Viserys lay still for a moment longer, the sweat drying cold on his skin, his breath slowly returning to rhythm. The memory of the god's presence still lingered in his mind — immense, inscrutable, amused. He had dared demand justice from the divine. Foolish. And yet, somehow, he had survived.
A shuffling at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Elenna stepped in — a young woman with brown hair braided tight and the cautious gait of one accustomed to watching every step.
"Young Master—" she began, then stopped short. Her eyes widened at the sight of him sprawled on the cold floor, drenched in sweat. "Seven above, are you unwell?"
He sat up slowly, brushing back strands of damp silver hair. His violet eyes locked onto hers — not frantic, but cold and steady, too steady for a child's. He recognized her immediately.
Elenna. He remembered her face, her voice, her betrayal. She had been the one to speak first, after Ser Willem died. The one who suggested selling the estate. The one who counted the silver. And the others had listened. They had picked the estate clean. They let them fall into the gutters of Braavos.
His violet eyes, wide and unblinking, bored into her skull with cold hatred. She faltered beneath that gaze, her mouth parting just slightly, as if to speak again, then deciding better of it.
"My king… you— you were on the floor. I thought perhaps you were unwell." Her voice quavered ever so slightly.
"I am well enough," he said, voice hoarse.
"You should see Ser Willem, Your Grace," she insisted. "He would wish to know—"
"I said I am well."
Elenna bowed her head and backed out of the room, but not before adding, "I shall fetch him regardless. It would be wrong not to."
She left before he could answer. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.
You stole from me, he thought. From a child. From your king.
But he said nothing aloud. Not yet.
There would be a reckoning one day. Not today, but someday
Viserys slowly pushed himself to his feet, wiping his forehead. He needed a story — something that would explain what the servant had seen. Perhaps a fever dream? But the sound of approaching boots interrupted his thoughts.
The door opened again, and in stepped Ser Willem Darry.
The years had not yet bowed his back. He looked every inch the knight he once was: broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, his eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. There was concern in his face — not suspicion, not judgment — but true worry.
"My king," he said, his voice soft and deep. "Elenna tells me you were found collapsed."
Viserys blinked. It struck him anew — the reverence, the formality, the simple truth of that word.
King.
He nodded slowly. "It was nothing, Ser Willem. A… dream, I think. Vivid. Unpleasant. But only a dream."
Willem's gaze searched his face. "You are sure? You look pale, and drenched like a man pulled from the sea."
"I am certain," Viserys replied. "There is no need for concern."
Willem did not press. He never had. Loyalty and restraint were the twin pillars of his service. He simply gave a slow nod and offered his arm.
"Then forgive me, Your Grace, for disturbing your peace. But breakfast is served. Would it please you to join me?"
Viserys hesitated only a moment before taking the offered arm. "Yes," he said. "It would."
They walked together through the estate's quiet halls — Willem adjusting his pace to match the boy's smaller stride. The house had once belonged to a wealthy Braavosi trader, purchased by loyalists who spirited the Targaryen children away from Dragonstone. It was a grand place still, though wear and sea wind had aged it.
The dining hall was modestly laid with bread, fruit, and cheese. A servant poured watered wine. Viserys recognized one or two faces among the staff, and though their names escaped him, their futures did not. They would not hesitate when the time came to abandon him. They would sell everything, leave him and Daenerys to starve.
And yet, here they were — serving him still, bowing and smiling. He returned their looks with nothing.
Willem gestured gently to the table. "Sit, Your Grace. You must eat."
As he did, the old knight turned to a wet nurse nearby. "Fetch the princess. Bring her to dine with us."
Moments later, Daenerys was brought in, no more than a wailing bundle in silk. The nurse bared a breast and fed her beside the table. Viserys stared, watching her nurse — small fingers curled, eyes half-lidded, unaware of anything.
He felt something stir within him. Not the anger. Not the fear. But a soft ache of something lost — a memory of warmth and family and safety.
He remembered this, or something like it. Mornings in Braavos, before the betrayal. The last days of peace.
Willem ate slowly, manners intact even in exile. When the silence stretched, Viserys spoke.
"Ser Willem," he said.
"My king?"
"I wish to train."
Willem blinked. "Train, Your Grace?"
"With sword and shield. With spear, bow—whatever arms you deem necessary. I would learn."
The knight looked uncertain. "You are… but eight years old, Your Grace."
"And my brother Rhaegar?" Viserys asked, raising an eyebrow.
"He began training when he was twelve. He was a scholar first."
"Then he was late," Viserys said. "I would not be."
Willem hesitated. Then he gave a deep, respectful nod. "As you command, Your Grace. After breakfast, we shall begin."
Viserys inclined his head, hiding a smile behind his cup.
The training yard was stone-walled, small and bare, but it served its purpose. Willem brought out two wooden swords. One he handed to Viserys — the weight of it surprising in his small hands. It trembled when he tried to lift it.
"Feet apart," Willem instructed, gentle but firm. "Bend your knees. No, not like that. Here."
He adjusted Viserys's posture with care, never impatient. "You're too small yet for strength. So learn control first. Balance. That will win you more fights than power."
Viserys nodded, gritting his teeth as he tried to swing. The sword wobbled. His arms ached. His swings were weak. But he did not stop.
They trained for hours, pausing only for water. Willem corrected him quietly, never scolding.
He trained until the sun reached its zenith and the servants called them in for the midday meal.
At table, Willem spoke only briefly. "You have spirit, Your Grace. That is no small thing. You've done more than most boys would."
Viserys gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Ser Willem."
Afterward, the knight left to tend to what he called "estate matters." Viserys waited until he was gone, then returned to the yard. He trained until his arms trembled, until the sword slipped from his grip and his knees wobbled. Still, he pressed on.
The air was cold. His arms screamed with pain, but he lifted the blade.
Swing. Step. Swing again.
Over and over. The form was wrong. The grip poor. But he swung.
He trained until the sun set, darkening Braavos' foggy sky. Still no message from the system. No flash of success. He snarled and pushed harder.
He trained until Willem returned and stood gaping at the sight of the boy still in the yard.
"Seven hells," the knight muttered. "You'll drop dead before you draw blood."
Viserys smiled through his exhaustion. "I am… a dragon."
"By the gods, Your Grace. You'll drive yourself to ruin. Eat you supper and go to bed. No arguments."
Viserys obeyed, retreating to his room after supper on trembling legs. But sleep would not take him.
Not yet.
He lay in the dark, breathing heavily. The sword had not brought a skill. The day had yielded no messages. He clenched his fists in frustration.
No.
He refused to be denied.
He threw off the covers and dropped to the floor. Push-ups. Then sit-ups. Then squats. Over and over, until his limbs screamed, until the sweat returned.
The stone floor was cold beneath his palms, but he barely felt it. Muscles trembling, breath ragged, Viserys forced his frail body through another push-up — then another. His arms burned, his chest ached, and his vision blurred with exhaustion, but he clenched his teeth and pushed on. Again. His body begged for rest, but he refused it. This wasn't just exercise. This was defiance — against weakness, against fate, against the boy he used to be. He was Viserys Targaryen, and he would not crawl through life again.
Until, at last—
[System Notification]
Through relentless exertion and unyielding resolve, your body strains beyond its limits.
Your Will empowers your flesh.
Strength has increased: 0.21 → 0.26
Viserys collapsed to the stone floor, chest heaving. A smile broke across his face.
Progress.
He pulled himself into bed, his body aching in every limb.
He had bled for a sliver of strength.
It was worth it.
Tomorrow, he would do more.
He closed his eyes.