When the first light touched the rooftops of Braavos, a one‑eared black cat hissed at Viserys from the garden wall.
He wore a studded leather jerkin, no sword at his hip — only breath and balance. Above the canals, the morning air was damp and cold. Braavos lay farther north than King's Landing, gray skies more common than sun, yet he had long since grown used to it.
To the south across the Narrow Sea lay Pentos, on the same latitude as the capital — the road that Illyrio Mopatis and Varys often sailed. The thought flashed by and was gone.
Viserys inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. He listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat, stepped forward in soft‑soled shoes, and let each motion fall into quiet harmony.
In theory, water dancers trained barefoot, but the prince was no wild street child like Arya Stark would one day be; he needed softness, not splinters.
The best water dancers began at seven or eight. Viserys, at fourteen, was already old. Too old.
But Viserys had an advantage none of them could match — his system, his steady rise of attributes. The body followed where the numbers led.
Fast as a deer, silent as shadow, sharp as a serpent, still as stone, fierce as wolf, strong as bear, calm as water — these were the seven pillars of the dance.
The black cat, one‑eared and cunning, watched him with luminous green suspicion.
In the Red Keep, there had been cats everywhere once. But only this kind — the lean, half‑wild survivors — had that perfect mix of patience and speed.
When Moro saw the creature's grace, he'd grinned and called it the perfect teacher. "If you can catch that cat," he'd said, "you can touch death and live."
So it became their training.
Day after day, Viserys chased the cat through kitchens and courtyards, up walls and along the sloping roof tiles of the Red Door House. The cat refused to scratch him — perhaps by Rhaenys's quiet influence, watching through it with her warg's sight — but it never let itself be caught either.
Today would be different.
(Agility ↑)
(Agility ↑)
His attributes pulsed like drumbeats in his mind. Water dancing demanded balance and speed, and his growth in agility was swiftest of all.
The chase leapt from balcony to garden path. The cat darted left; Viserys mirrored. It feinted right; he cut it off, his breath steady, his feet silent.
When it turned to spring between his legs, he dropped — fast as a snake — and caught it clean from midair.
A hiss, a wriggle, a brief flurry of claws, and then stillness.
Viserys lifted the cat above his head, grinning. "Got you."
The creature growled its outrage but did not strike.
Sweat beaded on his brow. When he set it down, it stayed near his feet, grooming itself in grudging dignity.
Across the courtyard, Rhaenys balanced on one leg atop a spinning wooden post — another of their homemade contraptions — her arms spread for balance. She'd borrowed the device from his practice set.
Every lesson was repetition: balance, reaction, awareness. The path of the Water Dance forged body and focus together.
Later, he rubbed Myrish fire‑salve across scraped knees. It burned like wildfire, but dull pain kept him sharp.
"I think its agility is tied to your warging," he said to Rhaenys once he'd caught his breath.
"Maybe," she said. "It does see better than most cats."
He nodded. "If your mind enters its body, even for a breath, that link might sharpen its senses — maybe even lengthen its life."
They had both wondered about that mystery before: if a skinchanger lived too long in an animal, whose lifespan ruled — beast or soul? Some said the spirit made the body linger past its time.
Magic had stranger laws. Red priests lived without food; greenseers became roots and branches. Why not this?
By midday, training ended, and his guests arrived.
The Swordswoman herself came, Moro at her side — radiant, smiling, and newly wealthy. Her fame had rippled through the city like a rising tide. Every tavern singer from the Docks to the Old Wharf now begged to perform Five Hundred Leagues.
She looked at Viserys as though she'd found a chest of gold. He was, after all, the source of her fortune — her songwriter, her secret, her treasure.
"Another good season for us, Your Grace," she said, handing him a small velvet pouch. The heavy chime of coins filled the quiet room. "One hundred gold pieces — your share of the last month's performances."
Viserys took it with practiced ease. "You're far too generous, my lady."
"Fair, not generous," she corrected brightly. "You'd have earned more had I been half as famous as the Nightingale. But that, I promise, is only a matter of time."
The exchange was civilized, commercial — two professionals dividing profit, each too polite to name their deeper calculations.
Viserys needed coin — for the house, for his servants, for the salted butter, the sea snails, the Myrish tonics, the training gear. Every lesson, every meal, cost gold.
The Swordswoman, in turn, needed songs — more songs.
"I hear you've taken well to the sword," she said, eyes dancing. "Moro says you learn twice as fast as any student he's seen."
"Moro is kind," Viserys replied.
Her laughter was low and full. "Cooking, writing, fighting — is there anything the last dragon cannot do?"
Viserys gave her a thin smile. "Conquer, perhaps."
She looked at him strangely — then dismissed the thought with another laugh.
"I haven't forgotten your other request," she said at last. "I'm still searching for a Westerosi instructor — a true knight, not a sellsword. I'll find you one worthy of your blood."
"No hurry," Viserys said. "Skill can be borrowed. Loyalty cannot."
Her eyes softened, though her mind was already elsewhere — on profits, on rivals, on how far the song could carry her name before the next city stole it.
"Of course," she said sweetly. "But tell me, Your Grace… surely you haven't finished writing? You have something new, don't you?"
Viserys smiled, slow and deliberate. "Maybe."
"You do." The delight in her face was instant. "Another song?"
He said nothing.
The truth was simple — he could write a dozen at will; his other‑worldly memory was endless. But timing mattered. Profit was rhythm.
She leaned closer, curiosity aflame. "You are truly a miracle, Your Grace."
"I'm just a man in need of gold," Viserys replied lightly.
But as he poured her a cup of wine and the cat brushed between his boots, the thought gleamed in his mind like the rising sun:
Gold now, power later.
Step by step, swordstroke by swordstroke — even dragons start small.
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