It was the tenth month of Winter, and that day in particular was so cold that for years to come it would be remembered as 'The day winds froze'. Here and there snow challenged the weather and fall. Few were the citizens that left their homes, and even the canals were almost empty during those cloudy hours of freezing morning.

It was also the tenth day that boy crawled his way around Eleanor's palace.

That island in particular, known at that time as Silver Pebble, was one of the tiniest in the complex landscape of Braavos, the hundred island city. It was almost entirely composed of a manse, all marble and limestone, with wide and rich gardens where succulent oranges and lemons could thrive even so far away from Dorne — some even dared to say it was magical. Thanks to that only small fillet of land was left unbuilt, and that was a roofless corridor, of sorts, flanked by two huge white walls, perfectly smooth and 50 foot tall, impossible to climb. Crowning this imposing path was a long and slender stairway.

And the Beggar Prince steadily found his way to the top. Again.

For a 24th time, then, the guard warned:

"You are not welcomed here!" His voice had a flair of elegance, almost womanly, which somehow just made it more imposing even if he was but a boy no older than 16.

"Now that I think of it..." Said the Prince, as if his thoughts escaped his head without control. "Your accent is lovely."

"You make yourself a fool."

"C'mon, man...just take it, flattery won't kill you...or will it? You're a pretty motherfucker, does people sleep on it just because you're slave?" He ruffled his hair, a cockroach fell, and he stopped five steps away from the golden bravo, a smirk painting his face. "Or does people sleep with ya 'cause you're a slave?"

"Save your spit, filth." Growled the young swordsman, his golden cloak shining with the morning sun. "You may attack my honor, but you will not offend my queen's dignity once more and live to tell."

"Your queen?" The Beggar Prince laughed. "So its true, then! She does sleep with any men she can find, even a slave!" 

"SILENCE!" What was unsheathed was not only the Slave's blade, but also his rage. "Enough of this squabble, step back or fight to the end, faker!" 

From his waist, the Beggar Prince, pulled a black shadow, and made it dance around his fingers.

A crooked dagger of valyrian steel.

"Squabble? I'm prince of Dragonstone, you deaf idiot."

"Liar!" The Slave jumped two steps, pointing his slender bravo 'sword to his enemy.

"and theeere it goes..." The filthy boy, covered in a thin layer of street dust, carrying the foul stench of the canals, whose only proof of nobility was a shimmering necklace of amethyst, took a deep breath. "So we end it today. Tell me your name, then, Golden Slave, as any bravo worth their penny would."

"Varys." He answered after a long while, finally meeting his foe eye-to-eye again. It would be their 25th duel. The last duel. "And yours?"

"Won't matter. Slaves calls princes...my lord."

And with the Beggar Prince's laughter, they fought their last battle.