Year 290 after the Conquest — The Secret City, Braavos.
Braavos only has three kinds of weather: foggy days that are bad, rainy days that are worse, and days of icy rain that are the worst of all. Today, though, Braavos was bright and clear — a rare gift.
Its northern latitude made it naturally colder than King's Landing, much like the climate of the Fingers Peninsula.
It had been six years since Viserys Targaryen fled King's Landing, long enough for him to grow used to Braavos's chill. The world was basking in the Great Summer — a decade-long season that had begun in 289 AC and would last until 299.
Summer meant prosperity, and fools had already begun to forget the memory of winter, singing hymns to the new Baratheon dynasty.
South of the grand Sealord's Palace, in Braavos's noble quarter, stood a tall-walled estate marked by a red gate.
This "Red Door" mansion was one of many fine homes in a city built of stone — a city that boasted more architectural marvels than King's Landing itself.
Ever since Dragonstone fell, Ser Willem Darry had sheltered Viserys within these red walls. The boy was never truly master of the house — merely a tenant, paying dearly for temporary refuge.
But even that refuge was fading. Ser Willem was dying, and the servants were already scheming to steal what remained of their gold.
If Viserys wanted to avoid living up to the mocking name the Beggar King, he would have to act — soon.
The Red Door manor was sizable but sparsely staffed — partly for safety, partly because escape left them with little to pay for help. The only visible trace of House Targaryen was the three-headed red dragon pin worn over Viserys's chest.
Ser Willem had once told him: If you ever forget this sigil, you'll lose the courage to seek vengeance forever.
Crouching in the garden, Viserys studied the wild flowers and mushrooms that had sprung up among the cracked stones. Plants didn't grow easily in Braavos, yet the wealthy still tried their hand at keeping gardens.
Unkempt and overrun, the little garden reflected their situation perfectly — too broke to care for beauty.
The most valuable plant there was a single lemon tree, rare in a stone city that barely saw sunlight through its mists.
Near the broken tiles by the wall, Viserys spotted seven white mushrooms speckled with red as dark as dried blood. Seven — a sacred number. It couldn't be a coincidence.
With gloved hands, he wrapped the deadly fungi and pocketed them. Poison was said to be the weapon of women and cowards — but sometimes, a survivor needed to be both.
"Good day, Your Grace. Out here again admiring the flowers?" The plump steward greeted him with a smile, his tone politely mocking.
"Yes, steward. Flowers are far simpler than people," Viserys said evenly.
The man blinked, uncertain how to reply. He knew this boy too well — a displaced, penniless prince playing at kinghood. Were it not for the money, he would've stopped serving him long ago.
Viserys was tall, flawless in his Targaryen beauty — silver-gold hair, violet eyes, a face almost too perfect to be human. Handsomer than Rhaegar, they said — though exile had dulled the radiance of his royal presence.
His "kingdom" extended no farther than the walls of this house.
"Good day, steward," Viserys said, turning to leave. He needed to speak with his advisor.
He had already marked the steward in his mind — the man was the heart of the household's conspiracy, together with a cook and a washerwoman.
"As you command, my king," the steward said with a sneer.
Months before, a college student from another world had awoken here — his soul fused with that of the fallen prince. The merge was now complete.
From now on, he was Viserys, and Viserys was him.
He was the exiled king of Westeros — young, handsome, and still alive. There were worse fates.
But survival in Braavos was growing thin. The servants had already decided — once Ser Willem died, they would seize his savings and cast the Targaryens into the streets.
Without that money, Viserys would have to wander the Free Cities as a true beggar.
He went to Rhaenys's room — the clever, dark-eyed girl was playing with her one-eared black cat. Rhaenys had discovered her gift as a skinchanger, able to see through the cat's eyes.
Called "the child with a Dornish taste" by the Mad King, Rhaenys indeed looked more Dornish than Targaryen.
Viserys once wondered how she'd survived the sacking of King's Landing. It turned out, she'd escaped with her cat — a small twist in fate's tapestry.
"I heard everything, Viserys," she said. "When they talked, I listened — through the black cat in the corner. They're waiting for Ser Willem to die before they take the gold and throw us out."
The gods, it seemed, hadn't abandoned him entirely. His world was small, but his allies were sharp.
A team of three: his brilliant niece Rhaenys the skinchanger, his little sister Daenerys the dragon dreamer, and himself — just a handsome boy who, so far, had yet to show any power of his own.
"You have a plan?" Rhaenys asked, taking his arm eagerly.
Viserys nodded and showed her the poisonous mushrooms — lovely, lethal things.
"They see us as children," he said quietly. "That will be their mistake."
"When I start, you'll keep Daenerys safe," he whispered into her ear.
"No problem," she said. "And I won't tell Daenerys — not yet."
Strictly speaking, Daenerys was her aunt, but Rhaenys was older — family ties had grown strange in exile.
"Thank you," Viserys said, ruffling her dark hair while the black cat yowled in protest.
Looking through the window, he saw the lemon tree swaying in the cold wind. If the maesters ever wrote his story, he thought, it would begin here — in Braavos.
"You could've gone to Dorne with the Red Viper," he said softly, "or been fostered in Tyrosh."
Rhaenys shook her head. "My father said the dragon has three heads. The three of us belong together."
Viserys fell silent. Had Rhaegar not been blinded by prophecy, they wouldn't be in this wretched state.