In the study of the Sealord’s Palace, Qarro held a stack of docunts and reported, “The Taloris, Lysis, and Gata families have all sent people to inquire about what happened at the Temple of the Storm God. Magister Batum also…”
“Enough!” Ferrego cut him off, his expression dark as he stared at the docunts on the desk. After a brief silence, he said, “Send word to the Keyholders and the Magisters—I will provide appropriate compensation.”
“My lord, you…” Qarro’s face shifted slightly, as if he wanted to protest, but Ferrego raised a hand, signaling him to remain silent.
The religious upheaval caused by his surveillance of the Temple of the Storm God had, without question, greatly increased the influence and power of the various temples and shrines. This, however, was not a welco developnt for the Trade Magisters and the families of the Keyholders in the city.
With the rise of the religious faction, the power of the rchant Princes and Keyholders within Braavos would inevitably be diminished.
At this mont, they would not dare to direct their frustrations at the temples and shrines on the Isle of Gods, nor would they act against the Temple of the Storm God—the other focal point of this religious surge. After all, Priestess Lyra was already widely acknowledged as a divine favorite. Any move against her would undoubtedly provoke the rapidly growing ranks of Storm God worshippers.
Thus, the rchant Princes and the Keyholder families could only direct their resentnt toward the Sealord, the root of the incident.
Though they could not openly accuse the Sealord, they could work together to bombard him with letters of inquiry. By doing so, they effectively surrounded him with these veiled threats—soft knives that cut relentlessly, harassing him again and again. And because of tradition and protocol, Ferrego had no choice but to respond to each letter individually.
In the end, his only option was to pay a price to settle the matter—sacrificing so of his own interests in exchange for letting the issue pass.
At this mont, he found himself regretting purchasing that enchanted armor in the first place. But his regret did not last long before it turned into resentnt—resentnt toward Lynd, who had yet to make an appearance.
...
While the Sealord stewed in his frustration, the very man he resented was lounging outside a tavern by the Moon Pool, south of the Sealord’s Palace. He sat leisurely, listening as a bard perford for the visiting courtesans, Daughter of the Dusk and Moonshadow, beside the shimring waters.
The Moon Pool was a key feature of the Sweetwater Channel. A waterway guided fresh water into an ornate spouting fountain at its center, where it cascaded down and gathered in a vast, clear pool.
This pond was connected to the city's canals, serving as a docking point for noble visitors who arrived by boat before heading north to conduct business at the Iron Bank. On most days, the docks around the Moon Pool were bustling with moored vessels.
Today, however, the docks were empty. Not a single boat lingered—save for two exquisitely adorned flower boats, the exclusive vessels of Braavos’ fad courtesans.
These two boats belonged to the city’s most sought-after courtesans, Moonshadow and Daughter of the Dusk. Their presence was the reason bards, warriors, and curious onlookers had gathered in droves around the Moon Pool.
In Braavos, courtesans occupied a unique and prestigious position. They were not re prostitutes but symbols of status—like a crown upon a king’s head. Each was not only renowned for her breathtaking beauty but also for her vast knowledge of history, mastery of music and poetry, and exceptional skill in the art of the Water Dance. They were, in many ways, the embodint of perfection.
Their daily lives revolved around accompanying Braavos’ elite to banquets and gatherings. If they found a suitor to their liking, they might choose to spend the night with him—but only if they wished. No guest, not even the Sealord of Braavos himself, could compel them otherwise.
Owing to their exceptional diplomatic skills and erudition, Braavosi courtesans were frequently appointed as envoys, sent by the Sealord to negotiate with rulers and city-states across the world. Their reputation had spread far and wide, making the na of the Braavosi courtesan known in every corner of the world.
Fewer than fifty won in all of Braavos were worthy of the title, and among them, most hailed from four distinguished courtesan families. Moonshadow and Daughter of the Dusk were scions of two such lineages.
Their appearance at the Moon Pool today was for a particular purpose—to select musicians for the upcoming Day of the Moonsinger’s Redemption.
For the people of Braavos, this festival was second in significance only to the Anniversary of the Masks. It commorated the Moonsingers’ guidance of Valyrian slaves to the sanctuary of Braavos, marking the city’s founding.
Because of this, every faction in Braavos regarded the occasion with great importance. The Temple of the Moonsingers had personally enlisted the two most musically discerning courtesans in the city to handpick the perforrs for the event.
As a result, every musician in Braavos had gathered by the Moon Pool, each eager to showcase their finest talents before the courtesans aboard the flower boats.
Among the perforrs were not only native Braavosi but also musicians from across the known world. For them, this was a rare chance at fa—an opportunity to rise above the taverns and alehouses where they played for coin. If chosen to perform at the Day of Redemption, they would beco known throughout the world, gracing the feasts of kings, lords, and nobles, rather than scraping by on the ager generosity of common patrons.
The perforr on stage was a Westerosi, using a small war drum typically employed for commanding troops. He beat out a rhythm while singing The Song of the Chosen by Lynd, clearly hoping to capitalize on the recent events in the city related to the Chosen to draw more attention to himself.
Unfortunately, his plan backfired. The drumbeat he devised clashed awkwardly with the song’s flowing lody, and before he could get far, two courtesans simultaneously put a stop to his performance. The crowd responded with a chorus of boos.
Next, a local singer from Braavos took the stage, intending to do the sa—sing The Song of the Chosen in hopes of drawing interest. However, unlike the Westerosi perforr, she used no instrunts, relying solely on her voice.
The mont she began singing, the entire Moon Pool fell silent. Every person in the audience listened, captivated by this famous Westerosi song. When she reached the final lyric, the silence lingered—no one spoke, still lost in the beauty of her voice—until soone began to applaud, and in an instant, the entire Moon Pool erupted in applause.
Lynd, seated on the balcony of a nearby tavern, rose to his feet, joining in the ovation. He had to admit, this was the finest rendition of The Song of the Chosen he had ever heard—uncannily similar to the version he rembered from his past life.
From his cabin aboard a pleasure barge, Nightshade stepped out and addressed the singer on stage. “Baelie of House Lioros, your voice is as enchanting as ever. I hope to hear you perform at the festival.”
On a neighboring barge, Daughter of the Dusk said nothing, but she had a servant present the singer with a gemstone and extend an invitation to visit her residence that night.
Baelie’s breathtaking performance set a standard that none of the subsequent bards or musicians could match. Each one that followed seed dull in comparison, and the atmosphere grew so sluggish that calling it drowsy wouldn’t have been an exaggeration. It wasn’t until a musician from Miracle Harbor took the stage that the audience finally stirred from their listlessness.
The intrigue wasn’t due to the musician’s fa—he was no renowned perforr—but because of the instrunt he carried. It wasn’t any traditional instrunt known to the crowd but rather a violin, an invention attributed to Lynd himself.
Lynd was widely recognized as a master musician, the composer of The Song of the Chosen, a piece that had endured through the years and remained a staple of grand feasts and celebrations. When the violin first appeared in Sumrhall, it quickly spread across the world via rchant ships.
Many musicians attempted to master the instrunt, but none succeeded in producing music from it—only unpleasant, grating sounds. As a result, most dismissed the violin as a failed experint of Lynd’s.
Now, seeing soone take the stage so confidently with the instrunt piqued the interest of those familiar with it. Perhaps, at last, soone had discovered how to play it properly. The audience leaned in, listening attentively.
The musician pulled a chair onto the stage, sat down, and placed the violin between his feet. Then, he positioned the bow against the strings and began to play.
The very first note provoked a wave of disappointnt from the crowd. The sound was dreadful—so shrill and discordant that it set everyone’s nerves on edge.
“Enough! Get off the stage!” soone shouted impatiently.
Another musician, visibly frustrated, hurled his wine cup at the perforr. “This instrunt is garbage! Only a brainless fool would even try to play such a worthless thing!”
The crowd murmured in agreent, and the musician stood there, his face flushed with embarrassnt.
Lynd, still seated on the tavern’s balcony, heard the commotion below and frowned, his expression darkening.
He wouldn’t have been bothered if they were only criticizing the perforr—after all, the man had played terribly, treating the violin as if it were a cello. But what irked him was their dismissal of the instrunt itself.
Because this violin… he had created it for Nyria.
On the way back to the castle after attending a banquet, Nyria casually remarked that Lynd hadn't written a new song in a long ti. She wanted to hear a new composition from him on her birthday—one inspired by the naval battle of the Stepstones.
Lynd naturally wouldn’t refuse his wife’s request. Without hesitation, he selected one of the most famous songs from his past life, one deeply connected to naval warfare. To make the performance complete, he even introduced the violin to this world, crafting it specifically to play for Nyria.
Originally, he had intended for both the instrunt and the song to be a private gift for Nyria’s birthday, never ant for public circulation. However, an official who visited the castle, eager to ingratiate himself with Lynd, took the initiative to promote the violin. Through the Miracle Trading Company, the instrunt soon spread across the world, leading to the scene unfolding now.
Since the violin’s existence was tied to Nyria, Lynd had no intention of letting it be slandered so easily. Without hesitation, he leaped down from the tavern’s balcony, pushed through the crowd blocking his way, and strode toward the stage.
Lynd had co to the Moon Pool today with the simple plan of resting briefly before heading to et the Sealord, concluding his visit to Braavos. As a result, he hadn’t bothered with any disguises, wearing only the traditional noble attire of Westeros.
When he stepped onto the stage, the crowd turned their attention to him. A Westerosi man, dressed plainly and appearing unremarkable—yet for so reason, there was sothing about him that held an inexplicable allure. One by one, people quieted, compelled to see what he would do next. In an instant, the previously boisterous Moon Pool fell into complete silence. Even the two courtesans aboard the flower barge stepped forward to the bow, watching him with curiosity.
“You're using the violin incorrectly.” Lynd approached the musician, took the instrunt from his hands, examined it briefly, and remarked, “A standard violin from the Miracle rchant Guild—well maintained.”
With that, he gestured for the musician to step aside, moved the chair away, and took his place at the center of the stage. After adjusting the strings and ensuring they were properly tuned, he tucked the violin beneath his chin, set the bow against the strings, and prepared to play.
The musicians in the audience were instantly intrigued. They had never imagined such an unusual way to hold and play the instrunt.
Then, the first note rang out.
A surge of powerful, stirring music erupted from the violin—the unmistakable lody of Pirates of the Caribbean, a classic from his past life.
From the mont the first bold notes struck, the crowd was swept away by an overwhelming illusion. It was as if they had been transported into the midst of a raging tempest, with the sky and sea locked in a violent storm. Countless warships rolled on the crashing waves, warriors bellowing and clashing steel upon the decks. A fierce, burning energy coursed through every listener, igniting an unfamiliar yet irresistible urge—to fight, to shout, to charge forward.
By the ti the piece reached its final note, the spell of the music still held them. No one spoke. No one moved. The intensity lingered in their very bones. Only when Lynd handed the violin back to the musician did the crowd finally break free from the trance.
Then, the Moon Pool erupted.
Cheers exploded into the night, filling every corner of the gathering place. Frenzy took hold of them all. Even the two courtesans, known for their composed elegance, scread in exhilaration, unable to contain the burning passion that had seized them.
The musician from Miracle Harbor was equally overwheld. He had never imagined that this instrunt—one so often ridiculed—could produce such an electrifying performance. He had taken the violin on stage not to impress but to prove that Lynd’s invention was not the failure people claid it to be.
And now, it had been proven beyond all doubt. This was no ordinary instrunt. This was sothing far greater—capable of evoking emotions beyond anything any other instrunt had ever achieved.
A realization struck him. In this entire world, there was only one person who could understand this instrunt so completely, only one who could wield it to summon such passionate music—the very man who had created it.
The Chosen One, Lynd Tarran.
His eyes darted around, trying to catch a glimpse of Lynd—but it was already too late.
Lynd had vanished into the crowd.
At that mont, one of the courtesans, Flower Moon, who had been barely holding back her excitent, suddenly clasped a hand over her mouth. It was as if she was trying to suppress the words rising in her throat. But in the end, she couldn’t help herself.
"Lynd Tarran! The one who just played—the Chosen One, Lynd Tarran!" she shouted.
Her voice rang through the Moon Pool, carrying over the crowd.
One by one, the others ca to the sa realization. The very man who had caused such a stir in Braavos, the one the Sealord had been searching for in vain for days—Lynd Tarran had just stood before them, without disguise, without fear, and had played an earth-shattering piece of music in front of them all.
A living legend.
And they had witnessed it.
Excitent surged through the crowd once more, even more intense than before. The chants of Lynd’s na rose like a tidal wave, growing louder and louder, spreading beyond the Moon Pool, echoing into the city beyond.
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