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In the courtyard of the Red Door, the rhythmic "clack" of wood on lead-filled wood echoed against the stone walls. Syrio Forel, lean and hawkish, watched Viserys with a stillness that was far more unnerving than any aggressive stance. He was dressed in the drab grayish-brown of a Sea Lord's dignitary, a mask of mundanity for the deadliest man in the city.
Viserys, his silver-white hair damp with sweat, held a practice sword that would have made a common apprentice's arm go numb. It was a one-handed blade, but heavy enough to serve as a mace.
"I heard Moro claim you reached a refined level in mere months," Syrio said, his voice flat. "I thought he was smelling too much Myrish fire. But after watching you gut Bello at the Moon Pool... you have flashes. You have the courage, and your technique is not entirely a disaster."
Syrio stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Viserys's hand. "But do not be proud. For a genius, I am a cruel master. Switch to your left hand."
Viserys paused, then adjusted his grip. "My left?"
"The left hand makes the enemy's mind itch," Syrio said. "It reverses the world. You are tall, like a spear, and your reach is long. Use that. Do not face the enemy like a wall; face them like a needle. Make yourself small, and make your strike certain."
For hours, Viserys moved as Syrio commanded. He learned that the Water Dance was not the "Steel Dance" of the Westerosi knights—those clanking iron cans who swung swords like woodcutters. This was the Assassin's Dance.
"Humans are made of water," Syrio whispered as they parried. "You have seen it. You stab them, the water flows out, and they go to sleep. Be elegant. Be dangerous."
Viserys's muscles screamed, but his Insight talent was drinking in every movement. He could see the feints before Syrio executed them; he could feel the shift in the air when the master was about to strike. He was no longer just learning moves; he was learning to see the intent.
"You are a strange boy," Syrio noted as the sun began to set. "Most take years to find the rhythm. You... you are catching the shadows already."
"I have a kingdom to win," Viserys replied, his voice hard. "I cannot afford to be slow."
The training was interrupted by the arrival of the Swordswoman, who brought with her a presence that made the courtyard feel suddenly small and bright. Beside her stood a woman in a yellow gauze dress, her pearls shimmering like frozen moonlight.
"This is Nightingale," the Swordswoman introduced, her tone a mix of pride and careful diplomacy.
Viserys wiped his brow. Nightingale was one of the Seven—the elite of Braavos. She was a vision of Lysene beauty: golden-haired, blue-eyed, with a voice that sounded like a cello. She looked at Viserys not as a beggar, but as a dangerous curiosity.
"His Majesty Viserys," she bowed. "The whole city whispers of the Silver Traveler. I could not let such a bird stay hidden in the mist."
"I am merely a traveler, My Lady," Viserys smiled. "But a traveler appreciates a beautiful guide."
Nightingale was not there for pleasantries alone. Her guard presented a cedar box. When Viserys opened it, the scent of ancient blood and fire hit him. It was filled with dragonbone—hairpins, dagger hilts, and dark, lustrous ornaments. It was a hoard that far surpassed anything the Swordswoman had provided.
"A gift," Nightingale said softly. "To prove we are friends."
Viserys picked up a dragonbone dagger hilt, feeling the surge of potential power within it. Nightingale's resources were vast; she was a conduit for the city's deepest wealth.
"You want a song," Viserys stated.
"I want the soul of the Silver Traveler," she replied.
Viserys didn't hesitate. He took out a page of lyrics he had prepared—verses that spoke of a lake where the spring breeze was intoxicating and the moonlight sprinkled love across the water. He called it By the Great Reef Lake.
Nightingale read the words, and for the first time, her polished mask slipped. She looked at Viserys with genuine awe. "This is... it is divine."
"How much?" Viserys asked.
"A thousand gold coins," she said instantly. "And subsequent commissions. My investors demand a share, but for you, I will pay the ransom of a king."
A thousand gold dragons. The price of a Kingslayer. Viserys felt the weight of his growing war chest. He was no longer just surviving; he was accumulating the capital of a conqueror.
"There is more," Nightingale added, her blue eyes turning serious. "The Moonsingers' priestesses have heard of your songs. They wish to meet the man who hears the music of the travelers."
Viserys's heart stilled. The Moonsingers were the spiritual heart of Braavos, the ones who had guided the original slaves to this secret city. If they were calling, it meant the Sea King wasn't the only one watching the dragon.
"The game is growing," Viserys thought, his hand closing over the dragonbone. "And I am finally at the table."
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