(Classes Unlocked: Fatebreaker, Water Dancer)
The night was black as ink. Firelight gleamed on watching faces, giving each a ghostly sheen.
The Moon Pool was alive again — another duel, another ritual of death and beauty.
Bravos in silks and ribbons strutted along the marble banks, their slim swords flashing under torchlight. Guardians and constables stood by in dull gray‑brown coats, unmoved.
Spectators from every corner of Essos crowded close:
dark‑skinned Summer Islanders, shaggy Ibbenese sailors, alabaster‑skinned Lyseni with their painted eyes, olive‑toned Myrmen, gaudy Tyroshi with hair dyed crimson and blue.
The Three Daughters were long enemies now, their alliance shattered; yet tonight, all watched together, drawn by the same fever — blood on water.
"Make way for the duelists!"
"Clear the circle!"
"Fight! Take his mask off!" voices shouted, half‑jeering, half‑ecstatic.
The keepers didn't interfere. Death at the Moon Pool was both entertainment and economy.
Viserys closed his eyes for an instant, repeating the creed Moro had drilled into him:
"Swift as a stag. Still as shadow. Quick as snake. Calm as water. Strong as bear. Fierce as wolf."
Water and motion — the creed of survival.
When he opened his eyes, his opponent stood before him: a bravo in scarlet robes and a yellow cloak, blade drawn. The man's sword glittered with malice. Braavosi blades were narrower than Westerosi steel yet no less deadly — meant for unarmored men and killing strokes.
Braavos didn't believe in protection. No helms, no mail, no mercy.
"Outlander," said the man proudly, "I am Bero the Quick. Eleven victories at the Moon Pool — six maimed foes, five dead, two draws, one defeat. If you beg now, I'll spare your life."
Viserys's Braavosi was smooth but faintly accented. "I've only one victory," he said, raising his blade. "This one."
Laughter rippled through the crowd — harsh, amused, disbelieving.
"Silver‑haired fool!" Bero sneered. "Remember my name when I carve it into you. Bero the Quick! Soon to be on the swordsman's rolls of Braavos!"
"Remember mine," Viserys replied calmly. "The Silver Swordsman."
From the edge of the crowd, Moro tensed. "That's Bero," he muttered. "He kills fast and dirty."
Beside him, Syrio Forel lifted a hand. "Patience," he said softly. "Let us see the boy."
Wagers broke out immediately; coins flashed under lamplight.
"I back the Braavosi!"
"Same here!"
"Fifty on the foreigner!"
The stakes rose with every shout — though few favored the silver‑haired stranger.
"I'll wager on myself," Viserys said and dropped a pouch of gold.
Bero grinned wolfishly. "Then let me drink with your blood!"
"Then I'll stake him too," called Moro, folding his arms.
Rules were simple. One would live. One would lose everything.
Swords hissed from scabbards. Silence spread over the crowd.
Bero moved first. He was fast — terrifyingly fast — lunging with snapping precision. His thrusts went straight for the throat, the heart, the belly.
Viserys met him, step for step.
Steel rang — ting, ting, ting — silver blur against red shadow.
Fear cut deeper than any sword, he told himself. Fear kills quicker.
Bero's attacks came faster, venomous as striking serpents. His whole body was motion — twist, glide, stab, retreat.
Viserys breathed in rhythm. Flow like water. Be the ripple, not the rock.
Their blades met again; sparks leapt. Viserys angled aside, measuring. Every exchange fed him knowledge — reach, tempo, weakness.
"You fight well," Bero gasped between parries. "Better than I thought, foreigner."
Viserys didn't answer. He was adjusting, feeling where the strength lay — not in speed, but endurance.
He shifted tactics, drawing Bero forward, matching with smaller movements, conserving breath. The bravo's strikes grew heavier, his rhythm breaking.
"Clever boy," whispered Syrio, recognition flickering in his eyes. "He learns as he fights."
But Bero wasn't done. Sweat beaded his brow. Desperation made him cruel.
"You're not a true water dancer yet," he snarled — and charged.
He didn't block Viserys's counter at all, gambling everything on a single killing thrust aimed at Viserys's throat — a suicide lunge for victory.
For a heartbeat, Viserys saw it: the blade slicing toward him, the imagined heat of blood down his neck. His death, seconds away.
Fear kills quicker.
He stepped in instead of back, half‑turning to narrow the target. Bero's sword caught his chest, shallow but searing. At the same instant, Viserys's arm snapped out — a mirror strike, all instinct, all fury.
Brightsilver pierced flesh, sliding between ribs straight to the heart.
Bero blinked, eyes widening. Then he fell, blood spreading like ink across silk.
The crowd froze.
Then the noise came.
"Impossible!"
"Get up, Quickblade!"
"Silver Swordsman!"
"Silver Swordsman!"
Voices rose, surging with disbelief and awe. Moro's mouth curved into a grin; Syrio simply nodded once.
On the ground, Bero was silent forever, his yellow cloak soaking red in the light of the torchfires.
Viserys stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from the edge of Brightsilver.
A blood‑stained sword. A name marked.
And in that moment–
A flicker of blue‑gold light shimmered at the edge of his vision.
> [New Class Gained: Fatebreaker (Initiate)]
> You have cut one thread of destiny. The lines of fate twist anew.
Images flashed before his eyes — the life that should have been:
the Red Door House abandoned, wandering with Daenerys through empty cities, begging, starving;
selling jewels, selling crowns, selling dignity;
mocked by lords and magisters;
finally crowned with molten gold.
He shuddered. Not my future.
The vision shattered, splintering into dust.
He clenched his fist, feeling the world itself tilt, fate knots unraveling like smoke.
The night shifted — the air itself heavy with change.
> [New Class Gained: Water Dancer (Adept)]
> You walk the path toward the Way of Insight.
His panel glowed behind his eyes: a new destiny written in silver. From the moment he had poisoned his betrayers, the timeline had diverged. Tonight, with blood on his hands, it broke apart completely.
The dragon's future had been burned and rewritten.
And the next stroke would be his own.