Before the duel, Syrio gave Viserys a special lesson.
To the north of Braavos lay a vast expanse of ocean, where a crab boat cut across the surface.
The westernmost reach of the Shivering Sea—stretching from Skagos and the Grey Cliffs to the delta of the Sarne—was known as the richest fishing ground in the known world.
Technically, these waters fell under Braavosi jurisdiction, but deep-sea crabbers rarely lingered in these coastal fisheries. Their hunting grounds were far more dangerous.
On the grey-green sea, Viserys Targaryen stood at the bow, crowded together with Captain Ringo and the former First Sword, Syrio Forel. The spray hit their faces, tasting sharp and salty.
They had been drifting at sea for several days. It was a way to experience a different life, a journey of sorts.
Viserys finally understood why so many men loved the sea. Looking out at this boundless domain, every man felt like his own king, swept up in an atmosphere of rushing freedom.
Gale-force winds and massive waves rolled in together. Although their crab boat wasn't small, compared to the vast ocean, it was nothing more than a bug.
Grey-green waves crashed one after another, rocking the ship violently from side to side.
It was said that the most terrifying rogue waves were taller than city walls, capable of swallowing any ship whole. Viserys felt that these weren't just legends.
"Hold on tight!" shouted the sailors at the helm.
"It's truly terrifying," Viserys remarked, feeling the majestic power of the storm and the sea—forces that commanded the wind and rain.
"This is nothing," the sailors boasted. "The storms in the White Waste are far worse than this."
For these tough, seasoned veterans, coastal storms were commonplace.
Some waves were indeed as large as houses, a truly frightening sight.
Viserys watched the turbulent sea. The waves moved with the wind, roaring, carrying the scent of currents and tides.
"You're lucky," Ringo said. "There's a storm, but it's not a big one. The sea is a cruel mistress, but we have no choice. Sailors depend on their ships to eat."
Viserys stood up, bracing himself against the might of the ocean.
"Have you ever seen anything strange out at sea?" Viserys asked curiously. He wondered if they had encountered sea monsters, wights, or ice dragons when venturing to the far north.
"We haven't seen them ourselves; perhaps we haven't gone truly far enough north. But there are legends," Ringo replied. "The most terrifying things at sea are the ice fog, ice dragons, and krakens. They say if blue ice fog drifts over the water, any ship it touches freezes instantly. When night falls, drowned ghosts crawl out of the water to drag the living into the abyss. Or the pale merlings with black tails—far more evil than the mermaids of the south—who pull sailors to their deaths."
In these legends, cold and evil were the recurring themes.
Viserys didn't mention the White Walkers, but it seemed that north of the Shivering Sea, Braavos might eventually face the threat of the dead as well.
But those were distant concerns. The immediate issue was the Titan's Bastard.
"The duel is in a few days. Prestayn will surely hire famous swordsmen to spar with the Titan's Bastard," Syrio said. "But what I am teaching you is a different method."
Viserys already understood the technique Syrio was teaching: the tranquility of the mind and the movement of nature.
Compared to noisy sparring, this method was more technical and tempered the spirit.
"Watch the spray. Watch the sea, Viserys," Syrio said. "Water is the source of the Water Dance."
"Scenery. Water." Viserys looked at the sky and sea around him. Usually busy with the chaos of survival and the clash of steel, he rarely took the time to observe the scenery like this.
Viserys watched the waves stacking upon one another, layer upon layer, like different forces compounding.
"My sword momentum should be like the waves—one stacking higher than the last, a ceaseless flow," Viserys thought, admiring the majestic, stacking waves.
An ordinary swordsman would struggle to achieve this state, but Viserys's physical stats were high and balanced; he could absolutely pull it off.
The ocean exerted its mighty power at will, the ship rising and falling with it, while the sailors worked in tandem with the force.
In this vast world of sky and sea, the ship floated like a dragonfly on the water, the oars rising and falling in unison.
"True insight is to see everything. Not just the person, but the environment," Syrio said. "There is little left I can teach you. This is what you must learn on your own."
Viserys nodded. "Insight. True insight."
This was the expansion of awareness. Not just focusing on the opponent, but observing the entire external environment.
Viserys felt that if a Water Dancer's path of insight reached its peak, it would be the natural counter to the Faceless Men.
Faceless Men blurred their identities, a kind of magical trick, but the highest state of a Water Dancer was to see through to the truth.
Hard and soft, heavy and light, fast and slow—these were the basic operations of a warrior. Insight stood above them all.
"I don't understand all those philosophies of yours. The only thing I know is that practice makes perfect," Ringo said. "Spend enough time at sea, and a sailor learns to hear the voice of the ocean, the movement of the wind, and knows where the richest fishing grounds are."
"All arts are the same," Syrio agreed with Ringo.
Quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake. The truths of the Water Dance became clearer in Viserys's heart. He felt he was on the verge of breaking through a bottleneck in his swordsmanship.
"What do you see?" Syrio asked.
"The wind blows, the waves move. The spray stacks together, one wave higher than the last," Viserys said. "My sword will be the same."
"You have learned enough," Syrio said with certainty. "It is time for us to return, Captain."
"Very well." Ringo gave the order, and the ship officially turned back toward Braavos.
The crab boat cut through the sea, the fog receding layer by layer.
The sails looked like churning purple wings, emblazoned with the symbol of rum and the great crab.
Viserys turned to look. A ridge of rock rose abruptly from the sea, its steep slopes covered in soldier pines and black spruce.
Directly ahead was a gap. The Titan stood there, eyes flashing, green hair flying in the wind.
Viserys gazed at the Titan of Braavos ahead. Its legs straddled the gap, one foot planted on each mountain.
Its broad shoulders loomed over the rugged peaks. Its legs were carved from solid rock, the same texture as the black granite reef beneath its feet.
The giant wore a skirt of green bronze plates and a bronze breastplate. It wore a crested bronze half-helm, its flowing hair made of dyed green hemp rope. Its eyes were two caves, with great fires burning within.
One hand rested on the ridge to the left, bronze fingers clutching a massive boulder; the other hand reached toward the sky, gripping the hilt of a broken sword.
Viserys watched the ships passing to and fro beneath it. The size of the Titan was terrifying.
"The Titan is the symbol of Braavos. I hope you achieve victory, just as Braavos does," Syrio said.
"May the Warrior grant me strength," Viserys said.
"You must win, exiled Prince."
"Crush those Prestayn lackeys!" the sailors cheered enthusiastically.
For the Prestayn family, the sailors held a genuine, deep-seated hatred.