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Above the Red Door, a black cat ghosted along the crest of the wall, its green eyes surveying the stone courtyard below. In the garden, Viserys stood opposite his newest acquisition: Ser Roland Lake.
Unlike Moro or Syrio, who were masters of a foreign art, Roland was a piece of the home Viserys had never truly known. He was a knight of Westeros, tied to the Targaryen cause not by gold or curiosity, but by blood and history. In the game of thrones, talent was a currency, but loyalty was the vault that kept it safe.
Viserys looked at the middle-aged man. He thought of Jon Connington, the "Griffin" who was likely currently brooding in exile, loyal only to the memory of Rhaegar. Viserys had no use for men who served ghosts. He needed men who served the living dragon.
"Ser Roland, from this day, you are my master-at-arms," Viserys said.
"It is my honor, Your Majesty," Roland replied, his voice firm. "I shall be your shield as well as your tutor."
Viserys felt the weight of his growing retinue. He had Moro for the sting of the needle and Roland for the crush of the hammer. Yet, as he looked at Roland, he couldn't help but feel a flash of resentment toward his late brother. Rhaegar had hoarded the realm's finest blades, sending the Sword of the Morning and the White Bull to guard a tower in Dorne while the dynasty burned. They had died in a wasteland, leaving Viserys with nothing but a half-blind knight and a handful of stories.
"Your Majesty," Roland said, breaking the silence. "If I may be so bold... what is the state of your knightly training?"
Roland was a practical man. He had heard the Courtesan's praises, but he expected a prince spoiled by the indulgence of the Mad King. He remembered the rumors from the Red Keep—how Aerys had intended to name Viserys heir just to spite Rhaegar. In Roland's mind, Viserys was likely a boy of unpredictable temper and soft hands.
"I have learned very little of the Westerosi way," Viserys admitted, watching the knight's face fall into a mask of subtle despair. To Roland, a fifteen-year-old who couldn't handle a lance was a catastrophic failure. "I never touched a sword in King's Landing, and Ser Willem was too ill to teach me here. However... my Water Dance has reached mastery in these last few months."
Roland's eyebrows shot up. "Mastery? In months? Your Majesty, such a thing takes years."
Viserys saw the skepticism. He knew that to lead men like Roland, he could not simply rely on his name; he had to prove he was a predator in his own right. He drew Meraxes—the blade Moro had gifted him—and shifted his weight.
In a blur of red and black, Viserys lunged. The steel hummed as it sliced the air, stopping a hair's breadth from Roland's jugular. The knight didn't even have time to reach for his own hilt. His eyes widened as he felt the cold kiss of the silver blade against his skin.
"A few months," Viserys repeated, sheathing the sword with a sharp clack.
Roland stood frozen for a heartbeat, then a fiery passion ignited in his gaze. The despair was gone, replaced by a fierce, revitalized hope. "A once-in-a-lifetime genius," he whispered. "With such talent... you could surpass the Sword of the Morning himself. You could face the Usurper and live."
"I am a late bloomer," Viserys said, his voice cold. "I must redouble my efforts."
He thought of Rhaegar's defeat at the Trident. His brother had been a scholar forced into a warrior's mold, using a blunt mace against Robert's warhammer, lacking the raw, bloodthirsty love for steel that defined men like the Usurper or the Kingslayer. Viserys would not make that mistake. He would be the hammer and the needle.
"We begin at dawn," Roland said, his excitement palpable. "Sword, shield, spear, and bow. We shall train until the stone itself bleeds. If you have the talent, I shall give you the discipline."
As Roland began to pace out a training circle, the black cat dropped from the wall and meowed at Viserys's feet. Its ears were pricked, its tail twitching with agitation.
Viserys followed the animal to where Rhaenys stood in the shadow of the lemon tree. Her expression was grim.
"The neighborhood has changed," she whispered. "Ragged children—little more than street urchins—have been loitering at the corners of our street. They watch the door, then pass whispers to other children who run toward the docks."
"Little birds," Viserys said, his violet eyes narrowing to slits.
He knew that signature. Across the Narrow Sea, in the manse of the Fat Magister Illyrio, the Spider's webs were stretching out. Pentos was no longer content to watch from afar. They were beginning to count the breaths of the dragon.
"It seems our neighbors are getting restless," Viserys thought, his hand resting on the dragonbone hilt of his dagger. "We must show them that birds who fly too close to the nest tend to lose their wings."
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