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In the courtyard of the manse with the Red Door, the morning air was crisp and smelled of damp stone. Moro, the bald and bearded instructor, tossed a training sword toward Viserys. It was a weighted piece, designed to tax the muscles and refine the balance.
Nearby, Rhaenys and Daenerys sat on small stools, their eyes fixed on the silver-haired prince. Viserys caught the blade with a practiced ease that had become second nature. Today, the atmosphere was different—the usual joviality of their sparring sessions had been replaced by a grim, formal tension.
"Be quick, and let your point be your tongue!" Moro barked, his own wooden blade held low. "Today, there is no mercy in my steel. Pierce me, or be broken."
"Understood," Viserys replied. He turned sideways, minimizing his profile, his violet eyes narrowing. He had spent weeks chasing the black cat and consuming the essence of dragonbone; his body was no longer that of a soft exile. He was a coiled spring, ready to snap.
The Water Dance was a game of bears and deer—of overwhelming force met with impossible grace. Viserys did not wait for Moro to close the distance. He blurred to the left, his footwork silent as a shadow.
They clashed.
The sound of wood striking wood echoed through the garden like the cracking of bone. Moro was robust and experienced, his blade moving like a venomous snake, but Viserys had the unnatural speed of a "krypton" player. He dodged, parried, and counter-attacked with a precision that made Moro's eyebrows shoot upward.
Retreat, contract, then burst. It was the assassin's rhythm.
Viserys's blade found a gap in Moro's defense. With a sharp crack, the rounded wooden tip struck Moro squarely in the torso. Had it been a sharp rapier, the instructor's lifeblood would be staining the weeds.
"Hooray!" the girls cheered, clapping their hands in delight.
Moro dropped his practice sword and let out a long, heavy breath. A mix of pride and a strange, lingering sadness crossed his face. "The trial is over, Viserys. I have nothing more to teach you."
Viserys lowered his weapon, his breath remarkably steady. "Thank you, Moro. For everything."
"You have the speed," Moro said, rubbing his chest where the strike had landed. "But remember: a Water Dancer without armor is a beautiful target. When you face a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, do not try to out-muscle him. They are iron cans built for strength. You are the needle that finds the seam."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a gift—a slender, single-handed longsword of fine Braavosi steel. It was elegant, lethal, and perfectly balanced.
"What will you name her?" Moro asked.
"Meraxes," Viserys said, his voice dropping an octave. He thought of the silver dragon of Queen Rhaenys, fallen but never forgotten. "She will be the silver flash in the dark."
"A heavy name for a light blade," Moro remarked. He hesitated, then looked Viserys directly in the eye. "Do you wish for greater power? The kind that goes beyond simple speed and strength?"
Viserys felt a shiver of anticipation. "I do."
"Then get your rest. At midnight, meet me at the Moon Pool. If you wish to reach the highest realm—the Way of Insight—you must first learn to dance in the belly of the beast."
The Moon Pool at midnight was a den of peacocks and vipers. Viserys arrived cloaked in a short jacket of black and red velvet, a silver eye patch masking part of his face to guard his identity. He carried Meraxes at his hip. Behind him, the one-eared cat Balerion slunk through the shadows, a silent companion sent by a worried Rhaenys.
The assassins by the pool were already prowling. To carry a sharp blade in this place was to issue an open invitation to a duel.
"My friend says your mask is an insult to the city," a young bravo in burgundy robes sneered, stepping into Viserys's path.
"And your robe is an eyesore," Viserys countered.
The bravo's hand rested on the hilt of his rapier. "Drop the sword and the cloak, boy, and I might let you crawl away with your skin."
Viserys sighed. He saw the gleam of greed in the man's eyes. This was the Braavosi way: strip the loser of everything, from his pride to his boots. "I have no wish to kill you, but you are wasting my time."
The bravo drew his steel. The crowd of onlookers, ever-present at the Moon Pool, parted like a dark sea.
Viserys didn't hesitate. He drew Meraxes, the silver steel singing as it cleared the scabbard. He moved with a speed that defied the bravo's expectations—a blur of red and black.
From a distance, two figures watched from the shadows of a stone archway. One was Moro. The other was a man of medium height, with a lead-colored face and eyes that seemed to see through the very mists of the city.
"Is this the boy?" the man asked.
"It is, Syrio," Moro replied. "The Targaryen. If his heart holds, he might be the one to master the True Dance."
Syrio Forel, the man who would one day be the First Sword of Braavos, watched as Viserys parried a lethal thrust and countered with a strike so fast it was almost invisible. "He has the speed of a cat," Syrio whispered. "Let us see if he has the soul of the water."
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