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The Moon Pool sat like a dark, reflective eye in the heart of Braavos's noble district. Fed by the Sweet Water Canal and overlooked by the towering, windowless fortress of the Iron Bank, it was a place where every inch of stone was bought with blood or interest. Around it, the air was perpetually thick with the scent of expensive wine and the salt of the lagoon.
The previous duel had been scrubbed from the stone as if it were a spilled drink, yet the atmosphere remained charged. Braavos did not mourn its dead; it simply moved on to the next wager.
Viserys walked with Moro toward the Isle of the Gods, stopping briefly to buy a handful of fresh clams from a vendor's daughter. He swallowed one, the brine sharp and clean on his tongue. It was a peasant's snack in a prince's neighborhood, but Viserys found himself preferring the simple reality of it.
"When you face a Water Dancer, you cannot hesitate," Moro said, his voice low as they navigated the crowded alleys. "In this city, the aggressive survive. If you show a flicker of doubt, they will take your boots, then your cloak, then your life. You must be fiercer than the steel you carry."
"I am a dragon, Moro," Viserys replied, a thin smile playing on his lips. "Though even dragons must occasionally nap in the sun."
Moro grunted. "You are certainly different from the legends. The world says the Targaryens are a house of fire and pride—arrogant to the point of madness. You... you are becoming a 'Silver Traveler.'"
"Let the city chase a ghost," Viserys said.
"Fame is a double-edged blade," Moro warned. "Every Courtesan in this city is backed by investors—merchants, retired sirens, Archons. They treat talent like venture capital. Now that 'Five Hundred Miles' has set the canals on fire, you are no longer just an exile. You are a resource. And in Braavos, resources are either bought or stolen."
Viserys understood the implication. He had entered the market. If his songs continued to elevate the Swordswoman, the rivals of the Nightingale or the Black Pearl would eventually come looking for the source.
As they rounded a corner toward a sprawling, multi-story inn, the scenery shifted. Tables were set out in the shade of the stone walls, and fluttering above them were the banners of the free-lances.
Viserys froze, his gaze locking onto the standards.
There was the blue-and-white swallowtail of the Windblown Company. Beside it, the blood-red hunting cat of the Company of the Cat. But it was the third banner that made the air turn cold in Viserys's lungs.
A golden skull, dipped in gold and mounted atop a spear.
"The Golden Company," Viserys whispered.
"The preeminent legion," Moro noted, oblivious to the history boiling in Viserys's blood. "Ten thousand men. They maintain the discipline of a real army while the rest of the world plays at war. They come to Braavos to recruit the desperate and the skilled, though their hearts belong to the Disputed Lands."
Viserys stared at the golden skull. This was the company founded by Aegor "Bittersteel" Rivers, the house of exiles that had spent a century trying to put a Blackfyre—or a sympathetic hand—back on the Iron Throne.
In the life he remembered, the 'Beggar King' had once hosted a feast for the captains of this company, spending his last coins to beg for their spears. They had eaten his food, drank his wine, and laughed him out of their camp. The memory was a jagged shard of glass in his mind.
He knew their secret now. He knew that the Golden Company was already spoken for, tied to the schemes of Illyrio Mopatis and the "Griffin" to support a boy claiming to be Aegon VI. To them, Viserys was a distraction—a spare tire for a vehicle already in motion.
A year ago, he might have been tempted to walk up to that table and demand their fealty. Now, he simply watched the banner flutter.
"Let's go," Viserys said, turning his back on the golden skulls.
He would not be a beggar again. If the Golden Company wanted a king, he would not ask for their help; he would become the only option left on the board. He would build his own foundation in the mists of Braavos, one song, one meal, and one secret at a time. Contacting the mercenaries now was a road to humiliation he refused to walk.
The dragon was waking, and it was learning that the steadiest path to the throne was not through someone else's army, but through the strength of its own claws.
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