"I'm sorry, Princess Jaina."
"You do not meet the requirements for a loan from the Iron Bank."
"Although your elder sister has married Khal Drogo, the Dothraki are not partners of the Iron Bank."
"Moreover, the Gold Dragons needed to assemble a vast naval fleet would undoubtedly amount to a staggering sum."
"For House Targaryen, with only three members remaining, frankly, we do not have much faith in your prospects of reclaiming the Iron Throne."
"You could try other banks."
"Of course, if you are having trouble making ends meet, I can personally lend you 1,000 Gold Dragons, interest-free."
Recalling the words of the man who had received her, Jaina slowly walked out through the Iron Bank's doors.
Although she had already prepared herself for rejection, she still felt a trace of disappointment when faced with the reality.
The Iron Bank gave no weight to the Targaryen name. As the defeated, they had long since lost their former glory.
And the Dothraki's way of life, burning, killing, and plundering wherever they went, clearly also made the Iron Bank doubt their ability to repay... that was merely the bank representative's tactful way of putting it.
Money was useless to the Dothraki. They believed in the pure natural law of the strong preying upon the weak.
Even if they bought ships with the Iron Bank's Gold Dragons and actually went to Westeros, they would still be nothing more than a band of savage robbers.
When asked to repay the money, the Dothraki would most likely just say:
"Repay it? Why should we give back money we took by our own strength?"
Then they would cut off the debt collector's head with an arakh and tie it to a horse's back.
Just as Jaina was racking her brains over how to raise the money to buy ships, a figure suddenly appeared before her.
Jaina looked up to see a tall, thin, bald man standing there. His stance was almost as graceful as Syrio's, but there was a greater measure of sinister killing intent in his expression.
The slender, lightweight rapier at his waist likewise left no doubt that he was a Water Dancer.
"Jaina Targaryen."
Slowly drawing the slender sword at his waist, the man spoke in an icy voice:
"I am Qyro Valentine, the current First Sword of Braavos."
"Leave Braavos immediately, and never show yourself here again."
"Otherwise, I will show you what the true 'Water Dance' is."
Faced with this threat, Jaina looked around. It was quiet, with not a soul in sight. It seemed he had come prepared.
Despite the danger, she showed no sign of panic. She merely drew her own sword, a faint smile rising to her lips:
"How impressive, Mr. First Sword."
"Drawing your sword on a thirteen-year-old girl. Has Braavos fallen this far?"
Valentine seemed enraged by her mockery. Without the slightest regard for the fact that his opponent was only a little girl, he immediately thrust his rapier at Jaina.
As Syrio's replacement, he did have some skill. His light steps resembled a dance, and he moved so fast that ordinary people could not even see the blur of his blade.
Clang!
To Valentine's surprise, Jaina's sword easily blocked that incredibly swift strike. Judging by her speed, she was actually a little faster than he was.
As the daughter of a grand admiral, Jaina was no frail mage who could only hide in the back and throw spells like mad.
Having grown up aboard warships, her swordsmanship might not have rivaled Arthas's, but it was beyond what a mere swordsman of Braavos could compare with.
Not to mention, a thin layer of water magic coated her blade!
Crack...
With a crisp snapping sound, Valentine, who had been preparing to regroup and attack again, discovered to his astonishment that his rapier had broken!
"First Sword, I think it is time you left."
Knowing that Valentine's earlier attack had not targeted a vital spot, Jaina had no intention of taking his life. She merely held her sword point to his throat and demanded that he leave, with the bearing of a victor.
"Your strength is truly astounding, my lady."
Although he could not accept that the swordsmanship he took such pride in had lost to a girl of only thirteen, Valentine had no choice but to bow his proud head before the facts.
"But I advise you to leave Braavos as soon as possible."
Almost won over by the queenly presence Jaina radiated before him, the current First Sword dropped his broken sword and slowly turned away:
"The ruler's decree is not so easily withdrawn, especially after I report your strength to him."
"Although your swordsmanship has reached the pinnacle, I fear you will face endless pursuit."
"They may even... dispatch the servants of the Many-Faced God."
Leaving that well-meant warning behind, Valentine departed without hesitation.
"Come out."
After watching Valentine's figure disappear, Jaina called out to the empty air beside her, as though talking to herself.
"Your perception truly is frightening."
As soon as she finished speaking, a short figure darted out from around a corner.
After leaving the Sealord's Palace, Syrio had followed Valentine all the way, hoping to stop him before he made his move.
He had not expected the young Jaina to defeat the First Sword who had replaced him so easily.
Syrio knew Valentine's strength very well. All he could say was that even he could not have won so beautifully.
"It seems I need not worry too much."
Watching Jaina return her sword to its sheath, Syrio remarked with heartfelt feeling:
"You have more than enough strength to survive anywhere in this world."
Faced with this swordsman who bore her no hostility and even showed a trace of warmth, Jaina offered him her fullest goodwill and extended an olive branch:
"It seems you have regained your freedom. Why not swear allegiance to me?"
"I promise you, the day House Targaryen reclaims the Iron Throne, you will receive the title of First Sword of Westeros."
"No, thank you, dear Targaryen princess."
In response to Jaina's enthusiastic invitation, Syrio merely shook his head slightly:
"The title of First Sword is not something bestowed by others."
At this, a trace of longing appeared on his face, a longing for the challenges ahead:
"I will earn the title of First Sword of Westeros myself, with the sword in my hand!"
With no further attachment to this place, Syrio turned away, his graceful voice growing ever more distant:
"Valentine was right. You should leave Braavos soon."
"However powerful you may be, assassination by the Faceless Men is not so easily dealt with..."
Jaina did not stop him from leaving. Her violet eyes merely watched his gradually vanishing figure in silence as she murmured to herself:
"What a strange fellow."
The arsenal was the headquarters for the defense of Braavos's main harbor. Located at the entrance to the great lagoon, it could accommodate dozens of large sailing ships at once.
On the shore of the vast, surging sea, an immense, imposing fleet was methodically making its final preparations to depart.
This was the invincible fleet belonging to the Sealord of Braavos.
Beside the warships lay a fleet of merchant vessels, purple from top to bottom. They were the world-famous Purple Sails and Purple Hulls Merchant Fleet.
The enormous hulls towered like colossal beasts, creating an overwhelming impression of unstoppable power.
Sailors bustled across the decks in orderly fashion, checking equipment and adjusting sails. Everything spoke of thorough training.
"Why did you choose to join the Sealord's invincible fleet, young man?"
The fleet's commander, known as Blackbeard Barbossa, studied the slight, gray-haired boy before him with interest as he shouted over the thunder of the waves.
"For the challenge, sir!"
The boy straightened his back. Like every other man who yearned for the sea, his eyes brimmed with fervor and passion:
"I grew up aboard my father's ships, and I've always longed to command great warships and meet the challenge of every enemy on the sea!"
"Hahaha!"
Clearly very pleased with this answer, Barbossa clapped a heavily calloused hand firmly on his shoulder:
"Very good."
"Our fleet needs lively young men like you."
Then he gazed at the towering warships as though looking at a lover, his words filled with absolute confidence in his fleet's fighting strength:
"But you may be disappointed. The Sealord's fleet has always been invincible!"
"No coward has ever dared challenge us."
His proud tone actually carried a trace of the loneliness of having no worthy opponent.
Shaking his head and putting those irrelevant feelings aside, Barbossa asked another question:
"Tell me what you can do, you passionate young lad."
"No one aboard a warship has the time to teach you from scratch."
"I can do everything, sir!"
The boy answered decisively, his youthful face carrying the same absolute confidence:
"Whether it's handling a ship, reading nautical charts, observing the weather, or fighting, I'm very good at all of it!"
"Don't go making wild claims!"
Although he greatly admired this spirited young man, Barbossa still felt he was boasting, given his age.
"I'm not boasting, sir."
The boy's violet eyes also gazed longingly at the enormous warships before him. Who knew how many years it had been since she had personally stood on deck and commanded a battle?
"Please judge my performance in practice!"
"All right, you braggart."
Since the boy had gone that far, Barbossa had no reason to keep making things difficult. On the contrary, he rather looked forward to seeing what surprises this boy, who seemed steeped in the very air of the sea, might bring him.
"One last question."
Starting toward the warship, Barbossa turned his head and asked:
"What is your name?"
The boy thought for a moment. A look of nostalgia appeared in those lively violet eyes, and with a slightly apologetic tone, she answered loudly and firmly:
"Daelin, sir."
"Daelin Proudmoore!"
Before you continue