Viserys Targaryen studied the Nightingale closely — not just for her beauty.
Her beauty was obvious. What interested him was the aura behind it — that subtle shimmer of power which clung to every great courtesan in Braavos.
The top ranks of that profession were never just gowns and smiles; they were networks.
The Black Pearl and the Daughter of Shadows had ties to the House of Black and White.
The Nightingale, it turned out, had ties to something even older — the Temple of the Moonsingers.
Each archway of that temple was flanked by two marble maidens holding a crescent of stone between them.
If one traced the lineage far enough back, the courtesans and the priestesses shared roots in the same art — the mastery of allure, of voice, of illusion.
"The Temple of the Moonsingers?" Viserys asked, half‑amused. "You're not teasing me, are you?"
The idea that the temple — a holy institution — was behind a courtesan made even him pause.
"Braavosi never joke about dragons or the Moonsingers," the Nightingale replied. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, her tone half‑lullaby, half‑temptation. "Without the Moonsingers, there would be no city to sing of."
Viserys had to admit it — the top courtesans of Braavos could charm gods if they wanted.
The Lady Swordswoman, standing nearby, nodded faintly. In the company of the Nightingale, she looked almost provincial — graceful, yes, but second tier.
It was the difference between a star and a supernova.
The Moonsingers, he knew, were no minor cult. They had founded Braavos itself.
Long ago, when the slave fleets of Valyria scoured the seas, one ship rebelled. Its captives — women from the fields of Ghogos Nai — rose up, seized the vessel, and followed the Moonsinger's prophecy northward.
She had foretold a mist‑covered lagoon, surrounded by pine hills and rocky reefs, a sanctuary hidden even from the eyes of dragons. There the freed slaves found their refuge, and from them, Braavos was born.
Now, centuries later, the temple still stood on the Isle of the Gods, its great marble domes shining like pale moons.
The Nightingale regarded Viserys with open fascination — tall, handsome, dangerous, radiating that noble arrogance that no disguise could hide. The last dragon had grown into something far more complex than rumor claimed — artist, swordsman, glutton, and exile all in one.
"You truly are your brother's brother," she murmured. "As beautiful. As brilliant."
"You knew Rhaegar?"
"Only stories," she admitted. "The Silver Prince who played his harp in the ruins of Summerhall. They say his songs made women weep."
"He was a failure," Viserys said evenly. "Summerhall never let go of him."
The Nightingale blinked, surprised by the coldness of his tone. But perhaps such bitterness was normal for a prince who had lost his kingdom.
"So," Viserys continued, "what business do the Moonsingers want with me? I thought they hated anything Valyrian."
"Times change," she said softly. "There are no dragons now, no Valyrian Empire. The Moonsingers simply wish for your gift — not your blood."
"They want a song."
"A holy song," she clarified, smiling. "A hymn for their temple. Such commissions are honors many bards would kill for."
Ah — a commissioned piece. A hymn, a dedication, a token of divine adoration. In every church, priests demanded beauty to dress belief.
Viserys's mind rifled through old memories — fragments of Seven Gods hymns his mother once sang. He recited absently:
> "Gentle Mother, source of mercy,
> Shield your sons in war,
> Turn the arrows, blunt the blade,
> Let them see tomorrow's sun.
>
> Gentle Mother, hope of women,
> Ease their pain and temper wrath,
> Teach thy children mercy."
The Nightingale listened, impressed.
"But the Moonsingers don't worship gods," Viserys said.
"They worship the light of the moon — and all things touched by it," she replied.
"Ah," Viserys muttered. "A fine line between them and the Lord of Light, then."
He couldn't help admiring Braavos. Only this city could cram half the faiths of Essos into one island without burning itself down.
Still, songs were songs. He could write one blindfolded if they paid well enough.
"I'll be direct," he said flatly. "If you want my voice, I want something solid in return — gold, dragon eggs, dragonbone, Valyrian steel, or high‑grade magic beasts. Even the sea snails will do."
The Nightingale laughed, bright and rippling. "You are greedy, my lord. The Moonsingers have no dragons left, but they know how to pay. I suspect the price will satisfy even you."
Standing aside, the Swordswoman sighed. "Braavos makes everyone a slave to silver."
But Viserys and the Nightingale had already reached understanding.
"A song to the moon, then," she said. "The temple's priests will adore it."
He nodded. "Why not? Can't hurt to try — for the right price."
From her sleeve, she produced a silver coin embossed with a figure of a woman raising a crescent moon. "This will grant you entry to the temple. Present it at any time, and the Moonsingers will receive you."
Viserys turned the coin over in his palm. "Do all of you Braavosi make faith a matter of coin?"
She only smiled.
He slipped the token into his pocket. Perhaps later, he thought. For now, a cautious dragon stays in his den.
---
"Before you go," he said, "let me hear one of those hymns of yours."
The Nightingale's smile turned luminous.
"My pleasure."
She began to sing, soft and slow — a thread of sound that hung like silver smoke between them. The words were in High Valyrian's cadences, though altered, praising not gods or kings but the eternal moon: protector, witness, guide.
The melody shimmered like ripples upon water.
As he listened, Viserys felt something impossible. His spirit attribute — that strange, internal measure — stirred and climbed, slow but steady.
There was real power in this music.
"You could sing the moon out of the sky," he said quietly when she finished.
"Everyone in Braavos says that," she replied, half‑embarrassed, half‑pleased.
"Then I'll join them," he said. "But keep that hymn. Come by often. I'll pay to hear that — not the rest."
For the first time, she faltered, the smile on her lips freezing just slightly.
This prince truly was made of marble.
When the courtesans finally departed, the courtyard fell silent again — save for the faint tink of glass and the crack of bone.
Viserys lit a single lamp, set one dragonbone hairpin on the table, and bit down hard.
The old hunger awoke.
Strength + 0.1. Speed + 0.1. Endurance + 0.1.
Diminishing returns, yes — but still a rise. He laughed under his breath.
It was still working.
The prince who devoured dragonbones for breakfast looked down at his hands, flexing power into the air.
"Keep digging," he murmured to himself. "A man with this many mines shouldn't stay ordinary."
He reached for another piece.
Crunch. Crunch.
More pain. More strength.
And under the red light of the moon, the last dragon kept eating his way toward godhood.
read my story : CaveLeather
Game of Thrones PirateKing
Game of Thrones : Black Dragon's Second Chance
Game of Thrones: King Bastard
Game of Thrones: I Have a Stardew Valley Panel
Marvel Inventor
Game of Thrones : True King
Game of Thrones: The Otherworldly Challenger to the Iron Throne
Game of Thrones : True Dragon