"Your Grace, do not let grief take hold. Tears are poor medicine for the blood." The steward closed the door to Ser Willem's chambers with a performative humility that set Viserys's teeth on edge.
Viserys watched the man's retreating back, his violet eyes veiled and unreadable. The boy king was a student of masks; he played the role of the tragic, fragile exile to perfection, knowing that the servants found his docility comforting. It made them careless. They saw a fallen prince mourning a dying knight, while Viserys saw a board where the pieces were finally beginning to move.
To reclaim the Seven Kingdoms, one needed more than a name; one needed the weight of steel and the shadow of wings. But the dragon eggs of House Targaryen had vanished into the pyres of Summerhall or the chaos of the Rebellion. He had no dragons, no army, and—until now—no personal path to power.
In the hierarchy of the world, a warrior's prowess was forged from gold, bloodline, and years of grueling labor. Geniuses like Daemon Blackfyre were knighted at twelve, while Viserys, stunted by his father's paranoia and the poverty of exile, remained a novice at fourteen.
He stopped in the center of the dim corridor. The air before him seemed to ripple, a sudden distortion in the brine-heavy atmosphere of the house.
A translucent pane unfurled in his vision, sharp and crystalline.
VISERYS TARGARYEN
Age: 14
Title: The Unobserved King
Attributes: * Strength: 1.1 | Endurance: 1.3 | Agility: 1.2 | Spirit: 1.4
Special Talent: [Locked]
A cold spark of triumph flared in his chest. Surrounded by the "Mother of Dragons" and a "Master Skinchanger," Viserys had often felt like a hollow vessel, a king of nothing. This was the leverage he required.
The panel shifted, a single card flipping over to reveal the image of a dragon—not the noble red of his house, but a creature of oily black scales and baleful green eyes. A scavenger. An eater of its own kind.
TALENT: GLUTTON Strength is forged through consumption. Should the essence of magical creatures be consumed, the metamorphosis shall accelerate.
The name was an echo of the infamous wild dragon of Dragonstone that had once feasted on hatchlings and eggs. Viserys realized with a start that he no longer had to wait years for the slow gains of the training yard. He could eat his way to a throne.
He moved toward the kitchen with a renewed sense of purpose. Braavos was a city of stone and salt; its larders were filled not with the venison and boar of the Reach, but with the bounty of the Shivering Sea.
The cook, a man who had long ago ceased to fear the boy who would be king, barely looked up from his work. He watched with a thin, mocking smile as Viserys began to sample the stores. To the cook, the prince was merely seeking comfort in gluttony before the inevitable day they threw him into the gutters.
Viserys ignored the scorn. He tasted smoked sturgeon—nothing. He tried pickled crab and raw oysters—brine and salt, but no power. He moved through the pantry like a man possessed, until he reached a bowl of sea snail meat, rich and dark, harvested for the purple dye that made the Braavosi elite so distinctive.
The moment the meat touched his tongue, a wave of heat surged through his limbs. It wasn't the warmth of a full belly; it was the roar of a furnace.
[STRENGTH ATTRIBUTE ↑]
He devoured the remaining snails with a predatory focus. The transition was immediate—a tightening of the muscle, a sharpening of the senses. He tested other delicacies, but the results were silent. The Glutton was a discerning master; it craved the rare and the potent.
Sea snails were a luxury in Braavos, their value tied to the industry of the city. To eat them daily would be to drain their dwindling coffers, but Viserys didn't care for the cost. He looked at his hands, feeling the newfound hum of vitality beneath his skin.
He was no longer just a boy waiting for a knight to die. He was a predator beginning to grow its teeth.