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"A delicacy like this is truly unforgettable," the Swordswoman remarked, her eyes lingering on the empty porcelain. "Should you find such ingredients again, Your Grace, I trust they won't be wasted."
"You have my word," Viserys replied with a practiced smile. Internally, his mind was already cataloging the marine life of the Braavosi lagoon. The Glutton talent was a demanding master; it required the rare and the potent to fuel his metamorphosis. While the legendary dragon-eating scavenger of his namesake had wasted dragon eggs and hatchlings—a thought that made Viserys wince at the sheer loss of potential—he would have to be more creative. In an age where dragon eggs were fossils and hatchlings were myths, he needed to find the hidden power in the depths of the sea.
The wine continued to flow as the trio raised their goblets in a series of escalating toasts.
"To the first of the Courtesans!"
"To the Sealord of Braavos!"
"To Your Majesty, the King!"
Viserys paused, his purple eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. "Perhaps," he said, his voice steady and serious, "in the future, you should not call me Your Majesty the King. You might call me His Imperial Majesty."
The Swordswoman let out a delighted trill of laughter. "Long live the Emperor!" she toasted, clearly amused by the boy's audacity. To her, Viserys was becoming a fascinating enigma—part desperate exile, part culinary genius, and part dreamer of impossible empires.
The only Emperor the world had truly known was Aurion, the Dragonlord who declared himself Emperor of Valyria during the Century of Blood, only to vanish into the smoking ruins of the Freehold. For a boy running a private kitchen in a rented manse to claim the title was the height of tragic comedy.
As the night wore on, the conversation drifted toward the nature of strength. Thassos, his face flushed with wine, looked at the silent Moro. "Why doesn't the great Moro speak of becoming the First Sword?"
The bearded warrior shrugged, his voice a low rumble. "I am old enough to know my limits, Magistrate. A Water Dancer who hasn't made his name by his twentieth year is merely a man with a needle. The true masters—the ones who become the First Sword or the guests of Governors—they are forged in blood before their first beard grows."
Viserys felt the sting of that truth. He was an "older trainee," a boy starting his martial education when most were already becoming squires. But unlike Moro, Viserys had a cheat.
"Let us not dwell on blood and steel," the Swordswoman suggested, her voice softening. "Let us have music to crown this feast."
She sang a haunting rendition of My Season of Love, her voice as delicate as fine lace. Thassos was a rapt audience, his eyes filled with the sycophantic devotion common to those who pursued the city's living icons. When she finished, Thassos offered a boisterous, if unrefined, tavern song.
"Your turn, Viserys," Thassos challenged. "Give us a song of the Sunset Kingdoms."
Viserys stood. He thought of the two worlds he carried within him—the one he was born into and the one he remembered from a distant, cold life. "I will sing a song no one in this city has ever heard," he said.
He began softly, his voice carrying a melancholic weight that silenced the room.
"If you miss the train I'm on, you will know that I am gone. You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles..."
The melody was strange to their ears, yet the emotion was universal. He sang of leagues traveled, of the distance between a man and his home, and the sorrow of a journey that never ends. When the last note faded, the reception hall was deathly still.
The Swordswoman looked as if she had been struck. As a Courtesan, her life was built on music and lyrics, but she had never heard anything with such raw, simple beauty. "What is this?" she whispered. "Did you write this, Viserys?"
Viserys hesitated. "I wrote it... out of my own homesickness. A chance inspiration."
"A chance inspiration?" The Swordswoman looked at him as if he had just turned lead into gold. "If the singers of the Blue Lantern heard this, they would drown themselves in the canal. This is... it is a classic."
Thassos was equally stunned. "Composed by the King himself? You are a genius, Viserys. A gourmet, a swordsman in training, and now a master of song."
The Swordswoman's eyes turned shrewd. She saw more than art; she saw an opportunity. In Braavos, a new song was worth more than a shipment of spice. "May I sing this?" she asked, her voice eager. "It would be a sensation."
"You may," Viserys replied. "But the author shall be known only as the Silver Traveler. I have no wish for the fame of a bard."
"Generous," Thassos praised.
"Not just generous," the Swordswoman corrected. She reached into her silken purse. "I will not take this for free. I will give you a hundred gold coins as a down payment for the right to perform it, and royalties for every night it fills my hall. And if the Silver Traveler has more inspirations... we shall collaborate."
A hundred gold coins. It was a king's ransom for a song—enough to pay for a knight's armor or several years of high-quality sea snails. It was Viserys's first pot of gold, earned not by begging or selling his mother's crown, but by the value he created.
"Happy cooperation," Viserys said, clinking his glass against hers.
As the gold was counted out onto the table, Viserys felt a surge of triumph. He was no longer just an exile waiting for a protector to die. He was a player. He was building his capital, his team, and his reputation. The dragon was beginning to wake, and it would be fed by the gold and the secrets of the Mhysas City.
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