Braavos, the Red Door courtyard.
Moro, the bald, bearded water dancer, tossed Viserys a practice sword.
On a small bench to the side, Rhaenys with her dark hair and Daenerys with her silver curls sat watching, legs dangling, eyes wide. A few stubborn wildflowers clung to life in the garden beds nearby.
Viserys and Moro had sparred many times already, but today felt different — formal, heavier.
"Speed," Moro said. "Speed and point. Always the point. Put the sharp end in the enemy." His gaze hardened. "Today I won't hold back."
"Good," said Viserys.
He stood side-on, blade raised, silver hair cropped short, body loose and ready. He wasn't a cat, but he had to move like one.
The Water Dance was a dangerous game. Strong as a bear, swift as a stag.
The Braavosi blade resembled a fencing sword — long, narrow, deceptively delicate. In practice, it was as deadly as a viper's fang. Braavosi bravos refused armor; they preferred beauty over safety, glory over survival.
This was their creed: if you're going to die, die beautifully.
Viserys didn't wait. Before Moro stepped in, he slipped left, quick as a shadow, and struck.
Thrust, withdraw, sidestep — always moving.
Moro's face creased into a smile as he advanced. His frame was thicker, heavier, his experience far deeper.
But Viserys had his own advantages — unnatural ones. His talent, boosted by his strange "panel," had turned months into years of training.
Steel met steel.
The thin blades cracked and kissed in midair, darting and retreating like striking snakes. Moro's sword point flickered — fast, precise, relentless — while Viserys dodged, then countered.
They moved so quickly that to the watching girls, the fight was little more than flashes of silver and the scrape of steel.
Moro pressed forward, then retreated, then lunged again — pure, clean aggression. Viserys bent, twisted, slid aside, then came back in a blur of motion.
Every textbook pattern Moro had drilled into him now flowed together:
Retreat. Coil. Explode.
Then —
Crack.
Viserys's sword tip landed squarely against Moro's chest, right over the heart. If the blade had been sharpened, Moro would be bleeding out on the grass.
"Viserys! Viserys!" his "cheering section" squealed, clapping wildly.
Moro let out a long breath and dropped his practice sword. "Your trial with me," he said quietly, "is over."
There was pride in his eyes. And something like sadness.
He had watched Viserys grow from an unsteady boy into something much sharper. The progress was too fast to be natural — like watching a sapling turn into a spear overnight.
"Thank you," Viserys said. And he meant it.
Cheat or not, without Moro's patience and teaching, he would never have made it this far.
"Your training with me is done," Moro went on, "but knights in full armor are another matter. Their steel slows them, yes — but it also makes them hard to kill. They train for strength. We train for speed."
"I understand," Viserys said, nodding.
The Water Dance and the knight's art were two different paths. One cut through shadows. The other crashed through shields.
"Take this," Moro said. He tossed him a new sword.
It was a true blade this time — a slender, single-handed steel sword, perfectly balanced, made in the Braavosi style. In Westeros, it would be considered too thin, almost feminine. In the Free Cities, it was the weapon of choice.
Viserys took it carefully. "Thank you."
"What will you name it?" Moro asked.
"Brightsilver," Viserys replied.
A flash of silver lightning. It was also the name of one of his family's old dragons — a second-generation beast once killed by Balerion over the waters of the Gods Eye.
"Good name," Moro said. He hesitated, then added, "Do you want to become even stronger?"
Viserys blinked. "What?"
Something in Moro's tone was… off.
"I mean it," the older man said. "What you've done is only the beginning. Against true masters, you're still green. If you want to reach higher, the training will be harder. More dangerous. You'll have to pay for it."
"I will," Viserys said without pause.
For power, he would bleed. As long as his sisters weren't the price, there was very little he wouldn't risk.
Moro nodded once. "Rest now. In a few days, go to the Moon Pool at midnight. Wait for me there."
When he left, Viserys stood in the garden, fingers tightening around Brightsilver's hilt.
The Moon Pool.
Of all the places in Braavos, it was the most infamous. A theater of blood and pride — where men risked their lives for a reputation and a name.
"You're really going?" Rhaenys asked later, eyes tight with worry.
"This is a chance," Viserys said. "I can't ignore it."
He could feel it — Moro was opening a door. Whatever was behind it would either make him stronger, or kill him.
Both were better than staying as he was.
Midnight at the Moon Pool.
Viserys arrived swallowing a knot of tension. Moro hadn't given him an exact time — just "midnight" and "wait."
He wore a half‑black, half‑red velvet doublet, too fine for the district, drawing more eyes than he liked. A silver half‑mask covered one side of his face.
In the Secret City, everyone had something to hide.
The one‑eared black cat padded at his heels. Rhaenys's will watched through those green eyes, unwilling to leave him alone.
Maybe he wants me to spill blood, Viserys thought.
The bravos had already noticed him. At midnight, to stand at the Moon Pool with a sword at your hip was a silent invitation. If you didn't want trouble, you left your blade at home.
Tonight, Viserys was not an observer. He was part of the spectacle.
"My friend says your mask is offensive," a young bravo said, striding up in wine‑red robes and a yellow cloak.
Viserys looked at him. "Your cloak offends me more."
"You're a swordsman then?" the bravo sneered, fingers brushing the hilt of his own blade. Even a tap was enough — by the custom of the Moon Pool, that was a challenge. "If you take off your cape and drop your sword, I'll forgive the insult."
Viserys knew that trick. Strip once, and the next man would take everything else. Tonight's question wasn't if there'd be a fight. It was how quickly.
"I don't want to kill you," he said quietly. "But you're in my way."
The young bravo's blade rang free of its scabbard. Spectators stepped back, forming a ring without a word.
Viserys turned side‑on, drawing Brightsilver. The sword gleamed in the moonlight, thin as a line of frost.
On the far side of the crowd, a lean man with curling hair and sharp eyes watched closely.
"That boy?" he asked Moro in Braavosi. "The Targaryen?"
Moro nodded. "That's him. If anyone can reach the way of seeing, it might be that one."
The man smiled faintly. Syrio Forel, former First Sword of Braavos, observed the silver‑haired exile step into his first real kill.