The sun struggled through clouds over Braavos, casting a few thin spears of light across the mist‑gray courtyard.
In that mottled glow came the clang of steel.
Clack!
Clack!
Viserys Targaryen and Ser Roland Lych circled each other, sparring in the yard.
"Careful, Your Grace."
"Come at me," Viserys shot back, eyes bright beneath his helm.
Weeks of relentless training had reshaped the last prince of House Targaryen. The soft exile was gone; in his place stood a tall, silver‑haired figure with the poised menace of a poised spear — all edge, all control.
Roland's strikes came hard and precise, each blow a veteran's lesson. But Viserys read him easily now, sensing rhythm and weakness before each swing.
The Way of Insight, he thought. See, then strike. Hear, then move.
Practice is war without blood. War is practice with blood.
That truth kept him alive — and improving.
Around the courtyard, his little court watched: Syrio Forel, Moro the water dancer, Rhaenys, and Daenerys cheering softly from a wall.
Syrio studied the duel with faint amusement. This was no Braavosi dance but the Westerosi Iron Dance — where endurance ruled and chivalry meant armor heavier than sense.
Viserys wore a thick gambeson under plate and mail. Roland fought in well‑oiled leather under a dented hauberk. Both helmed, both armed with blunted swords.
They had forgone shields — this was pure strength and reflex, muscle against metal.
The clash of dull blades echoed across the stones.
Viserys's blows were quicker, lighter. Roland's heavier, slower, but meaner.
The prince shifted pace effortlessly, darting aside, conserving strength. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but his breathing stayed even. Knights fought to exhaustion, he realized — and exhaustion killed.
When Roland's swings began to slow, Viserys stepped in and pressed, turning his opponent's weight against him. Their weapons locked; Viserys rammed a shoulder forward and sent the older man stumbling back.
"Viserys! Viserys!" Rhaenys and Dany shouted, clapping.
Syrio and Moro exchanged pleased looks. The boy's form was almost perfect — graceful as water, grounded as steel.
Roland dropped backward onto the paving stones with a laugh, holding up a hand.
"Well struck, Your Grace. You've the makings of a warrior yet."
Viserys removed his helm; silver hair clung to his temples. Even his smile looked older.
For Roland, the defeat was no shame — it was hope. Their cause had found its weapon.
A ruined knight could follow that.
---
"We'll add mace and hammer drills tomorrow," said Roland as they unlaced armor. "The knight must wield more than sword and spear."
Viserys nodded.
"Your speed and strength amaze me," Roland admitted. "Most your age lack the shoulders for it, yet you move like a fox and strike like a bull. The Seven must favor you."
Syrio, standing near, raised a brow but said nothing.
Viserys laughed lightly. "The gods help those who help themselves."
In truth, it wasn't prayer. It was his panel.
Show me my limits, he thought.
Roland went on, still lecturing: "Victory in arms often belongs not to the strongest but the one who endures — who draws breath when all others can't."
Syrio waved a hand. "He learns quickly. We only guide him."
"The path is long," Viserys said humbly, "and I'm still the student."
"Good." Syrio's voice softened. "Rest now. Tomorrow you study the Way of Insight."
Viserys nodded and, when left alone, opened his unseen screen.
---
### [Viserys Targaryen]
Age: 14
Professions: Fatebreaker (Init.), Water Dancer (Adept), Singer (Master), Gourmet (Legend)
Reputation: The Landless Rising King
Charm: High
Companions: None
Attributes: Strength 2.2 | Endurance 2.2 | Agility 2.3 | Spirit 1.7
Talents: Devourer | God of Feast | Insight
He stared at the glowing runes in satisfaction.
No Dragon Dreamer. No Unburnt. Those might come later with dragon‑blooded relics — eggs or flame. For now, his strange, self‑made path felt truer.
The "life professions" — Singer and Gourmet — sounded trivial beside warrior's titles, yet they were marked Master and Legend.
All four fed into one another: art for mind, food for body, sword for will, fate for soul.
He liked the symmetry.
With balanced stats — all twos except the slow‑growing Spirit — his progress was astonishing.
A true six‑pointed fighter. No weakness left untrained.
And he could feel it growing still.
---
Sunset turned the canal water copper. After drills, a servant brought two new packages to the house — gifts.
The first was from the Nightingale.
A small letter scented with lavender, tied with yellow ribbon:
> "A token of thanks for the song that graced my stage.
> Within, a taste of the northern sea's blessing."
Inside the chilled crate lay two monstrous crimson crabs, each the weight of a child — their shells glistening brown‑red, claws bound in silver wire.
"Sea‑King Crabs!" Syrio exclaimed, face lighting up as he peered into the box. "Gods, those come from beyond the Shivering Sea. Sailors freeze and die catching them! You could buy a skiff with one pair!"
"Impossible to find fresh, this season," added Moro, shaking his head. "The Nightingale moves in high company."
Viserys studied the beasts, eyes narrowing with quiet speculation. Food rich enough to carry magic — like the sea snails before. A buff, perhaps.
"Then we shall eat well tonight."
The second gift was finer still — a black envelope sealed with wax and a single pearl, midnight‑dark and flawless.
Viserys turned it in his fingers. The gem alone cost a fortune.
"From the Black Pearl herself," Moro whispered.
The name carried weight in every port. The Black Pearl was the oldest and grandest of Braavos's courtesans, her lineage stretching back to Nymeria's fleet and a Targaryen prince long dead.
In this city, few carried greater influence — some said even the Sea Lord listened when she spoke.
Viserys broke the seal. The ink was violet, the handwriting flawless.
> "To the Silver Swordsman:
> The sea remembers blood older than the city.
> I invite the last dragon to dine upon my ship beneath the purple moons.
> — The Black Pearl."
Even Syrio was silent a moment before murmuring, "That, Your Grace, is not an invitation one refuses."
Viserys smiled faintly, glancing at the dark pearl glinting in the dying light.
"I suppose," he said, "it's time I met Braavos's first queen."
---