Under the moonlight, within the courtyard.
Viserys was still chatting with his master-at-arms, Roland.
Viserys's plan was to establish an offshore base upstream near the water sources of Andalos, and then secretly contact the few remaining Royalists across the Narrow Sea.
"If we establish a stronghold, it will take time to build. And the longer the Usurper sits on the Iron Throne, the stronger his grip becomes," Ser Roland Lake said, his voice laced with worry.
Building a new base and recruiting an army consumed both time and energy. Not to mention the constant harassment from bandit gangs and the Dothraki horselords.
Meanwhile, in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, time was on the Baratheons' side.
Summer is fair to everyone; both sides of the Narrow Sea enjoy its bounty. Even excluding the marginalized Reach and the disgruntled Dornishmen, the overall strength of the Iron Throne remained formidable.
"There will be a turning point," Viserys said calmly. "We cannot rush this."
Restoring a fallen dynasty was the most "hell-mode" difficulty quest in the world; it wasn't something that could be accomplished with a simple wave of a hand.
Soldiers, food, population—none could be lacking.
Viserys was mentally prepared for a long war and was working day and night to increase his own strength.
The terrifying threats weren't just the Usurper and his allies, but also the strange sorcerers and the White Walkers that would eventually return with the rising tide of magic.
To achieve a total victory, exploiting his "system" cheats while laying low to build strength was the only winning strategy.
When plotting a comeback, impatience is the enemy.
Wait for the opportunity, create the opportunity, seize the opportunity.
Viserys felt that if his attributes got high enough, he might even be able to trigger the bleeding Red Comet early.
For a restorationist, waiting ten or twenty years was normal. Viserys was still young, and he had the massive advantage of hindsight regarding the future.
Robert Baratheon and his wife were actively sabotaging themselves. Robert had divided the realm's loyalties, while the arrogant Cersei was committing incest with the Kingslayer—these were landmines waiting to explode.
Add in the scheming of the "Spider" and "Littlefinger" fanning the flames from the shadows, and the Baratheon dynasty, while appearing strong, was actually riddled with cracks.
"Trust me, Ser Roland. Tywin Lannister and the Tyrells are shut out of the court, and they are not men who sit idle. The enemy is not a monolith, and we are not a lone army at a dead end," Viserys said with confidence.
Many people could see the big picture, but hearing it from a teenager carried a very different weight than hearing it from a seasoned veteran.
At the very least, Viserys had already demonstrated his wisdom in the mechanics of power.
"You are right, Your Grace." Ser Roland Lake was thoroughly convinced by Viserys's vision. "In the current situation, it is safer to remain still and defensive."
As a distant cousin of a second-tier house, Roland hadn't been part of Rhaegar's inner circle. His status at the court in King's Landing had been low, and he had never touched the upper echelons of power.
Now that Viserys had the ability to generate funds and connections, this emerging "True Dragon" was enough to win Ser Roland's absolute faith.
"Prince Rhaegar was very capable. He was determined, calm, loyal, and sincere. But he was also willful and gloomy. You must learn from his strengths and discard his weaknesses to surpass him and defeat the Usurper."
The things Rhaegar did were, frankly, eccentrically self-destructive.
"Yes, I have long since faced his failure. Rhaegar is dead. This is now my war, Viserys's war." Viserys looked at Ser Roland's face; the lost war had brought this man much bitterness.
Ser Roland didn't possess grand strategic brilliance, but like Ser Willem Darry, his loyalty was enough.
If there was anyone Viserys knew who possessed true strategic vision, it was Syrio, who had served the former Sealord for nearly a decade. The First Sword didn't just protect the Sealord; he managed the Sealord's guard.
However, Syrio was Braavosi. It was a mutual understanding that he wouldn't get too involved in Westerosi affairs, and Viserys wouldn't ask him to join the restoration team.
Viserys continued living according to his own rhythm: consuming dragon bone to boost his stats, eating high-end ingredients, making money, and practicing the Water Dance and the Iron Dance.
Great undertakings are built on small, daily accumulations.
And every now and then, Viserys had to let his sword, Flash Silver, taste blood.
---
Midnight. The Moon Pool of Braavos.
The people remaining here had naturally formed a large circle. Inside were the rowdy bravos and duelists; outside were the unarmed spectators.
Some were just there for the show, some were placing bets, and some lesser-known courtesans were watching from the sidelines.
Some Water Dancers would fight for a courtesan, acting as a sort of guardian swordsman. The higher the rank of the swordsman, the more it boosted the courtesan's reputation.
The Water Dancers were all preening like peacocks, dressed in flashy, magnificent finery.
They wore silks of every color and carried slender swords.
Red, purple, green, gold—they were as loud and colorful as Tyroshi or Pentoshi merchants.
From the shadows, Viserys watched the Water Dancers killing each other. Their reasons for fighting were bizarre and varied.
According to the code of the Water Dancers, anyone carrying a sword at night was fair game to be challenged.
"The Black Pearl is the most beautiful woman in the world!" a bravo in a wine-red cloak declared to the crowd.
"Bullshit! The Nightingale is the true beauty!" A duelist in green velvet jumped out.
"I challenge you," the wine-red cloak waved his hand.
"Come on!"
The two Water Dancers turned sideways, drawing their rapiers simultaneously, cold light flashing off the blades.
Water Dancers moved with agility and grace. Since their weapon was a single-handed slender sword, thrusting was the primary method of attack.
They used speed to find an opening, then pierced through.
When both fighters possess extreme speed, these duels usually don't last long.
This wasn't a spar; it was a slaughter.
Because bravos wore no armor, a single deep thrust or a large slash could be fatal.
Viserys watched the two men weaving back and forth by the Moon Pool, blades whistling through the air.
The clash of steel rang out powerfully, followed by the spray of blood.
"Oh!"
"Kill him!"
"Get him!"
"Black Pearl!"
"Black Pearl!" As the fight intensified, the roar of the crowd boiled over like hot water.
Water Dancers competed in speed, agility, and flexibility—a waltz of death.
The green-clad swordsman was a beat too slow. He managed to cut the red-cloaked man's arm, leaving a gash.
But the wine-red bravo's blade flicked upward, the tip piercing his opponent's heart.
"Ah..." With a miserable cry, the loser collapsed softly to the ground.
The duels of Water Dancers were flamboyant and dangerous. Some might spare an opponent who begged for mercy, but many chose to fight to the death.
"The Black Pearl is the most beautiful woman!" the victor shouted loudly. He sheathed his blade and began to loot the corpse.
This was the accepted custom; no one criticized him.
These bravos loved drama. They would start a fight over any excuse just to make a name for themselves.
They argued over who had the best swordsmanship, who was the most beautiful woman, which theater was the best, or even whose clothes looked better.
The average bravo was hot-tempered and easily provoked—one wrong word, and the killing started.
" The Blue Lantern is the best theater in Braavos!"
"You're wrong, I say it's the Mummer's Ship!"
Next came another round of lethal output, with Water Dancers challenging each other for various reasons.
Viserys waited for a long time until he finally spotted his target.
Ordinary Water Dancers were no match for him; Viserys was now looking for a higher difficulty setting.
A scar-faced Water Dancer stood by the Moon Pool, looking as vicious as the Stranger himself. He initiated duels at random, solely to prove his swordsmanship.
A jagged scar twisted down his face like a centipede, and his blood-red robe was redder than fresh gore.
This Scarface had quite a reputation. He struck with venomous precision and left no survivors in his duels.
He was one of the most notorious figures at the Moon Pool.
"Scarface."
"It's Scarface." Many whispered his name, and no other Water Dancer dared to contend with him.
Scarface looked a bit smug as he carefully wiped his blade.
Another challenger had just died by his sword, and no one else was stepping forward.
"Does anyone want to test me? If not, I am the best swordsman of the night."
Sometimes, the Moon Pool saw a series of elimination fights to determine the "First Sword of the Night."
"I do." Viserys flashed out from the shadows.
Even through the mask, nothing could hide those violet eyes.
"The Violet Swordsman?"
Someone in the crowd clearly recognized the challenger.
The bloodthirsty Violet Swordsman.