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The candlelight played across Viserys's face, tracing the lines of a visage that had shed the last remnants of soft childhood. He was lean, a creature of corded muscle and predatory stillness, his violet eyes holding a depth that made him seem far older than his fourteen years. He moved with the effortless economy of a Water Dancer, a stark contrast to the frantic, trembling exile he had once been.
'A pity about the hairpin,' he mused, testing the new density of his grip.
He hadn't intended for the dragonbone to be an ornament. In the hands of a desperate man, a dragonbone pin is a lethal hidden edge—sturdier than steel, lighter than a feather, and easily concealed in a silver-white mane. But the cost of the loss was balanced by the gain in his blood.
His thoughts drifted to the depths beneath the Red Keep in King's Landing. Legend spoke of nineteen dragon skulls ranging from the size of mastiffs to the cavernous maw of Balerion the Black Dread. If a mere sliver of bone could push his attributes to the brink of superhumanity, a single tooth from the Black Dread might turn him into a titan.
But he was a strategist, not a beast. He knew his limits. For now, he would be a scavenger of fragments—broken ornaments, ancient relics, and the skeletal remains of hatchlings.
He looked at the table before him. He had laid out a spread of mundane wealth: a gold dragon, a silver stag, a copper star, and a raw amethyst. He had tried to bite into each, hoping the Glutton might find sustenance in coin. It was a failure. The talent was deaf to the call of currency; it craved the spark of the divine and the echo of magic.
'Quality over quantity,' he whispered.
His experiments were yielding a hierarchy of consumption. Beef, venison, and common boar provided nothing but a full stomach. The sea snails of the lagoon offered a faint, lingering hum of power. But the dragonbone—that was the true fuel. It was blood and fire made solid.
If dragons were the pinnacle, he needed to find their lesser cousins. He recalled the tales of the Rhoyne, the mother river of the south. In its silt-heavy depths lived the "River Gods"—monstrous turtles and ancient, armored fish that the Rhoynar had once worshipped. To a Valyrian of old, they were sport; to Viserys, they were a potential larder of mystic attributes.
But the Rhoyne was far, and his purse was shallow. Between his training, the manse, and his specialized diet, the "Silver Traveler" was spending gold faster than the Swordswoman could bring it in.
'Dragonbone, sea snails, and the ghosts of the Rhoyne,' he cataloged. 'An expensive menu for a landless king.'
He had already drafted a new set of terms in his mind. In the future, those who sought the "Silver Traveler" for a song, a meal, or a favor would find that his price was no longer just gold. He wanted the black bone of his ancestors. He wanted the relics of the Freehold.
He even briefly considered Valyrian steel—the ultimate fusion of dragon-fire and iron. He looked at the dagger on his belt. It was a mad thought. Valyrian steel was forged with spells and blood; to consume it might be to invite a furnace into his marrow. For now, he wasn't that desperate, and certainly not that wasteful.
A knock at the heavy oak door broke his reverie. It was Moro, his face uncharacteristically grim.
"The wind has changed, boy," the Water Dancer said. "The Swordswoman didn't just bring you gold today. She brought eyes. The Sealord's palace is whispering your name, and not just because of your songs."
Viserys stood, the dragonbone essence in his veins making him feel as though he could leap across the lagoon in a single bound. "Then let them watch," he said, his voice a cold promise. "It is time the Sea King realized that a dragon in his city is not a pet, but an omen."
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