After reaching his first understanding with Bellegere Otherys, the Black Pearl, Viserys Targaryen returned to the Red Door House, the only roof in Braavos he could call his own.
The courtesan's gilded barge dropped him and Syrio Forel off at a side canal. They walked the rest of the way beneath hanging lanterns, fog curling low around stone balustrades.
Some agreements were written on parchment; others rested solely on trust — or on the promise of fire and blood.
Between Viserys and the Black Pearl there was no signature, no seal — only a mutual calculation. For her, he was a handsome new investment. For him, she was a door into the City of Secrets.
What she would give him depended entirely on the value he proved.
"I thought it might end… differently," Syrio said with a sly look. "The Black Pearl guards her mystique carefully, but even she might have been tempted by such a dragon."
Viserys glanced sideways. His silver-white hair glistened under the streetlights, his violet eyes steady and hard. In them burned something only close men like Syrio could see — resolve, and cold purpose.
"Beauty draws trouble," he said quietly. "She's no simple girl; she's the Black Pearl. We signed a pact of mutual gain, not one of love."
Syrio laughed. "That may be for the best. The rarest huntresses pretend to be prey."
And Viserys was too poor yet for romance. He could barely fund his training and schemes, let alone buy affection from the most coveted woman in Braavos.
Still, in his mind he promised himself softly, Someday, I'll strip the Pearl of her armor too.
"She shapes half the deals in this city," Syrio went on. "Envoys, merchants — everyone courts her favor. To sail Braavosi waters without her is to risk wreck."
"Then let's hope I've bought a ticket aboard the right ship," Viserys said, half smiling.
"You're learning well," Syrio replied. "Now to hone the other edge of your blade."
Viserys tilted his head. "You mean literally?"
"Indeed. Your Brightsilver grows thirsty. If you seek the Way of Insight, you must dance in real blood."
He nodded. He had expected as much. In Braavos, there was never a shortage of fighters — duelists, cutthroats, and glory-hungry water dancers itching for a match.
"If you hesitate, we can delay," Syrio said mildly. "Blood troubles those born to velvet. You were a prince once — you could be one again without ever dirtying your hands."
Viserys shook his head. "To reclaim a throne, I must first earn my sword's respect. Even the Conqueror bled to learn."
The older man smiled. "Good. Fast. Strong. Dangerous. That's the heart of the way."
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Back at the Red Door courtyard, Viserys beckoned him inside.
"Lemon water won't do tonight," he said with a grin. "Let's drink something that burns."
They carried out a small table under lamplight, joined by Moro and Ser Roland Lych. Before them — an array of bottles gleaming gold and amber.
"From the isles and the south," Viserys announced. "Thooft Wines of the Arbor, Dornish Summer Red, Tyroshi Pear Brandy."
Roland's eyes lit. "Now this is a feast!"
They drank. The Arbor wine was smooth and mellow; the Dornish sweet and floral; the pear brandy sharp enough to bite.
"Ahh," Syrio sighed. "Even so, no Braavosi vintage can match these. We have banks, yes — not vineyards."
True enough. The island's soil was thin and its grain imported; the local wine was a sour thing made from Andalos stock — barely fit for dock workers.
Then Viserys asked, eyes bright with mischief, "Ever tasted something stronger than brandy?"
Moro shrugged. "Not I — what could be stronger?"
He produced a dark bottle. The liquid inside shone like oil.
"Black Tar Rum," he said. "The sailors' favorite poison."
They poured and drank. The rum was sweet at first mouthful — then bit hard, smoking down the throat until it seared the tongue.
"Not bad," Moro coughed. "Rough, cheap — but it works."
Viserys studied the swirling dark liquid in his cup. Crude yet promising. Like him.
"This could be better," he murmured. "Refined. Purified. Clear and gold, not black and bitter."
Syrio laughed. "You'd turn rum-maker now?"
"Why not? We call it… the Water of Life. A new spirit for a new age."
His mind was already racing. The lands across the Narrow Sea had barley, wheat, sugarcane — the materials were there. What they lacked was invention.
Refine it. Filter it. Boil it until fire ran in glass. Sell to merchants, captains, lords. A drink fit for thrones.
Gold in every cup, he thought. A fortune in every bottle.
He would not build his empire on charity or gifts alone. It would flow like liquor — and burn as bright as dragonfire.
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