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"Violet Swordsman!"
"Violet Swordsman!"
The chant erupted from the younger courtesans and the gathered crowd alike, echoing against the stone quays of the Moon Pool. The masked figure stood amidst the flickering torchlight, a silhouette of silver and shadow.
"He must have a face like a god; look how charming his eyes are!" shouted a girl in a silk bodice, leaning over the railing of a nearby bridge.
"Stop dreaming," another pouted, adjusting her fan. "Under that mask, he might just be another Scarface, or worse."
Masked figures were no rarity in Braavos—the Mhysas City thrived on secrets and anonymity. But recently, the name of the Violet Swordsman had begun to eclipse the legends of the local bravos. His movements were said to be mysterious, his blade-work divine, and his eyes—a pale, striking violet—were whispered to possess a supernatural clarity.
Viserys gripped the hilt of his sword, Meraxes—though the crowd knew it only as the steel of the Violet Swordsman. He stood sideways, the classic posture of the Water Dancer, his silver-white hair catching the moonlight.
"Violet Swordsman?" Scarface hissed, his voice like grinding stones. He was a veteran of a hundred duels, his face a roadmap of centipede-like scars.
"It is I," Viserys replied elegantly. He wore a smiling mask today, a stark contrast to the cold intent in his eyes.
"Since you stepped out with a sword, you know the price," Scarface warned, his rapier trembling with a hunger for blood. "Drop it now, and you can still find warmth in a woman's arms tonight. Once we dance, only one of us walks away."
"You are afraid," Viserys said simply.
It was a test of courage. In Braavos, the man who flinched first lost his soul before he lost his life. The surrounding Water Dancers voluntarily cleared a wide circle, their colorful silks—red, purple, gold, and green—shimmering like a peacock's tail under the moon.
"Give me a kiss, quickly!" a young courtesan shouted, sensing the climax.
Scarface lunged. He was a master of the killing move, his blade a silver streak aimed straight for Viserys's throat.
Viserys dodged, his footwork as light as a feather on the water. The Way of Insight thrummed in his mind. He wasn't just watching the sword; he was sensing the weight of Scarface's heels and the tension in his wrist. He became a flowing spring, soft and unpredictable.
Clang! Clang!
The rapiers intersected, ringing with a cold, crystalline sound. To the onlookers, it looked like a waltz—agile, elegant, and utterly lethal. Scarface was fast, and his strength was formidable for a Braavosi, but he soon realized he was facing an anomaly. The Violet Swordsman's attributes were balanced with terrifying perfection.
"You are no ordinary Water Dancer," Scarface wheezed, his offensive rhythm beginning to crumble. He felt as though he were striking at smoke.
Viserys didn't answer. He practiced the tactical erosion he had learned from Roland and Syrio. He lured the enemy, exhausted him with feints, and waited for the inevitable decline of physical energy. Scarface's rapier grew heavy. His lungs burned.
"Scarface has lost," a sharp-eyed bravo whispered from the shadows.
"I have not lost!" Scarface roared, unleashing a final, desperate flurry of thrusts aimed at Viserys's vitals.
"Watching is not Insight; Insight is the truth."
Viserys sidestepped the desperate lunge with a fraction of an inch to spare. In a blur of silver, his blade sliced across Scarface's throat. A spray of hot blood painted the stones. Viserys twisted the blade once—a mercy and a period at the end of a sentence—and withdrew.
The veteran fell. First his sword clattered, then his body hit the ground with a heavy thud, plunging into eternal darkness.
"Violet Swordsman!" the crowd roared.
Viserys bowed with the grace of a prince, turned, and vanished into the dark alleys before the law enforcers could arrive. He wiped the blood from his steel. His sword had drunk its fill; now, it was time for the King to feast.
The Hall of the Sea King
Three nights later, Viserys sat in a private, silk-curtained box overlooking the grand ballroom of the Hall of the Sea King. Above him, the enormous dome was a masterpiece of history and art.
The central mural depicted the founding of Braavos: the sacred Moonsingers leading the escaped slaves away from the Dragonlords' shadow to their foggy sanctuary. It was a strange irony for a Targaryen to sit beneath such a scene, but the mask he wore hid more than just his face.
The Black Pearl had secured him this invitation. Below, the dignitaries of the city—bankers from the Iron Bank, Keyholders, and emissaries from across the Narrow Sea—mingled in a sea of velvet and jewels. This was the Masquerade of the Sea King, where the real power of the world gathered to whisper behind lace and porcelain.
Viserys looked down at the crowd, his Insight scanning the room. He wasn't here to dance. He was here to find the men who held the purse strings of empires.
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