Before the arrival of the new servants, the kitchen had become Viserys's private sanctuary. He stood over an oak block, a slender seafood knife in hand, moving with a rhythm that was both mesmerizing and surgical.
Under the influence of the [God of Gastronomy] talent, his hands possessed a memory that was not his own. He prepared the sea snails with the effortless grace of a master who had performed the task a thousand times in a past life. As he sautéed them over a precise flame, sprinkling uniform grains of minced garlic into the pan, he felt the subtle shifts in his own body.
A master chef, much like a master smith, was built on the foundation of labor. The constant tossing of heavy iron woks and the precision of the blade had accelerated the growth of his muscles. He checked his mental tally: Strength and Agility were both bordering on 1.3, with Spirit holding firm at 1.4. He was growing. While he was still a far cry from the knight Rhaegar had been, he was no longer a soft exile. He was a growable entity, a vessel being filled.
He looked at his high Spirit attribute. It was likely a result of his disciplined education and the fusion of two distinct souls. In a world where the tides of magic were beginning to swell—where dragons would soon crack their shells and red priestesses would see futures in the flames—this mental fortitude would be his true anchor.
"This is... incredible," Rhaenys said, her dark eyes wide as she tasted the snails. "Better than anything I remember from the Red Keep. Better than the kitchens at Dragonstone."
"Naturally," Viserys replied, a touch of his house's ancestral pride flickering in his voice. "I am a genius, after all."
He watched the two girls eat their fill, a rare moment of domestic peace. Afterward, he sent Rhaenys to tell Daenerys stories by the bedside—a task he usually handled, but tonight, the weight of the crown felt heavier. He had work to do.
In the quiet of his solar, Viserys unrolled a map of Westeros, a yellowed parchment that was one of Ser Willem's last treasures.
The year was 290 AC. Robert Baratheon sat firmly on the Iron Throne, having recently crushed Balon Greyjoy's foolish rebellion. The alliance of the wolf, the lion, the stag, and the falcon seemed unbreakable. But Viserys looked at the map with a strategist's eye, seeing the fault lines hidden beneath the surface.
The Baratheon brothers were a house divided against themselves. The Lannisters were a parasite in the heart of the capital. Littlefinger and Varys were weaving webs that would eventually choke the realm.
"I have allies," Viserys whispered, tracing his finger over the sigils of the houses that had remained loyal during the rebellion. "They are scattered, but they are there."
He marked the names: House Darry and House Mooton in the Riverlands. The Rykkers of Duskendale. The lords of the Claw Isle. The Conningtons—though their loyalty was to Rhaegar's ghost rather than the living king. These were the "Royalists," families that had lost land, status, and kin for the dragon. They were dormant seeds, waiting for a summer rain.
But a return now would be suicide. For three children to land in the Seven Kingdoms and demand fealty was a delusion that would end in a headsman's axe.
"Development first," he decided. "Gold. A team. A shadow that grows until it can no longer be ignored."
He needed to break into the circles of Braavosi power. He thought of the Iron Bank, the Keyholders, and the Sealord's court. These were not men who moved for sentiment; they moved for profit and stability.
He recalled the young Magistrate, Thassos, and the subtle overtures the man had made. Thassos was his gateway. The Braavosi nobility were secular, pragmatic, and obsessed with the finer things in life. If he couldn't buy his way in with the gold he didn't have, he would cook his way in with the talent he did.
Viserys rolled up the map. The time for begging was over. The time for the chef to prepare the feast had begun, and the first course would be the Magistrate himself.