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When Viserys first arrived in Braavos, he was an eight-year-old boy clinging to the hem of Ser Willem Darry's cloak. Now, at fourteen, he was leaving as the "Bloodthirsty Violet Swordsman," a man who had outgrown the mists of the lagoon.
He watched the grey brick aqueducts of the Sweet Water Canal recede as his small fleet of river skiffs moved south. The high-quality water of Braavos, piped into the homes of the rich and flowing from the fountains of the poor, was a testament to the city's engineering—but Viserys was now focused on the raw, untamed waters of the Essosi interior.
His retinue was a mismatched company of a hundred souls: hardened Westerosi exiles, fishermen who preferred a spear to a net, and a purple-bearded Tyroshi blacksmith he had literally bought out of a market stall.
"The Tyroshi make armor like they dye their hair—loud and strange," Ser Roland remarked, eyeing the bird-shaped helmets the blacksmith was already hammering out. "But their chainmail is sturdy enough for the hills."
Syrio Forel and Ser Roland managed the ranks, but the most curious addition to the passenger list was Gasparo, the thin, elegant personnel officer of the Second Sons.
"Who leads your company these days?" Viserys asked, leaning against the mast of his skiff.
"An old man we call 'The Roster,'" Gasparo replied dismissively. "He spends more time counting dead heroes than recruiting living ones. We are six or seven hundred strong, but we lack the 'bite' we once had."
"And you think I am that bite?"
"The Violet Swordsman who gutted the Titan's Bastard? Yes," Gasparo said. "The Second Sons were founded by forty noblemen who were second in line—exiles, like you. We are a refuge for landless lords and knights. Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, once rode with us. So did the Red Viper of Dorne. It is your destiny, Viserys."
Viserys smiled thinly. He knew the Second Sons were in a downward cycle. Mero, whom he had just killed, would have been their future captain. Brown Ben Plumm was currently serving a master in Meereen. The company was desperate for a name to add luster to their fading reputation.
"I do need brothers," Viserys admitted, "but I demand loyalty. Sellswords are famously fickle; they follow the sun, and the sun always sets on a loser."
"We are loyal to the warriors who lead us," Gasparo insisted. "Investing in your restoration is a gamble, yes, but the reward is a kingdom. That is better than the scraps the Usurper throws to his dogs."
Viserys looked at the horizon. He understood the Second Sons' play. They wanted to provide him protection now in exchange for land and titles in a future Westeros—a political gamble hidden behind a mercenary contract.
"I will not join your ranks as a common soldier, Gasparo," Viserys said firmly. "I will contact the Second Sons when I am ready to be your employer. I have outposts to build and bandits to break. If you want to prove your worth, show me that your 'roster' still has men who don't fear the Usurper's reach."
Gasparo bowed, recognizing the steel in the boy's voice. "We have outposts in Pentos and Braavos. When the fires start in the Velvet Hills, look for our banner. We respect strength, Viserys Targaryen. Show us yours, and the Second Sons will follow you to the gates of King's Landing."
Viserys watched the envoy depart. He had a hunch that the ruins of the Velvet Castle would require more blood than he currently had to give. He would need help—but first, he had to prove he was a master worth serving.
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