Edric Arryn stood in the large cabin of the Moon's Grace, the ship's gentle sway a familiar rhythm beneath his feet as it sat docked in Ragman's Harbor. The morning sun filtered through the porthole, casting a warm glow over the wooden walls, and Edric, at nine and a half, prepared for the day with the deliberate care of a lord. He'd sent Davos and the boys to explore the city hours ago, and now it was time to attend to his own business in Braavos—business he'd kept even from his crew, though the Iron Bank was his first stop.
He shed his sweat-stained white tunic, replacing it with an ornate blue doublet, the rich fabric embroidered with a silver falcon across the chest, its wings spread in flight, a symbol of House Arryn's pride. Over his shoulders, he draped his black bear cloak, the pelt a trophy from the Kingswood hunt, its dark fur gleaming, a mark of his ferocity despite his youth. A pair of brand-new black boots, polished to a mirror shine, hugged his feet, their leather soft but sturdy, fit for a lordling's journey through a foreign city. He fastened a silver belt around his waist, its buckle shaped like a crescent moon, and slid his live steel sword into a finely tooled scabbard at his hip. A moon-and-falcon clasp pinned the cloak at his throat, and a single silver ring, engraved with the Arryn sigil, adorned his right hand. The outfit was a statement—Edric Arryn, heir to the Vale, a lord in every sense, even at his age. The three scars on the side of his head, where hair no longer grew, only added to his commanding presence, a fierce reminder of his grit.
As he dressed, he'd sent out a few of his Arryn guards to locate the Iron Bank of Braavos, their blue cloaks a stark contrast to the city's vibrant chaos. He was adjusting his cloak when a sharp knock sounded at the door. "Enter," Edric called, his voice steady, lordly.
The door opened, revealing Ser Luthor, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late thirties, his face weathered from years in the Vale's harsh winds, a jagged scar running across his left cheek from a skirmish with mountain clansmen. His short brown hair was flecked with gray, and his blue cloak was pinned with a falcon badge, his armor gleaming beneath. "M'lord," Ser Luthor said, his voice gruff but respectful, "we've found the Iron Bank. It's not far—across the Long Canal, near the Isle of the Gods."
Edric nodded, his blue eyes sharp with purpose. "Good. Gather the remaining guards—we're going now." Ser Luthor bowed and stepped out, leaving Edric to take a final glance in a small, cracked mirror. A lord of the Vale in Braavos, he thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Let's see what the Iron Bank makes of me.
With Ser Luthor leading the way, Edric and his nine remaining Arryn guards—clad in polished armor, blue cloaks billowing, swords at their hips—stepped off the ship and into the streets of Braavos. The city was a labyrinth of canals and bridges, its air thick with the scent of salt, fish, and spices. As they walked, Edric's eyes darted to the sights around him, his senses sharp despite the unfamiliarity. Blind men sat against walls, their hands outstretched, their voices a low chant for alms, their eyes milky and unseeing. In a narrow canal to his left, a body floated face-down, its clothes tattered, a victim of the city's darker currents—drowned, perhaps, or killed and dumped. Men and women with predatory eyes watched from shadowed alleys, their gazes hungry, calculating, but none dared approach the lordling and his armored retinue. Edric's guards moved with disciplined precision, their hands resting on sword hilts, their presence a clear warning.
Cats prowled everywhere—sleek, gray creatures with sharp eyes, darting across bridges, lounging on rooftops, their movements silent and sure. Edric remembered tales of Braavos's cats, how they roamed free, sacred to the city, some said to be the descendants of those kept by the courtesans or the Faceless Men. One, a tabby with a torn ear, paused to stare at him, its green eyes unblinking, before slinking into a fishmonger's stall.
Edric's thoughts shifted, and with a flicker of will, he slipped into Storm's mind, the falcon soaring high above the city. Through her amber eyes, Braavos unfolded like a tapestry—hundreds of small islands linked by bridges, their canals a shimmering web of green and blue, reflecting the pale stone of the buildings. The Titan of Braavos stood sentinel at the harbor, its stone and bronze form a giant against the sky, while the Palace of Truth rose in the distance, its green copper dome gleaming. The Isle of the Gods was a cluster of temples—the red-roofed Temple of the Lord of Light, the domed Great Sept of the Seven, the mysterious House of Black and White with its black-and-white doors. Ships dotted the waters, their sails a riot of colors, and the city buzzed with life, a sprawling, vibrant chaos unlike anything in Westeros. Edric pulled back, returning to his own body with a seamless ease, the deck's sway beneath his boots grounding him as Storm's sharp cry echoed above.
They crossed a stone bridge over the Long Canal, the water below rippling with the passage of a narrow boat, its oarsman singing in a lilting Braavosi tongue. Edric's guards kept close, Ser Luthor at his side, and the Iron Bank came into view—a massive structure of pale stone, its columns carved with the sigil of Braavos, a stern building that spoke of wealth and power. Edric straightened, his ornate doublet catching the light, his bear cloak swaying, and stepped forward, ready to face the bankers of Braavos with the weight of House Arryn behind him.