The skies above Braavos were the color of cold iron. Rain or fog would soon follow — in this city, there was always one or the other.
In the small study lit by a single lamp, Viserys Targaryen turned a dragonbone‑handled dagger over in his hand. Its edge gleamed faintly blue in the half‑light — sharp, elegant, but not made of Valyrian steel.
He had several of these blades now. Two had been gifts to Rhaenys and to little Daenerys.
"They've noticed you," said Rhaenys quietly.
Her voice was soft but sharp, like her features — fine‑boned, dark‑haired, her copper skin marked by the heat of Dorne.
"The Moonsingers," she added. "You said they reached out?"
Viserys nodded. "The greatest temple in Braavos doesn't waste words. Nobles hold power in name, but religion here runs deeper."
Everywhere in the world, east or west, faith was strength — the strength of the masses and the coin they tithed. Temples, properties, armies of the devout: religion outlasted kings.
"I heard they're all women — prophets?"
"They were," said Viserys. "Their messengers still are. The Nightingale serves the temple's purpose. The Moonsingers live through song — worship is sung, not spoken. What they want from me is a hymn, nothing more."
A pragmatic smile ghosted across his lips. "Money for music; faith for profit. A fair bargain."
He had no intention of visiting their temple soon. Dreamers, he thought — frauds wrapped in marble. The Moonsingers had been famed as seers back when magic was strong, but that age was drowned long ago.
Rhaenys watched him from across the table. "At least our lives are stable now," she said. "What next, Viserys?"
Gold had begun to flow again; thin streams, but steady. In exile, money was survival — the grease that turned ambition's gears.
But exile had not tamed his dreams.
Maps covered the table: the lands of Essos from the Rhoyne to the Dothraki Sea. The flatlands west of the river were torn and empty — ruin and opportunity in equal measure.
"The Dothraki cross the Rhoyne every season," he said. "Every raid shakes the Free Cities to their foundations. Chaos leaves gaps — and gaps can be filled."
He tapped the map with the dagger's point. "Tell me, Rhaenys. The Tigers and Elephants of Volantis — what separates them?"
She knew this one by heart. Her voice took on the rhythm of lecture and memory.
"Volantis — the oldest of the Nine Free Cities — called itself the First Daughter of Valyria. After the Doom, they claimed succession to the empire, to rule the world. But the city split in two. The old nobles, the Tigers, believed in war and conquest. The merchants and bankers — Elephants — believed in trade. Their feud has never ended."
Viserys nodded slowly. "During the first century after the Doom, the Tigers triumphed. They conquered Lys and Myr and dreamed of rebuilding empire. But their wars burned out their strength — the world resisted, and the Elephants took power."
He smiled faintly. "Every land has its Tigers and Elephants — one roaring for war, one groaning for peace."
His hand drifted over the parchment, tracing lines of history. The Century of Blood had remade this world — Volantis defeated, Dothraki unleashed, maps redrawn again and again.
From that chaos came the Free Cities he now studied — proud, independent, fragmented.
"Braavos won't hold us forever," he said at last. "So long as we stay here, we are exiles under another's roof. One day we'll need land of our own."
Rhaenys frowned. "With whose army?"
"None yet," Viserys admitted. "Soldiers can be made. Coin can call blades. But loyalty — that must be trained, not bought."
He rested the dagger against his palm, the way a man might weigh truth itself.
Mercenaries were strong but rootless; mercenaries fought for gold, not crowns. If he wanted a realm, he would have to build one from nothing — forge his corps piece by piece until it was bound to his name alone.
"Slow work," he murmured, "but lasting. Every great army was born in blood and discipline."
Rhaenys followed the dagger's path as it glided across the map — west from Andalos, along the coast of Pentos, down into the wilds of the Disputed Lands.
"You'd take wasteland," she realized. "Rebuild from ruin."
"Exactly. The hills beyond Braavos aren't truly ruled. Volantis holds the coastlines; the Free Cities claim the harbors, but inland? It's forgotten country. Between the Rhoyne and the sea, there's space to plant a flag — if we weather the horsemen first."
"The Dothraki cross the river every year," she warned. "They'll burn whatever they find."
"That's the risk," said Viserys simply. "But every kingdom is born from risk. The Free Cities buy peace from riders with tribute. The riders call it plunder. Everyone pretends to win."
He smiled grimly. "I plan to do more than pretend."
"If Dorne were to send even a few captains or teachers…" Rhaenys began, hesitating.
"Unlikely."
He shook his head before she finished. "Jon Arryn made peace with them — and the peace still binds their hands. Their spies watch the coasts. No Martell will risk it until they're certain I can. And I can't — not yet."
Reluctantly, she nodded. It was true. The Stag and the Lion ruled unchallenged, and Dorne's silence was safer than loyalty.
"Then we start alone," Viserys said, steady and calm. "It will be slower. Harder. But ours."
His violet eyes gleamed in the lamplight.
"Robert's kingdom is just a federation of lords. He sits atop it, but it's not his. I'll build what none of them have — something free, something bound only by blood and purpose."
He leaned over the map once more, tracing rivers and ridges with the dagger tip.
"This world was forged from the Century of Blood. Let it bleed again."
And as rain began to whisper against the shutters, the exiled prince set his vision upon the paper —
a new land, a new army, and a plan to shatter the old order.
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