The court of Braavos was alive with laughter, music, and the clinking of wine glasses. Bellegere sat at the edge of the high table, her dark eyes scanning the gathered nobles and visitors, enjoying the whispers and glances of admiration that followed her every movement. She sipped her wine, letting the taste linger on her tongue as a servant approached, offering her more.

"Not yet," she replied, her voice soft but commanding.

As she surveyed the crowd, her gaze landed on a tall figure standing at the far end of the hall, his features unfamiliar, yet striking. His attire was unlike anything she had seen in Braavos, the dark, heavy fabrics and the crest on his chest unmistakably foreign. He didn’t seem to belong to any of the usual merchant families or noble houses who usually docked at Braavos.

Intrigued, Bellegere leaned toward a courtesan sitting nearby, a girl named Mira, who had her ear to the ground. "Tell me," she murmured, her voice laced with curiosity, "who is that man? The one with the... unusual garb?"

Mira glanced over, then smiled knowingly. "A foreigner, my lady. From Westeros, I believe. A nobleman, though I can't say from which house."

Bellegere's lips curled into a sly smile, her curiosity piqued. She stood gracefully, smoothing the folds of her gown, and made her way across the room, her gaze fixed on the man from Westeros. This would be a conversation worth having. She came over and introduced herself.

"Bellegere Otherys, also known as The Black Pearl of Braavos, And who is this dashing man under the same roof as me?"