The owner of the workshop was a bald, middle-aged man named Morel. His face bore two deep wrinkles between his eyebrows, as if he carried a lot of pent-up frustration. Standing beside Morel was his son, Rabbi, who, influenced by his father's demeanor, seemed to lack vigor. Even managing a smile was a struggle for him.
"Helbo, why did you bring such a young man here? He looks younger than me," Rabbi muttered, casting a doubtful glance at Viserys. His skepticism was understandable; Viserys looked far too young, especially with his short hair making him appear more like a half-grown boy than a seasoned leader. Although he had an appealing look, he resembled more a squire than a knight ready for command.
Morel shared his son's reservations. In his view, the shiny-headed Regis seemed more reassuring than Viserys. Seeing Viserys in the center of the group from a distance made Morel and his son uneasy. However, changing their minds now would affect their reputation as businessmen and upset Helbo, so they had to proceed as planned.
"Okay, don't say that again," Morel pressed, warning his son. He straightened his clothes, cleared his throat, and walked towards Viserys and the others. "M'lord Helbo, you've finally arrived! I can finally relax now!" Morel greeted Helbo, extending his hand.
Helbo, however, did not immediately take Morel's hand. Instead, he looked around at the workshop. "Your workshop is really huge. It would take two hours to walk around it." he remarked, pulling himself together and projecting the image Morel wanted to see. A traditional merchant like Morel needed to appear honest and trustworthy, while a security provider like Helbo needed to project strength and reassurance.
Morel calmly withdrew his hand, then addressed the people behind him. "Oh, no, no. But with these fine men you brought, I have nothing to worry about."
Helbo smiled and introduced the group. "This is Lord Viserys, and this is Regis. They will be in charge of the workshop's security."
Regis puffed out his chest, looking very different from before. The master of the Braavos workshop seemed to favor him. However, Morel did not show his preference openly. Instead, he praised both Viserys and Regis. Rabbi, standing behind his father, also remained quiet, feeling that the name Viserys was familiar but not knowing where he had heard it before.
"I have prepared some fine wine for you. Please follow me," Morel invited.
"Yes, let's go!" Helbo responded enthusiastically, walking at the front with Morel by his side.
Viserys observed the workshop from a distance, noting its considerable size—it was not an exaggeration to call it a factory. Along the road, carts pulled large blocks of snow-white whale oil. The ground felt greasy under his feet, as if he were in the kitchen of a busy restaurant, each step making his feet feel sticky. White smoke billowed from various parts of the workshop, where wicks were drying, and both male and female workers, heads down, bustled about. They all wore oil-slicked leather aprons, obscuring their features. When Morel passed by, the workers bowed, and Morel nodded in acknowledgment.
For fire prevention, the factory had a lot of water. Viserys noticed a watchtower in the workshop, though its location was a bit off. He thought if it were moved a little further east and had two archers stationed there, the entire workshop could be controlled.
After walking for about 20 minutes, they arrived at the back of the factory, where the environment was noticeably better. Most of Helbo's men were taken to a more spacious area by Rabbi, while only Helbo, Viserys, and Regis joined Morel for dinner.
"This is wine from the Arbor. Try it," Morel said, pouring a pale golden liquid for the three of them.
'The Arbor in Westeros, vassal of Highgarden. Their fleet is powerful, and the Grandmother of the Little Rose is from House Redwyne in the Arbor,' Viserys noticed, sipping the wine as information about Arbor flashed through his mind.
After three rounds of wine, Morel began to reveal his worries. In half a year, the Ten Day Festival would be held in Braavos, an event occurring every three years. During the festival, a large number of candles would be consumed, and the festival's costs in terms of supplies were immense. Behind each supply was an unimaginable profit. The cost of candles alone exceeded 30,000 gold dragons, not to mention alcohol, clothing, and other goods.
"I have to produce enough candles to secure a sufficient market share. Otherwise, after the celebration is over, this workshop might not survive," Morel said bitterly, pouring himself another glass of wine.
Helbo, standing next to Morel, slammed his glass down on the table and shouted, "Don't worry, we'll make sure your production runs smoothly!"
"Thank you! I truly appreciate it!" Morel responded excitedly, quickly toasting the group.
At this point, Viserys spoke up, "Do you have a floor plan of the workshop that I could take a look at?"
"No problem! When do you need it?" Morel asked.
"As soon as possible," Viserys replied.
Though Morel was in his fifties and Viserys was barely fifteen, he agreed to Viserys' request out of respect for Helbo. However, as Rabbi handed the floor plan to his father, he shared some disturbing news.
"He is Viserys Targaryen. The Beggar King from Westeros!" Rabbi exclaimed, looking at Viserys with resentment.
Morel's face soured at the revelation. While the common people of Braavos might not recognize the name, the upper and middle classes of Braavos—and indeed the entire Free Cities—knew of him. He was infamous for selling his mother's crown and hosting a banquet for a group of Sellsword leaders, only to be tricked.
Can such a person really protect my workshop? Morel wondered, his hopes, which had just been raised, collapsing by half.