Chapter 7: The Spiderling's Web and a Knight's Fading Light
The Malatso gambit, as Viserys privately termed it, was a watershed. The infusion of coin, though modest by any real standard, felt like a king's ransom to their threadbare household. It bought better food – actual cuts of meat, fresher vegetables, even a small cask of passable wine that brought a fleeting flush to Ser Willem Darry's pale cheeks. It paid for repairs to their leaky roof, for warmer cloaks against the biting Braavosi winter that was beginning to creep in through the city's damp stones, and for a new, sturdier lock on their red door. More importantly, it bought them time, a precious commodity that had been rapidly slipping through their fingers.
But the gold came with a subtle poison: suspicion. Ser Willem, though his physical health showed marked improvement thanks to the healer Malatso's extorted coin had paid for, regarded Viserys with a new, pervasive unease. The old knight's eyes, once filled with simple, protective loyalty, now held a troubled watchfulness. He would observe Viserys for long stretches, his brow furrowed, as the boy sat quietly mending Daenerys's worn doll or seemingly engrossed in the cheap, illustrated primers Darry had managed to acquire.
"Viserys," Darry began one evening, his voice raspy but firm, as they sat by the small, crackling brazier, Daenerys asleep on a nearby pallet, "the matter of Malatso… it weighs heavily on me. A boy your age should not possess such… intimate knowledge of a man's dishonest dealings."
Viserys looked up, his violet eyes wide and guileless, a carefully constructed mask of childhood innocence. "Goodman Malatso spoke loudly of his cleverness, Ser. Many times. I only remembered what he boasted of. Was it wrong to make him pay what he truly owed for my help with his confusing numbers?"
Darry sighed, a sound heavy with unspoken anxieties. "There is boasting, child, and then there is… knowing the precise location of a hidden ledger. Malatso is a dangerous man. He will not forget this."
"Neither will we, Ser Willem," Viserys replied, his tone soft but with an underlying steel that belied his years. "We will be cautious." He knew Darry wasn't convinced. The old knight had served a king who descended into madness; he was perhaps overly attuned to any hint of darkness or unnatural cunning in his young charge. This new dynamic was a delicate tightrope walk for Viserys – he needed Darry's continued protection and guidance, but he also needed the freedom to act, to implement the plans Alistair Finch's mind was constantly formulating.
Malatso, for his part, remained a simmering background threat. The spice merchant made no overt moves against them – the information Viserys possessed was too damaging, and the Sealord's justice, while often slow and labyrinthine, could be ruthlessly efficient against those who flagrantly disrupted commerce or undermined civic order. But Viserys often felt Malatso's eyes on him in the marketplace, a cold, resentful glare that promised retribution if an opportunity ever arose. It was a valuable lesson: enemies, once made, rarely disappeared entirely. They simply waited. Viserys filed Malatso away as a future problem to be managed, or eliminated, when the time was right.
Joss Hood and Morrec, their remaining sworn swords, seemed less troubled by the source of their improved fortunes. They were simple men, their loyalty pledged to the Targaryen name and to Darry. As long as their bellies were full and the children safe, they asked few questions. Joss, in fact, seemed to regard Viserys with a newfound respect, occasionally seeking his "opinion" on the best price for a mended net or the trustworthiness of a particular dock foreman, mistaking the boy's sharp intellect for uncanny luck. Morrec remained silent, but his gaze, when it fell upon Viserys, held a flicker of something Viserys couldn't quite decipher – awe, perhaps, or a deeper, more primal fear.
With the immediate crisis averted, Viserys began to systematize his efforts. The Malatso incident had been reactive, a desperate measure. He needed proactive, sustainable streams of income and, more importantly, information. Alistair Finch's mind, with its understanding of espionage and network building, began to weave a delicate, almost invisible web across their small corner of Braavos.
His "accounting services" continued, but he became more selective, more strategic. He subtly cultivated a reputation among a small circle of merchants – those known for a degree of honesty but hampered by disorganization. He never demanded payment, allowing Darry to negotiate "gifts" for the "clever boy's assistance." These gifts, often in kind – bolts of cloth, tools, sacks of grain – were more valuable than coin in their barter-heavy existence and less likely to attract unwanted attention. He learned to appraise the quality of goods, the fluctuations of market prices, his mind absorbing and cross-referencing data with relentless efficiency.
His true ambition, however, lay in information. Braavos thrived on secrets, on knowing who was buying, who was selling, who was rising, who was falling. He began to recruit, in the loosest sense of the word. Street children, the urchins who darted through the alleyways like quicksilver, were his first agents. He didn't approach them directly; that would be too suspicious. Instead, he started "accidentally" dropping a piece of fruit, a small sweetmeat, where a particularly observant child might find it. Later, he might engage them in a seemingly innocent game, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to win or lose strategically, earning their grudging respect. Then would come the casual questions: "Did you see the big ship with the purple sails arrive today? What cargo was it unloading?" "That grumpy old chandler in Eel Alley, does he have many customers?"
He paid them in trifles – a warm bun, a polished stone, a story. They never knew they were part of a network. They were simply talking to the quiet, silver-haired boy who sometimes had interesting things to share and always listened intently. But the scraps of information they provided, when pieced together by Alistair's analytical mind, began to form a coherent, if incomplete, picture of the undercurrents of their district. He learned which captains were smugglers, which watchmen could be bribed, which guilds were feuding, which merchants were overextended. This knowledge was power, kept in reserve, a weapon yet to be deployed.
Daenerys, now a precocious four-year-old, was his constant shadow within the confines of their home. Her silver-gold hair, which Lyra painstakingly braided each morning, was a perpetual source of anxiety for Darry, a too-obvious Targaryen marker. But Daenerys herself was a whirlwind of energy and curiosity, her violet eyes, so like Viserys's own, missing little. She was beginning to understand their precarious situation, the hushed tones when Westeros was mentioned, the way Ser Willem would sigh when looking at the faded Targaryen banner he kept hidden in his sea chest.
Viserys took her education seriously, though it was an education unlike any other princess had ever received. He taught her her letters, not from gilded primers, but by tracing them in the dust on their floorboards. He taught her numbers, not for courtly accounting, but for survival. He recounted the histories of their House, not as glorious chronicles, but as cautionary tales of hubris, betrayal, and resilience. He emphasized their uniqueness, their dragon blood, the injustice done to them, but he also subtly wove in the necessity of cunning, of patience, of unwavering loyalty to each other above all else.
"The world is not kind to those who are different, Dany," he told her one afternoon, as they watched the rain lash against their small window. "Especially to dragons without their fire. We must be smarter than our enemies, quicker. And we must always, always, trust each other." He was molding her, shaping her into the ally he would need, the queen who would stand beside him, not as a pawn, but as a willing partner in his grand design. He saw the spark of intelligence in her, the flicker of Targaryen fire, and he was determined to nurture it, to temper it with the pragmatism he himself was forced to embody.
Ser Willem Darry's health, despite the temporary reprieve, continued its slow, inexorable decline. The damp Braavosi air seemed to settle in his lungs, each cough a painful reminder of his mortality. He spent more and more time on his pallet, his strength waning. He still tried to impart his wisdom, to teach Viserys the duties of a king, the chivalry of a knight. Viserys listened respectfully, absorbing the knowledge of Westerosi customs and laws, but his mind was often elsewhere, calculating the dwindling supply of firewood, the rising price of bread, the best way to secure a new client for his "accounting" services.
One evening, when the old knight was particularly frail, his breathing shallow, he called Viserys to his side. Daenerys was asleep, Lyra watching over her. Joss and Morrec were out, seeking what little work they could find.
"Viserys," Darry whispered, his hand, gnarled and trembling, reaching for the boy's. "I… I am not long for this world, my prince."
Viserys took the old man's hand. It was cold, the skin like dry parchment. He felt a genuine pang of sorrow, a rare intrusion of emotion that Alistair's mental fortifications couldn't entirely block. Darry, for all his limitations, had been a constant, a symbol of unwavering loyalty, the last true guardian of their old life.
"Do not speak so, Ser," Viserys said, his voice softer than usual. "You will recover. You are strong."
Darry gave a weak, rattling chuckle. "Strong once, perhaps. Now… now I am just old and tired. Listen to me, Viserys. You are the King. You must protect your sister. She is the future of our House, as much as you are." His eyes, clouded with sickness, searched Viserys's face. "You are… different, boy. Your mind… it is older than your years. Sometimes, you frighten me. But you are Rhaella's son. You have her blood. Promise me… promise me you will be a good king. A just king. Not… not like your father."
The plea hung in the air, heavy and poignant. Viserys met the dying knight's gaze. What was a 'good' king? Alistair Finch knew history was littered with good kings who had lost their thrones, whose good intentions paved the road to ruin for their people. Power, true power, often required choices that transcended simple morality.
"I will protect Daenerys with my life, Ser Willem," Viserys said, his voice firm. "And I will reclaim what is ours. I will be the king our House needs." It was an evasion, but it was the truest answer he could give.
Darry seemed to sense it. He sighed, a faint tremor running through him. "May the gods… old and new… guide you, then, Viserys Targaryen. And may they forgive me for what I could not do." His grip loosened, his eyes fluttering closed. His breathing grew shallower, until, with a final, shuddering sigh, it ceased altogether.
Ser Willem Darry, loyal to the last, was dead.
Viserys sat there for a long moment, holding the old knight's cooling hand, the silence of the small room broken only by Daenerys's soft breathing. A chapter had ended. Their last direct link to Westeros, to the life they had lost, was gone. Joss and Morrec would be devastated. Lyra would weep. Daenerys, when she understood, would be heartbroken.
He, Viserys, felt a cold emptiness, but also a hardening resolve. He was now truly the head of their small, exiled family. The responsibility, which he had already shouldered in secret, was now his openly, crushingly. He was eight years old.
His physical prowess continued to develop in the shadows. He was taller now, his limbs still slender but imbued with the serum's subtle strength. His reflexes were lightning fast, his senses so acute he could hear a rat scamper across the rooftops a street away, smell the subtle change in the air that heralded an approaching rain shower. He found a new secret training spot: the abandoned underworks of a collapsed section of the Titan's northwestern foot, a labyrinth of algae-slicked tunnels and echoing chambers accessible only by a dangerous swim through a partially submerged culvert. Here, he could push his body to its limits, his healing factor mending the inevitable injuries. He practiced with his claws, not just slashing, but learning to use them with precision, like surgical tools, or as climbing aids on sheer, wet stone. He was becoming a creature of the shadows, a predator perfectly adapted to the urban jungle of Braavos.
The death of Ser Willem Darry was a catalyst. It forced Viserys to accelerate his plans. Their meager savings would not last long without Darry's small pension from his days as Master-at-Arms on Dragonstone (a fiction Darry had maintained, drawing on the last of their hidden Targaryen funds). He needed a more substantial, reliable source of income.
He began to focus on the shipping trade, the very lifeblood of Braavos. His network of street urchins, now subtly managed with more direct instructions and slightly better 'payments,' brought him manifests, cargo lists, rumors of ship movements and commodity prices. Alistair Finch's understanding of logistics, supply chains, and market speculation began to see opportunities. A glut of Myrish lace here, a shortage of Summer Islander timber there. Information, if timely and accurate, was worth more than gold.
He identified a small, struggling Lysene trader named Narbo, a flamboyant man with a taste for cheap wine and even cheaper company, whose finances were a disaster. Narbo was honest but catastrophically disorganized, constantly on the verge of ruin. Viserys, through Joss Hood (who had reluctantly taken on the role of intermediary after Darry's death, his loyalty to the children outweighing his bewilderment at Viserys's schemes), offered to "help Narbo organize his accounts and shipping schedules."
The offer, backed by a demonstration of Viserys's uncanny ability to spot profitable routes and avoid disastrous losses by analyzing Narbo's chaotic records, was accepted. Viserys, working late into the night by the light of a single precious candle, transformed Narbo's business. He instituted a simple but effective system of bookkeeping. He advised Narbo on which cargoes to buy low and sell high, on which ports were currently offering the best terms. Narbo's fortunes began to improve dramatically. And Viserys, through Joss, took a small, discreet percentage of the increased profits.
It was a dangerous game. He was leveraging adult knowledge through the persona of a child, relying on the greed and desperation of men like Narbo, and the loyalty of men like Joss. But it was working. Their red-doored house became a little more comfortable. Daenerys had new shoes, a warm cloak. Lyra no longer had to water down the soup quite so much.
But new complications arose. A rival of Narbo's, a brutish Volantene captain named Vorro, began to take an unhealthy interest in Narbo's sudden success, and in the "silver-haired luck charm" who was rumored to be behind it. Vorro was known for his violence and his disregard for Braavosi law when he thought he could get away with it. He made veiled threats, his men sometimes loitering near their street.
Viserys knew this was a new kind of threat, one that his intellect alone might not be enough to counter. He was still a boy, physically. Joss and Morrec were aging, their skills perhaps not a match for a gang of hardened Volantene sailors.
One evening, as Joss was returning home, he was cornered by Vorro and two of his thugs in a narrow alley. They weren't trying to kill him, merely to intimidate, to send a message. But they roughed him up badly.
Viserys, alerted by his heightened senses to the sounds of the struggle from a street away, arrived like a silent wraith just as the Volantenes were stalking off, leaving Joss bruised and bleeding by a canal. The rage that filled Viserys was cold, primal, terrifying. He saw Joss, loyal, simple Joss, hurt because of him, because of his schemes.
His first instinct was to unleash the claws, to become the monster he secretly was, to tear them apart. But Alistair's cold logic asserted itself. Witnesses. Consequences. He was not yet powerful enough to act so overtly.
Instead, he tended to Joss, his small hands surprisingly deft as he cleaned the older man's wounds, his healing factor a silent, useless frustration – he couldn't share it. But as he did so, his mind was already working, formulating a response to Vorro. Not with violence, not yet. But with the same ruthless cunning he had applied to Malatso, only this time, the stakes were higher. Vorro was not just a cheat; he was a physical threat.
The spiderling's web was growing, but so too were the predators attracted to its vibrations. Braavos was teaching Viserys Targaryen many lessons: the value of coin, the power of information, the necessity of ruthlessness. And now, it was about to teach him the cost of protecting what was his. The light of their last true knight had faded, and in the growing darkness, the young dragon was learning to sharpen his own claws.