"I find you fascinating," said the Black Pearl, leaning forward with a smile that could catch fire.
"Oh? Why so?" Viserys asked.
"I thought you were just a beautiful face. I didn't expect polish under the shine. But I wonder—beyond elegance, what else are you?"
"My ambition," Viserys replied softly, "is something beyond imagining."
His violet eyes gleamed with a fierce light. He turned the dagger in his hands — a slender length of Valyrian steel, dark as smoke, the rippled surface drinking in the lamplight.
No metal equaled it: light, ancient, and sharp as truth.
He admired the craftsmanship, then spoke almost idly. "Not one of my family's blades. Our more famous dagger still lies rusting in the royal armory at King's Landing."
He knew the tale: when Prince Aegon the Unworthy had first been sent to Braavos as envoy, the family relics were withheld. Only by trick or fortune could he have acquired another.
Aegon had been a zealous collector — and a prodigal fool. To win women's favor he'd handed away treasures fit for kings: dragon eggs, Valyrian blades like Blackfyre and Dark Sister.
"Extravagant to the end," Viserys thought. "At least he bought desire with art."
His own goals were more practical — he needed weapons, not allure. A steel sword of Valyria wasn't bought with coin; it was taken through destiny.
He smiled faintly. "Perhaps I should take one back myself."
"This dagger," he asked, "was it his gift to your ancestor? Did he send you a dragon egg too?"
Bellegere laughed softly. "No egg — those are far rarer. And you forget, at that time Aegon was still only a prince. He had no right to them. His trip to Braavos was a disguise — Baelor the Blessed banished him here to keep him from harming his poor wife Naerys again."
"A tragic love," Viserys murmured.
"More like a prison," the Black Pearl replied. "Aegon hated his brother, envied their bond, and turned spite into cruelty. He met my foremother while he was still only a prince. Had he already worn his crown," she said, "you might be holding one of his eggs now."
"Perhaps," Viserys said, "but for now, this will do."
He closed the dagger, studying the second gift she'd given — a thick, leather‑bound book, cracks of age in its spine.
"The Chronicle of Four Kings," he read aloud. "Even maesters guard their copies in Oldtown's vaults."
"You've heard of it?" she asked, surprised and amused.
"I've read of it," he said. "Written by Archmaester Cass, it records the reigns of Dareon the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Dareon the Good — a study of four faces of the same coin: martyr, saint, sinner, and sage."
"You know your history well." Her eyes softened, delighted.
Her interest deepened — beauty always listened when beauty spoke wisdom. Had he been any less handsome, she might have waved him off as a pretender without poetry.
That he was both struck her like lightning.
"This," she said, "is a book every king should read."
"Then I accept it," Viserys replied. "Gladly."
"If you like it, I have more — not as many as the Citadel, but better than most lords' libraries."
"Then I will call soon," he said.
Books were rare on this side of the Narrow Sea; even single volumes lost to time were as precious as armor. Perhaps her shelves hid secrets of Valyria itself.
His turn.
"In return," Viserys said, drawing from his coat a sheet of paper. "A gift."
The Black Pearl took it carefully, reading in silence. The verses were spare, luminous.
> When you are old and gray and full of sleep…
"A poem?" she asked with wonder. "So this is your counter to the Nightingale."
"That song isn't for her," Viserys said. "It's for those who remember."
Bellegere's lips curved. "Then so will I. No singer in Braavos will let the Nightingale outshine me now."
She looked up, eyes catching fire. "Sometimes, I swear you can't be only fourteen. There's an old soul trapped in that face."
"Then we're alike," he said. "You too carry more centuries than years."
"Maybe. Suffering makes philosophers of us all."
Within a week the poem would be sung across Braavos, her name and his linked in melody — a courtesan's vanity married to a prince's myth.
Then her tone shifted. "Your talent's one thing. But what is it you want?"
Viserys looked directly into her amber eyes. "Gold."
She blinked. "Just that? Gold?"
"I need capital," he said calmly. "To raise what's mine."
"Ah," she purred, understanding dawning. "You mean to wage your little war. To win back a crown that sank a realm in fire. That requires oceans of coin. Servants of the Sea Lord die for less."
"I am no desperado," Viserys replied. "This is investment. And you understand investments."
She watched him, half pity, half curiosity. "You could live richly here. Work with me. Perform, dine, be adored. Why bleed across a continent for a dead dream?"
"Because the dream is my birthright," he said, gaze unshaken. "By fire and blood, I will take the Iron Throne."
His tone was quiet, measured — but it carried a weight that made the deck seem to still.
Bellegere set down her cup. "Madness," she murmured. "Beautiful madness."
"Call it ambition," he said.
"Robert Baratheon sits on a mine of Lannister gold. He has Tullys, Arryns, Starks bound by oaths. Even the Greyjoys just rebelled and failed. You have what, exactly?"
He smiled faintly. "Three dragons."
"Three," she laughed — a low, rich sound. "One boy and two girls? When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin — heads, madness; tails, greatness. You seem to be both at once."
"Then you confirm my value?"
She sighed. "I won't join your rebellion, but I will lend you coin. No questions asked. Consider it a loan to a beautiful hazard."
They lifted their cups.
"To hazards," he said.
"To dragons," she replied.
Their eyes met across the glow of the lanterns, her lips still curved in amusement, his in determination.
She saw either a madman or a king; she couldn't tell which.
And Viserys only smiled, because he knew there had never been a difference.
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