After Sisa, Moro, and the Swordswoman left, the manor fell quiet again.
The one-eared black cat stretched on the cushion, blinking its green eyes as the last candlelight faded.
The dining room, which had been drowned in laughter and overturned cups, was spotless now — the handiwork of the old cook and butler, who, far from complaining, had begun to adore late nights and long hours. Under Viserys's tutelage, their skills had soared. The cook, once destined for mediocrity, now dreamed of working one day in a governor's kitchen, or perhaps for a Braavosi banker.
Everyone had ambition; everyone wanted to improve.
Not long after, Rhaenys Targaryen stepped lightly from the hallway — olive-skinned, dark-haired, her violet eyes gleaming in the half-dark. She hadn't gone to sleep. Through her black cat's eyes, she had been watching everything.
Her cousin Daenerys, still small and innocent, was fast asleep upstairs, unbothered by the dangers that circled their exile.
"Can we really trust them?" Rhaenys asked quietly.
"They're trustworthy enough — for business," Viserys replied, leaning back in his chair. "But not for war. Friends who share meals and profits are one thing. Friends who share blood and fire are another."
He spoke calmly, but his mind was already elsewhere — turning the night's empty wine cups into steppingstones in his private game.
The magistrate, the courtesan, the swordsman — none of them could help him win back a crown. But they could help him build the foundation. In Braavos, influence flowed not from birth but from gold and favor.
Money opened doors. And gold could buy swords.
"For now, we need them," he said. "The elites of Braavos are beyond reach, but Sisa and the Swordswoman belong to the middle circle. It's easier to slip into their world before climbing higher."
Rhaenys nodded. "That makes sense."
Viserys turned to her, his eyes flickering in the lamplight. "The ones who still have power — they're all in Robert's court. The strong serve the stag, the lion, or the trout. That leaves us only with the broken ones — the outcasts, the exiles, the ones the new world no longer wants."
"You mean criminals," she said skeptically.
"I mean the defeated," Viserys corrected softly. A dangerous spark shone in his gaze.
"Chaos is a ladder, Rhaenys. The Free Cities' merchants won't risk their wealth helping us — they already have too much to lose. But the desperate? The beaten? They'll follow anyone who gives them a cause. We can build something from them."
Rhaenys frowned. "You're talking about rebels. Madmen. Even slaves."
"Exactly," he said simply. "Think bigger."
He began to pace, voice sharpening with each word.
"The noble exiles of Tyrosh — the fallen families of Rogare and Silvertongue. The beggar princes of Pentos. Even the slaves of Valyria's old ruins. We will bind them together under one banner — the banner of survival."
His violet eyes glowed, fierce with conviction.
"The world thinks me powerless. But it will be these forgotten souls who change it."
Rhaenys listened, half awed, half afraid.
"That's madness," she whispered. "If you turn to the slaves and outcasts, you'll anger the entire world."
"I already have nothing," Viserys said softly. "What else is there to lose? To raise an army, I need numbers. Mercenaries are loyal only to coin. But slaves — once freed — fight for revenge. And the horsemen of the Dothraki Sea?" He smiled faintly. "They fight for glory."
He clasped his hands together as if imagining the empire he would one day crown with fire.
"If we can unite those the world despises… we won't just take Westeros. We'll reshape Essos as well."
Rhaenys watched him, wide-eyed. The thought was terrifying — and brilliant. The uncle she'd once thought of as a vain dreamer now looked almost divine — consumed by purpose.
"You're either a genius or a madman," she said softly.
"I'm a dragon," Viserys replied simply.
And in that moment, Rhaenys believed him.
They had taken their first step — small, fragile, but real.
The next morning, Moro returned — punctual as promised. Alongside him came two gifts from the Swordswoman: a pouch heavy with one hundred gold coins, paid in full, and a set of training equipment — wooden swords with weighted cores, balanced hilts, and rounded guards.
His "lessons," it seemed, would begin at once.
Moro tossed a practice blade toward him. "Catch, Your Grace. One hand."
It landed heavily in Viserys's palm — far denser than it looked. The core was filled with lead, meant to build strength while teaching precision.
"Normally," Moro rumbled, "I don't take students like you. You're too old. Too stiff. The body learns faster than pride, and you've had a lifetime of comfort. But my lady gave an order. So I'll teach you. You'll never match a true dancer — but you'll learn to move before you die."
Viserys smiled faintly. "That's motivation enough."
"Hold the blade up. Sideways stance. No, not square — angle your body. Present less target. Always expect the enemy's strike."
Viserys obeyed, fluid but focused.
"Better," Moro admitted. "Surprising, really. You've got the hands for it. Strength too."
He circled once around Viserys like a hawk, watching the way the boy moved, the way his muscles coiled instead of shuddered.
"Move like water," Moro said. "Gentle, unbroken. Never resist with strength — redirect with grace."
Viserys adjusted his footing, feeling the weight of the sword hum through his wrist.
Yes… like this.
Moro gave a slow, approving grin. "The gods help me — you might not be hopeless."
Viserys exhaled, steady.
The Glutton's power burned faintly beneath his skin, feeding strength where exhaustion should have lived. His body obeyed him more easily now. His mind felt sharper, clearer, focused entirely on rhythm and flow.
For the first time, he didn't feel like a beggar or a prince. He felt like a learner — a man shaping himself into something new.
"Every king needs a sword," he murmured softly.
Moro shrugged. "Every corpse has one too. Learn to use yours before it buries you."
Viserys said nothing, but the corner of his mouth curved upward.
His first teacher had been a half-blind knight of a fallen realm.
His second would be a killer from the fog-shrouded streets of Braavos.
And between the two, the last Targaryen began to build the weapon he would one day become.