Chapter 6: With Grit and Luck

Chapter Text

He came to them in a net, tangled in seaweed and the wet, white skin of what they presumed belonged to a sea creature. The sailors had seen him afloat in the water, sprawled out and unconscious, the boy's head of curled hair covering his thick brows tucked in agony. Quickly, they threw out a fishing net to capture him, his chest barely rising, pulling him carefully onto the ship. They were so frazzled, that the men almost pried him from the clumps of algae, chunks of fleshy muscle, and strange iridescent scales, before one of them noticed how bent his right arm was. 

"Where did he come from?" There were just off the coast of Pentos, in the middle of the Narrow Sea. If there was a shipwreck, they would have seen more bodies.

"Nevermind that now, we need to warm him up." 

"He's probably got a righteous bump in his head from the way he's sleeping."

"Aye, if that's the case, we've gotta get him awake."

They began to carry him to the bunks, the weight of the child so light and his skin so pale from the temperatures of the sea. It seemed the only thing heavy on him were the fabrics he wore, the red and black of them so soiled, there was no brilliance to the expensive pattern. One hand patted his head, a whine emitting from the tiny thing as they sat him upright in a corner, the buzz waking a sleeping deckhand. She wiped the crust from her eyes, waking in the dim sleeping quarters, watching from her cot as the men fumbled around with the small boy. 

"Wait. What if he's a girl?" They stop for only a second.

"What the fuck are you on about, Seamus? That's a lot of peach fuzz for a wee girl then." They brawl for a bit, the quiet bystander sighing before finally getting up and pushing aside the working men, knowing they could sit there and argue for ages.

"Kitchen wench, tell us if he's a lad or not would you?" She peels the clothes off of his cold skin, the moles littered across his flesh making the men peer away in case they were wrong. The girl made sure she did not bend him too much, seeing the way he winced and tightened his jaw when she was close to his right shoulder.

"Get a blanket for him," The men cease looking away from the boy now, one of them grabbing a clutch of blankets from the empty cots, almost ripping one more from a sleeping deckhand but huffed as he could smell the stench of piss on him. Not that one. It could stay.

They wrapped the naked guest in the fabric and let him remain in the corner of the bunk room, sitting around like children to watch him in silence.

"What do we do now?"

"Wake him, member? We've got to wake him." Still, none of them moved, the skinny girl sighing in annoyance before lowering herself to the child, bringing her hands to the sides of his head and blowing into his face. His eyelids fluttered, brows furrowing before his brown eyes bored into hers. Before she could utter a word to him, he began to cry out in rolled tongues, looking around in fear and pain. The language he spoke made her step back in confusion, the skinny girl's mind wandering to all the places she's visited, all the people she's killed, knowing that familiar twang and heat embedded in the words the foreign boy squeaked out.

"He's done for. Poor boy."

"Aye, I'm sure his brain's scrambled beyond saving."

"Well, we tried at least."

"Shut it." The girl silenced the group as the boy's eyelids fell heavy again, her tanned hand coming to pat his cheek and make him flounder once more.

"Muñnykeā. Muñnykeā." Her lips curled at the word, letting the boy fall back to sleep before one of the other men decided to flick him, the lad sputtering back to life.

"Monkey? What the fuck is he on about?"

"Mother. He calls for his mother." The girl reaches around to the back of his head, her hand weaving through his wet hair to pull back and see that it is not all but seawater that leaves it moistened. Bright blood mixed with the ocean flows from between her fingers like sand. "We've got to stitch him. It'll be a few more days before we get to Braavos."

The men finally move, as this is something they know how to do. Only one falters behind, looking curiously at the bundle of faded red and black clothes before heading off, struggling to remember again why those colors would be of importance. The girl understands, looking at the boy before her with a slight smile before tugging at the blankets covering him, jerking the curly-haired lad awake.

"You understand me, no?" He nods weakly, swallowing before coughing, sea salt stuck in his throat. She moves to the side of her cot, getting the water that is hers alone, and sharing it with the stranger. He studies her, she is long-limbed and boney, her hair bronze and eyes shaped like crescents even though she barely smiles. There are freckles speckled across the center of her face, the lantern-lit cot making her glow as if she is made of amber and honey. "Can you not speak, boy?"

"Kessa." She translates it in her mind for a second, remembering how her mentor speaks it to her every so often.

"Do you remember your mother? Where can we return you to, child?" He thinks for a moment, the boy opening his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a soft cry, his delicate features cracking in agony. He does not know the face of the one he calls out for, an empty void filling in when it comes to conjuring the memory of the woman who gave him life. 

"Doar. Muñnykeā. Issa muñnykeā." He kicks his legs, the girl noting that he can still feel them and they still work, but when he tries to move his arms, he wails louder. The sleeping man yells out a curse, the girl hissing at him before kneeling down and looking closer at the stray and his right shoulder. Carefully she pulls him forward, seeing for the first time the way his socket is moved entirely, purpled and red from fresh bruising. She does not wince, as she knows it will only further scare him, so instead, she continues to talk, even though she never does.

"Are you hungry? We do not have much fresh food because we will be docking soon, but I can try to make you anything you'd like." She moves to take his clothes, looking over the garments to observe they are so catered and detailed, that she is a bit scared to confirm the true identity of the boy in front of her. But he is so fragile, peering up at her with eyes that are fearful too, shame painting the girl as she is reminded what it is like to be so alone in the world.

"Dōna. Nyke jaelagon mirros dōna. Kostilus." Her lip upturns again, the child giving her thanks for a sweet dessert that she has yet to make for him. It is no wonder he has been chewed up and spit out by the world already, so gentle and naive. She turns to leave, ready to melt the bit of sugar they had and carve out any rotting parts within the remaining fruit, but he speaks again. "Skoros iksis aōha brōzi?"

He doesn't ask what she is called, already aware the girl is only referred to as kitchen wench. It makes her smile, seeing how sharp the boy can truly be.

"A girl has no name." He watches her go through the wood door, a gust of sea breeze floating in as he tries to rest his head against the wall, biting down hard as he feels the pain in the back of his head jolt him upright again.

Just when he tries to pick apart the strangeness of the girl as he floats back to sleep, the group of men who rescued him come tumbling in with supplies. Before he can say anything, one heaves him up with ease and places him on the nearest cot with his back facing the ceiling, the poor man who is trying to sleep yelping in frustration before getting up to leave.

"Oh, little lad, wherever you came from did not let you go away from it lightly." A graze comes upon his injured shoulder, making the boy chew down on another cry, moving away from the touch. Another set of hands comes between his thick hair, maneuvering through the dense curls that are beginning to dry, touching upon a part of his scalp that makes him groan and try to pull away. "Okay, we're just gonna," A strong palm is pressed at the center of his back, holding him in place. "So we can clean it and try our best to stitch you up."

He wriggles a bit, nervous at the sudden proposal. Instead, the one who is talking to him shifts to be in front of his face, the other five men grumbling and setting up whatever they've brought in. He is a man with a splotchy face, skin flecked with sun spots, and a thick mustache on top of his lip. 

"My name's Patrice. I'm over from Myr, but I've spent me life sailing and trading. Probably started as young as you are, little lad." His eyes travel up and he gives a quick nod to those working around him, the boy lifts his head to try and see what it is they are doing but the man keeps talking to distract him. "I'd hardly call myself Myrish at this point as I've been all over Essos and Westeros. Now settle, you've got a great gash on the back of your skull. My men are only helping you."

He hisses as they drip something upon his cut, cold and stinking as it runs down his neck and across his face as he is held down, the boy instinctively tasting it as it dribbles across his upper lip. Patrice laughs a bit at the face their guest makes, the child blinking hard before letting out a cough.

"It's only rum, boy. Manu," He points with his green eyes, the boy following the direction with his own brown ones as a younger man comes to look down at him, giving him a pleasant smile. "He's the youngest on our ship, the only one of us that can read. He's from Dorne. That great Southern place is where that rum we've used on you is from. Manu's the one who always makes sure to get it for us. Lucky lad you are, getting a lick of the last of it."

The young boy only squirms a while longer, his head beginning to spin once more and the coldness of his body finally leaving him to notice how truly sore he feels. Patrice continues to talk about the others in his crew, the stray struggling to follow as he rests his eyes, a heavy hand tapping his cheek. He begins trying to remember them idly, as there is now air blowing on that tender part of his scalp, fear rattling the small creature as Patrice tries his best to ramble it away. Argelle is the one who has cleaned his wound. Eeyor, the poor man who cannot sleep soundly due to his sudden intrusion. Seamus, he's the newest in their group and is adamant about the boy being a girl still.

"And then our gentle giant Leroi," The cot creaks as a shadow looms over the boy, a whimper sounding from him as his head is dipped deeper in the mattress and he feels a breath on the back of his neck. "He's gonna be the one stitching you up today."

Patrice talks on and on about nothing and everything to try and distract the brown-haired child from the pain, tapping his thick padded fingers on his jaw every so often to keep him conscious. The sound of the needle popping in and out of his scalp overlaps with the labored breaths he's taking, Manu bringing the drips of remaining rum from the bottle to the boy's lips to try and soothe him. Seamus holds onto Argelle, both struck silent for the first time during their month-long trip.

"No crying, you're much too old for that now," Patrice says even though his fingers contradict him, petting the softness of the boy's jaw as tears burrow themselves there. Just as Leroi has finished up and ties the fishing line with his teeth and hands, their kitchen wench returns with a platter for their new guest.

"Eeyor's found a nice spot on the deck floor to sleep." She says before looking down at their work. The great gash is closed, the thickness of the inflamed skin making her wince now that the foreign boy's back is turned. He's huffing into the cot, pressing his forehead into the sheets to try and sit by himself, careful arms hoisting him upright. His shoulder is still mangled. 

Instead of talking about it, he is hand fed, the men silently prepping again so as to not overwhelm their little stray. 

"Does he have a name?" The girl looks at the child she feeds hardened sugar, too busy crunching the sweetness between his teeth and disoriented to answer for himself, that she just sighs.

"I don't think he can remember. He's got to get to a maester when we dock-"

"Aye, girl. We don't have those kinds of funds here. Unless you're willing to spend up what little you're being paid, that child is..." They realize he can understand what they're saying once his big, brown eyes glisten, his cheeks full as he munches ardently on the overly ripe fruit. Patrice stops talking for once.

"Let's just get through these few days. See if any news about a missing boy is floating about the realm." Manu says as he's usually the one who reads upon any news and gossips with the servant girls running about the Arsenal of Braavos.

With that said, they conclude their talk inside the cots, Patrice ordering the kitchen wench to fry them up fish they caught earlier once she's done babying the boy. Argelle pinches at her bony shoulder teasingly, trying to earn a smile out of her, but it never does. Once he has eaten, the girl dismisses herself, giving the boy a solemn look before leaving again.

Before he has time to let the food settle in his belly and understand why the strange girl gives him such earnest eyes, the men gather around him again. Without a word, Leroi's rough hands are on his loosened socket, the purpled arm that hangs suddenly crunching as it is maneuvered back in place. Patrice holds the child still by his neck, wide brown eyes piercing through him, swirling with tears. His pain is so visceral that he cannot even form a cry, mouth hanging open in horror from the tendons and bone moving under his skin. It is only once the warmth of the hands leaves him does he begin to wail, the throaty noise floating out of him, a language that anyone can understand. Then he is dizzy again.

The stray does not know how but he awakens to a bright morning, realizing slowly that he has a bandage wrapped around his head, wincing as he tries moving. There is a great ache in his skull, as well as the rest of his bony body. The child can hear the men just outside the bunker, their gruff voices and laughter making him feel a bit less alone and tired. With that, his body melts back into the single mattress, floating in and out of sleep. He will sometimes open his eyes to one of the men changing his head wrap, the quiet girl spoon-feeding him scraps, and the sounds of them discussing matters just out of reach.

At night, the girl will crawl into the cot as the rest are taken up, the two children's bodies molding into each other as they sleep. When he has trouble drifting off, Patrice will talk to him about his travels, teaching the child of Essos and Westeros as they scale between the great lands. He whispers daring tales, telling the curious stray about the houses that reside just beyond, the others listening in as the way he tells it is most intriguing. There is the North, a cold desolate place where the Starks reign, men who are believed to be descendants of the First. Patrice even adds in a rumor he's heard of them being cannibals, the child grimacing and the girl laughing heartily at his petrified face. Then there is the Vale, a great height of a castle, the Lady Arryn ruling over it. The boy is filled with amazement at the description of the great Moon Door, the great fall from it sending a shiver down his spine. As if his flesh remembers something he does not.

Quickly Patrice goes through the great families, spewing crazed gossip he's come across in his lifetime trading back and forth from the continents of land, and resting in pleasure houses. But his tone changes once he speaks about an island called Dragonstone, uttering the name Targaryen in a whisper. The boy is confused at first until he hears about how they ride beasts that breathe fire, have heads of white hair, and are kings who sit on a great throne made of swords. Patrice has visible fear in him, speaking of the way a single Targaryen can cut through armies of men, saying it so softly as if one of those warriors will come out from the shadows of the bunker room.

"All they know how to do is kill, fuck, and rule," Eeyor complains, leaving for his night shift to ignore any more of the grown men sharing bedtime stories. Once the fun has died down and the boy is lulled to sleep, he dreams of a violet flower blooming into an eye, boring into him so intensely it burns.

By the third day of rest, he can sit upright by himself in the morning, even though his head swirls. Argelle steps into the cots to take a nap and sees him, smiling from ear to ear. With his help, the boy takes his first steps out of the bunker to see sunlight, the boy almost shields himself away from its brightness, but the warmth captivates him instead. He is shy as they whoop for his recovery, the girl with no name cutting the scales of the fish with a slight smile on her face. After he is held by the waist, emptying his bladder off the side of the ship, the boy is helped into breeches and is left to lean on the edge of the boat. He lets go of the sheets he's been wrapped in for the past few days and grips the ropes and wood of the vessel, straining to push one aching leg in front of the other on his own. The crew of rowdy men work quietly for once, waiting to see if the fragile thing will crash down on the floorboards and have to be picked up in their arms again. The boy does not, catching himself every so often on the edge as he wanders too swiftly, hugging the oak to look at the vibrant blues of the sea, and continue again.

When the next day comes, he does not need to grip something or someone to walk, and he can eat on his own. He watches everything intently, the way they move the sails and spin the wheel to turn the great ship from crashing into rocks. The men like to wrestle with each other sometimes, play cards while nothing is happening, then tease or order around the girl as she is just about to finish up a task. Patrice continues to tell him about the great places he's been, pointing at the shores of faraway lands they pass on the way to the place they call Braavos. The boy is content in the light of day, it is only at night do they worry about him. 

He mewls in his sleep, kicking his feet into the girl to which she rises from their shared cot. Manu will usually be the only one awake so deep into the night, peeling between the same book he's indulged in for the entire voyage, never speaking a word to the girl who only gives him a tired expression. Softly, she wakes up the child, knowing if he carries on sleeping like the times before, he will end up crying himself awake and alerting everyone else. So without a sound, she takes his hand in her own and leads him from the bunker, the boy uttering groggily in his little language how he needs to go relieve himself and is in want of some fruit. She laughs to herself, realizing he thinks it is morning.

On the main deck, he sees the black sky, stopping to take in the stars glittering down at him, and closes his eyes as the air around him spins. From how frail he has been, she expects him to cover himself from the winds, and burrow himself back into the bunker he has been buried in. Instead, the stray holds his free arm up, his jaw clenching and his nostrils flaring as he breathes in deeply. His throat muscles clench and his Adam's apple bobs as his mouth begins to hang open, tasting the breeze. To him it is so familiar, the feel of high winds on his face, able to turn the world dark around him and know he is fine in the air. Air? He is on a ship in the water. His feet touch the ground and yet it is still not correct. He opens his eyes, more emptiness filling him internally. He is missing something, but he does not feel around his person. It is not his clothes, the boy is almost bare and naked to the world, so what is it? 

She lets him be for a few more seconds before she spots the way Eeyor is leaning on the railing up above, watching the two as it is his work at night to keep their boat from steering too close to the shore. The girl leads the boy to her kitchen just at the back of the ship and immediately goes into a cupboard to pull out folded clothes. 

"These are yours. These are the clothes you came in." She has scrubbed the ocean out of it, brilliant black and red shining up at him along with a peculiar necklace. He does not appear to recognize it.

"I go by Constance, boy. Do not ever plan on calling me kitchen wench the way these men do if you're hoping to leech off me." She knows her words sting, but she is a seasoned survivor, seemingly having no time to coddle another. "If you are trying to keep your identity a secret, tell me now. I've given you my name so now you have a debt to repay."

He shakes his head, the curls formed dried and stale from the salt water. From underneath his hair, she sees even more moles, the likeness of the person she finds in the boy fading again. He does not even look at the clothes before him, the girl pushing them forward a bit to catch his attention. 

"Nyke jaelagon ēdan iā brōzi naejot tepagon ao." The boy wishes for a name. She shakes her head, her plans for him not including such needs.

"How am I supposed to explain why a plain-faced child like yourself speaks High Valyrian?" He furrows his brows at the new term, biting into a fruit he's found and savoring the taste. It is like he has never known what it is like to eat. Whatever was done to him, it is like a rebirth, born from the pressure of the ocean itself. "Like a pearl."

He looks at Constance with confused eyes, shoving the sugary citrus into his mouth which is still full of nectar and juices. She laughs, the sound so old and forgotten deep within her chest that she is surprised at how easily it comes out. All she knows when she sees the strange boy in front of her is that he is not hard to grow fond of.

"If you want to stay on this boat, you need to show the men you are useful for something. Either by the time we get to Braavos, or before we leave it, and possibly abandon you." He gives her a glum face, wiggling the fingers in his sling, showing how pathetic his current state truly is. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

She has a plan, but she needs to know if this boy can get by with pure will instead of the bits of luck that have been bestowed upon him. 

The night passes by, the pair in the kitchen fluttering in and out of sleep as they cannot return to the bunks without the newfound sound of a storm waking everyone. Even more so as the child is stirring in his sleep, pressed into the pieces of garments that are said to be his, dreams full of a place where clouds cannot touch. The boy wakes with light shining into his face from the dense glass of the windows, sitting up from the hard floor. He grabs the corner of the table as the ship sways, a fruit rolling from the wood for him to catch, biting into the softness of it.

The child limps out of the nook of the ship, walking out into the brightness of day. He almost lies down on the ground underneath the warmth of the sun, brown eyes falling upon the men who are pulling at the ropes and sails of their vessel. It is only when he walks into the middle of the main deck that he hears a whistle come from up in the sky, Argelle grinning down at him as he sinks from fixing the white fabric. 

"The sweetling is up from his beauty sleep." He teases, feet planting heavily on the wood as he arrives via rope, the creaking of the floorboards making Patrice hiss. 

"You'll need to stop eating soon Argelle, or you'll be plummeting through my deck." The man only laughs, hitting his captain's back with humor, but Patrice shakes his head. The burly male takes in the sore sight of the child with dark curls and a mouth on a rotting peach. "Now you can afford to gain a few pounds."

He continues to explore, as the size of the ship is not that large. Constance is in the corner with Eeyor, shuffling through a net of fish they've caught, getting a board and knife to begin cutting scales and skin. Manu is by the wheel, propped against the tool to keep it still while he reads from his usual book. Seamus and Leroi are talking between one another, the gentle giant teaching the newest member how to properly tie the rope so it holds well. The little pearl watches intently, finishing the rest of his breakfast, eyes piercing the way their hands loop and pull knots, finding contentedness in the way the sound of it tightening rings out.

He is pulled from the trance once a thin hand grips him harshly, the stickiness of it making him cringe as Constance is by his side, eyes ablaze.

"Do you plan on sunbathing through midday? All you have done is eat and worry Patrice," She lets go of him once she's realized he is flinching at her touch, the bones on him so hollow that the girl is again comparing him to the gentlest things of nature. "Baby bird, you are slower than I expected."

It is the first time she sees defiance on his face, the rest of his small frame not matching the fire inside of his blackened eyes. But the girl has yet to realize his head reaches her ears, and that he has yet to grow to his full stature. The thud of Argelle on the deck makes the pair whip their heads around in unison, Patrice scolding him again which results in the two arguing. 

"Quit doing that, yer gonna break through me floorboards!"

"No, I'm not Patrice. You're being mad-"

"Well you're the fat bloke that's making me mad-" Constance wants to swat at the squabbling idiots to be quiet, but the teetering of the child toward them grounds her in place, puzzled at his sudden movement. Then, without warning, he hoists himself with his left arm onto the pillar of the sails, steadily climbing up it toward the skies, the two men seizing their bickering. 

"Skoros jorrāelagon naejot sagon gaomagon kesīr?"

"What's the little lad saying, wench?" She shoots Patrice a face of disgust, always hating the term he holds for her, before translating.

"He wants to know what needs fixing." The girl dismisses herself to hide her smirk, barking at Argelle to follow her and cast more nets out, the easygoing man happy to be on her heels. The captain swallows, looking up into the bright sky to see that the boy is waiting intently for his word.

"Just undo the knot there," Even though he is a man grown, on the sea as young as the boy before him, Patrice flinches as the nimble child moves idly, his bare back purpled with painful bruising. His bare feet are dug into the rope that wraps the pillar, his left arm outstretch and tugging to loosen ties, grabbing onto the free rope suddenly to swing down onto the ground just as Argelle had. "Gods be good!"

He lands softly, his soft weight barely making a creak, brown eyes peering at him with a playful glimmer. The man swallows his growing smile, sucking in the sides of his cheeks to hide his humor before looking at the boy sternly.

"Well if you're gonna take Argelle's gig, you might as well learn how to tie a good kink in the rope too." 

Their last day of the trip to Braavos continues like that, the eager boy climbing up the sails and scaling through the white of the fabrics, the sounds of his incohesive statements filling in the silence every so often as they work around the boat. He tells them he can see other ships from up high, hear birds squawking in their formations, and feel the lapping winds even more ardently. The boy is close to the sun, so content being in its rays that they sometimes find him laid upon a rolled-up sail to take in the heat. Only when they call for him to cease being useless does he move, but Patrice and Constance usually allow him to remain with his afflicted spine facing the sky.

The crew gives him many terms of endearment, but the one that sticks is what they know to be most true of the stranger who craves sugar and fruits.

"Where's the sweetling? I need to clean his head wound." Leroi calls out, Manu pointing up to the sails without peering up from his book. The boy is sat with the pillar between his legs, eyes closed and a wild head of hair whipping in the air. At first, it was peculiar, but now they leave him to his antics. He squirms as the stitching in the back of his skull is blotted, seeing how the others flee back and forth to grab their little belongings to dock. "Hold still now."

He does as told, closing his eyes tight to stop witnessing everything going on, trying his best to be good so they will keep him. Only once does he open his eyes as Leroi's touch leaves him, does all his discipline leave him as they are sailing underneath a great statue, a gladiator in a gallant stance welcoming the boy without memories. Constance places a satchel around herself, coming to take the boy's side and guide him to the side of the vessel, the ship sailing toward the closest island to which Manu steps forward and ruffles the boy's head, careful to only skim the top.

"That's called 'The Titan'." The older boy refers back to the impressive structure that the child is still marveling at. "I'm going to be dropped off at 'The Arsenal' so I can exchange some books and words with the maesters there. You lot will be docking at 'Ragman's Harbor'. I'll take a boat over soon though."

The boy furrows his brows, lips thinning at the mention of Manu leaving, the girl and him only sharing a simple nod. He quickly smiles once Patrice and the other men give him harsh pats on the back and farewells for now, Argelle kissing his cheeks sloppily to which the young boy groans. The Dornish lad gives the kitchen wench one last knowing look before they float off though, Constance patting the back of the child's head, allowing the curls to wrap around her fingers.

What makes him forget is his nerves about his stay, widening as they near land, the scale of the large city before him making him fee he can be dropped into any crevice and forgotten by the people who have saved him.

"We're gonna get you to a maester first, so they can properly check your health and standing, okay boy?" Constance's voice comes out firm, the little bird nodding. The boat creaks as it comes to a slow pace, Patrice barking to drop the anchor to which the ship suddenly jolts to a halt.

They empty out last, the men looking at the pair with a silence washing over them, the girl ready to bolt in order to not hear how they see no use of the child. The customs officers pass by, cutting the tension as they begin to inspect the ship's compartments to make sure the foreign vessel isn't smuggling anything.

"If the little lad has nothing wrong with him, I don't see why we can't keep him around." Her hair of brown bronze swings as she looks up at the captain, tight hand clenched around her stray's left arm. The boy smiles, pulling at her eagerly even though he knows not where they are going, so the girl swallows her smile to give a small thanks to the man. "He'll be taking half of your pay though, wench!"

Finally, she laughs as her back is turned, not bothered as she does not need the money.

Even though Constance is pulling at the boy, their hands interlocked and fingers tangled together, the child moves against the waves of people eagerly. He bobs his head back and forth, some passersby noticing the way he is bandaged and had been cruelly dealt with by the world, moving aside to let him through. It is as if they bend around him, people never hesitant to spare him any kindness. The girl is almost jealous of that.

"Come, this is the square where spare maesters aid the sick," He is standing still and staring wide-eyed, the fun of ducking and dodging through the canals and alleys of the city now cut short. The amber-colored girl only shoves at him with a humored face, directing him toward the tents and coverings with the satchel close to her body.

Constance makes sure to press their bodies tightly together as they weave into the makeshift private rooms, children coughing and adults groaning in pain sprawled out among the floors and little beds that could fit. They tiptoe, trying their best not to squash any hands or flesh littering the ground in complete agony. Her long hair is what prevents the boy from inhaling the pure scent of sickness, leaning closer to his protector in the strange city.

"Is there a free maester anywhere? I got a boy who needs his head checked." One of the wrinkled men stops to stare at the boney-bodied children, eyes dragging up to the splint on the male's arm that is coming apart, the white fabric on his head starting to unwrap. Constance huffs. "And some."

The man turns away to continue aiding elsewhere, going deeper into the tent to which the girl clicks her tongue and brings her satchel around, grabbing the boy again to consume dragging him along.

"Hey, come on. We've got money. I just need a second opinion-"

"A lot of the sick come here, girl. If you need just a second opinion then I suggest you get help elsewhere," He looks again at the boy, the child looking past him at the jar of caramels they keep around for the babes who cannot ingest too much syrup at a time. "He seems fine to me."

"Yeah, great. But he's got a serious case," The man is moving again, his hands full of an arm-length bandage, dripping across the floor in an ointment that makes even the girl step back in discontent from the fumes. "The boy's got a bump in his head or something."

He looks at the pair with annoyance on his face now, pressing the stinking fabrics on a back, the grown man hissing with his eyes clamped shut before the maester helps lower the patient onto the bed. His tone comes out condescending now. "Oh, really now?"

"He can't even remember his own name," The child stays by the sick man's side as the girl continues badgering the hesitant maester, his pale hand coming to press against the stranger's forehead softly, sweat coming off him, the simple touch easing the creases between his brows. "Not even his own mother's face."

He wants to tell her of his dreams. The way his mind always comes back to a place in the sky, where even the clouds cannot touch. The violet flower blooming into the violent eye. But he has grown to dislike the language he speaks, the way it makes his heart stir and stomach feel empty though he eats so well. That there is something dead inside him, and it is not only his memories.

"Fine," The boy's one good shoulder is gripped, the spin of his body making his eyes shudder and head throb. Careful hands tread on him now, the maester breathing softly as the stickiness of pus makes the final peeling of the fabric on his head a bit harder. Thankfully though, the great gash is only leaking the last of the ailment, the man humming softly before looking beneath the splint now, seeing how the bruising is colored accordingly, blood surely pumping through the young boy. Then he looks straight into his brown eyes and swallows hard. "Pray tell me child, can you really not remember a speck of your own life? Not even your name?"

He nods, the man asking the girl if he can talk. Constance only sighs in annoyance and circles back to how they found him in the ocean, and the way the stray speaks in Valryian, part of Essos residing in him. But he is as plain-faced as they come, the brown hair and eyes along with ivory skin making it obvious that he has never been in the great summer of the East where the language he speaks thrives still. The maester listens intently, cleaning at the scalp wound instinctively and pressing a better adhesive to cover the gash, one that won't come undone from all the curls springing from the child's head.

"Well, all I can say is he's been cared for properly," She smirks, the man turning toward her suddenly making her face still again instinctively. "His head wound still needs careful cleaning and his shoulder needs just rest. And for the other peculiarity, well I believe his memory can come back on its own. Familiarities from his previous way of life can conjure them better."

He's walking again, still talking and listing off his theories.

"But, his body could instinctively be keeping him from remembering things as they were."

"What?" Constance is at ground zero again with the ever-evolving complexities of the child she chose to take in.

"Well, girl," He gives the boy a caramel, knowing how badly he's been eyeing it and feeling sorry for how skinny he is. "When trauma occurs, which is undoubtedly what the child's body is showing, our minds cut off these horrific events to prevent any more damage. Internally that is."

She stares at him through her eyebrows, her plan unraveling a bit.

"So what? He chooses not to remember?" Her freckled face is boring into the boy's, his lips wrapped around the sweet and suckling it like a kitten.

"Not him exactly. Mayhaps what they call a soul? I don't have time to delve into philosophies with you any longer, child. Go on and take the boy. You'll both be fine." His wrinkled hand shoos them away, Constance giving a final blow out of her mouth from the distaste of this news. The boy is pushed out by her, his eyes lingering on the people still in writhing states at the fronts of the tents, the girl softening at his concern. 

"They've probably got not enough money to get seen as quickly as those in the back of the tent. No use stirring your mind about that too, come now." 

She shows the pearl more wonders of the free city, watching street performers and inhaling the scent of seafood being cooked in the stands. While they peruse, the boy stares at the candied fruit and the sticky sweets in the clutches of small children passing by, the girl tugging on him to keep up. 

"We've got to get to the tradesmen before they relocate for the day, chop-chop." Her nose tickles his ear as she talks into it, the child giggling before taking her hand. She allows his warmth into her callused palm.

The city of Braavos is a greatly populated lagoon, each person looking so much different than the next. Some of them are so small they reach only the boy's hips despite being people grown. He loves it all. The fountains in the middle of squares, families flipping coins into the middle of the spluttering water to then press their hands together and think hard. It makes him almost stop to try and understand it, but Constance pulls him onward as she finishes exchanging contents from her satchel for money.

Once they weave through the crowd, the girl is less desperate at her tugs, the stray noticing a great structure before them now, in the center of a lonely island vacant of people or wells with coins. It is grey and almost desolate, the doors of the temple black and white, strange much like the girl. As if she can read his mind, Constance turns him around by his good shoulder, looking him in the eyes with her own darkened ones.

"When we enter, you must not say your name." He only stares back at her, looking around in confusion to see if she talks to another, as they both know he is without one. "And you must trust me. Say it. Say you'll trust me."

"Nyke kivio." He breathes out, the girl pressing her forehead against his, the thin brows on her usually still face pointing up to the sky with worry. Then it washes off just as quickly as it came, Constance taking her little bird's hand in her own rough ones to lead him up to the steps of the temple. He is scared now, feeling she should have never told him anything. The girl only knocks once before a gap is made in the door, the face of a handsome man peering down at the two children, chin pointing upwards at the sight of Constance.

"I was thinking you'd run away." She doesn't answer, the stranger looking at the boy with a battered body and opening the doors fully to let them in. Constance shoves her way through, peering up at the person who is familiar to her, then glaring at him as he studies the stray he has brought before him. Like he is a meal. "Who is this?"

"He has no name." He is humored, a sly smile falling on his lips before he shakes his head at the honey-complected girl.

"No, no, child. That is not how this works."

"Issa drēje. Eman daor brōzi." The boy speaks almost defensively, his fingers pressing into the girl's own. The man sees, eyes steadying on the child's, and how his tongue rolls a dead language off his lips.

"He has no memory," Constance says, staring at her mentor with a look that only they understand, the man huffing before walking ahead of the pair still by the doors. With him wandering to the center of the room, the boy can now allow himself to acknowledge the walls surrounding him, the statues circling the temple watching the curious thing that gawks their way. He turns, almost shy in their presence, seeing the way the man is bent over the pool in the center of the room now, one greater than the fountain he'd seen, no children or families eager to flick coins into it and think hard. No-- the man is taking the water from the greatness of its body, scooping it into a wooden bowl that reminds him of how hungry he is getting, turning to Constance to try and tell her. Instead, she is boring her eyes into the pool, letting go of her boy's hand as her mentor returns to them, steadily holding the dish toward the child.

"Drink, boy. If you wish for a name, take the entirety of it." He looks hesitantly at the clearness of the innocent-looking liquid, turning over to the girl who still stares ahead, body so still except for the rise and fall of her chest. Suddenly, for a split second, her fingers brush against his own, the gentleness of it making the child remember how he promised to trust her. 

So he takes it, looking at the figure before him with strange hair of red and white, glancing back into the bowl before gulping the water, noticing for the first time just how thirsty he is. His mouth is greedy with it, following the direction of the man who has told him to drink it all, a hand coming to run across the top of his head as if praising him before it runs roughly to the back of his scalp, and digs into the wound.

The boy yelps, dropping the emptied bowl in surprise before pain begins to fill him, his body growing so weak all of a sudden that he drops to the ground in agony. He can feel the heat of Constance beside him, but he can no longer see clearly, his eyes throbbing as waves of pressure release inside of his skull. He cries, dizziness consuming him as he begins to recall flashes of white hair, the feel of scales underneath his skin, the contorting face of his mother as her babe dies inside her, and the heat of Aemond's eye as he demands one of Lucerys' own.

Lucerys. Luke. Velaryon. Targaryen. Bastard.

"What is your name?" He looks up at the man, the prince's eyes steadying with anger, panting in a newfound thirst for something other than the water in the pool or sweets in the square. Revenge.

"Lucerys." The man clicks his tongue, all of a sudden slapping the boy to send him on his back, Luke blinks harshly from the pain before sitting up. Constance only stares at him, no longer seeing remnants of the stray she saw before. He is almost whole after all.

"Tell me again, who are you?" The Velaryon prince remembers the girl's words, running the back of his hand against his face as he feels the hot blood falling from his nose. He wipes it away, getting up from the ground shakily and swallowing his pride. He is in Essos, with no dragon, with no real title or connection back to his home. He knows the true circumstances and stakes of being away from the protection in his fortress in Dragonstone.

"I am no one." The man is appeased by his weak whisper, his attention turning to Constance who walks away, the stranger following her as they began to speak in hushed whispers. Lucerys blots the iron from his face, clenching his jaw as the pain still courses through him, from both the current injury and past swelling memories. Before he has time to begin to cry from the rush of emotions shaking him to his core, Constance is gripping him and they are walking out of the temple hurriedly.

"We'll be back by night, the men we follow will be searching for us," Her mentor is silent, watching the pair with tightened eyes before the black and white doors close. They are hidden away from his gaze once more, Lucerys' still eyes dripping hot tears from his frozen face, Constance quiet as she has her arm around his thin waist and is taking him into the darkest corner of Braavos, so private and still that the world is turned off around them. Even in the shadows, Luke can see the way she melts at the sight of him breaking. He hates the look of pity from the callused-hand girl.

"Why do you help me? Tell me. And please do not lie." She looks away for only a second with guilt, grabbing a hold of herself in an attempt to self-soothe. It doesn't work.

"You remind me of someone I used to know. That is all this is, I promise." Constance returns the oath between them, the two children quiet as Luke still silently cries. His brown eyes turn away from her own first, wavering on the brick of the wall to breathe shallowly, the steadiness breaking as he begins to fold into himself and wail, his hands coming up to his face as if to hide from the girl who has already seen so much of him. Constance has witnessed the entirety of his naked flesh, and yet he is afraid to let her know of the horror inside his mind; the recollection of falling from the greatest height, the feeling of Arrax's tense body becoming limp as she dies in between his legs. He thought she wouldn't understand, a piece of yourself so vacant, yet you are still forced to keep walking upright in such a wretched place.

"What is going on over here?" The corners of the world bring destruction at his feet again, Lucerys not even look ingup at first to acknowledge the men talking. He only peers up as the footsteps close in on the two, a group of men towering over the boney-bodied children. The realm does not hesitate to hurt him it seems. "Are little whores usually allowed out of the pleasure houses? It seems we have to do some recounting for your madams."

They step closer, Luke gulping as they touch themselves through their breeches, wanting to state how he is a boy, but realizing such depravities aren't unheard of when it comes to mindless rape. Constance is cautious, propping the satchel across her body on the barrel Lucerys is scrunched up on, looking into the boy's eyes with clarity as she reaches sneakily into her belongings. It is then when they reach out with the intent to begin tearing apart at their bodies that she swings around, her long limbs slicing the air so precisely that the candle in the lantern meant to light the dark corner is snuffed out. It leaves Lucerys only hearing the sound of flesh squelching and grown men crying. His own tears have stopped, his breaths halting to hear for the girl, fear piercing him as he feels she is taken from him as well. Then her silhouette comes from the dark, blood splattered across the center of her face as if they were her copper freckles, her eyes devoid of anything. Without a word of her want for it, Luke takes her wrist with his uninjured arm, pulling her to him and away from the shadows, not caring if the blood smears and dirties his own flesh. The children stay like that for a while, using one another for warmth and comfort in the aftermath of an unforgiving moment. Then she moves, peeling the top from one of the dead men and drowning the boy in the fabrics, the body heat from the now rotting corpse making Lucerys swallow hard.

Afterward, they find themselves in the waters on the outskirts of the city, rubbing away the red sin and enjoying the whisperings of the soft waves. The two move in sync now, not needing to talk as Constance leads them to a stand, purchasing hot cakes that the two eat hungrily in silence. They watch the latter of crowds as they walk aimlessly now, small toddlers in the hands of their mothers and fathers, couples pressed into one another as if they are one. 

"How did you end up in the middle of the ocean?" She asks, Lucerys wiping away tears that are still falling unintentionally.

"I was chased, murdered me in the middle of the sky." Constance looks at him with confusion, Luke refusing to meet her eyes even if she has killed and lied on his behalf. Then he remembers his promise to her, ignoring the quaking feeling in his chest that prevents him from trusting her. He couldn't even count on his own judgment, believing so immensely that Aemond only wanted his pain and not his death. "My uncle seized me on dragon's back. His own ate mine."

He says it through clenched teeth, forcing himself to swallow the rest of the cake hurriedly before his appetite goes again for days possibly, so wrecked as the image of Arrax letting herself be eaten instead of him lets another cry shake through his body. Constance's still face is now flooded with what Luke knows to be disbelief, knowing how the people of Essos' are so blessed with their own problems away from the Iron Throne. It is only a tale in these lands, the way Patrice says his families conquerings as if they are stories to scare children at night. 

Silently, Lucerys comes to a standstill and grips her satchel, opening it to allow the red and black clothes to peek back at them, the girl nodding now as the stories Patrice says settles into her bones. "You are a Targaryen. But with no hair of white or violet eyes-"

"I'm a bastard. My mother is Targaryen." He cuts her off, closing the satchel as well as the conversation. 

"You remember her," Constance says breathily, remembering the way the boy called out to her. Her fingers intertwine with his curls carefully, Lucerys beginning to cry again without his want, the last image of his queen's face making him choke out a sob, covering his mouth to stifle the sound. Instead of talking anymore, the girl begins to relocate the two of them again as people begin to stare at the child mourning, oblivious it is himself he cries out for. Luke is unaware of that too.

As she is bad at comforting, the girl only softly reminds him of how Manu is set to come back to Ragman's Harbor with any news, setting him on the quest initially to hear about the boy's possible shipwreck. They are back at the dock, sitting at the edge to let their legs dip into the water, the girl resting her head on Luke's good shoulder as he rests his own pounding skull upon hers. They watch as ships roll in and the sun begins to kiss the horizon, their toes curling around tickling algae.

"I am a bastard too." She confesses as if it is a deep secret, something she has never said out loud. "My mother was a whore. I never knew my father." Luke nods against her head, wondering what it is about him that makes people either adore him or loathe him. He doesn't have time to unpack it all, so he just reciprocates her tender feelings.

"I only knew mine for a short time. He died in a fire. But I only understood I was his until..." It was a few nights after Driftmark, Lucerys had heard his mother cry out Harwin Strong's name during the time he had convinced her to lay with him in his chambers, the image of his uncle's split face torturing his psyche. After that though, Luke told her he was without nightmares, scared of the new truth more than the hauntings inside his mind, not caring if she was with her own sleepless nights. "Until I grew up I supposed."

"Pray, how old are you, boy?"

"Four and ten." She laughs, shaking her head suddenly and peeling away from his warmth. Lucerys looks at her with confusion, something strange always making Constance humored. "What? I am."

"You are not grown, child." She laughs out, the apples of her cheeks reaching her eyes gleefully, hand out to pet him again but he shifts away in anger, defiance in him again. Constance is beginning to recognize his festering heat.

"I am. I'm betrothed, set to inherit a great fleet. I am a man grown." Luke says carefully, but then the feeling leaves him, the winds coming from the sea coating him in a cold embrace as the sun sets. "I-I was. I don't know anymore."

"You are a bastard and yet you have all these great things?" She asks him curiously, directing him away from his hurt. "You know what it is like to be loved, no? Bastards are left to live off scraps, not such privileges."

"It is complex, Constance." He tries to stop the truth from coming out, so scared of the arrival of Manu in his little boat, anxious to hear what news has reached over from Westeros. "My family is at war. A gruesome one now that... that I believe my death has started." Constance spins her face around, Lucerys wondering for a split second if the girl is aware of how petite she is, understanding she probably does, and yet still orders him around.

"You mean what your uncle has started. He is the one who tore an innocent boy from the sky-"

"I am not innocent." Lucerys breathes, his tears starting up all over again. Constance all of a sudden remembers what it is like to be hesitant of touch, not outstretching this time to rest a hand in his head of curls for him. Luke only stares into the water, anger consuming him at the thought of Aemond, the hatred growing as he remembers Arrax's shredded corpse, making him hold his torso tightly. "But neither is he."

The pair look up as they hear a distant holler, the sight of Manu waving to them in a single rowboat making Lucerys wipe his eyes and look to Constance for direction. She simply stares ahead at the young man docking hurriedly.

"Manu is smart. He figured out who I really am days into knowing me. He'll know you're different. But you can trust him, I promise." Luke listens to her words but thinks for a few seconds, recalling how he is Dornish, and how that Southern place holds a particular spot of disgust towards Targaryen's. "He's just a curious lad. He's truly no harm to you, Lucerys."

She calls him his name for the first time, and he settles at the gentle sound of it leaving her usually harsh tongue. The prince feels lucky to have found such a person as her, or more so her finding him in the middle of the Narrow Sea.

"Is it true, is he a prince?" Manu is heaving as he approaches, Constance turning to look at Luke with wide eyes and thin brows high into the air, the look of her frazzled making the boy silent. He hadn't had time to completely explain his privilege. She quickly regains her composure, realizing the key detail of the throne Lucerys' family sits on, heeding the boy's warning of how his circumstances are indeed complex. 

"What are you on about?" She presses, knowing the young man is almost bursting to tell what he's found out, returning so late from the new book in his hand he's flirted out of some serving girls.

"What do you mean what am I on about? It is as I said. This boy is Lucerys Velaryon, the bastard of Rhaenyra Targaryen." Manu says in astonishment, careful to be quiet so passersby don't notice as he marvels at the boy, circling him with clear intrigue plastered on his face. "I heard from one of the maesters that the remains of a dragon have been scoured for along Blackwater Bay, so, I remembered how we found the prince in those waters region-"

He turns to face Luke, brown eyes wide in wonder and his mouth running more than it has the five days they were at sea together.

"I call you prince, correct? Or lord? Or both?" Lucerys doesn't respond, stuck in the ground, Manu continuing without even stopping to breathe it seemed. "Anyways, they say the prince's body has yet to be found- because it is widely rumored that he has been eaten by his uncle's dragon, Vhagar. The biggest one in the realm-- the dragon that Visenya Targaryen herself sought the conquest of Westeros with, nearly one hundred years ago. Now its rider is Aemond Targaryen, the uncle you cut... an eye...from..."

Lucerys is realizing that mayhaps the strained relationship between the Dornish and Targaryen's aren't so hard to believe after all. Manu puts his head down in shame, reddening from his neck up and ushering remorse from his lips.

"I've caused great offense. I apologize. I'm merely a scholar. I revel in history and knowledge is all, my prince. Your circumstances are not of amusement." They are silent. Manu peeking his head up to swallow quickly before speaking once more. "In Dorne, we believe a woman is in her right to rule despite her sex. Your mother is rightfully Queen. I'm sorry she's been made to be otherwise."

Luke's throat tightens at Manu's words, nodding as his eyes well with tears that he feels will never end. Constance can only bring her boney hand back to his head, combing through the unruly hair with tender fingertips and warm caresses as the bigger picture is painted for her now. 

"I've got to go back home. I've got to return to her." Lucerys says, head tucked down still but eyes full of will. The girl only sighs, letting go of her hold on him. Manu shifts in his place, wiping the sweat of his hands on his breeches before starting to talk again.

"My lord, the news I continue to recall is that boats are ceasing to leave docks and cross the Narrow Sea as the King and Queen are sailing urgently in search of your corpse. There are blockades, and your grandfather's fleet as well, stopping any trading in that region now. And," The older boy looks at Luke now, mouth wavering as he struggles to find words for the first time. "They say that- in your name- the death of one of the king's children has occurred. A boy of six."

Lucerys shakes his head in shock, dread filling his entire being as he steps back from the dock, so wobbly he might fall into the sea again.

"She wouldn't. My mother couldn't possibly- she knows I wouldn't want that-"

"My prince, the maesters and servant girls have only heard so much-"

"Lucerys, your nose is bleeding again." Constance cuts in, the boy wiping his face with shaking eyes. He holds his arm against his delicate features, the crimson dripping into the gray ground beneath him along with salt from his tears. He is tired and cold, the whites of his eyes bloodshot while his exposed skin is pebbling from the winds that night brings. 

"I've got to go back." He says again, but this time it doesn't come out as if the boy truly does wish to return home. The three writhe under the terrible weight of it all.

"Let's buy some fresh garments. You're cold to the touch." Luke sighs again, his head spinning as he feels so stuck, not wanting to continue following what the girl keeps offering to him as comfort and coddling. Then suddenly there is a flood of clarity filling him as he is left to mourn, nodding to himself as he begins to walk first, Manu looking at the freckled girl with a perplexed face. Constance only moves her long-limbed body to keep up with her little pearl. "What are you thinking of doing now, boy?"

"I'm gonna sell those clothes I came in." Lucerys looks at Manu now, his head turned and bruised body crashing into anyone who is in his way. He does not writhe in pain any longer. "Where can I purchase a messaging bird?"

The two look at him in bewilderment, only piecing together his plans a beat later.

"You plan to write to her- your mother-"

"I am no use to my queen as of now, but she needs to know I am alive. I am no longer a dragon rider, my dominant fighting arm is damaged, but I-" 

"You'll stay." Manu concludes for him, Constance furrowing her brows at the innocent idea as they weave through the city, the dark streets beginning to be illuminated by lanterns and the glee of drunkards clinking their cheap cups of wine together. It does little to comfort the princeling, so Manu adds his own promises. "We'll protect you. We have."

Luke only looks at him for a second, wanting to explain how he doesn't want to remain the sheltered boy he is anymore. But instead, he turns away to come upon merchants and sellers, the memory of purchasing the violet flower coming to the front of his mind, the flashing image of it making his brain shudder in pain and betrayal. He winces, ignoring the way the copper-colored girl is staring at him with her usual serious stricken face, scared she will try to soothe him again. His trembling hands clutch his old clothing, feeling as if it is skin he has shed, come forth anew. Quickly, he turns to any of the few commonfolk heckling prices and hollering over to anyone who will listen, picking on those who have few jewels littering their fingers or necks. It is a woman who looks humoredly at the young boy, seeing the way he is in clothes too big for him and sickly from his visible injuries. 

"What do you want?" Her voice is anything but kind, but he does not need her empathy, only the coins she offers.

"Prices for these expensive fabrics. They have embellished details with fine gold and metals, and the stitching firm," He pulls at the clothing to show her how industrial it is. The better example would be to explain how it survived the clutches of Vhagar herself, but that would entail having to admit his own survival. Lucerys knew that was anything but completely true. Her silence leaves him begin to grow impatient, the stares at the back of his head from Manu and Constance making him grow less confident. "I'll take any coin you offer."

She scoffs, her tongue tutting as she deems it unusual for a street child to possess such fine things, his quick tongue not fooling her.

"Where did you steal these pieces from, boy? You seem too hasty to make these clothes my problem." Lucerys scoffs back at her, offended at her ignorance, but simmers as he knows he is not in any place where Targaryen heat is recognized and bowed to.

"I've outgrown them. I never knew a merchant who cares so much about where goods are sourced from. I supposed I'll go elsewhere-"

"I'll give you twenty iron coins for them," She shines the foreign currency in his face, the boy's face contorting in confusion as he only knows of Westeros' Gold Dragon coin, the face of his great-great-grandfather on it. The distant name of Jaehaerys makes the boy wilt again, remembering his aunt Helaena's boy, his ugly mind wondering how the terror happened. 

"It's yours," Constance cuts in, the lady reaching out greedily before the girl starts up again. "For five more coins."

She rolls her eyes, the hag digging more out and clanking them before the children, snatching the garments out of their hands and beginning to ignore them by resuming her call to any other possible customers. Manu fumbles into his own pockets to retrieve a pouch, the older boy counting up their savings, Lucerys realizing what the two are doing.

"I don't want you two using any of your own savings for my endeavors." The Dornish male continues counting, then begins his ramblings of the contents he reads back up again.

"A messaging raven of the caliber you're trying to acquire would have to be of Dragonstone origin, as the animals retreat back and forth between places they are familiar with. So, we have no idea how much the price of them would be measured for your far away home. Not even 'The Arsenal' has one for those parts of Westeros, that I know of. But I suppose we're buying a private one since we don't want any of the maesters prodding about your business." 

Lucerys nods, looking to see how Constance is quiet as she leads the two boys deep into Braavos, farther than the boy was taken into for the Black and White temple. It is a secret market they dip into, available once they duck inside the hole of a brick wall, and completely different than the casual tradesmen out in the streets and squares. The citizens are hushed, foreign languages spilling from serpent-like mouths, and cloaked figures float across the isles with people themselves chained like valuables to their masters. Manu looks around in wonder as usual, putting away his coins in case any onlookers try and pry them from his hands. Lucerys only stares at those whose eyes linger on him too long, realizing that they peer at his chest in respect, the boy glancing down to see that flicks of blood litter the fabric from the dead man it used to adorn. His face itself is sticky from the remnants of the iron that dripped from his nose, Luke's ugly mind flickering to the night on Driftmark, the warmth that flooded the center of his face as Aemond broke his nose, the prince gritting his teeth at the thought of his uncle.

Then the sound of cooing and wings fluttering against cages made him simmer down, his brown eyes roving over the birds trapped within the small confinements, so tragic for the blessed beings with the gift of flight. Constance begins talking, inquiring which of the creatures originate from the most foreign of places, the seller listing places only South. Lucerys does not need to listen though, as his fingers come to hover over a specific fragile animal, the white dove inside the cage quivering as it struggles to even walk in the small space. It is one he's seen nesting in the crannies and crooks of Dragonstone and Driftmark, the striking pale birds always shooed at and believed to be pests as they litter the docks, so domesticated they have no instinct to fly away from angry sailors or grabby handed children.

"How much for this one?" The merchant laughs, looking at the pitiful thing, snatching up the cage harshly which makes the other birds jump. The dove only blinks, expectant of food.

"A mere coin. I've been wanting to get rid of this one for ages. She's all yours." Manu flips the iron over, Constance grimacing at the choice of messenger Luke has made. The boy only unlatches the small wire cage, throwing it to the side and clutching the creature in the crook of his neck, his lips grazing over the softness of her feathers.

The process of writing the letter is slow, Lucerys hell-bent on having it in High Valryian, clearly unable to write as his dominant hand is swole and stiff, so Manu is the one who struggles as Constance never learned to read or write. They listen to the droning orders of Luke's instructions, feigning on the certain peculiarness order of letters and the accents Manu jots down, easily buying a small paper, pen, and ink for another coin. The two boys do this while Constance pokes at the dove, crumbling leftover hot cake she had stored in her satchel for the creature to peck at. The girl remains silent as she hears the contents of the message that the Dornish man is left ignorant of, listening to the way the boy demands to know why an innocent babe is dead in his name, asking for his mother to cease mourning him, and pleading his queen to not plunge the realm into a war of dragon fire and kinslaying. She only flinches once as Lucerys orders Manu to sign the letter off as 'Aōha dōna valītsos', realizing they had indeed given the child a title accurate to his sweet nature, thinking about the cruelty of the man who could possibly caste the boy before her down. Only once the hour passes and the message is set to be carried across the Narrow Sea does Manu bid the pair farewell, disappearing into the streets for an inn, and noting to himself that he will possibly see them in days if not weeks with the way Constance moves in and out of the House of Black and White.

They are on the outskirts of Braavos again, the day gone as Luke ties the scrolled-up paper to the bird's slim talons, instinctively pecking a kiss into the dove and praying it reaches his mother. When he lets it go, the dove flutters into the sky swiftly, so urgent and fluid into the air it is as if it was always in the winds and not a compact cage. Before the boy can finally smile at Constance and feel content with her own, she has a wash of worry on her face as she looks past him, Lucerys turning slowly to see the man from the temple, a cloak upon his figure and eyes simmered on the two. Only the sound of waves crashing against the dock fills the silence.

"Are you done being Lucerys for the day, boy?" Before Constance can try and speak up, try to urge herself to shield the boy's thin body with her own, she understands she cannot defy death himself. But the prince knows what it is he must do now, so inquisitive on the history books of Old Valyria, knowing the foundings of the Faceless Men, and how the stranger before him understood his foreign tongue.

"Valar morghulis." The man smiles at the boy, nodding as the pair of children shed their names and let their ghosts fall into the ocean, stepping forward to follow him into the darkness of the city.

As the shadows wash over them on their way back to the temple, a deep voice rolls out its response, igniting Lucerys' insides enough to fill the void again. "All men must serve."