[Check Out My P4treon For +20 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!! And get chapters before publishing them here for free on my p4treon][https://p4treon.com/ThePlotHoleRefuge]
===
"Have you truly written a song that can rival 'Five Hundred Miles'?" The Swordswoman, draped in fine white lace that caught the moonlight, looked at Viserys with a mix of skepticism and hope.
She was older than him, but Viserys now stood taller, his short silver-white hair lending him the air of a young officer rather than a wandering prince. His beauty was undeniable—pale, purplish-white eyes set in a face of Valyrian marble. It was a face that commanded attention before he ever spoke a word.
"I have," Viserys said, his voice a calm, melodic baritone. He exuded a confidence that was infectious.
The Swordswoman was careful. She would never allow herself to become emotionally entangled with a man like Viserys; he was a storm on the horizon, too ambitious and too beautiful to be anything but dangerous. She preferred the simpler, transactional fawning of men like Thassos. But as a business partner, Viserys was becoming a godsend.
She looked at the lyrics he had set on the table.
"When a ship sinks to the bottom of the sea, when a person becomes a mystery.You don't know why they left, that goodbye was their last word..."
She read the verses of No More Goodbyes, her eyes widening. The style was unique—modern in its emotional directness, yet possessing a haunting, ancient quality. "You are truly unfathomable," she whispered. "Is there nothing you cannot do? A gourmet, a swordsman, and now the most prolific songwriter in the Free Cities."
Viserys smiled the thin smile of a man who knew he was cheating the world of its history. "I have a third," he added, "something called 'Return Like Lightning,' but perhaps that is a bit too... martial for the canals of Braavos just yet."
"A third?" The Swordswoman shook her head. To her, he was a "Targaryen Superman," a fountain of creativity that never ran dry. She didn't hesitate; she pushed a bag containing two hundred gold dragons across the table. "An advance for the 'Silver Traveler.' Your name is worth more today than it was yesterday."
"Deal," Viserys said.
"Viserys," she said, her voice dropping as they watched Moro practice in the courtyard. "A much bigger player than me will find you soon. The Nightingale or the Black Pearl... they will not let a talent like yours remain in a second-tier house. Fame is a double-edged sword."
"I am aware."
"You could live like a merchant prince here," she urged. "Why chase that iron chair? You have the world at your feet in Braavos."
Viserys looked at her, his purple eyes turning cold. "A person has only one destiny. You pursue the pinnacle of your craft; I pursue the restoration of mine. To live in peace, I must first kill the shadows of the Usurper. I do not fight for a chair; I fight for the right to stop running."
She sighed, knowing the obsession was iron-deep. "Then I have a gift for you. Something more substantial than gold."
Her guards brought forth cedarwood boxes. For Rhaenys and Daenerys, there were fine silks. For Viserys, she presented a small, dark object.
"I forgot you had cut your hair," she said as he opened the box.
Inside was a jet-black hairpin, hard as steel but surprisingly light.
"Dragonbone," Viserys said, his fingers tracing the ancient, mineral-rich surface. It was a material of legend—higher in iron content than any mammal bone, yet as flexible as yew. In King's Landing, he had owned trinkets of the same, now lost to the fires of rebellion.
"A kingly gift," he said, bowing with a gentleman's grace.
After the Courtesan departed, Viserys sat alone, the dragonbone hairpin resting in his palm.
His progress with the Glutton talent had hit a plateau. Sea snails, while effective, were yielding diminishing returns. His body had adapted to the "peasant" magic of the lagoon. He needed something purer. Something that belonged to the dragon.
He looked at the black bone. To a normal man, it was a relic. To a Targaryen with the Glutton trait, it was an alchemical catalyst.
"If they swallowed wildfire at Summerhall," he muttered to the empty room, "I can swallow a hairpin."
He bit down on the incredibly hard material. For a moment, his teeth protested against the iron-like density. But as his talent activated, the bone didn't shatter—it softened. It turned into a cool, concentrated essence that slid down his throat like liquid shadow.
The reaction was violent.
[STRENGTH ATTRIBUTE ↑] [AGILITY ATTRIBUTE ↑]
He gripped the arms of his chair as his muscles surged and tightened. The "krypton" of the dragonbone was far more potent than the sea snails. In a few heartbeats, his Strength hit 1.8 and his Agility reached 1.9.
He stood up, feeling his center of gravity shift. He felt denser, faster, his senses sharpened to a predatory edge. He was no longer just a "qualified warrior." He was becoming something more—a man who carried the literal strength of the ancient dragons within his own marrow.
The "Beggar King" was gone. The Dragonbone King was beginning to take shape.
===
Note: So far this story is published up to chapter 30 on my patreon, go check it out
exclusive 18+ character images, and early chapters, please visit my Patreon. Thanks for your support!
p4treon.com/ThePlotHoleRefuge
if you want more updates == supports with power stones
Power Stones == Bonus Chapter
every three 5-star reviews == Bonus Chapter