"Such a meal could haunt my dreams," the Swordswoman said, her voice lilting as she toyed with the rim of her cup. "If ever there's finer fare in the city, I swear by the sea, it won't be wasted on the unworthy."
"A toast to that," said Sisa, grinning.
It was diplomacy disguised as banter. Both the young magistrate and the courtesan belonged to Braavos's climbing class — high enough to flirt with power, wise enough to treat the exiled prince with polite curiosity, not reverence.
"With pleasure," Viserys replied, smiling faintly. In truth, his curiosity lay elsewhere — he wanted to test the limits of his Glutton's Gift.
Perhaps, beyond the famous sea snails, other foods might awaken power.
In tales, the monstrous dragon Glutton had devoured eggs, hatchlings, and even the corpses of its own kind. A divine curse in flesh. But these days, dragon eggs were extinct or petrified, relics fetching fortunes beyond imagining.
If Viserys could not consume what was lost, perhaps the sea could offer its own secrets.
"Then let us drink," said Sisa.
"To the first courtesan," said the Swordswoman.
"To the Sea Lord of Braavos," offered Sisa.
"To the Emperor of the World," said Viserys with mock solemnity — and raised his glass high.
"Long live the Emperor!" The Swordswoman broke into laughter, rich and ringing. She found him delightfully absurd — all charm and impossible ambition.
For all his exile, his silver eyes still burned with that unmistakable, infuriating Targaryen confidence.
To dream of empire while cooking supper in a rented villa — it was madness made lovely.
They drank again, and laughter filled the room.
Wine blurred the sharp lines between delusion and daring. As the cups refilled, they spoke of stars, power, and the things they would someday conquer. Youth, after all, thrives on what it cannot yet grasp.
Sisa and the Swordswoman both knew that Viserys's talk of restoration was fantasy. He had no men, no gold, no army — just noble eyes and a smooth tongue.
Meanwhile, far to the west, Robert Baratheon's throne was as steady as ever.
"Tell me, Moro," said Sisa suddenly, his cheeks faintly flushed with drink. "Why not set your sights upon the title of First Sword? Strong as you are, it's within reach."
The bearded man shrugged. "I've lived too long already. A true water dancer peaks young — as you, all three of you, still are. My glory days are behind me."
It was true. The sword was a jealous calling. By twenty, a man was either a master or forgotten. Even legends like Daemon Blackfyre had risen as children and died young.
The Swordswoman glanced toward Viserys. In that moment, she thought of him as another lost cause — a boy far too old to begin anew.
"How many ranks do your water dancers have?" Viserys asked curiously.
"They say the greatest swordsmen serve as the Sea Lord's First Sword," Moro answered. "The rest are ranked by reputation. The best fight for coin, fame, or invitation — a duel might earn them a seat beside a courtesan, a governor, or a banker. The rest fade."
"Or end up as someone's dog," Sisa scoffed. "Even the most famous blades fetch like hounds for nobles."
"Enough of fighting talk," said the Swordswoman lightly. "Let the night end in song."
"A rare pleasure!" Sisa said. "Her voice alone is worth a king's ransom, Your Grace."
Viserys smiled, tapping his fingers to the table's beat.
The room dimmed as the courtesan rose to sing. Her voice was clear as glass, delicate as silk. She chose an old lover's song of Braavos — My Season of Love — a melody about an endless summer and heartbreak beneath foreign stars.
"I loved a girl bright as midsummer," she sang softly,
"Her hair burned gold in the dawn...
I loved a woman sweet as autumn,
Her eyes holding sunset's flame...
I loved a maid pale as winter snow,
Her touch as cold as the moon..."
When she finished, Sisa applauded so wildly he almost knocked over his chair.
Viserys clapped quietly, smiling. The melody was lovely. But he noted, amused, how admiration and infatuation often blurred beyond repair — especially in drunk young men.
Then Sisa insisted on singing the Song of the Titan, a Braavosi classic, sung with earnest pride and no particular talent.
When he finished, flushed and grinning, he pointed at Viserys. "Now you, Your Grace. Sing for your guests!"
Viserys hesitated, then stood.
"All right. I'll give you something no one's heard before," he said.
Both tilted their heads, intrigued.
He began, voice low but steady, carrying an unfamiliar rhythm:
> "If you miss the ship I'm sailing,
> You'll know that I am gone.
> You can hear the horn a hundred leagues away —
> A hundred leagues, a hundred more,
> The horn that calls me home no more.
> Father above, I've sailed one hundred leagues —
> Two, three, four —
> Father above, five hundred leagues from home…"
The air shifted.
The laughter faded. Silence filled the room like rising tide.
Neither Sisa nor the Swordswoman had ever heard a ballad like it — simple, haunting, and full of yearning that seemed to echo through the walls.
Even when the song ended, the silence remained.
"What's it called?" the courtesan asked softly.
"Five Hundred Leagues," said Viserys.
"Did you write that yourself?" she asked, eyes wide.
He nodded calmly. "Yes. A Westerosi tune for homesick sailors."
In truth, he had only borrowed it — a melody from another world. But now it belonged to him alone.
Sisa leaned forward. "You composed this? Truly?"
Viserys let the corner of his mouth curve. "Word and tune both. A trifle of longing, nothing more."
The Swordswoman sighed in disbelief. "A trifle?" she whispered. "Songs like that are woven into history. You'd shame half the singers in Braavos."
The dawning realization in her eyes was unmistakable — this young exile was more than a prince. He was becoming a legend.
"May I… perform it?" she asked, careful now, her poise replaced by urgency. "With your permission, of course."
Viserys pretended to ponder. He'd studied enough courtiers to know that a little mystery went a long way.
"If you like," he said at last. "But don't name me as author. Call it the work of the Silver Wanderer."
He flashed a knowing grin. "Every legend needs its alias."
Sisa laughed. "A generous king indeed!"
But the courtesan looked at him with bright, calculating eyes. "A generous king," she echoed, "and a clever one."
After a long pause, she said, "Then let's make it official. I'll buy the song outright — one hundred gold coins to begin, and more as the performances continue. You'll receive shares from every stage it's sung upon. And if you ever write more… we'll collaborate again."
Viserys smiled. "Deal."
They clasped hands, sealing it with a simple shake — a small sound that, to him, felt louder than a battlefield cry.
One hundred gold dragons — his first fortune.
Not a crown, not a sword, not a throne — but the beginning of something greater.
"Then we drink," said the Swordswoman, raising her cup.
"To partnership."
"To fortune," said Sisa.
"To the Silver Wanderer," said Viserys, eyes glittering with quiet satisfaction.
The cups clinked again, and the firelight danced on gold.
For the first time since exile, Viserys Targaryen held in his hands not just wine or ambition — but profit.
Small, shimmering, and solid as a golden promise.