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Viserys Targaryen watched Nightingale as she spoke, his violet eyes tracing the interplay of light and shadow on her Lysene features. She was more than a beautiful voice; she was a political nexus. In Braavos, the top-tier Courtesans were the true high priestesses of culture and secrets.
The Black Pearl and the Daughter of Darkness were whispers of the House of Black and White, but Nightingale belonged to the moon. Her lineage—and her purse—were tied to the Temple of the Moon Singers, the massive, white-domed sanctuary that dominated the Isle of Gods.
"The Temple of the Moon Singers?" Viserys asked, his voice steady despite the weight of the name. "I hadn't realized you sang for the prophets of the founding."
Nightingale's smile was a masterpiece of allure and piety. "Braavosis never joke about the Moonsingers, Your Majesty. Without them, there would be no lagoon to hide us from your ancestors' dragons. They saw the fog; they saw the pine-covered hills. They led the slaves to freedom."
It was a sharp reminder. The Moonsingers had been the ones to prophesy the location of Braavos, specifically to hide from the Dragonlords of Valyria. Now, the last of those Dragonlords sat across from their most prominent secular saint.
"You are truly your brother's brother," Nightingale continued, her gaze softening. "The Silver Prince brought women to tears with his harp at Summerhall. But in you, I see the fire he lacked. You are a gourmet, an artist, and a man who draws blood at the Moon Pool. You are vibrant, Viserys."
"Rhaegar was a creature of ghosts and shadows," Viserys said coldly. "I have no desire to be a martyr for a song. I intend to be a king of reality."
Nightingale inclined her head, acknowledging the bite in his words. "Then let us speak of reality. The Moonsinger priestesses wish for you to compose a hymn. It is an honor many singers would kill for—to have their words echoed by the congregation beneath the white dome."
"A hymn," Viserys mused. He recalled the fragments of his childhood: Queen Rhaella singing to the Mother, a soft melody of mercy and protection. But a hymn for the Moonsingers was different; they didn't worship gods, they worshipped the moon and the guidance it provided in the dark.
"Empty fame is a poor meal," Viserys said, his tone turning transactional. "If I am to write for the Temple, I want more than a pat on the head. I want dragon eggs, dragon bone, Valyrian steel. I want the ingredients that fuel my strength."
The Swordswoman, sitting nearby, looked stunned at his audacity. Nightingale, however, laughed—a sound like silver bells.
"You are greedy, little dragon. Dragon eggs are treasures even the Temple might struggle to find, but wealth? The Moonsingers have the largest coffers on the Isle of Gods. You will be satisfied."
She handed him a heavy silver coin. It bore no Titan, but a maiden raising a crescent moon—the mark of the Moonsingers. "This is your invitation. The priestesses will receive you."
As Nightingale sang a sample of a traditional chant to show him the meter, Viserys felt a strange vibration in his mind.
[SPIRIT ATTRIBUTE ↑]
The melody wasn't just music; it was a soul-cleansing frequency. His mental clarity sharpened, his perception widening. It seemed the "Silver Traveler" had found a way to train his mind as effectively as his body.
"I hope to hear you sing that often, Nightingale," Viserys said.
Nightingale beamed, thinking she had finally charmed the cold prince. "I am willing to sing for you whenever you wish."
"Nothing else," Viserys clarified, "just the hymn. It helps my concentration."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. The Swordswoman chuckled while Nightingale's smile froze into a mask of polite frustration. The "True Dragon" was indeed a heart of stone.
After the Courtesans left, Viserys retreated to his private chambers. He opened the cedar box Nightingale had provided. The dark, mineral scent of dragon bone filled the room.
He took a jagged shard of bone and bit down.
[STRENGTH ATTRIBUTE ↑] [AGILITY ATTRIBUTE ↑]
The effect was starting to diminish—a plateau of power—but it was still a surge that no training could replicate. His Strength and Agility were creeping toward the threshold of 2.0. In the world of men, a 1.0 was a peasant, and a 1.5 was a veteran knight. At nearly 2.0, Viserys was becoming a physical anomaly, his movements faster than a cat, his grip capable of crushing stone.
"I have the mines," Viserys whispered, his violet eyes glowing with the fire of the dragon bone. "I have the songs. I have the teachers. Now, I need the world to start burning so I can take what is mine."
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