(New Talent: Insight)
By the Moon Pool, the masked, silver‑haired swordsman stood motionless — tall, elegant, his violet eyes aglow beneath the torches.
Blood streaked down his chest. Brightsilver was still in his hand, its blade gleaming wetly.
In that brief, breathless silence after the kill, Viserys Targaryen looked almost sculpted — a statue carved from light and iron, the whole world revolving around him.
Water from the great fountain whispered nearby, the sound mingling with the low hum of the crowd.
Across the marble, Bero the Quick lay sprawled and lifeless. His final smirk was already fading.
Legend said that the greatest water dancers could fight upon the surface of a pond without disturbing even a ripple.
Viserys thought that nonsense; people still obeyed gravity. Unless, perhaps, they wielded magic along with their grace. But legend aside, the Water Dance was magnificent — beautiful, fluid, and lethal.
The few gamblers who had bet on the mysterious foreigner now cheered like madmen, pockets heavy with winnings. The rest, though poorer, clapped anyway — the art of the duel had rewarded them enough.
The keepers and constables by the Moon Pool exchanged wary looks. They knew Bero's skill; anyone who killed him on a first showing wasn't a fluke.
"Silver Swordsman!"
"Silver Swordsman!"
Others took up the cry —
"The Violet Swordsman!"
"Violet Swordsman!"
The name spread through the night like fire.
Viserys pressed a palm to his bleeding chest. The cut burned but hadn't pierced deep. If it had, the story would've ended with him on the tiles. Instead, his pain throbbed along with a sudden, exultant clarity.
Pain was the toll of growth. And tonight, both his mind and body had paid it.
---
[New Class: Fatebreaker – Initiate]
Spirit + 0.2
The panel of his strange system flared within his mind.
Spirit — the most difficult attribute to touch. Yet now it expanded, widening his mind and sharpening every sense. His perception, his reaction time, even memory itself grew keener.
In the world of ice and fire, where minds and magic bled together, spirit was survival. It meant resistance against intrusion, strength of will — even defense against skinchangers and sorcerers who broke into the mind.
[Class Advanced: Water Dancer – Adept]
Strength + 0.1 | Endurance + 0.1 | Speed + 0.2
A new smoothness spread through his muscles, every motion lighter.
The dancer within him was no longer raw. He could feel where to move, where to wait — the rhythm of the fight itself.
Then, words shimmered in his inner vision:
> [Fatebreaker Viserys Targaryen: First Kill achieved. Class Unlocked — Water Dancer. The line of fate has shifted. Award: Random Talent x 1.]
Viserys drew a slow breath. "A two‑for‑one deal," he murmured. "Not bad."
The world lit up around him. He saw a phantom form of himself upon a rippling sea, dancing with a silver sword in endless waves — a reflection of the gift he'd earned.
Then text burned bright:
> [Talent Acquired – Insight]
> Lies are endless, deceptions everywhere. Fools are blind.
> Eyes to see, ears to hear, lips to taste, nose to scent, skin to feel —
> Think deeply, and you shall perceive truly.
The words fizzed, dissolving into warmth behind his eyes.
Insight. It didn't measure in strength or speed, but perception.
Sharper senses, quicker judgment — the ability to read motion itself.
A gift not of might, but understanding.
At last, he could truly see.
If destiny had once been a single thread, tonight he'd torn it open. The Red Door Courtyard was his new origin point, and his path now wove along a brighter, bloodier line.
The farther he pushed from the fate he once held, the richer his gifts became.
Even useless talents had value; this one, though, was priceless.
Viserys sheathed Brightsilver and pressed a cloth to his chest. Blood slicked his fingers, the sting reminding him how narrow victory always was.
The one‑eared cat, Balerion, prowled at a cautious distance, hissing softly but making no move to interfere.
The prince looked down at Bero's body. "You and I had no quarrel," he murmured. "But the world only makes room for those who carve it themselves."
Mercy, here, was not a virtue. It was a weakness.
He cleaned the sword, walked back to the table where coins lay piled — glittering gold, silver, copper, even carved trinkets from foreign lands.
"I'll take what's mine," he said simply.
No one argued. The Moon Pool's spectators had seen what happened when you did.
The metallic scent of blood hung heavy over the fountain — his and Bero's mixed together, consecrating the duel.
With a gloved hand, he swept the winnings toward him. The profit was glorious — high risk, high reward. The sort of leverage even the Iron Bank would appreciate.
But fame was finite. Once the mystery faded, odds turned to caution. He knew the next fight would never pay so well.
He pocketed a handful of gold, then picked up an equal share and tossed it toward the fallen man's friends — other bravos in rich silks and shattered pride.
"If he has family," Viserys said, "this belongs to them."
They blinked, taken aback. In the Moon Pool, no victor shared spoils.
"Take it," he insisted. "It's not mercy. I've kept more than enough."
One of the bravos lowered his head. "You're a true water dancer," he said quietly. "And a rare man in Braavos."
"Today's kindness," another added, "will be remembered."
They bowed, lifted their dead companion's body, and departed into the mist.
Behind them, chants rose again:
"Silver Swordsman!"
"Silver Swordsman!"
Viserys smiled faintly, scooping up a handful of copper coins, and flung them into the air.
The crowd surged forward, laughing, scrambling for the ephemeral "blessing" that fell from the new legend's hand.
By the time they looked up, he was gone.
Later, in a shadowed alley, Moro found him and handed over a small jar of Myrish fire‑salve.
"Well done, boy," he said, clapping Viserys's shoulder. "Your first kill… and against Quickblade Bero, no less. You truly are a prodigy."
Viserys grinned, though the motion pulled his stitches. "I live, thanks to you."
The salve burned fire‑hot against the wound, cleansing and sealing it.
"Bravery suits you," Moro said. "But my lessons end here. You've outgrown what I can teach."
From behind him, another voice cut through the dark — smooth, accented, quietly amused.
"If he still wishes to dance, I can show him how."
A tall, lean man stepped into the torchlight. His head was shaved, his nose sharp like a hawk's beak. In his hands were two wooden practice blades.
"Syrio Forel," said Moro with obvious respect. "First Sword of Braavos — and your new master, if you'll have him."
Viserys bowed his head. "It would be an honor."
"That, and work," Syrio said with a grin. "I saw your duel tonight. You are quick, and brave. But talent, luck, effort, and wisdom — all are needed before a man touches the true Way of Insight."
His brown eyes glimmered. "You've glimpsed the edge of it, boy. Now it's time to learn to see."
caveleather