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The rain fell in relentless, gray sheets over Braavos, turning the stone streets slick and cold. Inside the courtyard of the Red Door, the atmosphere was as heavy as the sodden sky.
"Moro is dead," Ser Roland said, his voice cracking. He stood in his armor, water dripping from his pauldrons, his face etched with a grief that mirrored Viserys's own.
Moro had not just been an instructor; he had been the man who stood by Viserys when he was nothing but a shadow in a rented house. Viserys had felt the sting of loss before—the death of Ser Willem Darry had been a slow, agonizing fade—but this was different. This was a strike, sudden and sharp as a bravo's blade.
"The ones who brought him are outside," Roland added, his hand tightening on his sword hilt.
Viserys didn't wait. He ignored Roland's offer of armor, stepping out into the lashing rain with nothing but his black tunic and the sword at his side. His silver hair was instantly matted against his skull, and his purple eyes burned with a cold, lethal fire.
Waiting in the street was Mero, the Titan's Bastard. His red-gold beard was soaked, and he lounged with a casual arrogance that turned Viserys's blood to ice. Behind him stood several liveried servants of the Preston family, gathered around a simple wooden plank covered by a tattered, blood-stained cloth.
"I am very sorry," Mero said, his grin revealing yellowed teeth. "I only intended to leave your friend with a few honorable scars. But the fool wouldn't surrender. My mistake."
"You went too far, Mero," Syrio spat, stepping out behind Viserys, his body instinctively turning into the sideways stance of a master. "Even for a Preston dog."
"I respect you, former First Sword," Mero retorted, his pale green eyes flicking to Syrio. "But you're retired. Don't go meddling in the business of active blades unless you want to join your student on the plank."
Viserys stepped forward, placing a hand on Syrio's shoulder. "This is my burden, Syrio." He looked at Mero, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. "I will never forget the 'goodwill' of the Prestons."
"Good," Mero mocked. "Maybe next time you'll be more appreciative of Young Master Jaqo's invitations. It's a pity, Your Majesty—with a face like yours, you'd make a fine bed-slave in Lys. I've known women with coarser skin than yours. You should cherish that pretty neck while it still has a head on it."
"Kneel and flee now, Mero," Viserys said. "Because if you stay, I will kill you first."
Mero laughed, tugging at his thick beard. "A boy-dragon with a sharp tongue. I like that. But our work here is done. Preston is a generous man to his friends, and a nightmare to his enemies. Think on that."
With a shrug, the Titan's Bastard turned and led his men away into the mist, leaving Moro's broken body in the mud.
The courtyard was silent as they moved the body inside. Viserys looked down at Moro's face, the rain washing away the blood from a deep, penetrating wound in his chest. Tears and rain mingled on Viserys's cheeks.
"Revenge," Viserys whispered.
Within the hour, his allies arrived: the Black Pearl, the Nightingale, the Daughter of Darkness, and Ringo, the Crabfeeder Tycoon. They saw the transformation in him. The artist was gone; the Silver Traveler was buried. In his place stood a Targaryen, radiating a heat that the cold Braavosi rain could not quench.
"Hold your ground, Viserys," the Black Pearl urged, her eyes full of worry. "Direct war with a noble house is madness."
"He was my family," Viserys said hoarsely. "I no longer want peace. I want blood."
He turned to Ringo. "Captain, I wish to send a gift to the Preston Tower. I need your men to clear a path."
Ringo, who had lost many sailors to the Preston insurance schemes, nodded grimly. "Consider it done. We'll show those lace-cuffs what happens when they provoke the Shivering Sea."
"And Bellegere," Viserys said, looking at the Black Pearl. "Protect my sister and the child tomorrow. Whatever happens at the tower... let it stay at the tower."
The next morning, the mist was so thick the Titan was hidden from view. Viserys walked alone toward the Preston family's square tower, carrying a heavy silver tray draped in black cloth.
As he approached the gates, the Preston guards surged forward, but they were halted by the sudden appearance of dozens of drunken, menacing Crabfeeders emerging from the side streets. The sailors didn't draw weapons, but their presence was a wall of muscle and salt that the guards dared not break.
Viserys reached the main entrance. "I have a gift for the Young Master," he announced, his voice echoing through the stone archway. "A token he cannot refuse."
He reached out and whipped the black cloth away.
On the silver tray sat the severed, bloated head of a massive codfish. It was fresh, its mouth agape, and it had been drenched in a thick, steaming layer of animal blood that dripped onto the silver.
In the language of the Braavosi docks, the message was unmistakable: The fish rots from the head. "Tell Prystane," Viserys said to the trembling guard, "that the dragon has finished his song. Now, he begins his hunt."
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