“An outsider—among the natives,” a whisper pierced the morrow. “Malvales, rare bloom,” Lord Larys leaned on his cane, his eyes flitted to you with a pause, his fingertips caressing the crimson petals. “Indigenous to Braavos,” he canted forward to take in its scent. “Yet, by all rights, it shouldn’t be thriving here.” Larys’ voice was precise, as if his very purpose was to bring discomfort to those around him. “Nature… Such mystery,” he feigned rumination, tapping his cane to the dirt.