Within the courtyard of the Red Door House, the sound of steel filled the morning air.
Viserys moved like a blade drawn from water — each motion crisp, sharp, balanced.
Across from him stood Syrio Forel, lean and angular, his hawk‑beaked nose casting a hooked shadow across his face. He wore the ash‑gray coat favored by Braavosi officials, a relic of his status as once the First Sword of the Sea Lord.
Viserys wore a studded leather vest, silver‑white hair trimmed neatly, sweat glinting at his collar.
"Moro claims," Syrio said, tossing him a weighted practice blade, "that you reached refinement within months. I accused him of flattery. Then I watched your duel at the Moon Pool. The courage — acceptable. The technique — better. Perhaps you are, after all, what he claims: a perfect student."
Viserys caught the sword easily. It was heavier than any he'd used before, its core filled with lead.
"This isn't meant for both hands," Syrio added. "One hand only. It's heavier because you're gifted. You will need the weight. Strength and stamina — that's what carried you through Bero."
Viserys nodded, setting his stance. Unlike most water dancers, who traded power for speed, his build was balanced — a six‑pointed star of strength, agility, and will.
"Left hand," Syrio commanded. "Change grip."
Viserys switched.
"Good. Now you move opposite your enemy's habits. That alone will unsettle them. And your stance — do not face them squarely. Turn. Make yourself narrow. Give them nothing to hit."
Viserys flowed as instructed, posture perfect. It looked, Syrio thought, almost like the fencing of the Free Cities — graceful, dangerous, and deceptively civilized.
"You're lean as a spear," Syrio said. "Fewer targets. And tall — a longer reach, wider range." He studied the young man's grip. "Your foundation is solid. Moro may have been a fool, but he taught you well."
Then the dance began.
"Strike," Syrio ordered. "Don't hack. Flow."
Viserys lunged, pulled, spun — every thrust a current.
"The sword must become your hand," Syrio said, weaving between the blows. "And your hand never falls away from you, does it?"
"No, master," Viserys said through clenched teeth.
He attacked again. Time blurred. His world shrank to motion and breath — step, twist, parry, strike. Syrio moved effortlessly, laughing despite himself.
"Beautiful. The water remembers your steps," Syrio said. "But you will attack me until I tire of stopping you."
Hours passed. Viserys's shoulders burned, his arms trembled, but he pressed on. The dance was exquisite punishment — grace sharpened into will.
At last, Syrio dropped his guard and smiled. "I had to see it myself. You never studied before Moro? Hard to believe such progress in mere months."
"I'll pursue the Way of Insight," Viserys said simply. His raw confidence made Syrio's grin widen.
"Indeed. Insight is what divides the swordsman from the dancer, the dancer from the killer. We do not practice the Iron Dance of Westeros — loud, lumbering, armored nonsense. Our dance is for blades, not armor. Fluid, unseen, unmerciful. All men are made of water, after all. When the skin is pierced, the water flows out — and they die."
Viserys glanced at him, thinking. To see through movement, to pierce through illusion — this sounded like an answer to the Faceless Men themselves.
In a sense, the water dancer's "insight" opposed the Faceless Men's "facelessness." One sought to perceive truth; the other to erase it.
Perhaps that was why the Sea Lord kept both power and distance from the assassins who haunted his city.
"And if the opponent is armored — a Westerosi knight?"
Syrio shrugged. "Even knights must breathe. When they forget to, they die."
Viserys couldn't help but chuckle. Typical Syrio — philosophy for every problem, practicality optional.
That was the first day's lesson, and it left him sore to the bone. Yet the gleam in his teacher's eyes said the true work had only begun.
---
Later that evening, a different battle awaited.
The Swordswoman arrived, radiant as ever — and with her came another courtesan.
"Your Grace," she said, smiling, "may I present the Nightingale."
Viserys blinked. He hadn't expected this meeting. The Swordswoman's fame was recent; the Nightingale's was ancient. They were rivals by definition — yet the two now greeted one another with laughter and polished ease.
So that's how it is, Viserys thought. Cooperation cloaked as courtesy — a truce of predators.
"Your Grace," said the Nightingale, curtseying.
She was sixteen, perhaps seventeen, dressed in a sheer yellow gown threaded with silver, tiny pearls glimmering on her slippers. Her beauty was the Lyseni kind — pale, golden‑haired, blue‑eyed, the kind that sang of old Valyria's stolen dreams.
Viserys inclined his head. "A rare guest indeed."
For such visits, he had learned to be charming but cautious. A courtesan's smile never came free.
"The nightingale is a clever bird," he said smoothly, "but not clever enough to notice a dragon in disguise."
Her eyes widened slightly at his wit — a spark, not of fear, but fascination.
She'd heard the rumors: the Silver Wanderer, the exiled prince whose songs had bewitched Braavos. Standing before her now, he was the myth made real — luminous, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
"Pity," she said lightly. "But then, even a dragon would find Braavos a cage."
"Perhaps," Viserys said, smiling faintly. "But it's a cage large enough to hatch ambition."
Three sentences — and she was sold.
For all her poise, the girl was momentarily disarmed.
He'd spoken like a flirt but sounded like destiny.
The Nightingale had come to barter for art — but she left in awe.
A snap of her fingers, and her guards brought forward an ornate box.
"Just a token," she said.
Inside gleamed polished dragonbone ornaments — hairpins, bracelets, the hilt of a dagger carved from jet‑black spine. Their dark surfaces glowed faintly crimson under lamplight.
Power. Viserys could feel it.
He picked one up, weighing it in his hand. Raw strength. Well chosen.
The Swordswoman glanced aside, ever the diplomat. She knew she couldn't match this gesture — Nightingale's patrons were greater, richer. So the favor turned cordial: recognition, not rivalry.
"You wish for a song," Viserys said, studying the girl. "Of course you do. Everyone does."
The Nightingale smiled. "Merely friendship. Gifts are given; no debts claimed."
Viserys laughed softly. "Good. I like direct people. You're beautiful, generous, and honest — three things rare in this city. Lady Swordswoman is my friend; that makes you one as well."
From his pocket, he drew a folded slip of paper — a few lines of verse, freshly inked.
Her breath caught as she read:
> In my arms, in your eyes —
> There the spring wind sleeps,
> There the grasses grow,
> And moonlight spreads our love across the lake.
"This piece," he said, "I call By the Lagoons of Braavos. "
He'd changed the original title — By the God's Eye sounded too much like treason.
"How much?" she asked softly.
"Name your price, my lady."
"Five hundred?" she offered. Then paused, studying him anew. "No, one thousand gold coins."
Even the Swordswoman's eyes widened.
The Nightingale's tone was calm, but her expression betrayed excitement.
A thousand gold — five times what the last courtesan had paid. Enough to ransom a knight, even to kill a king.
"My investors will take the larger share," she admitted, "so I'd rather pay you dearly upfront and keep the royalties modest."
"Entirely reasonable," Viserys said with a shrug.
Her smile deepened. "There are others who'd like to meet you — if you're willing."
"Oh? Who exactly?"
"The Moonsingers," she said quietly. "The priests of the lagoon."
Viserys stilled.
The words clicked instantly — and he understood who truly stood behind the Nightingale.
Not just a courtesan — a messenger of gods.
And gods, Viserys thought, were just another kind of patron.