The kitchen had become Viserys's domain. Until the new servants promised by Sisa, the Braavosi magistrate, arrived, it was his private war room.
On the oak cutting board, a long, thin seafood knife moved like liquid silver in his hands. The sea snails were cleaned, cut, and trimmed with exquisite precision — his movements fast, perfect, instinctive.
Even the small flick of his wrist had the grace of someone who'd repeated the act ten thousand times. So this is the power of "God of Cuisine," he thought, watching his hands move.
Steam hissed. The snails sizzled in butter and garlic, each flake of seasoning chopped to uniform perfection.
It was more than cooking — it was ritual mastery. He could feel his new strength every time the knife met the board, muscles taut and sure. The talent wasn't just art; it was exercise.
A glance at his status panel confirmed it: Strength and Agility both now at 1.3, Endurance 1.3, Spirit 1.4.
That meant visible progress — skill, discipline, and body working together.
The great knights and duelists of Westeros trained with swords; Viserys trained with a pan and a knife. Yet every swing, every motion honed precision. The chef's path and the killer's path weren't so different.
He estimated that 1.0 was an average man's level in all attributes. Anything above that meant you were gradually stepping into the realm of fighters and prodigies.
His body had always lagged behind his mind. Rhaegar had been the scholar-warrior. Viserys, the bookish dreamer. But with every meal, that gap was slowly closing.
His highest attribute remained Spirit, inherited from relentless study and the fusion of two souls. He had the focus of a scholar and the will of a survivor.
A king couldn't afford ignorance. Sword or pen, power needed both. The only tragedy was that ten years of exile had stolen his physical peak.
Still — magic would return someday. Of that, he was sure.
The arcane forces of the world were dormant, not dead. The Children of the Forest still lurked beyond the Wall, the Old Gods whispered through the weirwoods, and deep in the frozen North, darker powers waited.
Eight or nine years from now, fire and ice would awaken again — dragons would hatch, the Long Night would rise, and the Red Priests' fires would burn brighter than ever.
And when that day comes, he thought, I'll be ready.
For now, modest gains were fine. Each step was progress; each improvement meant survival.
The aroma of sizzling butter drifted through the hall. Once the dish was done, he called Rhaenys and Daenerys to taste.
"This is… amazing!" Rhaenys said, her eyes wide with honest delight. "It's even better than the cooks at Dragonstone or the Red Keep."
"Of course," Viserys said lightly. A man of divine cooking talent doesn't serve mediocrity.
In truth, Rhaenys spoke from memory — her childhood on Dragonstone, not King's Landing. Because of her father's quarrels with the Mad King, she'd grown up far from court luxury.
Daenerys had never even tasted royal cooking. Born at the end of the fall, she knew nothing of palace feasts or gilded tables.
Between them, only Viserys and Rhaenys still held memories of Targaryen grandeur. Dany was born into loss — a child of ashes.
"Where did you learn this?" Rhaenys asked, eyes shining. "I don't remember you ever cooking like this."
"I'm a natural genius," he said proudly — though in truth, it was his new "cheat."
After dinner, he sent both girls to clean up while Rhaenys told Daenerys a story before bed. In calmer times, that would have been his duty — but now, his hands were full.
He spread a map of Westeros across the table — one of Ser Willem's precious relics. The parchment was worn, the ink faint, but the world it showed still pulsed with danger.
King's Landing looked so close. Yet every inch between them was an ocean of war and time.
It was now Year 290 After Conquest. Just last year, Robert had crushed Balon Greyjoy's rebellion. The lions, wolves, stags, trout, and falcons — the great alliance that toppled his father — were still unbreakable. Robert was unchallenged.
But Viserys knew better than history. Alliances crack easier than crowns.
The Baratheons had already splintered — King's Landing, Storm's End, and Dragonstone now separate bloodlines. Within the alliance sat poison: Cersei's vanity, the Tullys' foolish pride, Renly's ambition, Littlefinger's schemes, and Varys's secrets.
All of it would rot from within.
"For now, my allies are too weak," he muttered, marking small sigils across the map.
Names surfaced as he traced the riverlands with his finger.
- House Darry of the Duskendale marches.
- House Mooton of Maidenpool.
- House Goodbrook, House Lychester, House Rykker.
- The Ryches of Crab Isle.
- Even the Dromonds and Ronmos of the Stormlands.
The Targaryen loyalists were scattered, diminished — a dozen broken families smoldering under new masters.
The Westerlands were lost to Tywin's order, the North to its distance, and the Reach to its self-interest. But in the broken margins of the Crownlands and Riverlands, embers still glowed.
Given the chance, they would rise again — if he could prove he was worth following.
There were others too — families who had pledged to Rhaegar rather than to House Targaryen itself. They were different dreams, but still smoldering ones.
Viserys set the quill down. "This isn't the time to return," he said aloud. "Not yet."
He needed wealth. He needed people. Most of all, he needed the foundation of strength.
Only then could he cross the Narrow Sea with an army instead of a prayer.
As he studied the map, his lips twitched in faint amusement. "Three exiles storming King's Landing — what nonsense," he muttered.
He had no generals, no sellswords, no spymaster. Only two children and a dead knight's sword. A pitiful court, yet the seed of something greater.
No — not pitiful, he corrected himself. Potential.
The tragedy of his former self — the "Beggar King" who wore a crown of delusion — was that he had never built a circle, never forged loyalty. That mistake he wouldn't repeat.
To rebuild, he needed alliances, starting right here in Braavos.
Every city had its circles, its hidden ladders, its gates.
Braavos was no exception:
- The Sea Lords and their noble families.
- The Iron Bankers, who lent to kings and killers alike.
- The bureaucrats of the Sealord's palace.
- And the shadowed mystics of the Isle of Gods — merchants of faith.
The priests could keep their mysteries; he wanted men of coin and influence.
Still, it was easier said than done.
His eyes narrowed as one name surfaced in his mind — Sisa.
The ambitious, pragmatic magistrate. Someone who had already extended a hand.
Viserys smiled slightly. "Opportunity always begins with the curious."
And for the first time in years, he knew exactly where to begin.