Chapter 6: The Scholar's Gambit and the Shifting Tides
The decision, once made, settled in Viserys's seven-year-old mind with the cold, hard finality of a thrown dagger. He could no longer afford the luxury of passive observation, of subtly nudging events from the periphery. Ser Willem Darry's persistent cough, once a minor irritation, had deepened into a rattling affliction that stole his breath and strength. The old knight's face, already etched with worry, now bore the grey pallor of encroaching sickness. Joss Hood still suffered from his recurring fevers, and Morrec, their most taciturn protector, had grown even more withdrawn, his eyes haunted by the ghosts of their fallen kingdom and their current, ignoble poverty. The meager funds Darry had so carefully hoarded were dwindling with alarming speed. Daenerys, now a lively toddler of three, needed more than just watery soup and stale bread to thrive. The red door, once a symbol of refuge, was beginning to feel like the entrance to a slow, inevitable starvation.
Alistair Finch, the pragmatist, knew that inaction was a death sentence. The original Viserys had begged and blustered his way through the Free Cities, his pride an empty shield against the contempt of his hosts. This Viserys would not beg. He would earn. He would build.
His chosen gambit was one of intellectual arbitrage. Braavos, for all its sophistication, still relied heavily on manual calculation for its commerce. Small merchants, ship chandlers, guild artisans – many kept messy, inaccurate ledgers, their profits often eroded by simple mathematical errors or inefficient inventory management. Alistair Finch had lectured on the economic history of Renaissance Italy, on the rise of double-entry bookkeeping, on the power of accurate accounting. For a child, even a precocious one, to offer such services directly was unthinkable. But a child with an uncanny knack for numbers, who could perform complex calculations in his head with bewildering speed, who could spot discrepancies in a ledger with an innocent, pointed question… that was perhaps plausible, or at least intriguing enough to exploit.
His first target was a grizzled fishmonger named Old Man Theron, whose stall near their lodgings reeked perpetually of brine and decaying hopes. Theron was known for his booming voice, his quick temper, and his even quicker despair at the end of each market day when he tallied his earnings, or lack thereof. Darry had dealt with him occasionally, always coming away feeling cheated but too weary to argue.
"Ser Willem," Viserys began one morning, his expression carefully neutral as they walked past Theron's stall, the fishmonger already cursing a supplier. "Old Man Theron always looks so angry when he counts his coins. Is counting very hard?"
Darry sighed, resting a hand on Viserys's shoulder. "It is when the coins are few and the debts many, my prince. He is not a learned man, and I suspect his sums often betray him."
"Perhaps," Viserys said, his voice small, "if someone helped him count, he would not be so angry. Mama said helping people is good." He chose his words carefully, appealing to Darry's sense of propriety and Rhaella's memory.
Darry looked down at him, a mixture of fondness and concern in his weary eyes. "And what help could a boy your age offer, Viserys? He would likely chase you away with a fish gut."
"I am good at numbers, Ser," Viserys persisted, letting a hint of childish pride creep into his tone. "Maester Caelan on Dragonstone taught me a little before… before we left. I can add very quickly. Sometimes, when you buy bread, I count the change in my head before the baker does." This last was true; his serum-enhanced cognition made such feats trivial.
Darry paused. He had, on occasion, been startled by the boy's quick grasp of figures. And they were desperate. "Theron is a curmudgeon," he said slowly. "But… perhaps if I were to suggest that my 'ward' has a quick mind for sums, and could assist him for a mere pittance – a few extra fish for our pot, perhaps – he might be desperate enough to listen."
It took several days of careful persuasion, with Darry acting as the intermediary, framing Viserys as a surprisingly gifted child eager to be useful. Theron, initially dismissive and suspicious, was eventually worn down by Darry's quiet persistence and, Viserys suspected, by the sheer awfulness of his own bookkeeping. He agreed, with much grumbling, to let the "silver-haired urchin" look over his tallies for one market day, with the promise of a single, bony fish if he found any errors that worked in Theron's favor.
The following day, Viserys, perched on an overturned bucket beside Theron's chaotic stall, his small hands surprisingly steady as he pointed to figures in the smudged, grease-stained ledger, went to work. He didn't touch the quill or the abacus. He merely looked, his violet eyes scanning the columns of numbers, Alistair Finch's mind processing the data with cold efficiency.
"This mark, Goodman Theron," Viserys said, his voice clear and childish, pointing to a poorly formed numeral, "is it a seven or a one? If it is a seven, then your tally here is incorrect by six coppers." Later, "You have listed ten eels sold to the Cook's Guild, but the payment recorded is for nine. Did one slither away with the coin?" And, "Your supplier, Gutmar, charged you for three barrels of salt, but his own delivery note says two and a half. The tide seems to have washed away half a barrel of his profit, or added it to yours."
By the end of the day, Theron, who had started by glaring at Viserys with open hostility, was staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and dawning awe. Viserys had found errors that amounted to nearly a silver stag's worth of miscalculations, most of them to Theron's detriment. The fishmonger, for the first time Darry could remember, was speechless. He handed over not one, but three plump fish, and a handful of copper pennies, his gruff voice unusually subdued.
"The boy… he has a demon for numbers," Theron muttered to Darry as they left. "Bring him tomorrow."
And so began Viserys's first enterprise. Word spread slowly, cautiously, through the humbler echelons of the Chequy Port's merchants. The "Targaryen boy" (though none knew his true lineage, his silver hair and violet eyes were distinctive enough to earn him a moniker) with the uncanny gift for figures. Darry always accompanied him, a looming, protective presence, collecting the meager payments – a few coins, a loaf of bread, a piece of fruit. Viserys himself remained the quiet, observant child, his contributions framed as innocent, if remarkably insightful, observations.
He was meticulous in maintaining this persona. He never boasted, never overreached. He allowed the merchants to feel they were the ones discovering the errors with his help. He spoke simply, deferentially. But beneath the childish facade, Alistair Finch was building a reputation, a network, however humble. He learned who was honest but inept, who was deliberately crooked, who was struggling, who was secretly thriving. Each ledger he examined was a window into the economic lifeblood of this section of Braavos.
His secret physical training continued, adapted to the urban landscape. He ran the rooftops not as a child playing, but as a soldier practicing infiltration, his movements becoming ever more fluid and silent. He swam in the dark, often disused canals further from the main thoroughfares, pushing his stamina, his muscles growing lean and powerful beneath his threadbare clothes. The healing factor was his silent guardian, erasing the scrapes and bruises of his clandestine exertions. The claws remained his most deeply buried secret, their existence a source of both power and profound unease. He found an abandoned, flooded cellar beneath a ruined warehouse, accessible only by a treacherous, half-submerged passage. There, in the Stygian gloom, surrounded by the stench of stagnant water and decay, he would allow them to slide forth, practicing their extension and retraction, the feel of them a grim reminder of the predator he was becoming.
Ser Willem Darry watched Viserys's "success" with a mixture of pride, bewilderment, and a growing sadness. He saw the boy's intellect, the spark of something extraordinary, and it only highlighted the tragedy of their exile, the waste of such potential in the squalor of their current existence. His cough worsened, and some days he was too weak to leave their small house. On those days, Joss Hood or, less frequently, the morose Morrec, would accompany Viserys on his rounds. Joss was a simpler man than Darry, less prone to questioning the source of Viserys's abilities, content as long as the boy was safe and their bellies a little fuller.
Daenerys, meanwhile, was blossoming. She was a fearless, inquisitive child, her silver hair a tangled halo around a face that was beginning to show the striking beauty of their mother. She adored Viserys, trailing after him like a small, adoring shadow whenever he was home, her childish babble a constant counterpoint to his often-silent contemplation. Viserys found her presence… complicated. Alistair viewed her as a crucial piece on the chessboard, the future mother of dragons, the key to legitimizing his claim. But Viserys, the boy, sometimes felt a flicker of something less calculated – an exasperated fondness, a shared sense of isolation. He was fiercely protective of her, his enhanced senses always alert to any potential threat to her well-being in their rough neighborhood.
He began her education subtly. He didn't speak of kings and crowns, not yet. Instead, he told her stories, heavily edited versions of Targaryen history, tales of brave knights and wise queens, of dragons soaring over gleaming cities. He taught her High Valyrian, their mother tongue, ensuring it was as natural to her as the Braavosi dialect she picked up from Lyra and the streets. He was forging her loyalty, not to a lost kingdom she had never known, but to him, her brother, her protector.
"We are different, Dany," he would tell her, his voice soft, as he brushed tangles from her hair. "Our hair, our eyes. We are special. We have to look after each other, always."
"Like dragons?" she would ask, her violet eyes wide.
"Yes," Viserys would affirm. "Like dragons. Alone, perhaps, but strong."
Their small earnings from Viserys's accounting trickled in, easing the sharpest edges of their poverty but doing little to build any real security. He knew this was not a sustainable long-term solution. He needed more. He began to listen even more intently in the markets, not just to numbers, but to rumors, to gossip about shipping news, cargo prices, political shifts in other Free Cities. Alistair Finch, the analyst, began to see patterns, opportunities for arbitrage on a slightly larger scale, if only they had the capital.
One blustery autumn evening, a crisis struck. Ser Willem collapsed, a fit of coughing leaving him breathless and trembling, a fleck of blood on his lips. Lyra cried out in alarm. Joss Hood carried him to his pallet, his face grim. The local healer, a woman whose remedies consisted mostly of foul-smelling herbs and whispered incantations, demanded a silver stag for even a brief consultation – a sum they simply did not have.
Desperation clawed at Viserys. Darry was their anchor, their most visible protector. If he died… He looked at Daenerys, her small face puckered with fear as she watched the commotion. He had to do something.
His mind raced. The small hoard of coins he had secretly saved from his earnings, hidden beneath a loose floorboard, was not enough. He needed more, and quickly. He thought of a notoriously wealthy but equally unscrupulous spice merchant named Malatso, whose complex ledgers Viserys had once, with great trepidation, helped untangle. Malatso had been pleased, even impressed, but had paid him a pittance. Viserys knew Malatso often engaged in risky, off-book ventures, and likely kept two sets of records.
That night, after the household was asleep, Viserys slipped out. The streets of Braavos were dark, the canals reflecting the sliver of moon like black glass. He moved with the silence and confidence born of long practice, his senses on high alert. He avoided the Bravos on their nightly patrols, melted into shadows when drunken sailors lurched past.
Malatso's warehouse was near the Purple Harbor, a place of exotic smells and even more exotic dangers. Viserys knew it would be guarded. But he also knew, from his previous visit, of a small, unsecured ventilation shaft high on one wall, overlooking a narrow, refuse-choked alley. It was a risky climb, but his life, his family's immediate survival, felt like it hung in the balance.
The climb was treacherous. The old stone was slick with grime and damp. His small fingers, augmented by the serum's strength, found purchase in tiny crevices. He moved with the deadly grace of a spider, his body a whisper against the wall. Reaching the vent, he carefully pried away the rusted grate. The opening was barely large enough for his slender frame. He squeezed through, dropping silently into the spice-laden darkness of the warehouse.
His heart hammered, but his mind was cold, focused. He needed to find Malatso's private office, where the real ledgers, the ones detailing his illicit profits, were likely kept. Alistair's memory of the layout from his single previous visit was precise. He navigated the towering stacks of crates and barrels, the air thick with the aromas of cinnamon, clove, and something sharper, more metallic – perhaps smuggled ore.
He found the office. The door was locked, a sturdy ironwood affair. For a moment, he contemplated using his claws, but the risk of discovery, the damage it would cause, was too great. Then he remembered a trick Alistair had read about, a simple lock-picking technique using thin, stiff wires. He had no such wires. But he did have… something else. Focusing intently, he extended a single claw, just the tip, using its needle-like point and unnatural strength to probe the lock mechanism. It was crude, dangerous, but after several tense minutes, he felt a faint click. The door swung inward.
Malatso's private ledger was exactly where Viserys had suspected it might be, hidden beneath a false bottom in a heavy strongbox. He didn't steal gold. He didn't steal spices. He performed a feat of intellectual theft. With near-photographic memory, he scanned the pages detailing Malatso's undeclared profits, his secret partners, his methods of tax evasion. It was a treasure trove of incriminating information. He committed key figures, dates, and names to memory. Then, meticulously, he replaced the ledger, relocked the strongbox, and exited the office, leaving no trace of his intrusion save for the faintest scent of disturbed dust. He slipped out of the warehouse as silently as he had entered.
The next morning, Viserys, pale but composed, approached Ser Willem, who was propped up on his pallet, looking frail. "Ser Willem," he said, "I believe Goodman Malatso owes us a significant sum for… services rendered. More than he has paid. Perhaps if you reminded him of the value of discretion, especially concerning his dealings with the Sealord's customs officers, he might be persuaded to be more generous." He then recited, with chilling accuracy, several specific examples of Malatso's fraudulent activities.
Darry stared at him, aghast. "Viserys! How… how could you possibly know such things?"
"I listen very carefully, Ser," Viserys replied, his violet eyes unblinking. "And sometimes, people are careless with their secrets when they believe only a child is present." He omitted the part about the nocturnal visit, the lock-picking claw, the mental theft.
Though horrified by the implications, Darry was also desperate. He confronted Malatso, armed with Viserys's undeniable information. The spice merchant, after an initial explosion of rage and blustering denials, turned pale with fear. He paid, not just enough for the healer, but a substantial sum besides, his eyes darting nervously between Darry and the silent, watchful boy who stood beside him.
Ser Willem's health, thanks to the healer and better nourishment, began a slow recovery. But the incident had changed something between him and Viserys. The old knight now looked at his young charge with a new, profound unease. He saw not just a precocious prince, but something far more complex, something potentially dangerous. The lines of who was protecting whom were becoming increasingly blurred.
Viserys knew he had crossed a threshold. He had used his intellect not just for honest, if humble, toil, but for extortion, however justified he felt it to be. Alistair Finch, the academic, might have debated the ethics. Viserys Targaryen, the exiled king, saw only a necessary step towards survival and the reclamation of his birthright. The tides were shifting. He was no longer just reacting to their circumstances; he was beginning to shape them, one scholar's gambit, one ruthless decision, at a time. The path ahead was still shrouded in uncertainty, but for the first time since their flight from Dragonstone, Viserys felt a flicker of something akin to control. He was learning the rules of this new, savage game, and he was starting to write his own.