Viserys Targaryen(Anakin)
290 AC, Braavos.
It had been a week—a sennight—since I arrived in this new reality, this new life. Slowly, I had begun to settle into a daily routine, trying to make sense of the world around me. But all of that was about to change.
Dany clung tightly to Ser Willem, her small body wracked with sobs as she buried her face in his chest. The old knight, once a bear of a man, now lay gaunt and pale, his booming voice reduced to a hoarse whisper.
"Peace, little dragon. Everything will be alright," he wheezed, forcing a weak smile as he stroked her silver hair with trembling fingers.
Dany sobbed harder, and Ser Willem wrapped his arms around her with the last remnants of his strength.
He looked at me then—eyes clouded with pain, but sharp enough to recognize the change in me. He'd seen it over the past week: the shift in how I spoke, how I carried myself. He never asked why. Perhaps he thought it a blessing, a sign of maturity. Or perhaps he was simply too tired to question it.
With a pained motion, he beckoned me closer. I stepped forward, and he clasped my hand with surprising firmness.
"You must be strong for her, Viserys," he rasped, glancing down at the girl still weeping in his arms. "You are all that's left of a bloodline that ruled for thousands of years. Many will try to use you, bend you to their will. You must trust no one unless they've earned it. Be wary. Be wise."
I nodded solemnly, the weight of his words pressing against the back of my mind. This man had sacrificed everything to keep us safe. He deserved more than just my gratitude.
A flicker of a smile crossed his lips. He struggled for breath, then gestured toward the scabbard resting against the wall beside his bed. "Take the sword," he said. "You've little training, I know. But it's better to have it than not."
I crossed the room and picked it up, feeling the reassuring heft of steel in my hands. I fastened the belt around my waist with a soft click, the scabbard snug against my side. Drawing the blade halfway, I inspected the steel—castle-forged, plain but sturdy. One of the last swords likely made in Westeros while the Targaryens still ruled.
It wasn't ornate, not Valyrian steel, but it was real. Reliable. Forged for a man, not a boy of thirteen with no formal training.
Fortunately for me, I was no ordinary boy.
In another life, I had wielded a lightsaber with ease, one of the finest duelists in the Jedi Order. If I could go toe-to-toe with Count Dooku—regarded as the greatest lightsaber duelist of his time—then I could handle any knight this world had to offer, and that was without using the force
Shouting erupted outside the closed door, sharp and sudden, causing my frown to deepen. Ser Willem stirred at once, struggling to rise with a pained groan—but it was no use. His body, once a shield against the world, could barely lift itself from the cot.
Dany flinched at the noise and finally released her hold on him, her wide violet eyes full of fear. Without a word, she darted behind my legs, trembling.
"Where are the Dragonspawn?" came a gruff voice, muffled by the heavy door. I recognized the sharp edge of panic in the servant's voice who answered—one of the few who had remained behind in the wake of Ser Willem's sickness.
"Quick, Viserys! Grab what you can and run—I'll hold them off!" Ser Willem bellowed, or tried to. It came out little more than a croak, fierce in intent but feeble in strength. He pushed against the bed, trying to stand, but collapsed back with a gasp.
I turned to Dany, dropping to one knee so I was eye-level with her. My voice softened, but my tone left no room for disobedience.
"I need you to listen, little dragon." I gently cupped her cheeks, brushing away the tears streaking her face. "I need you to crawl under the bed and stay silent, no matter what you hear. When the shouting starts, cover your ears and close your eyes. Don't come out until I get you. Understand?"
She nodded—frantic, scared, but trusting. She crawled beneath the bed without another word.
Ser Willem stared at me, his expression twisted with confusion and anger. He didn't understand why I wasn't fleeing—but he didn't protest when I gave him a pleading look. I needed him to trust me. To die believing we would survive.
The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. Several of them. They were almost at the door.
I scanned the room. There had to be something—anything—I could use. My sword alone might not be enough.
The room held more treasure than weapons. Chests overflowing with coins looted from Dragonstone and the Red Keep were tucked in corners—thousands of gold dragons, silver stags, and copper stars. One chest gleamed with the crowns of long-dead kings; another, with the jeweled heirlooms of forgotten queens.
But wealth wouldn't stop a blade.
In the corner sat a large desk with a burnt-out candle in a metal holder—useless. But near the hearth, flames crackled hungrily, and beside it, lying forgotten, was an iron poker.
A slow, devious smile crept onto my face.
If I had been able to read Ser Willem's thoughts, he would realize his resemblance to my father—for it was the same look the Mad King wore before ordering someone to burn.
I plunged the poker into the flames, burying it deep, letting the fire do its work.
The footsteps were getting closer, and I had to think quickly before they finally arrived.
I scanned the room, mind racing. With a glance, I swept the clutter from the large wooden desk—scrolls, wax seals, and ledgers scattering to the floor. Then, lifting my hand, I summoned the Force.
The desk rose smoothly into the air.
Ser Willem's eyes widened in silent shock, but I didn't notice—not yet. I moved the desk across the room with ease and wedged it in front of the door just as the first impact came from the other side.
Thud.
Another blow.
Thud.
The intruders were kicking the door with everything they had, slowly cracking through the wooden frame—but it bought me the time I needed.
I moved swiftly, positioning myself in the narrow corner beside the door, sword drawn as silently as possible. My breath was steady. I waited.
The door burst open with a loud bang , the desk flung aside as four assassins poured into the room. Amateurs. They moved quickly but carelessly, heads swiveling to assess the room—yet none noticed me tucked behind the door.
As the last one passed, I raised my hand and, with a sharp motion, snapped his neck with the force. I caught his body before it hit the ground, laying it down without a sound.
From the hearth, I reached out with the Force, drawing the iron poker—now glowing red-hot—into my grasp. With a flick of thought, I sent it flying across the room. It whistled through the air and slammed through the throat of the second assassin, who crumpled with a gurgle.
That got the others' attention.
The third charged. His stance was wide, his form clumsy—no proper training. I slashed low and fast, opening his throat before he could even raise his blade. He stumbled back, hands clutching the wound, eyes wide in disbelief.
The last man hesitated. His gaze flicked between the bodies of his fallen comrades and the glittering treasure strewn throughout the room. Greed warred with fear—and lost.
I sheathed my blade slowly, meeting his gaze as I raised my hand.
He blinked in confusion.
Then he started choking.
His hands clawed at his throat as his feet lifted from the ground, hovering a foot in the air. He thrashed and gasped, legs kicking uselessly. I stepped toward him, calm and unhurried, a cruel smile playing on my lips.
"It'll take more than four of you to kill me next time," I said coldly.
With a quick twist of my wrist, his neck snapped.
His body dropped like a sack of potatoes.
I surveyed the room, frowning at the blood pooled across the floor and the four lifeless bodies strewn about. The stench of death hung in the air. My gaze drifted to the bed, where I could hear the faint, muffled whimpers of my little sister.
My jaw clenched, anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Those bastards had put her in this state. Shaken. Terrified. Hiding. And I'd be damned if she ever had to experience something like this again. I wanted to protect her innocence, preserve what was left of her childhood—but deep down, I knew this wouldn't be the last time.
I couldn't stop the world from being cruel, but I could damn well make it regret ever laying a hand on her.
With a flick of my hand, I levitated the corpses one by one and hurled them out the window. I heard the distant crunch of bones meeting stone as they landed. It was a start.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway beyond the door. My hand moved instinctively to my sword's pommel, bracing for another wave of assassins. But instead, a few of the remaining household servants rounded the corner—greed flashing in their eyes.
Then they saw the room. The pools of blood.
Their expressions twisted from hunger to horror.
I glared at them and slowly unsheathed my sword.
They bolted.
A low chuckle escaped my lips. Good. Even without my old armor or lightsaber, I could still inspire fear. The Force might not be known in this world—but terror? That was universal.
I turned to Ser Willem. His eyes were wide, still trying to process what he'd seen—but he was fading fast.
I took his hands gently, grounding him.
"I'll protect her. I promise," I said softly. "You can rest now, Ser."
He gave the faintest nod. Then, with a final breath, the last of his strength left him.
Silence settled over the room.
I didn't have time to mourn. Our location had been compromised. It was only a matter of time before more came—assassins, mercenaries, spies. We needed to leave this house… and Braavos… immediately.
I knelt and lifted the bed skirt, finding Dany curled beneath it. She was trembling, her hands covering her ears, her eyes shut tight.
"Dany," I said gently, "the coast is clear. We need to get moving."
Her eyes fluttered open—amethyst pools filled with tears. She reached out, her tiny hand wrapping around mine, and crawled out. When she saw the blood on the floor, she flinched and buried her face in my legs.
"We have to leave, Dany," I whispered. "Braavos is no longer safe for us."
She peeked out, looking past me toward Ser Willem's still form. Her lip trembled. She didn't speak—but she understood.
She was always too smart for her age. Only six, but already seeing the world more clearly than most grown men.
"We'll pack what we can," I said. "We'll make a stop at the Iron Bank to deposit the rest. Then, we find a ship bound for Pentos."
"But… what about our house? And Ser Willem?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes starting to water.
I knelt in front of her and gently cupped her cheek. She leaned into the touch without thinking, seeking comfort.
"I know, little dragon. I'll miss our home too. But we have to go. The Usurper and the Old Lion—they won't stop until we're gone. They know where we are now. The bad men will be back."
She nodded, eyes downcast, and began helping me pack.
We moved quickly, stuffing our valuables into the few chests we had. Gold dragons, silver stags, and copper stars. Gemstones. Royal crowns and jewels. Even a few of Dany's favorite toys made it in.
I changed into a plain set of worn leather pants, weathered boots, and a lightweight tunic. I threw on a hooded cloak to hide my features. Dany wore the same—an old set of my clothes from when I was her age, a bit too big but manageable.
We'd need hair dye. Immediately. Silver hair might be a badge of pride in some places, but in Braavos, it was a beacon. A target.
Luckily for them, their house wasn't far from the Iron Bank, and a quick mind trick on the right person had them riding in a carriage straight to the front steps of the massive institution.
Even in the midst of danger, he couldn't help but admire the architecture of this world.
Wide stone stairways led up to a colossal building, its towering pillars nearly thirty meters high. Golden domes gleamed atop its roof, reflecting the fading light of the evening sky. The walls were made of smooth, pale limestone—similar to the stone of their own house, but grander, more regal.
A few silver stags pressed into the palms of the guards brought out a team of men, who hefted the three heavy chests and carried them up the stairs and into the heart of the Iron Bank.
Inside, they waited.
Dany clung to his pants, her wide eyes brimming with unease as she looked up at him.
"All will be well, little dragon. Trust in me," I said softly, rubbing gentle circles on her back. My heart clenched at the sight. She was far too young to carry this kind of fear. I couldn't help but think of another child—a little boy on Tatooine, dreaming of stars, sold into slavery with his mother.
The great double doors behind the marble desk creaked open, and three men emerged, each clad in elegant robes and wearing expressions as blank as parchment.
"Welcome to the Iron Bank. I am Tycho Nestoris," said the one on the right. "The man in the center is Noho Dimittis, and to his left is Bessaro Reyaan. How may we assist you this fine evening?"
I met their eyes with steady confidence, offering no sign of weakness.
"I'd like to open a vault and make a deposit," I said firmly.
Bessaro, the one on the left, dipped a quill in ink and hovered over a sheet of parchment. "And under what name shall the account be opened?"
"Targaryen. Viserys."
I pulled back my hood, revealing the silver hair and unmistakable Valyrian features beneath.
All three bankers gave a single nod in perfect unison. It was... mildly unsettling, but I kept my expression neutral. Years of political training under Padmé all those years ago had taught me to hold composure in rooms far more hostile than this one.
It had been a long time since I'd played this kind of game—more accustomed now to brute force and the cold hum of a lightsaber. But I could still adapt. You had to, when your past life included serving under a mad emperor who could kill with a gesture, and mourning a wife and children whose faces haunted your every breath.
"And what, Lord Viserys," Noho Dimittis asked, placing subtle emphasis on the title, "will we be depositing on this fine evening?"
I tilted my head ever so slightly. Was he trying to provoke me? Petty power play—or polite formality? Hard to tell with Braavosi.
Dany shifted beside me, wringing her fingers. I placed a calming hand on her shoulder and stood to open the chests brought in earlier.
The first chest was filled with wealth—gold dragons, silver stags, copper stars, and a generous handful of precious gems looted from the vaults of King's Landing. The second held the ceremonial crowns of the Targaryen dynasty, gleaming with history and symbolism. The last was brimming with ornate jewelry, the kind once worn by the previous queens and kings of the Targaryen Dynasty.
"I would like to sell most of the gems," I began, "as well as the crown of Aegon the Fourth. The rest—coins, crowns, jewelry—I want deposited in a secured vault."
The mention of gems garnered only passing interest. They likely saw double the amount on any given day.
But when their eyes fell upon a few pieces of Valyrian steel jewelry, I caught it—the faint flicker of greed. Just for a moment.
Of course they'd noticed. Even the smallest trinket of Valyrian steel was worth a fortune.
But I wasn't fool enough to sell something so rare.
I had very little idea what the future held for my sister and me in this world—but I knew one thing for certain: I'd return for the jewelry once our future was secure.
The three bankers leaned in toward each other, whispering and motioning subtly to me and the chests at our feet.
"Will they accept?" Dany whispered, glancing up at me with a curious, worried look.
I smiled, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear.
"They will. The Iron Bank would never turn down a paying customer," I reassured her, earning a small nod.
"Quite right, young Viserys," came Noho Dimittis's smooth voice, snapping my attention back to them.
Tycho Nestoris motioned to a pair of guards, who quickly exited the room. Moments later, they returned with several workers who moved to collect the chest filled with gems—along with the gaudy golden crown of Aegon IV—and carried them away.
I raised an eyebrow, giving the bankers a look that clearly asked Where are they going with my gems?
"We need to assess the value of the gemstones and the crown," Bessaro Reyaan explained evenly. "Would you like us to do the same for the coins as well?"
"If you wish to count the coins, go ahead," I said casually. "But I'd like to keep an eye on the jewelry. Safety reasons—you understand."
My tone dripped with practiced politeness, just sharp enough to make my point. Bessaro raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"Now, onto the matter of the vault," Tycho continued. "A standard-sized vault costs 25 gold dragons per year, or a lump sum of 250 for ten years. A premium vault is 50 gold dragons per year, or 500 for ten."
As he spoke, another group of workers entered and began lifting the chest of coins.
"What's the difference?" I asked, though I already had a good idea.
"The standard vault is smaller and located on the upper floors," Tycho explained. "The premium is larger, deeper, and more heavily guarded."
I nodded. "The normal vault will do for now. I'll pay the full ten years up front."
Again, all three men nodded in eerie unison, and I suppressed a shiver. Something about that reflexive synchronicity was deeply unsettling.
Bessaro, still dutifully scribbling away, looked up. "And who, other than yourself, shall have access to the vault?"
He dipped his quill again, ready to record the name.
"Myself, as well as my sister, shall have full access to the vault," I stated. "In the event of my death, the vault and all assets will transfer to her name."
Dany's eyes widened in alarm, and she looked up at me, her grip tightening on my cloak.
"Don't worry," I said quickly, offering her a gentle smile. "I'm not going anywhere. This is just a precaution."
She nodded reluctantly, though I could still see the worry lingering behind her eyes.
At that moment, a man emerged from the large double doors, carrying two pieces of parchment. He handed them to Noho Dimittis, who took one for himself and passed the other to me.
I accepted it and began reading.
"This is the Iron Bank's offer for the gems," Dimittis explained, "along with the official count of the coin to be deposited in your vault—minus the fee for its opening."
Client Name: Viserys Targaryen III
Vault Number: 257
Access to Vault 257: Viserys Targaryen III, Daenerys Targaryen
Offer for Assortment of Gems: 5,527 Gold Dragons
Offer for Crown of King Aegon Targaryen IV: 1,000 Gold Dragons
Amount of Coin to Be Deposited in Vault: 1,553 Gold Dragons, 2,221 Silver Stags, 5,991 Copper Stars
Cost of Vault 257 (Ten Years, Standard): 250 Gold Dragons
I scanned the figures, my eyes widening slightly at the totals. Over 6,500 gold dragons. In this world, that kind of wealth wasn't just survival—it was security, freedom, and influence.
"All acceptable, I hope?" Tycho Nestoris asked, his tone polite, if a little rushed—likely still uneasy about doing formal business with a thirteen-year-old.
"It is," I replied. "If you'd allow me to withdraw some coin for the road—we're in a bit of a hurry, as you can imagine."
The three men nodded as one, and Tycho motioned to one of the attendants. The man returned shortly with a small pouch filled with coin, which he handed to me. Another banker disappeared through the double doors, carrying the chest of jewelry.
Dany watched him go with a forlorn look, her violet eyes full of sorrow. I didn't blame her.
That chest held what remained of our family's legacy—crowns, heirlooms, and treasures from a fallen dynasty—now in the hands of strangers, locked away in a vault beneath the streets of Braavos.
Of course, she didn't know that the Iron Bank's reputation for security was unmatched, and that we could return at any time to retrieve what was ours.
But logic and comfort are two different things.
A man came out with a large pouch that was jingling with the sounds of coins clashing together and handed it to him. I opened the pouch and smiled at the large pile of gold, silver and copper coins.
I stood and reached across the table to shake hands with the bankers. Tycho raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the gesture—as though he hadn't expected a boy, especially a Targaryen, to show such courtesy.
Without another word, I grabbed Dany's hand and led her out of the Iron Bank. At the door, I retrieved my scabbard from the guard, strapping it securely across my back.
"Put your hood up, Dany," I said quietly. "Keep your head down. We need to move quickly."
She nodded and raised her tiny hands, tugging the hood over her silver hair until it was well hidden.
My plan was simple: find a ship bound for Pentos, stay there for a short while, and then move inland—hopefully toward Norvos. Coastal cities like Braavos and Pentos were too exposed, especially with King's Landing just across the Narrow Sea.
From the old Viserys' memories, I knew that during the latter half of Aerys's reign, he'd employed a spymaster from Essos—Varys, the Spider. His web was said to stretch across both Westeros and Essos. If he was still active, then it was likely his agents were behind the attempt on our lives in Braavos.
We needed to get far from the Seven Kingdoms. The farther inland, the better.
Grabbing the last trunk—filled with what little personal belongings we had left—from one of the guards outside the bank, I slung it over my shoulder. With Dany's hand in mine, we descended the grand steps and slipped into the winding streets of Braavos.
The city was alive with its usual chaos. Merchants barked out prices for exotic goods, fishermen haggled over the day's catch, and the aroma of spiced stews and roasted fish filled the air.
I stopped in my tracks when I spotted a stand stacked with colorful glass vials—Tyroshi hair dye, judging by the rich hues. Just what we needed.
"How much for a few vials of blue dye?" I asked the merchant. He was a gaudy-looking man, his hair and beard dyed green, golden beads woven into his braided beard.
"A gold dragon," he said, his eyes raking over me greedily. Then they drifted to Dany—and the look that crossed his face made my blood boil.
I had been willing to pay.
But not now.
"You will give me these vials for free," I said, waving my hand subtly.
"I will give you these vials for free," the man echoed in a flat, robotic voice, handing them over without question.
"You will forget we ever came to your stand," I continued, pushing the Force into my voice while waving my hand again.
"I will forget you came to my stand."
I tucked the vials into my rucksack, hoisted the trunk onto my shoulder once more, and took Dany's hand.
We disappeared back into the crowd, heading straight for the harbor.
The sun was finally dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the narrow Braavosi streets. I knew we had to move quickly—once darkness settled in, the Bravos would begin roaming, and they were always looking for an excuse to draw blades.
I glanced back at Dany. She was starting to lag, her tiny legs struggling to keep pace. Her eyelids drooped with exhaustion, and she stumbled slightly as she walked.
I sighed softly. We wouldn't make it to the harbor before nightfall. Not like this.
Scanning the street, I spotted a sign swinging gently in the breeze—a faded wooden carving of a green eel. The Inn of the Green Eel. It would have to do.
"Come on, Dany. Just a little longer, then we can rest," I told her gently.
Her expression tightened with determination, and she nodded. It was so earnest, so childlike, that I couldn't help but chuckle. Even in this world, she was still just a little girl doing her best to be brave.
We stepped into the inn.
The common room was lively—filled with the noise of sailors and soldiers, the scent of roasted fish and mead thick in the air. Serving girls moved quickly between tables, balancing trays of food and ale. Conversations rose and fell in waves, and a few patrons looked up as we entered.
"How much for a room and a meal for the night?" I asked the innkeeper, trying to sound older than I looked—though I winced when my voice still cracked faintly with the early signs of puberty.
The innkeeper's expression softened when he looked at us. He noticed Dany's wide, tired eyes beneath her hood, and the edge of desperation in mine.
"Five stags for a room with one bed. Six with a hot meal," he said.
I quickly handed over six stags, then slipped him another six.
"For the room. Please give us the one with the most protection," I said quietly.
The man nodded, his gaze more understanding than I expected. He motioned for a young serving girl to guide us, while a burly guard stepped forward and hefted the trunk off my back with ease. I gave him a grateful look, which he returned with a silent nod.
Dany was practically asleep on her feet. I bent down and lifted her into my arms, carrying her bridal style. Her head nestled against my neck, warm and soft, her breathing already slow and steady from exhaustion.
The serving girl led us upstairs. The room was small but clean, the bed modest but warm. She mentioned that food would be brought shortly, then stepped out as the guard carried the trunk inside and set it down beside the bed.
I pressed a silver stag into his palm. "For your trouble—and two more in the morning if you keep an eye on the door."
He gave a short grunt of acknowledgment and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
I gently lowered Dany onto the bed. She immediately curled into the pillow and fell into a deep sleep. I removed her cloak and draped the room's blanket over her small frame.
With a wave of my hand and a tiny push of the force, I slid the desk from the far corner of the room to block the door—an extra measure of protection. The wood scraped softly against the floor before settling in place.
Only then did I let myself collapse into the room's only chair, the weight of the day pressing heavily on my shoulders.
I knew we could afford a bigger room—and probably a much fancier inn—but I didn't want to draw more attention, not after the day we'd had.
Barely three hours ago, we were saying our final goodbyes to Ser Willem.
I still felt a twinge of guilt for not being able to do anything with his body. But we were already on borrowed time, and sentiment had to give way to survival.
Unstrapping the scabbard from my back, I leaned it against the wall—close enough to reach quickly if needed. My eyes drifted to Dany, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest as she slept.
She looked so peaceful. Unburdened. Free of the fears that would come crashing back the moment she opened her eyes. She didn't yet know how hard the road ahead would be.
I didn't know either.
All I knew was that our very existence posed a threat to the king across the sea. The Baratheons and their Lannister allies wouldn't rest until our heads adorned spikes atop the Red Keep.
From the old Viserys's memories, I remembered what Tywin Lannister had done. How he had butchered Rhaenys, Aegon, and Elia Martell like animals. If there was any hope of allies in Westeros, it would be in Dorne—but that meant taking back the throne.
And while the old Viserys may have yearned for that crown, I didn't.
I didn't want to play the endless game of thrones. I didn't want to sell my sister's hand to the highest bidder just to hold power.
I wanted freedom—for both of us.
I wanted to give Dany a life where her biggest concern was what dress to wear or what pastry to eat for breakfast.
A soft knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.
I moved quietly, grabbing my scabbard and slightly unsheathing the sword before sliding the desk aside. Cracking the door open, the warm scent of fresh food wafted in.
A serving girl stood with a tray, two plates of food, a cup of water, and another of ale. I took them, handed her a few copper stars, and nodded in thanks before quietly shutting the door and repositioning the desk.
Tomorrow would be a new day. We needed to be gone from Braavos before word reached the Baratheon king and his Lannister dogs that their hunters had failed.
I set the food down, then walked over to the bed and gently shook Dany's shoulder.
"Come on, Dany," I whispered. "Eat first… then you can go back to sleep."