirred. Muscles rippled beneath striped fur. Fangs gleamed in moonlight. The sabertooth opened its eyes, and so did he.
But only for a moment.
He blinked, and the cat was gone.
"Not yet," he whispered to himself. "Not here."
The drums of the tourney began to beat. The crowd gathered. The banners of Tarth fluttered in the wind. And Ser Lysaro Waters, the Mad, the Fool, the Second Coming of the Sea Snake, rose from his couch and walked toward the lists a dagger at his hip, wires coiled in his gloves, and madness in his smile.