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As the sun began to bleach the grey mists of Braavos, the one-eared black cat—the infamous Balerion—hissed at Viserys. It was a sound of pure, feline defiance.
Viserys was dressed for labor, wearing a studded leather jerkin that allowed for maximum movement. He stood in the center of the courtyard, his feet encased in special soft-soled shoes. Balance was the foundation of the Water Dance; one had to feel the texture of the stone through their soles without being slowed by the friction of life.
While the fat Magister Illyrio was busy crossing the Narrow Sea from Pentos to whisper secrets to the Spider in King's Landing, Viserys was focused on the rhythmic beat of his own heart. He was an "overage trainee," a fourteen-year-old starting a discipline meant for seven-year-olds. But he possessed a clarity they lacked.
Swift as a deer, silent as a shadow, quick as a snake.
The black cat watched him, its eyes narrowing. This creature was the most cunning inhabitant of the manse, a survivor that had outlasted generations of its kind. Under Moro's direction, the cat had become Viserys's primary instructor in agility.
Viserys lunged.
(Agility Attribute ↑)
The chase was a chaotic symphony. They blurred through the kitchen, nearly toppling the cook; they scrambled over the laundry lines and across the slate rooftops. Viserys followed the tenets Moro had hammered into him: Still as a shadow, light as a feather.
In the garden, beneath the reaching branches of the lemon tree, Viserys saw his opening. The cat darted left, then pivoted right with supernatural speed. In the past, Viserys would have stumbled. Today, his body responded before his mind could process the move. He was a snake striking at a bird.
His fingers closed around the scruff of the cat's neck.
"Finally," Viserys panted, lifting the indignant beast above his head. Balerion let out a low, disgruntled hiss but refrained from using his claws—a sign of grudging respect.
Viserys set the cat down and wiped the sweat from his brow. In another corner of the garden, Rhaenys was practicing her own balance, standing on one leg atop a narrow wooden post. She watched the cat with a curious intensity.
"I think its speed is tied to you," Viserys said, applying a stinging dose of Myrish fire to his bruised knees. The liqueur burned like an inferno, but it kept the muscles from seizing. "A skinchanger's soul in an animal can slow the rot of time. This cat has lived too long to be mere luck."
"Perhaps," Rhaenys replied, her voice distant as she maintained her poise. "Magic does strange things to the blood."
The training was interrupted by the arrival of the Swordswoman. She did not come alone; Moro was at her side, but more importantly, she carried a heavy, clinking bag of gold.
She looked at Viserys with a triumphant glow. The "Silver Traveler" had made her the talk of the canals. In a city of sailors and merchants, a song of homesickness was more valuable than a cargo of spice.
"A hundred gold dragons, Your Majesty," she said, dropping the bag onto the stone table. "My business has tripled since I began singing your verses. This is your share of the bounty."
Viserys did not hesitate to take the coin. Between the cost of the manse, the specialized training, and the vast quantities of sea snails he required for the Glutton, his expenses were astronomical.
"You are a generous partner," Viserys said.
"I am a practical one," she countered, her eyes sparkling. "Moro tells me you are a genius of the blade as well as the pen. He says your progress is... unnatural for your age."
"I am a quick study," Viserys replied smoothly.
"I am still searching for your Westerosi knight," she promised. "But I suspect you are becoming quite fond of our Braavosi needles."
"The Water Dance is a fine tool," Viserys admitted, "but a dragon needs many claws. I can wait for the right man, provided he is loyal."
The Swordswoman leaned in, her voice dropping. "The city is hungry for more, Viserys. 'Five Hundred Miles' has whetted their appetite. They want to know what the Silver Traveler will say next."
Viserys smiled, a cold, calculated expression. He needed the gold to build his shadow, and his inventory of memories from another world was limitless.
"Then let us strike while the iron is hot," he said. "I have a new work. One that will make the Nightingale weep with envy."
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