In the high-walled courtyard of the Red Door estate, Viserys Targaryen stood before a wooden target, practicing his swings.
He didn't use Ser Willem's old knight's blade — only a dull training sword. Steel enough to bite air, but not skin.
His movements had improved: light on his feet, his shoulders balanced, his strikes cleaner than before. Yet for all the progress, it was still the clumsy self-taught bluster of an amateur. Without a proper master, the sword had no rhythm — only effort.
A warrior who trained alone was like a painter without color. You could move the brush, but you'd never make art.
Viserys kept thrusting and cutting until the sun had dropped low and his arms trembled with fatigue. Finally, he lowered the blade and caught his breath.
Opening his panel, he noted the result — his strength had increased slightly, the numbers rising by inches, not leaps. Training worked, yes, but not like the miracles of those strange new talents he had gained.
Still, it was improvement. Progress was progress.
He focused now on three attributes — Strength, Endurance, Agility. The Spirit stat was more elusive, tied to things he didn't yet comprehend. Perhaps when magic returned in full, as he suspected it soon would, that would change.
What he needed now wasn't theory — it was a teacher.
Ser Willem's lessons had laid the groundwork, but the old knight had gone blind far too soon. Now dead, he couldn't pass on the instincts of battle that only veterans possessed.
Fencing alone would never make him ready to reclaim a crown. Westeros's knights weren't dancers — they were fortresses made of strength and steel.
The Braavosi trained as water dancers — fast, graceful, clever — but their style was meant for assassins and duelists, not armored kings. To win back a throne, Viserys needed iron — not ripples.
He was still thinking that as twilight bled across the courtyard.
That evening's supper would have guests.
The old lamps were lit, and once again the Red Door estate welcomed Sisa, the magistrate, and his mysterious companion — the courtesan known as the Swordswoman. A tall, quiet man with a heavy beard trailed behind her, thin as a shadow.
The Swordswoman's curiosity was obvious. She'd heard rumors about the fallen prince's private banquets and his miraculous cook. The invitation from Sisa had been too tempting to refuse.
"My friend, Viserys Targaryen," Sisa announced grandly.
Viserys greeted them in his black silks, the three-headed red dragon glinting faintly on his chest.
Sisa blinked in surprise. "Your Grace — you cut your hair?"
Viserys's once-flowing silver mane had been trimmed short. The new look gave him a cleaner edge — sharper, prouder, dangerous in a subtler way.
"Short hair is easier to train with," he said simply.
The Swordswoman bowed slightly. "The exiled king," she murmured. She already knew who he was — every courtesan in Braavos did.
Even among the second tier, she was striking — tall, catlike, with dark eyes full of watchfulness. The slender sword on her hip gleamed under torchlight; it was both ornament and truth. The name Swordswoman was no idle title.
Viserys studied her with quiet amusement. The courtesans of Braavos were masters of personal branding. Each had a signature — an allure that made her distinct from the others.
The Black Pearl charmed with royal blood and lineage; Moonshadow wore only silver and white; the Nightingale sang sweeter than any bard; the Poetess never spoke without her quill and book; the Veiled Lady showed her face only to lovers she accepted; the Mermaid Queen never went anywhere without her four youthful "maids," girls who carried her train and combed her hair like attendants from a legend.
The Swordswoman had carved her own path — beauty and blade in equal measure.
She introduced her silent companion. "My guard, Moro. He doesn't speak much, but his sword could cut the wind if he wished."
The bearded man gave a curt nod.
They were seated soon after in the drawing room, and as the food arrived, the atmosphere warmed.
The feast — though simple by noble standards — dazzled nonetheless.
This time, Viserys had chosen ingredients that smelled of the earth, not the sea: clams, muskfish, frogs, turtles, crabs both red and river-born, eels striped, black, and silver, even a delicacy — the seven‑gilled eel of Braavos Bay.
Every dish was precise. Garlic, ground nuts, coarse salt, cracked pepper, saffron — balanced so perfectly that each flavor glowed.
When the steam of the crab soup rose between them, Sisa lifted his cup. "To His Grace, our host — and the finest table in Braavos."
"To His Grace," the Swordswoman echoed with a smile sharp enough to catch the candlelight.
Cups of Dornish red clinked. And when she raised her spoon to taste, her eyes widened.
It wasn't merely delicious. It was transcendent — flavor crafted to strike straight into memory.
"Gods," she whispered. "This is… extraordinary."
Even her guard, silent as a shadow, ate in reverent quiet. By the time they reached the seared muskfish and saffron crab rolls, even he had abandoned all restraint.
"This is no ordinary cook," the courtesan remarked finally. "Not even the Sea Lord's kitchen serves something like this."
She smiled, a trace of teasing curiosity in her tone. "But for a house in exile… this is a surprising indulgence, my king."
Viserys only smiled. "Exile tastes less bitter with good company."
Sisa leaned in proudly. "It's not the cook you should thank, my lady — it's His Grace himself. A true connoisseur."
The courtesan turned her gaze toward Viserys, studying him as though seeing him anew — the silver hair cropped short, the violet eyes that burned faintly like amethysts. "You cook?" she asked, astonished.
He shrugged modestly. "A man must live by something. Some paint, some fight, some eat. I chose my craft wisely."
She laughed, low and delighted. "A beautiful man who cooks beautifully — a dangerous recipe indeed."
"Dangerous only to hunger," he said.
They ate until the platters were bare, and when the last of the wine was poured, Sisa rested back in his chair, pleased.
The Swordswoman dabbed her lips delicately, then looked at Viserys.
"This is no ordinary meal. And it deserves no ordinary thanks."
"No need for formalities," Viserys replied lightly. "A meal shared among friends is reward enough."
"But in Braavos," she said firmly, "we believe in returning every favor. Always."
Sisa chuckled. "Best not refuse, Your Grace. It's custom here — even the kind-hearted expect a bargain."
The Swordswoman tilted her chin, self-assured. "Our currency comes in three forms — wine, gold, and beauty."
Viserys's brows lifted in surprise, but she smirked. "The last, I assure you, is not my intent. I have other means of payment."
It wasn't flirtation. It was diplomacy. A courtesan's language disguised deals as courtship, alliances as affection.
"Then enlighten me," Viserys said.
The Swordswoman's tone softened. "You've given me an evening I won't forget. In return, I'll give you information — or something rarer: a connection. Tell me what it is you seek."
Viserys paused. His instincts sharpened. There it was — the opening move in the game.
"I want a soldier," he said at last. "A Westerosi knight, if one still lives here. Someone loyal to the crown that was — not the stag that replaced it."
The courtesan considered his words seriously for the first time.
A knight. So that was his need — the foundation of force, muscle to match ambition.
Such men were scarce in Braavos. Exiles, sellswords, and broken blades — most had sold their honor for bread or drink. But if one still held to Targaryen blood loyalty…
Her eyes softened. "Perhaps I can help."
Sisa looked between them, half-drunkenly proud that his little arrangement had turned into something useful.
Viserys inclined his head slightly. "Then I'll gladly accept your custom, my lady."
"Oh, it's not charity," the Swordswoman said, lips curling. "It's business — and we Braavosi never forget a deal."
Viserys smiled faintly. "Neither do dragons."
Across the table, her laughter chimed like crystal — bright, and dangerous.
The dinner was over, but the game had only just begun.