Chapter 4: The Salt Spray and the Forging of a King
The death of Queen Rhaella cast a pall over Dragonstone as thick and suffocating as the storm that still battered its ancient ramparts. The air in the royal wing, moments before filled with the frantic energy of childbirth, now hung heavy with a grief so profound it seemed to seep into the very stones. Maids wept openly, their sobs echoing in the cold corridors. Even the hardened guardsmen, veterans of skirmishes and grim patrols, wore expressions of stunned sorrow. Their Queen, the last symbol of Targaryen grace on this forsaken island, was gone.
Viserys, a boy of barely four years, stood amidst this emotional wreckage like a small, unyielding monolith. Alistair Finch, the seventy-three-year-old soul within, had witnessed death countless times, studied its impact on nations and individuals, but the raw, immediate grief surrounding him now was a visceral thing. He felt a pang, a genuine echo of loss for the woman who had been his mother in this life, who had offered him gentle lullabies and worried smiles. But the pragmatist, the survivor, ruthlessly walled off that emotion. Sentimentality was a luxury they could not afford. Action was the currency of survival.
Ser Willem Darry, his weathered face a roadmap of despair, seemed to age a decade in the moments following the maester's pronouncement. He clutched the wailing infant Daenerys to his chest, his broad shoulders slumped. He was a man adrift, his anchor lost. It was Viserys's unnervingly calm voice that pierced through his fog.
"The ship, Ser Willem," Viserys repeated, his tone quiet but insistent, cutting through the surrounding lamentations. "Stannis Baratheon will not wait for our mourning to end."
Darry's gaze, unfocused with grief, slowly sharpened as it landed on the young prince. He saw not a hysterical child, but a miniature lord, his violet eyes holding a disturbing level_headedness. Perhaps it was the Targaryen blood, that infamous dragon's resilience manifesting even in one so young. Or perhaps, Darry thought with a shudder, it was something else. But there was no time for speculation. The boy was right.
"Aye," Darry rasped, his voice raw. He straightened, the years of military discipline reasserting themselves. "Aye, Your Highness. The Sea Serpent is ready in Blackwater Cove. We must gather what we can, and quickly." He turned to the maester, a man named Caelan, whose face was pale and drawn. "Maester, Her Grace… see to her with all dignity. We cannot take her with us." A fresh wave of pain crossed his face. "The Princess Daenerys will need a wet nurse. Find one who is willing and discreet. And sturdy. The journey will be harsh."
While Darry barked orders, galvanizing the stunned household into a semblance of purposeful action, Viserys observed, his mind a whirlwind of calculations. He was too small to carry supplies, too young to overtly direct, but he could watch, listen, and subtly influence. He noted which servants seemed most loyal, which were overcome by fear, and which looked… opportunistic. Knowledge for the future.
He shadowed Darry when he could, a silent, silver-haired wraith. When Darry was debating with his most trusted men-at-arms – three grizzled warriors named Ser Davos Flowers (a Stormlands knight whose loyalty to the Targaryens had made him an exile long before the rebellion), Joss Hood, and Morrec – about essential supplies, Viserys piped up.
"Ser Willem," he said, his voice carefully pitched to sound like a concerned child, "Mama used to read from big books in the library near the old rookery. Are books important?"
Darry, distracted, almost dismissed him. But Davos Flowers, a thoughtful man despite his rough exterior, paused. "The Prince has a point, Ser. Knowledge of our history, our lineage… it might be all they have left someday. If there are any particularly valuable texts, easily carried…"
Darry grunted. "There's no time for a library raid, Flowers. Gold, jewels, preserved food, water, weapons – those are important."
"But what if the gold runs out?" Viserys pressed, feigning innocence. "Mama said knowledge is a treasure no one can steal." It was a platitude Alistair abhorred, but it served its purpose.
Darry looked down at the boy, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Wise words for one so young, Prince Viserys." He sighed. "Very well. Flowers, if you can find a small, significant tome or two without delaying us, do so. But quickly, man! Every moment counts."
Viserys mentally ticked off a small victory. He knew there were charts of the Narrow Sea and the coastlines of Essos in the maester's chambers, potentially even some rudimentary maps of Westeros itself. Such things could be invaluable. He also thought of his own 'treasures' – a few smooth, dark stones he'd collected from the beach, a discarded whetstone he'd found, small things he could pocket. Useless now, perhaps, but Alistair's mind was always cataloging resources.
The selection of a wet nurse for Daenerys proved difficult. Many women were too terrified to leave Dragonstone, preferring the unknown mercy of Stannis Baratheon to the certainty of a perilous sea voyage with hunted fugitives. Finally, a young woman named Lyra, whose own babe had recently been lost to a fever, tearfully agreed. Her eyes held a mixture of fear and a hollowed-out maternal instinct. She was gaunt, but Darry noted her strong hands and a desperate resilience in her gaze.
The storm showed no signs of abating. Wind howled through every crack and crevice of the ancient fortress, and rain lashed down in blinding sheets. This, Viserys knew, was both a curse and a blessing. It made the escape treacherous, but it also provided cover, potentially delaying Stannis's fleet or making their own small vessel harder to spot if they made it to open water.
The journey from the relative warmth of the royal chambers to the hidden cove where the Sea Serpent lay waiting was a nightmare. Viserys, wrapped in a thick cloak, was carried by Joss Hood, a mountain of a man whose grim silence was more reassuring than any false comfort. Ser Willem Darry himself carried the swaddled Daenerys, shielding her from the worst of the wind and rain. Lyra, the wet nurse, stumbled along beside them, her face pale with terror, clutching a small bundle of her own meager possessions. Ser Davos Flowers and Morrec brought up the rear, their swords drawn, their eyes scanning the storm-lashed darkness.
Viserys, though protected in Joss's arms, was acutely aware of their surroundings. His enhanced senses, amplified by the adrenaline of the situation, picked up the snap of a rotten branch before anyone else heard it, the treacherous slickness of a patch of moss on the winding cliff path. He couldn't shout warnings without revealing his unnatural perception, but he could squirm, could create a small distraction that made Joss pause or shift his footing, subtly averting minor mishaps. He felt the thrum of the super-soldier serum in his veins, a readiness, a coiled energy that longed for release, but he kept it fiercely suppressed. His role now was the protected child, not the hidden weapon.
The descent to Blackwater Cove was perilous. The path was narrow, slick with rain and loose scree. The wind threatened to tear them from the cliff face. Below, the sea was a chaos of white-capped waves crashing against jagged black rocks. The roar was deafening. Viserys could taste the salt, feel the sting of the spray on his face even through the folds of his cloak. He saw the fear on Lyra's face, the grim determination on Darry's. This was the reality of flight, stripped of any heroic pretense. This was the desperate scramble of the hunted.
The Sea Serpent was a small, sturdy-looking cog, its single mast bucking wildly even in the relative shelter of the cove. A handful of loyal sailors, their faces grim and weather-beaten, waited onboard, their expressions tense. Boarding was a chaotic affair, the boat pitching and rolling violently. Daenerys, mercifully, was either asleep or too stunned by the tumult to cry much, her small wails swallowed by the storm.
Once they were all aboard, and the lines cast off, the Sea Serpent clawed its way out of the cove and into the teeth of the storm. The world became a terrifying maelstrom of wind, water, and violent motion. Viserys, wedged into a small bunk below deck with Daenerys and Lyra, felt the ship groan and shudder as massive waves crashed over the deck. Lyra was violently seasick, her moans adding to the chorus of the storm. Viserys, however, found his enhanced physiology served him well. While the motion was unsettling, the debilitating nausea that afflicted Lyra and some of the crew seemed to bypass him. He felt a strange exhilaration amidst the terror, the raw power of nature a fearsome spectacle.
He watched Lyra try to tend to Daenerys, her hands shaking, her face a ghastly shade of green. His sister was so small, so fragile. A tiny, helpless creature upon whom so many of his future plans, and indeed the future of their House as he envisioned it, rested. He felt an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness, colder and more calculated than simple brotherly affection, but no less potent. She was his responsibility. His asset. His only remaining family.
When Lyra was too ill to cope, Viserys, with a composure that unnerved the poor woman even further, would motion for her to pass him the babe. He'd hold Daenerys carefully, ensuring her head was supported, her swaddling secure. He couldn't feed her, of course, but he could keep her warm, could murmur nonsense syllables in what he hoped was a soothing tone, his small hand patting her back gently. Alistair Finch, the renowned professor, changing metaphysical diapers for a future queen. The irony was not lost on him.
Days bled into nights. The storm eventually subsided, leaving behind a bruised, sullen sea. The Sea Serpent, battered but intact, limped eastward. Ser Willem Darry, despite his grief, proved a capable leader, rationing their dwindling supplies, organizing watches, and maintaining a semblance of discipline amongst the exhausted crew and passengers. He spent hours on deck with the ship's captain, a weathered Tyroshi named Roro Uhoris, poring over charts Viserys would have given much to examine closely.
Viserys used this time to observe and learn. He watched the sailors work the rigging, listened to their talk of currents and coastlines. He studied the stars at night, trying to recall Alistair's rudimentary knowledge of celestial navigation. He committed the Tyroshi sailors' pidgin Common Tongue phrases to memory, his mind effortlessly absorbing the new vocabulary. Every piece of information was a potential tool.
Ser Willem often sought him out during the calmer periods. The old knight seemed to find a strange comfort in the boy's presence, perhaps because Viserys rarely complained, his gaze too steady, too thoughtful for a child his age.
"You are brave, Prince Viserys," Darry said one evening, as they watched a spectacular sunset paint the western sky the color of blood and embers – the colors of their dying House. "Braver than many men I have known."
Viserys merely looked at him. "Bravery is not a choice when there are no other options, Ser Willem. Only survival." Alistair's words, spoken with a child's voice.
Darry frowned, a troubled look in his eyes. "You speak like a man grown, sometimes."
"I listen to men grown," Viserys replied smoothly, deflecting. "And I remember."
He knew Darry was perplexed by him, perhaps even a little fearful. Good. A measure of fear could ensure compliance, could prevent the old knight from treating him as a mere child when important decisions needed to be made. Trust was essential, but a healthy respect for his… unusual nature… would be beneficial in the long run.
Daenerys was a constant presence, her infant needs dictating much of their rhythm. Lyra, having recovered from her seasickness, proved a dedicated, if melancholic, wet nurse. Viserys found himself spending considerable time near his sister. He observed her with a detached fascination: the way her tiny fists clenched, the way her violet eyes, so like his own and their mother's, sometimes seemed to follow him. He felt no surge of conventional brotherly love, not yet. She was a strategic imperative, a living symbol of House Targaryen's future. But as he held her, as he felt her small, warm weight against him, a sliver of something else, something akin to possessiveness, began to take root. She was his to protect, his to shape.
After what felt like an eternity, but was likely little more than two weeks, the cry went up from the crow's nest: "Land ho!"
Viserys was on deck in an instant, Joss Hood holding him steady. In the distance, shrouded in the morning mists, rose a colossal silhouette, a figure of a warrior wrought in stone and bronze, its legs astride the entrance to a vast lagoon. The Titan of Braavos.
Even Alistair Finch, who had seen images and read countless descriptions, felt a momentary awe. It was a statement of power, of defiance, a gateway to a new world. As the Sea Serpent navigated the intricate waterways towards the city proper, the sights, sounds, and smells of Braavos assailed them. It was a city of a hundred islands, linked by stone bridges, its canals teeming with boats of every shape and size. The architecture was a bewildering mix of grandeur and decay, towering mansions of sea-stone jostling with ramshackle wooden tenements. The air was thick with the scent of salt, fish, exotic spices, and the underlying tang of coal smoke and human endeavor. Voices chattered in a dozen unfamiliar tongues, a vibrant, chaotic symphony that was a world away from the grim, echoing silence of Dragonstone.
Ser Willem Darry looked older, wearier, but a spark of hope had returned to his eyes. "Braavos," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "We are safe, for now."
Viserys said nothing, his violet eyes scanning everything, absorbing every detail. Safe? Perhaps. But safety was a temporary illusion. Braavos was a city of merchants, bankers, and assassins. A city where fortunes were made and lives were lost with equal facility. It was a city of opportunity, yes, but also a city of immense danger for two fugitive Targaryen children with a dwindling supply of gold and powerful enemies across the Narrow Sea.
Their arrival was unceremonious. They were just another weather-beaten ship disgorging a handful of refugees. Darry, using the last of their presentable funds, secured them modest lodgings in a slightly rundown but defensible house near the Chequy Port, a house with a red door that would one day become a faded, idealized memory for Daenerys. It had a small, overgrown garden and, crucially, sturdy locks.
In the days that followed, Darry ventured out, trying to make contact with those he thought might offer aid, trying to stretch their meager resources. Viserys, confined to the house with Daenerys and Lyra, began his own, quieter form of reconnaissance. He listened at the windows, deciphering the Braavosi dialect of Valyrian, observing the rhythms of the street, the comings and goings of their neighbors. He explored every inch of their small house, testing the floorboards, noting potential escape routes.
He knew Darry was trying to protect them, to give them a semblance of a normal childhood. But Viserys Targaryen's childhood had ended the moment Alistair Finch's mind had awakened within him. He was not a child to be coddled; he was a king in exile, a strategist planning his next move.
One evening, Darry returned looking more careworn than usual. He had managed to sell some of Rhaella's remaining jewels, but the merchants of Braavos drove hard bargains. The gold would not last long.
"We must be frugal, children," he said, his voice heavy. "The kindness of strangers is a thin cloak against a cold wind."
Viserys looked at the old knight, then at his infant sister sleeping soundly in her cradle. Frugality was a temporary measure. Kindness was unreliable. He needed a plan, a real plan, to not just survive, but to thrive. Braavos, with its intricate webs of commerce and intrigue, was a labyrinth. But Alistair Finch had navigated far more complex systems.
The Beggar King had pleaded for aid. This Viserys Targaryen would earn it, or take it.
He thought of the Iron Bank, the most powerful financial institution in the known world. He thought of the Sealord, the elected ruler of Braavos. He thought of the Faceless Men, whose temple was said to lie hidden somewhere within this very city. These were powers to be understood, perhaps even manipulated, but not to be approached lightly.
His immediate priority was information and language. He needed to master the Braavosi dialect, to understand the city's undercurrents. He needed to find a way to leverage Alistair's knowledge – of history, of economics, of strategy – into tangible assets.
His powers were still his most valuable, and most dangerous, secret. The healing factor provided a safety net. The enhanced strength and senses were tools he was slowly, carefully learning to hone. The claws… the claws were a last resort, a line he hoped never to cross overtly, for their revelation would change everything.
Lying on his pallet that night, the unfamiliar sounds of Braavos filtering through the shutters, Viserys felt a cold determination settle deep within his bones, a resolve as hard and unyielding as the Titan that guarded the city's harbor. The flight from Dragonstone was over. The exile had begun.
But this was not an ending. It was a new beginning. A new campaign. He was Viserys Targaryen, the Third of His Name, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. The titles were hollow mockeries now, but he would give them substance. He would climb out of the ashes of his fallen House, not on wings of fire, not yet, but on the back of cunning, ruthlessness, and an intellect forged in another world. The game was afoot, and Braavos was merely the first square on a very large board.