aFireFist
A Life in Westeros
Chapter 14 - Part 1
Two to three weeks had passed since Adian first stepped through the plain wooden door of the manse tucked along the narrow side canal in Braavos. The initial days of careful settling had given way to something that almost resembled a routine, though nothing in this city of masks and secrets ever stayed truly quiet for long. Mornings often began with the faint slap of wooden swords in the courtyard under the lemon tree, the air thick with the sharp scent of citrus leaves and the briny tang drifting in from the canals. Afternoons brought ledgers spread across the small solar table, Rhaella's careful handwriting filling pages as she cross-checked the latest reports from factors. Evenings were quieter—simple meals of roasted fish and bread, the children's chatter filling the modest rooms while Lira moved about with practiced efficiency.
The household had found its rhythm, but beneath it ran a steady undercurrent of vigilance. Adian noticed it in the way the servants glanced toward the canal more often, in the extra locks on the secondary storeroom door, in the way Rhaella sometimes paused mid-sentence when a boatman's call echoed too close outside. He carried it in the faint, persistent ache in his left shoulder from the pirate fight weeks earlier—the wound had healed enough to let him move freely again, but it still tugged when he raised his arm too high or twisted suddenly. He favored his right side without thinking about it anymore.
The children had changed in those weeks too. Viserys, at eight, had grown taller and leaner from the daily drills, his silver hair often tangled from running in the courtyard. Rhaenys, six and bright-eyed, spent more time gathering herbs from the small garden patch near the fountain, her small fingers stained green as she learned which leaves helped with cuts and which simply smelled sweet. Daenerys, not quite two but already walking with determined, wobbly steps, had become a constant shadow—toddling after Adian whenever he was in sight, her chubby hands reaching up with sticky palms that smelled of whatever fruit or bread she had been eating.
On this particular afternoon, the sun hung low enough to cast long shadows across the stone flags of the courtyard. The lemon tree's leaves rustled softly in the sea breeze, and the distant sound of a boatman's pole splashing through canal water mixed with the clack of wooden practice swords. Adian stood in the center of the open space, wooden rod in his right hand, watching Viserys reset his stance for the tenth time that hour. The boy's silver hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, sweat darkening the collar of his simple tunic. His violet eyes burned with the same restless fire Adian had seen growing steadily over the past weeks.
Viserys lunged forward with a wide, overhead swing, putting too much weight into it. The wooden blade whistled through the air. Adian stepped aside easily, letting the boy's momentum carry him forward. He caught the descending sword on his own rod with a solid crack of wood on wood, then slid in close, using Viserys's forward rush against him. The boy stumbled, boots scuffing on the stone, and nearly went to one knee before catching himself.
Adian tapped the tip of his rod lightly against Viserys's ribs—once, twice—gentle but unmistakable. "Again. Slower this time. Control it."
Viserys straightened, breathing hard, chest heaving. His face twisted in frustration. "I am the blood of the dragon," he spat, the words coming out sharp and loud in the quiet courtyard. "Why are we still hiding like rats in this canal shit-hole? Father would never have hidden. He would have taken what was his."
Adian kept his expression even, though he felt the familiar weight of the boy's words settle in his chest. He had heard variations of this before—every few days now, the frustration bubbling up during drills. Viserys wanted glory, fire, the songs he half-remembered from stories Lira sometimes told. Adian understood the hunger; he had seen too many men die chasing it. But understanding did not mean indulging it.
"Because rats live longer than dragons who breathe fire at everything that moves," Adian said calmly, lowering his rod. "Your father is gone. Rhaegar is gone. The ones who charged without looking ended up as ash or worse. Again. Feet shoulder-width. Weight balanced. Don't lean into the swing like you're trying to knock down a wall."
Viserys glared, but he reset his stance—feet planted, knees slightly bent, wooden sword held with both hands the way Adian had shown him. They went again. This time the swing was tighter, more controlled, but still carried too much anger. Adian parried it aside, stepped in, and tapped the boy's shoulder.
"Better," he said. "But you're still swinging with your shoulders instead of your hips. The power comes from here." He tapped his own midsection lightly. "Turn your body with the cut. Let the sword follow. Again."
They drilled for another half hour. The courtyard filled with the steady rhythm of clacking wood, scuffing boots, and Viserys's increasingly labored breathing. Sweat ran down the boy's temples and soaked the back of his tunic. Adian corrected him gently each time—adjusting his grip, nudging his elbow higher, reminding him to breathe out on the strike. Twice Viserys managed clean hits on Adian's rod, the impacts sharp and satisfying. Progress, small but real. Adian noted it without praise; the boy needed discipline more than compliments right now.
When they finally stopped, Viserys wiped his face with the back of his arm, leaving a streak of dirt across his cheek. His shoulders slumped, but the fire in his eyes had not dimmed. He muttered under his breath, voice low but clear enough to carry, "When do we stop pretending? When do we stop acting like we belong in this… this hiding place?"
Adian rested the tip of his rod on the stone and looked at the boy steadily. "When pretending keeps you alive long enough to matter. When it gives you time to grow strong enough that your fire actually burns something worth burning. Patience wins more wars than rage ever did. Remember that the next time you want to charge at shadows."
Viserys opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it. He turned and stalked toward the fountain at the edge of the courtyard, shoulders stiff. Adian watched him go without calling him back. The boy needed space to sulk; pushing harder now would only make the anger fester.
Nearby on the low stone bench beneath the lemon tree, Rhaenys sat with her legs swinging, a small bundle of fresh-picked herbs resting in the lap of her simple blue dress. The leaves gave off a sharp, clean scent—mint and something earthier—that mixed with the citrus from the tree above. She had been watching the entire session with her usual wide-eyed curiosity, small hands folded neatly over the bundle. Her silver-gold hair was tied back with a simple ribbon, and her face still held the softness of childhood, though her eyes were far too knowing for six.
"He's getting stronger," she said softly when Viserys disappeared around the corner of the house. Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. "His swings are faster now. But he's angry all the time. Even when he's not training. He gets cross at Lira when she tells him to wash his hands, and he mutters about thrones at night when he thinks I'm asleep."
Adian walked over and sat on the bench beside her, the wood warm from the sun. He ruffled her hair lightly, careful not to dislodge the ribbon. "He's eight and thinks the world owes him a throne. Anger's easier than waiting. We'll work on it. You're doing good keeping an eye on him."
Rhaenys leaned into the touch for a moment, then held up one of the herbs. "This one's good for swelling. Lira showed me. If he gets a bruise from training, I can make a poultice." She hesitated, then added in a smaller voice, "Do you think he'll ever stop being so angry?"
Adian considered the question. The honest answer was complicated—Viserys carried the weight of a lost crown and dead parents, and no amount of drills would erase that overnight. But the girl deserved something real. "Maybe not all the way. But he'll learn to point it somewhere useful instead of just swinging at everything. You help with that by staying calm when he's not."
She nodded, seeming satisfied, and went back to sorting her herbs.
A small, determined patter of footsteps drew Adian's attention. Daenerys had toddled into the courtyard from the side door, her chubby legs working hard on the uneven stone. She wore a simple shift that was already smudged with dirt and what looked like berry juice around the hem. Her silver-gold hair was a wild halo around her head, and her violet eyes locked onto Adian the moment she spotted him. A wide, gap-toothed grin spread across her face.
"Sea man! Up! Up up!" she demanded, arms stretched high as she wobbled closer. Her voice was high and bright, mixing broken Common with a few Valyrian words she had picked up from Lira and Rhaella—"up" and "sea" and something that sounded like "big man."
Adian smiled faintly despite himself and bent down, ignoring the faint pull in his left shoulder. He scooped her up onto his good arm in one smooth motion. She was heavier than she looked—solid and warm, with the faint smell of milk and whatever she had been eating clinging to her skin. The moment she settled against his side, her sticky little hands came up and patted his cheek, leaving faint smudges.
"Big man," she declared happily, patting again. "Sea man funny. Up high!" She giggled, a bubbling sound that echoed off the courtyard walls, and kicked her legs a little. One hand grabbed at the leather cord around his neck, tugging curiously.
Adian shifted her weight to keep her balanced, mindful of the old wound. "You're getting too big for this soon," he said, though there was no real complaint in his voice. Daenerys had grown attached over the weeks—following him from room to room, demanding to be carried whenever she saw him, babbling nonstop in her mix of languages. It was a small, uncomplicated thing in a life full of calculations and long games. He let her pat his face again, her fingers leaving sticky trails, and listened to her happy stream of half-words.
"Sea man stay? Play? Up up up!"
"Stay a while longer," he answered quietly, more to himself than to her. "We'll see about the playing."
Daenerys babbled something that might have been agreement and rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, content. The courtyard felt almost peaceful—the rustle of lemon leaves, the distant canal sounds, the faint herbal scent from Rhaenys's bundle, and the warm weight of the toddler in his arm.
Rhaella appeared in the doorway that led back into the house. She had changed in these weeks, just as the children had. The constant tension of exile had eased enough for her to stand straighter, to move with a quiet confidence that had not been there when Adian first arrived. Her silver-gold hair was braided loosely today, the plait falling over one shoulder and catching the afternoon light. Her simple gown—deep green linen that had seen better days—clung gently to her fuller figure, the curves of motherhood still evident in the soft swell of her hips and the way the fabric draped over her breasts. She carried a small ledger under one arm, its leather cover worn from use.
She paused there for a moment, violet eyes taking in the scene: Adian with Daenerys on his arm, Rhaenys sorting herbs on the bench, the faint sounds of Viserys splashing water at the fountain around the corner. A soft expression crossed her face—something warm and private, there and gone in a breath. Then she stepped into the courtyard, the soles of her shoes quiet on the stone.
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