When Viserys opened his eyes, it was with a groan.
Every inch of his body ached, his muscles sore in places he hadn't known muscles could be. His shoulders burned. His arms felt like dead weight. Even turning in the bed had been a struggle. He winced as he sat up, rubbing his arms, then smiled grimly.
It was a good pain.
He shuffled to the basin and caught sight of himself in the water. The same boy's face, pale and sharp-boned, but now with shadows under his eyes, and a tension in the jaw that had not been there the day before.
"Strength: 0.26," he muttered.
Such a small number. And yet—his lips curled faintly—a 23% increase.
His strength had been 0.21 the day before. That tiny jump had cost him sweat, fatigue, and sheer desperation. But it was a gain. Proof that he was not helpless. That he was not merely a puppet of fate in a broken boy's body.
He dressed slowly and made his way to the dining room.
Ser Willem was already there, seated at the head of the modest table, breaking bread and sipping watered wine. The wet nurse stood in the corner, Daenerys at her breast. A pair of servants hovered behind them, laying out the day's meal—stewed oats, a boiled egg, a small piece of smoked fish. Viserys took his seat silently, swallowing the stiffness in his limbs.
"You look as though you've fought a war in your sleep, Your Grace," Ser Willem said with a wry smile. His tone was warm, but the honorific was still there, spoken without hesitation. "Shall I fetch a maester for your wounds?"
"I'm fine," Viserys replied quickly. "Just sore. I trained too hard yesterday. I plan to do it again today."
The older knight raised a brow. "Most boys your age prefer sticks and stories to swords."
Viserys gave a noncommittal shrug, trying to mimic the air of an earnest child. "I want to be strong. Like Rhaegar."
Ser Willem's smile faltered for just a moment. "A fine man, your brother. He trained late, mind you. Not until he was near twelve. Still, he took to it swiftly. The boy was all discipline, and a finer swordsman I've rarely seen."
Viserys sipped his cup, thinking. Rhaegar. Even now, the name brought a thousand emotions crashing to the surface—admiration, longing, envy. Regret. "Was it true," he asked, "that he used to sing for the court?"
"Aye. And better than most bards, too." Ser Willem chuckled. "He could make a stone weep, that one. And when he took up arms, the court wept for joy no less. A warrior and a poet. A rare thing in these times."
Viserys looked down at his half-eaten fish. I'll never be Rhaegar, he thought. But I'll be something more. Something else.
The morning training passed in a haze of pain and repetition. Ser Willem guided him through the same simple forms—grips, stances, strikes. Viserys's arms trembled as he lifted the wooden sword, but he did not complain.
Afterward, as they washed their faces and sat again for lunch, Ser Willem laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "I must attend to matters in the city this afternoon, Your Grace. If you must train again, do take care. Rest is part of growing strong, too."
"I will be careful," Viserys replied. "Thank you, Ser Willem."
The knight bowed and left.
The courtyard was quiet again.
Viserys returned to it after the meal, sword in hand, and resumed the drills. But his mind wandered.
Rhaegar had everything. Strength. Grace. Beauty. Nobility. A true dragon. Viserys had once envied him—how could he not? The perfect prince. The chosen one. The heir. And Viserys, just the second son. The spare.
But now... now he missed him. Missed his voice. Missed the sense of calm he brought. Rhaegar had been the sun of their house, and with his death, everything had collapsed.
Robert Baratheon. The name struck like ice. The man who'd shattered Rhaegar's armor at the Trident. Who'd left him to drown in the river, blood blooming in the reeds. Who'd usurped their throne and dared to call himself king.
Viserys gritted his teeth. He stole everything from us. Everything.
He remembered the escape. Dragonstone. His mother's pale face as she screamed in childbirth. The small room where they crowned him king with whispers and weary eyes. His mother's corpse still warm when they laid the crown upon his head.
Rhaenys—his niece—stabbed again and again by Lannister blades. Elia, crushed beneath the Mountain. Aegon, his brother's son, dashed against a wall.
Viserys screamed.
The training sword flew from his hands and clattered against the stones. He sank to his knees, clutching his hair, breathing hard. His violet eyes wild. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He struck the ground. Once. Twice. His hands bled.
This rage will devour me.
In his other life, he would have let it. He would have spiraled, raged, wept, cursed the world. And lost everything again.
But now he forced himself to stop. To think.
Control. You must control it.
He sat cross-legged in the center of the courtyard, still trembling. He'd seen monks in his old world speak of quieting the mind. Of mastering one's breath. One's thoughts. One's anger.
He closed his eyes.
He breathed. Slowly.
In. Out.
In.
Out.
The heat within him dimmed. The madness retreated, if only a little. The stone beneath him was cold. The wind gentle. His heartbeat slowed.
He sat still as stone, breath rising and falling like the slow draw of a tide. The courtyard, once echoing with the clatter of his fury, now hushed itself into reverence. Sunlight draped the paving stones in soft gold, and a breeze stirred his silver hair like a whisper from the gods. Within him, the storm did not vanish—but changed. The fire of vengeance, once wild and consuming, cooled into something sharper, denser. Cold hatred, honed and quiet. A blade sheathed, not discarded. His thoughts no longer screamed; they circled like hawks, patient and unblinking. In the hush of meditation, he found no peace—peace was a lie he could not afford—but he found clarity. And with it, power.
He lost track of time.
He did not move until the chime came.
[Skill Gained: Basic Meditation]
You have taken the first steps toward mastering the tempest within. Through stillness, you begin to hear the echoes beneath thought and feel the shape of silence. Not all battles are fought with blades.+0.1 Will+0.1 Esoterism
Viserys opened his eyes. He felt calm. Hollow, but clear.
The creak of the iron gate stirred Viserys from his stillness. The sky had shifted, streaked now with orange and gold — sunset already. He blinked, slowly uncrossing his legs, feeling the dull ache in his back and the strain in his hips. The courtyard was quiet, save for the distant clatter of hooves and boots on cobblestone.
Then the door opened.
Ser Willem Darry stepped into the yard, his cloak dusted with city grime, the silver in his beard catching the light. Behind him trailed another man — younger, leaner, with sharp eyes and the look of one accustomed to swords and silence.
Willem halted when he saw Viserys sitting there alone, wooden sword beside him, face flushed with the remnants of exertion and something deeper. His eyes, still wide and violet, locked onto the knight's with a cool, unsettling calm. Willem furrowed his brow, half in concern, half in wonder.
"My prince," he said, voice gentle but formal, "you've trained the day away again, I see."
Viserys rose slowly, his limbs stiff, his mind still half in that other world he had touched — that place of silence, of flame held still. He did not smile. He merely nodded.
"I had much to think about," he said quietly.
Willem studied him, then glanced at the stranger beside him. "Then perhaps it is good I returned when I did."
A tall man beside him, his face hidden beneath a hood. His boots were soft-soled, his posture relaxed. There was something sharp in the way he moved.