Chapter 9: Echoes in the Vaults and the Dragon's Deepening Roots
The departure of Captain Vorro from the murky canals of Braavos left a subtle but palpable shift in the ecosystem of their small corner of the Chequy Port. It was like the removal of a particularly noxious weed; the surrounding flora seemed to breathe a little easier. Narbo the Lysene, his trading ventures now unmolested by Vorro's thuggery, became almost insufferably jovial, his gratitude towards Joss Hood (and by extension, the unseen "silver-haired luck charm") manifesting in more frequent gifts of Myrish fire-wine and Pentoshi figs. Their red-doored house, while still humble, felt less like a besieged outpost and more like a home, albeit one built on foundations of carefully guarded secrets and the ever-present threat of discovery.
Viserys, now a boy of eight, with the mind of Alistair Finch navigating the treacherous currents of this new life, understood that Vorro's removal was not an end, but merely the successful conclusion of a single, messy operation. The underlying vulnerabilities remained. Their survival, their burgeoning prosperity – if such a meager existence could be called that – depended on his intellect, his powers, and the continued ignorance of those around them. The shadows he inhabited were both a shield and a cage.
In the months that followed, Viserys meticulously consolidated his gains. His "accounting" services, managed through the increasingly bewildered but fiercely loyal Joss Hood, expanded. Narbo, in his cups and eager to share his good fortune (and perhaps subtly boast of his connection to a source of uncanny financial acumen), had mentioned the "miracle boy" to a couple of other struggling merchants. One, a Tyroshi dyer named Sylas Paenymion whose intricate dye recipes were brilliant but whose ledgers were a chaotic nightmare, approached Joss with a mixture of hope and skepticism. Another, a chandler named Bellaqua who crafted fine, scented candles but was constantly cheated by her suppliers, followed suit.
Viserys handled these new "clients" with the same meticulous caution. He never met them directly. Joss would bring him the ledgers, the shipping manifests, the supplier contracts, his weathered face a mask of confusion as Viserys, with swift, silent precision, would pore over the documents in the dim candlelight of their small home. Viserys would then provide Joss with a list of "observations" and "suggestions" – where to cut costs, which trades were undervalued, which suppliers were overcharging, where hidden profits lay buried beneath layers of disorganized figures.
The payments, still mostly in kind, increased. Bolts of rich Tyroshi cloth, crates of high-quality beeswax, sacks of rare spices – their small storeroom began to overflow. Lyra, practical and resourceful, learned to trade these goods in the local markets for things they truly needed – better food, warmer blankets, medicine for Joss's lingering coughs (which had replaced Darry's as a source of quiet concern for Viserys), and even a few sturdy toys for Daenerys.
Their standard of living improved, subtly but significantly. Daenerys, now a vibrant five-year-old, her silver-gold hair gleaming, her violet eyes bright with intelligence, no longer wore patched hand-me-downs. She had proper shoes, warm cloaks, and even a small, carved wooden dragon Viserys had "found" (in reality, purchased with carefully hoarded coppers from a craftsman near the Moon Pool). She was a ray of sunshine in their otherwise shadowed existence, her laughter echoing in their small home, a sound that sometimes, unexpectedly, pierced through Alistair Finch's hardened pragmatism and touched something softer within Viserys.
His relationship with Daenerys was a complex tapestry. He was her brother, her protector, her teacher, and, in a way none but he understood, her future king. He continued her education relentlessly, teaching her to read and write not just the Common Tongue of Westeros, but also the Braavosi dialect of Valyrian. He drilled her in their lineage, in the history of House Targaryen, but always with his own carefully curated spin – emphasizing their resilience, their right to rule, and the absolute necessity of their bond.
"We are the last dragons, Dany," he would tell her, his voice low and intense, as they sat by the brazier on cold nights. "The world tried to extinguish us, but they failed. They fear us, even now. That is why we must be clever. That is why we must be strong. And that is why we can only ever truly trust each other."
She would listen, her small face serious, her violet eyes fixed on his. She was beginning to understand, in her own childish way, the weight of their name, the danger they were in. Sometimes, she would display flashes of Targaryen fire that both pleased and concerned him – a sudden burst of temper if another child tried to take her toy, a fierce, protective glare if she thought Lyra was being treated unfairly by a market vendor. He gently guided these impulses, teaching her control, discipline. He needed her spirit, her fire, but it had to be a controlled burn, like his own.
His clandestine physical training continued, an essential counterpoint to his intellectual machinations. The abandoned underworks of the Titan's foot remained his secret sanctuary. The swim through the cold, dark culvert was now routine, the labyrinth of tunnels as familiar to him as the streets around their home. Here, he pushed his body relentlessly. His strength, already formidable for his age thanks to the serum, grew with each passing month. He could lift stones that would make a grown man grunt, leap across chasms with effortless grace. His healing factor was a constant marvel; deep gashes from sharp rocks or rusted debris would seal within hours, leaving only faint, rapidly fading lines. He was learning to endure pain, to push through exhaustion, honing his body into a weapon.
The claws were his most secret, most dangerous asset. He practiced their deployment and retraction until it was as natural as breathing. He learned to control their length, to extend a single claw like a scalpel or all three like a predator's rake. He carved intricate patterns into the damp stone walls, tested their strength against ancient, waterlogged timbers. He knew, with a cold certainty, that a time would come when these natural weapons would be needed, and he would be ready. The thought of unleashing them in true combat sent a thrill of savage anticipation through him, a sensation Alistair Finch's academic sensibilities found deeply disturbing, but Viserys the Targaryen embraced as a part of his essential nature.
His network of street urchins, his "Little Sparrows" as he privately, and somewhat ironically, called them, also expanded. Kipp, the one-eyed boy, had become his unofficial lieutenant, a shrewd and surprisingly loyal conduit for information. Viserys supplied them with more than just trinkets now; he ensured they had enough to eat, occasionally a warm piece of clothing, earning their fierce, if unspoken, loyalty. They brought him news from every corner of Braavos: shipping arrivals and departures, cargo manifests, rumors from the taverns and brothels, the gossip of serving girls in merchant houses, even whispers from the lower echelons of the City Guard.
This information was meticulously cross-referenced and analyzed by Alistair's mind. He was building a detailed map of Braavos's undercurrents, its hidden economies, its political fault lines. He learned of the intense rivalries between the various merchant guilds, the quiet power struggles between Keyholders of the Iron Bank, the subtle influence of the Faceless Men, whose temple, the House of Black and White, was a place few Braavosi spoke of above a whisper. Viserys knew he was still a minnow swimming in a sea of sharks, but he was a minnow with unnaturally sharp teeth and a disturbingly sophisticated brain.
One rain-swept afternoon, Kipp brought him a piece of news that sent a chill down his spine. A new envoy from King's Landing had arrived in Braavos, ostensibly to discuss trade tariffs with the Sealord. But Kipp, who had a knack for loitering near the Sealord's Palace without being noticed, had overheard the envoy speaking with his attendants. Their real mission, Kipp reported, was to renew King Robert Baratheon's inquiries about "the last dragonspawn," and to increase the bounty on their heads.
Viserys felt a cold fury. The Usurper's shadow was long indeed. He gave Kipp an extra silver piece for the information, a significant sum that made the boy's one good eye widen. "Be cautious, Kipp," Viserys warned. "These are dangerous men. Do not let them see you listening."
The news lent a new urgency to his plans. Braavos was becoming less of a refuge and more of a gilded cage. They needed more resources, more security, a path towards greater power. His current operations, while providing for their immediate needs, were small-scale, vulnerable.
It was during this period of heightened tension and strategic reassessment that the first, faint echo from the city's true seat of power reached him.
Narbo, ever eager to please his "silver-haired benefactor" (a term he used with Joss, never directly to Viserys, of course), had been boasting even more extravagantly about his miraculous turnaround in fortunes. He spoke of the "uncanny wisdom" that guided his trades, the "flawless accounting" that now characterized his business. Most of this boasting was confined to the smoky, wine-soaked confines of his favorite dockside tavern. But Braavos was a city of ears, and some ears were connected to very influential heads.
One morning, Joss returned from a meeting with Narbo looking unusually pale and flustered.
"Prince Viserys," he began, his voice hushed despite them being alone in their main room, Lyra having taken Daenerys to a small, sunlit patch by a quieter canal to play. "A strange thing happened today. While I was with Narbo, a man approached him. Dressed very plainly, but… his eyes, Prince. Sharp. Like a Banker's." In Braavos, "Banker" almost invariably meant someone connected to the Iron Bank.
Viserys stilled, his senses instantly on high alert. "What did this man want, Joss?"
"He didn't say he was from the Iron Bank, not directly," Joss continued, rubbing his scarred knuckles nervously. "But he asked Narbo many questions. About his recent success. About how he managed his accounts, his shipping. Narbo, the fool, puffed up like a breeding pigeon and started rambling about his 'financial advisor,' his 'secret weapon.'"
Viserys felt a knot tighten in his stomach. "Did he mention me? My age? My appearance?"
Joss winced. "He… he might have said something about a 'surprisingly young' fellow with a 'head for figures sharper than any maester's.' He didn't use your name, Prince, nor speak of your… hair. But the other man, he listened very intently. Asked if this 'advisor' was Braavosi."
"And what did Narbo say?" Viserys pressed, his mind racing. This was a dangerous development. The Iron Bank did not make casual inquiries. They were the silent giants of the world's economy, their reach extending into every kingdom, every Free City. To attract their attention, even indirectly, was like having the eye of a kraken turn towards your tiny rowboat.
"Narbo, full of wine even at that hour, just laughed and said his advisor was 'touched by the gods of fortune' and 'worth more than all the gold in the Titan's codpiece.' Then the man, the quiet one, he just nodded, thanked Narbo for his time, and left. Didn't give a name, didn't ask to meet anyone. Just… listened."
Viserys was silent for a long moment, processing. This was not an immediate threat like Vorro. This was something far more subtle, potentially far more perilous. The Iron Bank did not employ thugs; they employed leverage, contracts, and the crushing weight of debt. If they became too interested in the source of Narbo's (and by extension, Sylas's and Bellaqua's) improved fortunes, they might investigate further. And if they discovered an eight-year-old exiled Targaryen prince was the puppet master, the consequences were unimaginable. They might see him as an asset to be controlled, a pawn in their own grand games. Or, if the Usurper's gold was tempting enough, they might see him as a commodity to be sold.
"Joss," Viserys said, his voice calm but firm, "you did well to tell me this immediately. From now on, Narbo is to speak to no one, absolutely no one, about his 'advisor.' If he values his continued success, he must attribute it to his own newfound diligence, or the intercession of his favored god, or a particularly potent brand of Myrish fire-wine. Understand?"
Joss nodded, his relief palpable that Viserys wasn't angry with him. "I'll make him understand, Prince. I'll… I'll sit on him if I have to."
"Good," Viserys said. He looked at Joss, then at Morrec, who had entered silently and was now standing by the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Both of you. Our lives here depend on absolute secrecy. What I do, how I do it, must remain within these walls, and within our small circle. Ser Willem trusted you with our lives. I trust you with our future." It was a carefully crafted appeal, invoking Darry's memory and subtly elevating their roles from mere protectors to confidants in a grander scheme.
Joss thumped his chest. "You have my word, Prince Viserys. To the grave."
Morrec merely gave a slow, deliberate nod, but his eyes, when they met Viserys's, held a new depth of understanding, and perhaps, a grudging respect that bordered on awe. He was beginning to see that the boy he had sworn to protect was perhaps more than just a prince; he was a force.
The incident with the Iron Bank's silent observer spurred Viserys to accelerate another aspect of his long-term strategy: the creation of a more secure, independent base of operations, both financially and informationally. His current methods were too reliant on intermediaries like Joss and Narbo, too vulnerable to loose talk or unwanted scrutiny.
He began to meticulously sift through the information his Little Sparrows brought him, looking for opportunities to create ventures that were entirely his own, albeit managed through cutouts. He identified a need for reliable, untraceable message couriers between certain less-than-scrupulous merchants who distrusted the official channels. He knew of discreet Scriptoriums that would pay well for accurately copied, sensitive documents, no questions asked. Alistair Finch's knowledge of ciphers and coded language became a valuable asset.
He started small, using Kipp as his primary agent. He would "find" small, lucrative opportunities – a merchant needing a discreet message delivered across the city, another needing a quick, accurate tally of a disputed cargo manifest – and direct Kipp to individuals who could perform the task, taking a small, invisible cut for his "information brokerage." He was becoming a ghost in Braavos's machine, a whisper in the marketplace, his influence growing in ways no one could trace back to the silver-haired boy in the house with the red door.
His own education continued unabated. He devoured any texts Joss or Morrec could "acquire" for him – histories of the Free Cities, treatises on trade and law, even philosophical texts. He taught himself to read the intricate script of the Iron Bank's promissory notes, samples of which he'd glimpsed in Narbo's papers. He studied maps of Westeros with a burning intensity, Alistair's military knowledge overlaying the geography, planning campaigns that were still decades in the future but felt as real to him as the cobblestones beneath his feet.
He also began to subtly test the limits of his Targaryen heritage, or rather, what he suspected might be a part of it. He knew the stories of dragons being drawn to those of the blood. While there were no dragons in Braavos, he sometimes felt a strange, almost imperceptible thrum in the air when near places of ancient power or intense emotion – the deep vaults of a Keyholder's mansion he once glimpsed, the somber courtyards of the House of Black and White he occasionally passed. It was nothing concrete, just a fleeting sensation, a resonance in his bones that was different from the constant hum of the Super Soldier Serum or the X-gene. Was it a nascent magical sensitivity? Or just the overactive imagination of an old soul in a young, super-powered body? He didn't know, but he filed the observations away, another mystery to be unraveled.
The encounter with the Iron Bank's agent, however brief and indirect, had been a sobering reminder of the scale of the game he was truly playing. He was not just fighting for survival against poverty and the Usurper's assassins. He was a player, however minor, on a global stage, where empires rose and fell on the strength of their treasuries and the ruthlessness of their leaders.
One evening, as he sat with Daenerys, showing her constellations in a tattered astronomical chart, she looked up at him, her violet eyes serious. "Vizzy," she said, "Ser Willem used to say that dragons were fire made flesh. Are we fire, you and I?"
Viserys looked at his sister, her innocent face framed by the silver-gold hair that marked them as relics of a fallen dynasty. He thought of the cold fire of ambition that burned within him, the savage potential of his claws, the enhanced vitality that coursed through his veins. He thought of the fires of destruction that had consumed his House, and the fire of vengeance he was nurturing in the secret depths of his soul.
"Yes, little sister," he said, his voice a soft murmur. "We are fire. And one day, the world will see us burn brightly again. But for now, we must be like the embers, glowing in the dark, gathering our strength, waiting for the right wind to fan us into a blaze."
Daenerys nodded solemnly, as if understanding the weight of his words. She leaned against him, her small hand finding his. In that moment, she was not just a future queen or a strategic asset. She was his sister, his only true confidante in this strange, perilous existence, the only other soul who shared his blood, his exile.
The echoes from the Iron Bank's vaults had been a warning. But they were also a sign. His actions, his deepening roots in the complex soil of Braavos, were beginning to be noticed. The spiderling's web was growing, and its vibrations were reaching further than he had anticipated. He would need to be more cautious, more cunning, more ruthless than ever before. The path to the Iron Throne was long and treacherous, and the game of shadows had just become infinitely more complex. But Viserys Targaryen, the boy with an old soul and a predator's power, was a patient player, and he was just beginning to learn the true extent of his own capabilities.