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The candlelight in the reception hall flickered against the tapestries, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock the stillness of the silver-haired king. Viserys Targaryen sat with a poise that betrayed his years, the red three-headed dragon on his chest shimmering like a warning.
To the Swordswoman, the scene was a tragic masterpiece: a scion of the world's greatest dynasty reduced to a gentleman of leisure in a city built by slaves. Yet, as she watched him, she saw a clarity in his purple eyes that hadn't been there before. He was no longer just drifting in the Braavosi mists.
"Westerosi exiles are a desperate breed," Viserys said, his voice cutting through the warmth of the room. "They are either political ghosts or common outlaws. I have no interest in the latter—men like Jorah Mormont, who trade in flesh and broken oaths, are a rot I cannot afford."
He knew his position was precarious. Without a base of operations or a network of messengers, he was a king in a vacuum. If Ser Willem had remained healthy, they might have gathered the scattered remnants of the Royalists by now. Instead, Viserys was a lone commander with an empty barracks.
"A knight of the True Realm is a rare find in the Ragman's Harbor," the Swordswoman admitted, her almond eyes tracking the play of light on his face. "But I will turn my whispers toward the docks. There are always men who remember the taste of Westerosi ale and the weight of a real shield."
"I thank you," Viserys replied. "Intelligence is the only wall I can build right now."
The Swordswoman smiled, a sharp, knowing expression. She saw the game he was playing—exchanging a divine meal for the keys to the city's secrets. "Finding your knight will take time. But a king should not be defenseless while he waits. If you trust my judgment, I can offer you a master of the Water Dance."
Thassos arched an eyebrow. "Generous. But where is this master hiding?"
"Far away, yet close enough to touch," she said, gesturing toward her silent, bearded shadow. "Moro."
Viserys straightened, his eyes narrowing. "This is your personal guard. I cannot deprive you of your safety, especially not in a city where men duel over the color of a sunset."
"Do not fret for me, Your Grace," she laughed, a melodic sound that carried the confidence of a woman who had a dozen blades at her beck and call. "I have others who would bleed for a smile. Until I find your Westerosi, Moro will stay. He can teach you that the sword is not a club, but an extension of the soul."
Moro grumbled, a low sound like grinding stones. He looked at Viserys with a newfound respect—or perhaps just a memory of the lampreys he had recently devoured. "I obey the Swordswoman. But tell me, little king... will the kitchen remain as vibrant as it is tonight?"
"The fire shall not go out," Viserys promised.
Thassos clinked his glass against the table. "Accept it, Viserys. You need a shadow. Braavos is a peacock's nest; if you dress like a king, you must fight like one. The assassins by the Moon Pool do not care for your pedigree."
Viserys nodded slowly. He knew the risks. Moro was the Swordswoman's man, and by extension, another set of eyes for the Braavosi network. But in his current state, he was a drowning man; he would grab any pole offered to him, even if it had a hook attached.
The Swordswoman, for her part, watched him with a hidden pity. She knew the Water Dance was an art learned over decades, begun at the age of six. To start at fourteen was to be a perpetual student. She did not expect a warrior; she expected a friend who would continue to provide the finest table in the city.
She did not know about the Glutton. She did not know about the God of Gastronomy.
"To our partnership," Thassos toasted, raising a goblet of Summer Red. "May our friendship dance as gracefully as the blade."
"To the future," Viserys added, his voice steady.
The glasses clinked—a crisp, cold sound that signaled the end of his isolation. He had his first guard. He had his first informant. It was a small step, a tiny fragment of a restoration, but as the wine warmed his blood, Viserys felt the weight of his destiny beginning to shift. The chess pieces were no longer static; the board was finally in motion.
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