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Under the cold, silver light of the moon, Viserys stood in the courtyard, the map of his future unfurling in the quiet conversation with Ser Roland. His mind was no longer in the palace; it was upstream, near the headwaters of the Andal Hills.
"A stronghold will take years to build, Your Majesty," Roland said, his brow furrowed with the practical worries of a man who had seen too many ruins. "And every year we spend hauling stone is another year the Usurper cements his grip on the Iron Throne. Time is a friend to the man wearing the crown, and a thief to the man seeking it."
Viserys looked at the map, his finger tracing the Narrow Sea. "There will be a turning point, Roland. This war cannot be won with a single charge. Robert Baratheon sits on a throne held together by the glue of Jon Arryn's wisdom and Tywin Lannister's gold. But Jon Arryn is old, and Tywin is a lion who has been pushed into a corner. The enemy is not a monolith; it is a stack of dry tinder waiting for a spark."
He spoke with a sagacity that unsettled the older knight. Roland saw in him a spark of Rhaegar's brilliance but none of the late prince's paralyzing melancholy. Viserys was a realist. He knew that to restore the dynasty, he didn't just need to be a Targaryen; he had to be the strongest force on the board. He was prepared to wait ten, even twenty years, fueling his attributes with the "krypton" of dragon bone and the discipline of the blade.
"It is my war now," Viserys said, his voice dropping to a cold, resonant baritone. "Rhaegar's war ended at the Trident. This is the war of the Third Viserys."
To sharpen that war, Viserys returned to the Moon Pool.
The area was a riot of color and noise. Water Dancers, dressed in silks that shamed the sunset—red, gold, purple, and green—swaggered like peacocks through the crowd. In Braavos, a man carrying a sword at night was a man looking for death, and the reasons for dying were often as thin as the blades the assassins carried.
Viserys watched from the deep shadows. Two bravos were already dancing—one in wine-red, the other in green velvet. They fought over the honor of their respective Courtesans, their rapiers whistling through the air in a waltz of death. There was no armor here, no shields. A single beat of hesitation meant a punctured heart.
The wine-red bravo's blade flicked upward, catching his opponent in the throat. As the man fell, the victor sheathed his steel and began methodically stripping the rings from the cooling corpse. No one stopped him; it was the unwritten law of the pool.
"The Blue Lantern is the best theater in the city!" someone shouted, sparking yet another duel.
Viserys waited. He was no longer interested in the common brawlers. He wanted a challenge to test his growing [Insight]. Finally, he saw his target.
A man known only as Scarface stepped into the light. He wore a blood-red robe that seemed even darker than the wine-stained stones. A jagged, centipede-like scar ran across his face, a trophy of a hundred duels. He was a butcher among poets, a man who left no survivors.
"Does anyone else want to dance?" Scarface sneered, wiping a fresh smear of blood from his needle-thin blade. "Or am I the master of the Moon Pool tonight?"
The crowd went silent. No one dared meet his gaze. Scarface laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
"I do," a voice said.
Viserys stepped out of the shadows. He wore his black and red tunic, his silver eye-patch catching the torchlight. He drew Meraxes, the silver steel gleaming with a cold, hungry light.
"The Violet Swordsman," a gambler whispered, the name rippling through the crowd like a cold wind.
Scarface turned, his eyes narrowing as he took in Viserys's lean, balanced frame. "A masked boy? You should have stayed in your nursery, little bird. I'll make sure your death is as beautiful as your eyes."
Viserys didn't answer. He turned sideways, his profile a thin line, his five senses suddenly hyper-attuned to the world. He could hear the drip of the fountain, the erratic heartbeat of the man across from him, and the rustle of the wind in the distant sails.
He wasn't just a boy with a sword anymore. He was the Bloodthirsty Violet Swordsman, and tonight, the Moon Pool would drink once more.
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