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By the Moon Pool, Viserys Targaryen stood over the fallen Titan's Bastard. He wiped the crimson residue from his blade, his movements slow and deliberate. Mero's pale green eyes stared vacantly at the grey sky, his famous red-gold beard matted with the mud and blood of the dueling ground.
A crude extra in the grand play of history had been cut from the script. Viserys looked at the corpse without pity; Mero would have become a commander of the Second Sons, a butcher of cities and a predator of women. By killing him now, Viserys hadn't just avenged Moro—he had altered the tapestry of the future.
Suddenly, a strange, vital warmth surged through his veins. His vision flickered, and the familiar interface of his system updated with a golden clarity.
[Fate Reverser]: You have executed a "Villain" of significant notoriety. The axis of fate ripples in your favor.
New Talent Awakened: [Just Judgment] Description: The Heart of Judgment. Evil must be punished. Executing "Wicked" individuals now grants permanent attribute increases.
Viserys felt his muscles tighten and his mind sharpen as the energy from the kill was metabolized. A new talent card materialized in his mental space—it depicted a magnificent greatsword plunged into a rock by a sun-drenched azure sea.
The sword was the legendary "Lady of Justice," once wielded by Ser Garredon Lightbringer. Legend said the blade was so powerful Garredon only drew it three times, fearing it made any mortal conflict unfair. Now, that power was flowing into Viserys.
"Revenge is a dish best served with growth," Viserys thought, a faint smile touching his lips.
Across the pool, Old Preston's face was a mask of cold fury. He looked at the Sixth Swordsman of Braavos, who stood beside him in a state of disbelief.
"How is this possible?" Preston hissed. "Mero was a veteran. This boy has been training for weeks, not years."
"Theoretically, it is impossible," the Swordsman whispered back, his eyes fixed on Viserys. "Unless we have encountered a true genius—or something far more uncanny. But Patriarch, if we cannot win in the pool, we must look outside the setup."
Old Preston's mind raced. He had completely offended the Dragon. If he let Viserys grow, the boy would eventually return to burn his towers. "The Targaryens have many enemies who would pay well for their location," Preston murmured. "The Usurper's Reach is long."
Sea Lord Ferrego stood up, his voice cutting through the cheers of the crowd. "The victor of the duel: Viserys!"
"Viserys the Bloodthirsty!" the sailors roared. "Violet Swordsman!"
Rhaenys and Daenerys, standing under the protection of the Black Pearl, finally let out the breaths they had been holding. They saw Viserys turn toward them, a bloody but triumphant king.
"You have won, and you have your reputation," Ferrego said, approaching Viserys. "I praise your bravery, but I demand you know when to stop. Old Preston, the gods have spoken against your house today. You have lost your righteousness. Reflect on your greed."
"We understand," Old Preston said, bowing with a sincerity that hid a poisoned heart. "We shall pay the wager and offer our apologies."
As the crowd began to disperse, a thin, elegant man with a pointed beard and a jeweled Braavosi blade approached Viserys.
"I am Gasparo, a personnel officer of the Second Sons," the man said, looking at Viserys with professional interest. "We need warriors like you. Our roster has held many legends—Bittersteel, the Wild Wolf, even the Red Viper. If you ever find Braavos too small for your ambitions, look for the Second Sons."
Viserys noted the name. He knew the Second Sons would be important, but his current path was already being decided by a higher power.
"The Sea Lord wishes to see you. Now," Quilo, the First Sword, announced.
Inside the Smiling Faces pleasure barge, the atmosphere was far from festive. Sea Lord Ferrego sat on a wicker chair, his face weary.
"Viserys Targaryen," Ferrego said as the boy was led in. "You have caused enough trouble. I like to see smiles in my city, not the stench of spilled intestines and the shouting of blood-debts. This is Braavos, not your barbaric Westeros. You are no longer welcome here."
"Then where should I go?" Viserys asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Go to Andalusia," the Sea Lord said, pointing toward the mainland. "The Andal Hills are full of ruins and ghosts. Perhaps a king without land can find a home among the stones. But if you are still in Braavos by the next full moon, my First Sword will not be so polite."
Viserys nodded. He had his gold, he had his training, and he had his new talent. Braavos was a cocoon he had outgrown. It was time for the dragon to find its own lair.
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