A black cat padded along the garden wall of the Red Door Courtyard, tail flicking as it patrolled its domain.
Below, on the flagstones, Viserys Targaryen stood opposite his newest master‑at‑arms — Ser Roland Lych, the exiled Westerosi knight.
Unlike the Braavosi swordsmen Moro and Syrio, Roland was not merely a teacher. He was his, a bannerman by blood and faith, the first fragment of Viserys's own household guard.
The water dancers had been useful, loyal enough to friendship, but they had never fought in Robert's rebellion. They owed him skill, not blood.
Roland, though — Roland hated the Lannisters and the usurper. That made him valuable in ways talent alone never was.
"Ser Roland," said Viserys, "from this day you are my chief instructor — and protector besides."
The knight bowed without hesitation. "It is my honor, Your Grace. I'll serve as sword and shield both."
Viserys smiled faintly. Finally, he had more than hired escorts; he had men of his own. Moro the water dancer had been borrowed from a courtesan, Syrio was far too renowned to linger daily at a pupil's side — but Roland was bound by oath.
That, he thought, is what loyalty looks like.
The thought of loyalty drew an old bitterness. His brother Rhaegar had squandered the finest of allies — sending half the Kingsguard off to the Tower of Joy instead of keeping them at his side or guarding the capital. When war came, they were relics in hiding.
So now, the last dragon would not repeat that folly.
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Roland wasted no time. After his arrival, Viserys's days split between two worlds: the graceful strikes of the Water Dance, and the iron discipline of the Westerosi knight.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," the knight asked after their warm‑up, "but may I know how far your knightly training has progressed?"
He asked it cautiously. A commander's strength determined his men's courage. He had heard wild praise from courtesans — how brilliant the young prince was, how gifted in every art — but praise from a courtesan cost no effort.
The man he remembered from rumors had been a spoiled child of a mad king, erratic and vain.
"Not much," Viserys said lightly.
Roland blinked. Not much? The boy was fourteen — maybe fifteen. To confess such ignorance was like admitting one was still learning to walk.
Viserys's expression did not change. "At King's Landing I never trained with arms. Later, on Dragonstone, Ser William used to spar with me, but he lost half his sight soon after. Since then, no teachers. Until Braavos."
The knight exhaled. Then what have you learned?
"My Water Dance," Viserys added, "has reached mastery."
Roland stared. Surely the boy jested — until, in a blink, Viserys moved.
Brightsilver flashed from its sheath, gleaming moonlight. He turned, stepped left, and in one smooth blur the point of the blade hovered at Roland's throat.
The old knight froze. Even reacting on instinct, he hadn't been fast enough. Had the young man chosen to drive forward, Roland Lych would already be bleeding out on the stones.
By the Seven. The motion was pure Braavosi — light, balanced, precise — and far faster than rumor allowed.
"Your Grace…" he said slowly. "How long have you practiced this?"
Viserys lowered the blade. "A few months. Moro instructed me; now I learn from Syrio Forel himself."
"A few months?" The words caught in Roland's throat. He stared at him, seeing at last what the courtesan had meant.
Perhaps the dragon's blood really did breed monsters of talent.
"Then… you are truly gifted," he said, voice hushed with awe. "If you progress so swiftly, one day you may rival even Dawn Sword, the greatest knight of old."
"Hardly," Viserys said with modest amusement. "I'm only catching up from behind. But I intend to work twice as hard."
Inwardly, he recalled the lessons of Rhaegar's fall. His brother had died not from cowardice, but from imbalance: a man half‑scholar, half‑sword.
There had been three flaws.
First — training: Rhaegar was a poet turned soldier; Robert had been raised to kill.
Second — focus: the prince's mind lingered on songs when it should have stayed on steel.
Third — the weapon itself: hammers break men; blades only wound. Robert's warhammer had ended both song and singer.
Viserys intended to fix all three.
Roland nodded approvingly. "You have the heart of a warrior, Your Grace. With time, you'll redeem your brother's death."
"Then start the drills," Viserys said crisply.
That afternoon, beneath the pale Braavosi sun, the clang of sword and shield echoed across the courtyard. Roland's commands were blunt: the stance of Iron Dance, balance points for spear and shield, the draw of the longbow.
For the first time, the exiled prince trained not as fugitive or student, but as commander in the making.
By evening, the black cat had returned, leaping neatly onto the wall. It paused, tail twitching, then dropped soundlessly into the garden and let out a sharp mew.
Viserys stopped mid‑stroke.
Rhaenys used the creature's eyes as her veil in the city, and when the cat came, it meant something had changed.
He sheathed his blade, exchanged a glance with Roland, and followed it out of the courtyard.
In the study, Rhaenys waited by the window.
Her face was tense. "There's activity around the street. Children — ragged ones — have been circling the neighborhood, passing messages between them. Same faces, same routes."
"Little birds," Viserys muttered, his voice turning cold.
There was only one man in the east who used children as spies.
Varys.
And where the Spider spun, his Pentoshi partner was never far behind.
He looked through the lattice window toward the mist‑covered canal, where distant lights flickered faintly in the fog.
"So the Fat Magister has eyes here too," he said softly. "Tell me, sister — did you think they'd leave us alone forever?"
His reflection in the dark glass grinned back — sharp, predatory, patient.
The web was tightening.
But now, he thought, at least the dragon had claws.