"Have you truly written another song—one to rival Five Hundred Leagues?" asked the courtesan.
She wore a gown of pale silk trimmed with silver thread, elegant yet soft. Though older than Viserys, she was the shorter of the two.
He stood before her, silver hair now cropped short, eyes a pale lavender that caught the candlelight like frost.
Braavos gossiped plenty about his face — the exiled prince whose beauty rivaled Rhaegar's. Perhaps some of that was flattery, but even envy could not deny his presence.
"Every word of it," Viserys said, confident but calm. His smile carried warmth enough to win any audience.
The tone infected her despite herself. He might have been young and reckless, but there was nothing childish in his certainty.
Still, her instincts whispered caution. For all his charm, she knew better than to mix passion with business. Affection died; contracts lasted.
She could handle Sisa, the magistrate, because men like him were predictable. Viserys Targaryen, however, was not. He drew people in like flame, and everyone who got too close got burned.
"Farewell, Then," she murmured, reading his newest composition from the parchment. "What a strange title."
"Listen."
Viserys's voice lowered, soft but compelling, as he quoted the lines:
> When a ship sinks beneath the waves, when a soul's lost to the deep,
> You never know why they left, only that "good‑bye" was their last word.
The courtesan's gaze grew solemn by the time he finished.
All trace of doubt vanished from her face. The song was every bit as haunting as his first.
Few understood how extraordinary his melodies were — foreign, yet universal, as if he'd dragged them from the dreams of the sea itself.
"I had another piece too," he said lightly, "called Returning Like Lightning. But that one's… Hmm. Perhaps too bold for now."
She laughed. "You? Too bold?"
Viserys's mouth curved into a wry smile. "Even rebellion needs rhythm."
When he mentioned a third song, her composure nearly cracked. "You've written three?"
He shrugged. "The world is full of music if you listen."
Her amazement slowly gave way to admiration — and perhaps a little fear.
Braavos knew genius when it saw one, and this boy's gift poured like a flood.
"You really are a mystery," she said, carefully folding the parchment.
He simply smiled. A very profitable one, he thought.
"Two hundred gold coins as advance," the courtesan said, extending her hand. "And a higher percentage this time. Your name sells itself."
He clasped her fingers briefly. "We have a bargain."
Another deal sealed — another step upward.
She was a generous partner, loyal while it suited her. Yet she also knew she couldn't hold him long. Greater courtesans would soon come calling — the Nightingale, the Shadowed Lady, perhaps even the Black Pearl herself.
"I suspect our partnership won't last," she said softly.
Viserys blinked. "Oh?"
"You're too gifted, Viserys. The larger players will find you. This city thrives on secrets, and nothing earned can stay hidden forever. Fame cuts both ways."
She lowered her voice. "You could live here comfortably — write, eat, drink, grow rich. Why risk it all for that throne across the sea?"
His eyes darkened. "Because it's mine. People can change many things, my lady — but not fate. Yours is the stage; mine is the Iron Throne."
There was nothing boastful in his tone — only quiet inevitability. The sound of someone who no longer doubted himself.
When persuasion failed, she only sighed and signaled her servants to bring the gifts.
Fine dresses for his sisters, a set of jeweled pins — and for Viserys, a small cedarwood box.
He opened it and found a slender black hairpin carved from bone.
"It's beautiful," he said. "What is it?"
"Dragonbone," she replied.
The name alone drew a breath from him.
Viserys lifted it against the light. The material was darker than onyx, smooth as glass but warm to the touch. In childhood, he'd had toys made of the same stuff — relics from the royal armory. All long lost now.
Dragonbone was stronger than steel, far lighter, and rich with veins of iron. True masters forged bows from it, weapons said to sing when drawn. Even a scrap like this was worth a small fortune.
"For your hair," the courtesan said gently. "Though I'd forgotten you cut it short."
"It's the thought that matters," he said, bowing his head. "You have my thanks — and my friendship."
When she left, Viserys sat alone turning the piece between his fingers.
The pin had weight — not only material, but something deeper, older.
His mind flicked instinctively to the Glutton's Gift.
Could it consume this too?
Until now, only food had fed his strange talent — rare sea snails, exotic dishes charged by life or magic. But it had been months since he'd felt any strong surge from eating; the returns had dulled. Perhaps he'd reached the limit of common fare.
He looked down at the black pin.
Dragonbone.
To a Targaryen, that word was almost sacred.
Logic warned him away: it was iron‑heavy, indigestible, possibly poisonous. Yet reason had never written empires.
He turned the piece once more, then bit down.
It should have shattered his teeth.
Instead, it cracked clean like brittle candy.
"Oh, seven hells, I wasn't ready!" he gasped, trying to swallow — but the fragments dissolved before he could spit them out, melting like ink in water and sliding warmth into his gut.
A pulse of heat raced through his veins.
(Strength ↑)
(Agility ↑)
He froze, astonished, then flexed his hand. Muscles thrummed with life. The room seemed sharper, lighter; even the air carried weight differently.
Strength: 1.8.
Agility: 1.9.
A fighter's numbers — close to perfection for any trained man.
Breath steadying, he waited for pain, for poison — but none came. Only power.
His body sang with it.
"So that's how it works," he whispered. "In this world, even bones can be eaten into greatness."
He leaned back, half laughing, half dazed, the black pin still faintly warm in his palm.
Viserys Targaryen, last scion of dragons, had just discovered a new kind of alchemy.
All it took was nerve, hunger — and a taste for the impossible.
He smiled. "So be it. Let the others kneel for dragons — I'll devour them."
Braavos slept on, unaware that under its gray skies, a dragon was learning to feed on power itself.