Chapter 5: The Red Door and the Cobblestone Classroom
The house with the red door, nestled in a narrow, winding street not far from the bustling Chequy Port, became their world. For Viserys Targaryen, these first few years in Braavos – stretching from his fourth year to the cusp of his seventh – were a crucible of adaptation, observation, and clandestine self-improvement. Alistair Finch's mind, trapped within the still-developing frame of a young boy, found the city of a hundred isles to be a vast, intricate, and often unforgiving classroom.
Daily life was a stark contrast to the grim majesty of Dragonstone or the fleeting, nightmarish luxury of the Red Keep he barely remembered. Poverty was their constant companion, a thin, threadbare cloak against the damp Braavosi chill. Ser Willem Darry, his face increasingly etched with worry and the subtle encroach of age, did his utmost to provide. He sold the last of Queen Rhaella's jewels piece by piece, each transaction a small stab to his loyal heart. The gold he received was hoarded, spent with agonizing care on rent, on coarse bread, watery soup, and occasionally, a small cut of fish. Their few remaining retainers – Ser Davos Flowers, Joss Hood, and Morrec – did what they could, seeking menial work at the docks or as hired guards for nervous merchants, but their Westerosi ways and undisguisable warrior bearing often made them objects of suspicion in a city that valued cunning and coin over overt martial prowess. Lyra, the wet nurse, devoted herself to the infant Daenerys, her own grief slowly giving way to a quiet, protective affection for her charge.
Viserys, meanwhile, was a sponge. He shed the formal High Valyrian of the Targaryen court like an old skin, his super-serum enhanced mind swiftly absorbing the fluid, Italianate cadence of the Braavosi dialect. He learned it from the street vendors hawking oysters and eels, from the singsong cries of children playing by the canals, from the boisterous arguments of gondoliers, and the hushed, conspiratorial whispers of courtesans gliding past in their curtained boats. He learned to distinguish the accents of the Sealords' guards from those of the dockworkers, the lilting tones of Pentoshi traders from the guttural speech of Qartheen sailors. Language was the key to unlocking this new world, and he hoarded every new word, every turn of phrase, like a dragon hoarding gold.
Braavos itself was a revelation. It was a city built on water and defiance, a city that had never bent its knee to the Valyrian Freehold. There were no slaves here, a stark contrast to most of Essos. Instead, there was a fierce pride in self-reliance, a respect for skill, and an almost religious reverence for the Unveiled Face in the House of Black and White, a place spoken of in hushed, fearful tones. Viserys, with Alistair's historical understanding, recognized the city's unique strength, its foundations built on secrecy, commerce, and a pragmatic ruthlessness that mirrored his own developing worldview.
He watched the famed Braavosi water dancers practice by the canals at dawn, their movements fluid and deadly, a dance of balance and precision. Alistair, the military historian, analyzed their style: light, fast, relying on agility and pinpoint accuracy rather than brute force. It was a style suited to the narrow alleyways and bridges of their city. He filed it away. He learned to navigate the labyrinthine canals, first by watching, then by exploring on his own when he could slip away unnoticed, his small, agile body adept at darting through crowds and scaling low walls.
Daenerys grew from a wailing infant into a toddling child, her silver-gold hair a beacon that often drew curious, sometimes unwelcome, stares. Her violet eyes, so like his own, would follow him with an unnerving intensity. Viserys maintained a careful distance, his interactions with her a blend of detached responsibility and a slowly awakening, unconventional protectiveness. He ensured she was fed, that Lyra kept her clean and warm. He would sometimes sit by her cot, not playing as a normal brother might, but simply observing, his young face serious. He was her shield, her guardian, but also, in his cold, strategic mind, his most valuable future asset. He needed her strong, resilient, and eventually, loyal to him. He began, in subtle ways, to ensure her world revolved around their small, beleaguered family unit, with himself and Darry as its twin pillars.
The little household on the street with the red door was a fragile ecosystem. Ser Davos Flowers, the most intellectually inclined of their retainers, disappeared one misty morning. Darry said he had found passage on a ship heading to the Summer Isles, hoping to find a new life. Viserys, however, had overheard a hushed, desperate argument between Darry and Flowers the night before, something about dwindling funds and the knight's desire to seek a more… proactive means of supporting the Targaryen cause, perhaps by seeking out other loyalists in Essos. Flowers never returned. His absence was a blow, leaving only the stoic Joss Hood and the grim Morrec as their sworn swords. The pressure on Darry mounted.
Viserys's clandestine training intensified. He used the city as his gymnasium. The rooftops became his running tracks, the narrow alleyways his obstacle courses. He learned to move with silence and speed, his small frame surprisingly powerful, his reflexes preternatural. He practiced swimming in the less-frequented canals, the cold water a shock at first, but his body adapted quickly, his stamina growing with each passing month. He discovered hidden parts of the city, forgotten shrines, crumbling ancient waterways, places where he could be utterly alone.
It was in one such place, a dilapidated, half-submerged temple to a forgotten sea god, that he dared to practice with his claws. He would extend them, feeling the familiar ache, the unnatural hardness. He'd slash at rotting wooden beams, at clumps of sodden debris, marveling at their sharpness, their devastating potential. He practiced retracting them instantly, flawlessly, the control becoming an extension of his will. He knew these weapons were his ultimate secret, a sign of his 'otherness' that would terrify even their staunchest allies if revealed prematurely.
His intellectual pursuits were equally covert. Books were a luxury they could seldom afford. But Braavos was a city of trade, and information flowed as freely as water if one knew where to look and listen. He haunted the peripheries of market squares where storytellers recounted epic tales and merchants discussed news from afar. He'd loiter near scriptoriums, peering through dusty windows at scribes at work, trying to decipher the scripts. On rare occasions, Darry would acquire a cheap, dog-eared book – usually tales of Westerosi chivalry or Targaryen history – to try and educate the young prince. Viserys would devour it, but his real interest lay in more practical knowledge: maps, trade ledgers, works on economics or Essosi law, things far beyond a child's usual interest. He once managed to 'acquire' a discarded navigator's chart from a bin outside a chandlery, a precious treasure he studied by faint moonlight, memorizing coastlines and currents.
Alistair's academic mind was a relentless engine. He analyzed Braavosi society, its power structures, its vulnerabilities. The Iron Bank loomed large in his thoughts – its influence was legendary, its vaults rumored to hold the fortunes of nations. To gain their backing would be a monumental coup, but they were notoriously unsentimental, investing only in sure things or those who could offer irresistible leverage. What leverage could two exiled children and a handful of loyalists possibly offer?
He began to subtly steer Ser Willem Darry. The old knight, though fiercely protective, was a soldier, not a merchant or a statesman. His attempts to manage their finances were often clumsy, his pride sometimes leading him to refuse charity that might have eased their burden, or to trust too readily in a smooth-talking broker.
"Ser Willem," Viserys might say, his expression one of childish earnestness, after Darry returned from a fruitless day trying to sell a trinket, "that merchant who offered you ten honors for Mama's silver locket… I heard him tell another man he sold a smaller one for fifty yesterday. Is our locket not prettier?"
Darry would look at him, startled. "How did you…?"
"I listen, Ser," Viserys would say simply. "People talk a lot when they think children aren't understanding."
Slowly, painstakingly, Darry began to heed the boy's unnervingly astute observations. He started taking Viserys with him on his errands, initially as a pretext for keeping the prince close, but increasingly because the boy's sharp eyes and quick mind seemed to spot things he missed – a weighted scale, a whispered aside that revealed a merchant's true valuation, a subtle shift in the market for a particular good. Viserys never offered overt advice, merely observations, phrased as innocent questions.
"Why is everyone buying blackfish oil today, Ser Willem? Yesterday, no one wanted it." A simple question that might lead Darry to discover a sudden shortage or a new industrial use, allowing him to make a tiny, profitable speculation with their meager funds.
These were small victories, drops in an ocean of poverty, but they were crucial. They kept starvation at bay, mended a leaking roof, bought medicine when Lyra or Daenerys fell ill. And more importantly, they were Viserys's first forays into applying Alistair Finch's economic acumen in this new world. He was learning to play the game of commerce, albeit on a pitifully small scale.
The threat of discovery was ever-present. Whispers of the Usurper's spies reached even the back alleys of Braavos. Robert Baratheon had a long reach and a deep hatred for Targaryens. Darry insisted they use assumed names when out in the wider city, that Viserys and Daenerys keep their distinctive silver-gold hair covered by hoods. Viserys, with his enhanced senses, was often the first to detect a lingering gaze, an overly curious questioner, a shadow that seemed to follow them a little too persistently. He learned to create diversions, to lead them on wild goose chases through the confusing warren of canals and alleyways, always ensuring he and Darry could melt away.
One sweltering summer afternoon, when Viserys was around six, a near disaster occurred. He had been 'helping' Joss Hood carry a small crate of dried fish they hoped to sell. Joss, unaccustomed to the heat and suffering from a recurring fever, stumbled, the crate tumbling towards a canal. Instinctively, without a thought for secrecy, Viserys moved. He shot out a hand, his speed and strength far beyond that of a six-year-old, catching the heavy crate inches before it hit the water. For a split second, he held it, the muscles in his small arm bunched and hard, before Joss, recovering, grabbed it with a grunt of surprise.
Several dockworkers nearby had witnessed the feat. They stared, muttering amongst themselves. One pointed, his eyes wide. "Did you see the lad? Strong as a bloody bull calf!"
Joss, though surprised, reacted quickly, cuffing Viserys lightly on the head. "Clumsy boy! Daydreaming again! You're lucky you didn't send us both into the drink!" He winked at the onlookers. "Been feeding him too much, I reckon. All that fish goes straight to his arms."
The moment passed, the dockworkers chuckling and returning to their tasks. But Viserys felt a cold sweat on his brow. It had been too close. He had been careless. The serum, the X-gene, made him more, but it also made him a target. He saw the calculating look Joss gave him later, a look that held a new level of respect, but also a touch of fear. Another person now suspected he was not entirely normal.
That night, Viserys lay awake, staring at the ceiling of their cramped room. He had to be more careful. His powers were a double-edged sword. He also realized, with a chilling clarity, that he couldn't rely solely on Darry and his aging retainers forever. Darry's health was showing signs of strain. The old knight coughed more often, his breathing sometimes labored. Joss Hood's fevers were becoming more frequent. Morrec was increasingly silent and withdrawn. Their protectors were mortal, and time was not on their side.
He began to think more seriously about the Iron Bank. It was a formidable institution, but Alistair knew that all institutions, no matter how powerful, had needs, had pressures. What could he, a supposed child, offer them? Not gold, not armies. But perhaps… information? Knowledge of Westeros, of its politics, its noble houses, its resources – knowledge that was both intimate and, from Alistair's perspective, possessed a degree of future insight. It was a dangerous gamble. To approach the Iron Bank was to step into the brightest, most unforgiving spotlight in Braavos.
Ser Willem, bless his loyal heart, continued to try and instill in Viserys the traditions of his lost kingdom. He taught him the lineage of the Targaryen kings, the history of their triumphs and tragedies, the names of the great houses of Westeros, their sigils and words. He even began rudimentary sword training with a light wooden practice blade, lamenting the lack of a proper master-at-arms.
Viserys absorbed it all, his memory flawless. He knew this knowledge was important for the role he would one day have to play. But his mind was equally focused on learning the names of the Keyholders of the Iron Bank, the major trading families of Braavos, the shifting political alliances within the Secret City. He asked Darry questions that often left the old knight blinking in confusion.
"Ser Willem, you say House Lannister is rich from their gold mines. But what if the gold runs out? Do they have other… assets? Like ships, or trade routes?"
Or, "The Sealord of Braavos is elected, you said. How does one become a candidate? Does he need the support of the Iron Bank? Or the guilds?"
Darry would answer as best he could, often marveling at the boy's inquisitive mind, never suspecting the layers of strategic thinking that lay behind each seemingly innocent query. He saw a precocious prince, eager to learn. He did not see Alistair Finch, the Machiavellian professor, subtly grooming his guardian and gathering intelligence for a future power play.
As Viserys approached his seventh nameday, he made a conscious decision. He could no longer afford to be merely a passive observer, a child subtly influencing events from the sidelines. Darry was fading, their resources dwindling. Daenerys was growing, and her future, their future, depended on a more proactive approach. He had to find a way to generate income, to build a foundation of power, however small, here in Braavos.
He had noted the intricate bookkeeping of the Braavosi merchants, the complex calculations involved in currency exchange and trade ventures. Alistair Finch had been a passable mathematician, with a solid understanding of accounting and financial modeling. Perhaps… perhaps he could offer his services, discreetly. A child prodigy with numbers? It was less overtly suspicious than superhuman strength. It was a risk, but a calculated one.
The red door of their house was a symbol of their exile, their refuge. But Viserys was determined it would not become the symbol of their slow decline into obscurity. It would be a waypoint, a temporary shelter, before House Targaryen, under his new, ruthless leadership, rose again. The cobblestone streets of Braavos, which had been his playground and his classroom, would soon become the proving ground for his ambitions. The Beggar King was a ghost he had long since exorcised. Now, the Dragon in sheep's clothing was preparing to make his first, careful move.