Flight of the Dragon

The air in the harbor was crisp and cool when Petyr stepped down from the gangplank onto the wet stone of the pier. The stench of fish that would have choked even the most experienced fishermen in the heat of the sun had since died down to a faint wisp. Despite the lateness of the hour, the dockside taverns were alive and rumbling as he made his way swiftly past them, ignoring the drunken sailors and whores that came tumbling out every few minutes. Ah, the Free Cities, Petyr mused taking in the lantern-lit streets of Pentos, where everything has a price.

The villa he sought was uphill from here, past the districts of the city that were filled with violent pickpockets and petty criminals. The sound of hoofbeats on cobblestone turned his head and he raised an arm to flag down the cart. To his pleasant surprise it was less of a cart and more of carriage, with a gilded top and pale silk curtains to shield him from the filth of the streets. As it pulled to a stop a small, robust man leapt down from the seat. 

“Vhere should I taking you, good lord ser?” he questioned in a thick Pentoshi accent. Petyr reached into his cloak to find the papers he had signed for the purchase of the villa. After a few moments his hand returned, triumphant.

“To the Villa of the Wings, my good cart driver.” 

“Ah, yers the Villa of the Vings, very beautiful house my lord ser.”

Petyr stepped into the cart, chuckling despite himself, he had always loved the accents of foreigners. I suppose I’m the foreigner here, he thought as the carriage began to move uphill. They quickly passed brightly lit inns and drinking establishments wedged between darker brothels and shops. Alleys came as a shock of black hiding gods-only-know-what between the buildings. Soon though, all the lights fade as the entered into a residential district with only the glow of a few candles outlining various windows high above the street. In minutes they pulled up beside a pair of tall, wrought iron gates set in a wall of pale stone. Petyr slipped through the silk curtains and down onto the cobblestones where the small man was waiting. Silently Petyr slipped him a silver stag and a copper as he reached back in his cloak for the key to the gates.

“Thankth you, good lord ser!” he heard the driver slur as he climbed back on his cart and rode away. Petyr inserted the key into the slightly rusted lock and twisted. An eerie creak filled the still night as he pushed open the gate yet he was pleased to find the windows of the villa full of warm candle light. Perfect, servants have been included.

Within seconds of knocking on the door a young girl in a maid’s dress answered with a bow.

“Lord Baelish,” she murmered. He gave her a charming grin, making her blush, as he walked in. “Your guest has already arrived, my Lord,” she gestured at an archway then turned to leave.

For a few moments he stood there taking in the eastern grandeur of the foyer. High ceilings and white stone walls surrounded him, everything clean-cut and shining with dark wooden tables covered in silks and flowers between pale marble arches leading into adjoining rooms. Your guest, he had to remind himself. Tearing his eyes away from the room’s beauty he pushed back his shoulders and straightened his collar before walking through the archway.

The next room was darker than the first, but a large fire roared below a marble mantle, giving a warm feeling to the otherwise cool room. Leaned over papers at a large oak table facing the fire was a lean man in a strange combination of dark silks and riding leathers. His pale white-gold hair reached his shoulder blades but as Petyr’s eyes moved up he noticed that the hair on the scalp was almost the colour of pure gold. The sudden realization of which guest this was crashed over Petyr as the man turned.

The hair on the top of his head wasn’t hair at all, but a shining, dripping cap of solid gold. Parts of his once quite handsome face were burned beyond recognition from the eyes up. Yes, the eyes... one eyes was a flash of shocking violet, quietly gazing over Petyr but the other one was blackened and burned shut. Angry streaks of red framed the burnt eye where drips of the gold had been peeled from the live flesh. The untouched lips below broke into an impish grin as the man bowed.

“Viserys Targaryen,” Petyr grinned as he met the mans bow. “Your Grace. It is a pleasure.”