[Check Out My P4treon For +20 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!! And get chapters before publishing them here for free on my p4treon][https://p4treon.com/ThePlotHoleRefuge]
===
After Thassos, Moro, and the Swordswoman departed, the one-eared black cat, which had been dozing by the hearth, snapped its green eyes wide. The reception room was already being scrubbed by the cook and the butler. The cook moved with a frantic, newfound energy; under Viserys's tutelage, her hands had found a grace she never knew they possessed. She was no longer just a servant; she was an apprentice to a master, dreaming of the day she might command the kitchens of a Magister or a Prince.
Rhaenys stepped out from the shadows of the corridor, her olive skin pale in the dying candlelight. She had not been asleep; through the eyes of the cat, she had watched every exchange, every subtle shift in power.
"Can they be relied upon?" she asked, her voice low.
"To earn gold? To feast? Yes," Viserys replied, leaning against the oak table. "But to bleed for a crown? Not yet. Restoration is built on blood and fire, not honeyed quail. But in Braavos, money is the lubricant of war. If I can move within their circles, I can buy the iron we need to build an army."
Rhaenys nodded slowly. She was more mature than Daenerys, hardened by the memories of the Red Keep's fall. "Most capable men are already in the Usurper's shadow. Who is left for us? The exiles and the criminals?"
"Think bigger, Rhaenys," Viserys said, a cold, ambitious light igniting in his violet eyes. "Chaos is a ladder. We cannot expect the masters of the Free Cities to hand us a kingdom. We must unite the ghosts of those who have failed—the fallen families of Tyrosh, the dispossessed of Pentos, and even those the world has forgotten."
"You mean... the slaves?" Rhaenys whispered, her breath catching. "If we touch that order, we offend the entire known world."
"I have no choice. The Free Cities are full of merchants, not warriors. Mercenaries scatter like leaves in a storm. To raise a true force, I need men who have everything to gain and nothing to lose. I will overturn the table if I cannot win at the board."
Rhaenys looked at her uncle as if seeing him for the first time. This was not the erratic prince of her childhood; this was a man who viewed the world as a powder keg and was looking for a spark. "You are either a genius or a madman, Viserys."
"I am a dragon," he said simply.
The next morning, Moro arrived as the mist was still clinging to the canals. He carried a heavy wooden practice sword, its hilt weighted with lead. The first installment of the Swordswoman's hundred gold coins clinked in a pouch at his belt—Viserys's first true capital.
"Catch, boy," Moro grunted, tossing the lead-filled sword with a casual flick.
Viserys caught it with one hand, his arm steady. Moro's eyes narrowed slightly. He had expected the boy to stumble, to find the weight cumbersome. Instead, Viserys held the weapon as if it were a part of him.
"By rights, I shouldn't waste my breath on you," Moro said, rubbing his bald head. "You're too old. A Water Dancer should start when he can barely reach the table. Your bones are set, your muscles stiff. But the Courtesan paid, and I like your food, so we shall see if you can do more than chop onions."
"Tell me what to do," Viserys said, his stance naturally low.
"Turn your body. Present a smaller target. A Water Dancer does not meet force with force; he meets it with a needle's point. Be flexible. Be elegant."
Moro circled him, poking at Viserys's ribs with his own wooden blade. He expected the prince to be clumsy, a soft exile with royal delusions. Instead, he found a student whose strength was surprising and whose flexibility defied his age.
The God of Gastronomy had given Viserys the foundation of a laborer, and the Glutton was constantly refining the clay of his body.
"Are you truly a genius?" Moro muttered, watching Viserys adjust his footing with a predatory precision. "Or have you been practicing in your dreams?"
Viserys didn't answer. He simply adjusted his grip, his eyes focused on the tip of Moro's blade. He was no longer just practicing for a duel; he was practicing for a conquest.
===
Note: So far this story is published up to chapter 25 on my patreon, go check it out
exclusive 18+ character images, and early chapters, please visit my Patreon. Thanks for your support!
p4treon.com/ThePlotHoleRefuge
if you want more updates == supports with power stones
Power Stones == Bonus Chapter
every three 5-star reviews == Bonus Chapter