In the courtyard of the house with the red door, after the day's martial arts training wrapped up, the group found themselves with a bit of free time to chat.
To a Braavosi ear, the "Way of the Knight" that Ser Roland Lake spoke of sounded a bit peculiar.
"This 'Knight's Dance' of yours involves a lot of hacking and slashing. You really need to be a big guy to get any advantage out of it," Syrio remarked, offering his critique.
"Most of the time, that is true, Syrio," Roland replied. "Men who are too slight can't even move properly in full plate. The top-tier knights are all built like bulls. Of course, even those warriors have their limits."
"It makes sense," Viserys commented sharply. "A taller man has a longer reach and is generally stronger. Naturally, that makes him more of a threat."
This was simply a matter of biomechanics. Knights in Westeros were almost exclusively built for power—tall, burly, and packed with dense muscle. It gave them a distinct advantage.
Robert Baratheon, Barristan Selmy, The Mountain, The Hound, The Kingslayer, The Red Viper, The Greatjon, Victarion Greyjoy.
Viserys silently recited the names of these knights who possessed high-tier stats. They were all renowned for their size and agility. The Mountain, in particular, was essentially a heavy tank.
"Viserys has excellent natural aptitude. He can achieve a balance across all areas," Moro said, looking at the young king.
"He is excellent, indeed. But, Your Grace, if you are to defeat the Usurper and his dogs, being skilled isn't enough. You must become the absolute strongest," Ser Roland said after a moment of thought.
Right now, Robert had just crushed the Greyjoy Rebellion. He hadn't yet become the obese drunkard of later years; he was still a premier powerhouse. Not to mention, the Iron Throne commanded a roster of first-rate and elite fighters.
"The absolute strongest," Viserys murmured, brushing back a lock of his naturally silver-gold hair.
Aside from grueling training, his method was to desperately pump points into his stats to see just how far he could push his limits.
"Your Grace, I had the honor of fighting at the Battle of the Trident. Prince Rhaegar was a warrior of great skill, yet he still fell to Robert's warhammer. On the battlefield, a difference of a single inch is enough to be fatal. And once the commander falls, the entire army collapses with him," Ser Roland said solemnly, sneaking a glance at Viserys.
"The Warrior is fickle; he does not favor one man forever. A great knight might win a grueling tournament only to lose a simple skirmish. A divot in the grass, bad water at dinner... these things can mean defeat. Conversely, a sudden shift in the wind might grant victory, or perhaps the cry of a loved one."
Roland Lake thought back to that blood-soaked battlefield. The black-armored prince crashing into the river, the rubies on his breastplate scattering like shattered stars, sparking a mad scramble among the soldiers of both sides.
The death knell had rung for the Royalists that day, and for every knight who had fought beside Rhaegar Targaryen. The dragon banner fell into the mud, replaced by the Golden Stag.
"My brother was a good warrior, but the Usurper was better," Viserys said plainly. A loss was a loss; there was no need to make excuses.
Even if the actions of Rhaegar and Aerys prior to the war had been completely unhinged, had Rhaegar won at the Trident, he would have been hailed as the true dragon. But he failed. Rhaegar's strength and combat experience were inferior to Robert's, and the longsword was a disadvantageous weapon against a warhammer.
It ultimately comes down to not being strong enough, Viserys thought pragmatically. I just need to keep grinding my stats.
High stats, sharp instincts.
Frankly, Viserys didn't hold that much personal malice toward Robert, the brute. After all, the Mad King and Rhaegar were, objectively speaking, quite a piece of work. But this was a brutal struggle for power. For that ugly iron chair, it had to be a fight to the death.
Ser Roland watched Viserys closely. While he agreed with the sentiment as an eyewitness, it wasn't usually appropriate for a subordinate to speak so bluntly about the royal family's failures. However, seeing that Viserys took it in stride, Roland breathed a sigh of relief.
Frankness and magnanimity are virtues in a king.
Even loyalists had to admit that in his youth, Robert fought like a god. Compared to the violent insanity of Aerys or the gloomy melancholy of Rhaegar, neither was exactly "normal." Compared to those two, the current Viserys seemed incredibly well-adjusted.
"Few people truly understood Prince Rhaegar. I only saw him at tourneys and heard him play his silver harp," Ser Roland said. "After all, I am but a cousin from a second or third-tier house with no inheritance rights. My standing was low."
Syrio frowned slightly. "In Braavos, we also heard tales of the Melancholy Prince."
"The tragedy of Summerhall haunted him," Roland explained. "The Prince's squires might know more. His first squire was Myles Mooton, followed by Richard Lonmouth. He later knighted both of them personally, and they became his lifelong companions. Aside from them, the Crown Prince had other close friends, including the young Lord Connington and the 'Sword of the Morning,' Arthur Dayne."
"They are the past," Viserys said. "I hear they were a clique of proud young nobles who surrounded my brother, led by the Griffin and the Sword of the Morning. Aside from them, my brother rarely trusted anyone else, not even Ser Barristan at the time."
"That is true, Your Grace," Roland nodded. "Those who are too pure rarely fit into the mundane world. Rhaegar was not like Robert—a coarse young man who loved drinking and whoring."
Viserys found it hard to say who was right or wrong; it was simply a difference in lifestyle and personality. But a charismatic extrovert like Robert was destined to clash with a brooding introvert like Rhaegar.
"Although most of Rhaegar's followers are dead, when your banner is raised, the families of the fallen will still have the passion to fight for you," Roland said carefully.
"I hope so," Viserys replied.
Viserys needed partners and enforcers, but he hadn't found an opportunity to recruit any yet.
After a while, Syrio and Moro went their separate ways, leaving only Viserys and Roland in the courtyard.
"We need manpower, specifically knightly companions for you, Your Grace," Roland said. "Restoration requires the support of martial strength, just as Prince Rhaegar had Myles, Richard, Connington, and Dayne."
"Syrio and Moro are Braavosi. They are skilled, but they are not our knights," Viserys acknowledged.
Roland looked at Viserys with admiration. Despite his young age, Viserys already understood the intricate veins of power.
"Have you considered mercenaries, Your Grace?" Roland asked.
"No. Mercenaries, even the Braavosi sailors at the port, are extremely unreliable. At best, they can serve as auxiliary troops. I need simple peasant levies or miners—men you won't find here in Braavos."
"Then we need a foothold outside the city," Roland whispered.
"We don't have much room to maneuver in Braavos. Sooner or later, the fish must enter the sea."
Viserys knew he couldn't return home immediately, but he had a preliminary plan. He had already secured some funding, and his combat skills were improving rapidly.
He just needed to wait until he finished absorbing the Dragon Bone and rolling over his capital.
The next step was to leverage the Sealord of Braavos to establish a stronghold along the coast of Andalos or the Rhoyne. Using this offshore base, he would mobilize the remnant loyalists and wait for the dragon eggs and the Red Comet.
Even if this stronghold faced harassment from bandits or the Dothraki, the greater the risk, the greater the reward. It was the necessary choice.