Candlelight brushed across Viserys's face, drawing soft shadows along his sharp, youthful features. Beneath the glimmer, his lilac eyes looked almost glass‑pale—cool, restrained, quietly alive.
Once, he'd looked like a frightened boy—an exile clinging to his bloodline. Now the soft roundness of childhood was gone. In its place was a lean grace, an alert stillness—the mark of a water dancer.
"Pity about that dragonbone pin," he muttered. "Would've made a fine weapon."
He didn't mean for his hair. The thing had been perfect for concealment—light, sharp, and deadly. Tucked in a braid, it could have been as lethal as a dagger. But the attribute boost it had given him was worth the loss.
"One shard of dragonbone gave me this much… imagine an entire dragon's skull."
He smirked at the thought—deep beneath the Red Keep, rows of monstrous skulls slept in dust and shadow. The head of Balerion the Black Dread alone could have filled a hall, its jaws wide enough to swallow an aurochs whole.
If he could ever return to King's Landing and consume even a fraction of that relic…
He shook his head, laughing under his breath. "A king of gluttony, not dragons."
However, the idea would not leave him. His strange gift—the hunger of the Devourer—thrived on the magical residue inside rare creatures. Bone from a dragon had worked astonishingly well. Something larger, more potent… that could change everything.
But for now, he would start small.
He tried other materials—coins, jewels, bits of gold and silver—but nothing stirred his strength. Wealth, it seemed, had no flavor.
Magic did.
Meat and bone pulsing with unnatural life—those were the true feasts.
He made a note in his mind:
- Sea snails – reliable, minor.
- Dragonbone – extraordinary.
- River monsters, legendary beasts – possible.
And perhaps… the half‑forgotten creatures of the eastern continent.
Viserys recalled the old stories whispered by merchants. The rivers of the Rhoyne, where the ancient Rhoynar had worshiped living gods—massive turtles, scaled serpents, pale‑eyed crocodiles that devoured men whole. They, too, might carry traces of the same ancient power.
When the Valyrians had invaded the Rhoynar, the first outrage had been their slaughter of those "river gods." The war that followed had broken nations. Perhaps those beasts still slumbered in the mud, waiting.
"If one of them still lives," Viserys murmured, "maybe I'll dine with gods next."
He smiled, half in jest, half in hunger.
Until then, he'd settle for what the world still offered—sea snails, dragonbone, anything that whispered of power.
Even discarded scraps were expensive, near impossible to find. True dragonbone pieces fetched more gold than a knight's ransom, and most merchants peddled fakes—plaster and wyvern skeletons painted black.
He tapped his finger against the table, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
From now on, anyone who sought a favor from the Silver Wanderer—any song, any poem—would do well to bring gifts of dragonbone. Why ask for gold when he could feast on strength?
He chuckled. "If I'm mad enough, even Valyrian steel might tempt me one day."
But the thought sobered him. Valyrian steel was forged in dragonfire and sealed by spells. Eating that would be insanity, even for him.
Only two thousand blades still existed, most hidden or lost—and two of them, Blackfyre and Dark Sister, had once been Targaryen heirlooms. Now both were gone, scattered into the shadows of history.
He exhaled slowly. No kingdom, no sword, no army. Three nothings.
But "nothing" was only the start of every empire.
Far away, in the vast Sea Lord's Palace, the candlelight reflected off painted ceilings alive with history.
On the high dome above, murals unfurled Braavos's founding legends:
Slaves in the flaming mines of Valyria, broken and tormented under the Red Mountains.
The prayers of the moonsingers who led them to freedom.
The discovery of the mist‑shrouded lagoon that would become the Hidden City.
Further scenes glowed in pigments of gold and pearl: the unveiling of Osorro the Maskless; the Purple Fleet sailing through trembling seas; Braavosi merchant princes taming the world with silver.
At the mural's edge danced carvings of mermaids, krakens, and whales — leviathans of the dark.
Seated beneath that epic canvas was Sea Lord Frego Antaryon, his robe the color of deep wine, his face still youthful though illness lingered in his blood. His strength had not yet faded; his voice carried command.
"This is the boy's song?" he asked, turning the parchment in his hand. " Five Hundred Leagues. "
Music spilled from it as his steward hummed softly. "It's said all of Braavos hums this tune now. No one here could have written it."
Frego's eyes narrowed. "No one except that exile—the Targaryen."
Across the hall, Ser Quairo, the First Sword of Braavos, inclined his head. "Yes, my lord. I confirmed it myself."
"The lyrics are too sincere," said the Sea Lord, tapping the parchment. "It speaks of homesickness, of a man far from the land that bore him. I remember that boy—pale, trembling, clinging to his dying knight. Hardly a prodigy. Yet now…"
He studied the words again, his expression complicated.
"At the time, the Mad King had smothered him in fear," he said thoughtfully. "Viserys was the spoiled second son, all vanity and cowardice. If he truly wrote this, perhaps there is more dragon in him than we thought."
"Frego," Quairo murmured, "he's changed. The magistrate Sisa keeps contact with him. So far, the boy stays out of politics. No loans from the Iron Bank, no mercenary contracts with the companies. Still, he grows… visible."
"Visible men are dangerous," Frego said quietly.
Sisa, standing nearby, weighed his words carefully before speaking. "Your Grace, the boy is… magnetic. Brilliant, even. His talents span food, music, and even swordplay. Yet he still claims his right to the Iron Throne."
The Sea Lord's brow lifted. "Every exile claims something," he said dryly. "Most claim coins owed. A few claim crowns."
"He is different," Sisa insisted. "Sunny when he speaks, cold when he plans. The water dancer who trains him swears he's never seen such progress."
Frego leaned back in silence. A faint smile crossed his lips. "Then we'll watch."
Quairo hesitated. "You mean to meet him yourself?"
"Not yet," said the Sea Lord, waving a hand. "Braavos traffics in secrecy. Let this Targaryen prince walk his path. If he rises further, he'll find his way to me soon enough."
He folded the parchment, voice soft but deliberate:
"Every song hides a story, and every exile hides a cause. Let's see how far this one sails."