"Your Grace, don't be sad. Tears aren't good for your health," the steward murmured respectfully, closing Ser Willem Darry's door behind him. He bowed slightly as Viserys Targaryen and his younger sister stepped away down the hall.
That performance must be exhausting, Viserys thought, his violet eyes calm yet ancient with maturity no fourteen-year-old should have.
The Red Door mansion had become a nest of quiet schemes — a game of masks between himself and the steward. The servants had already planned it all: once Ser Willem's weakened heart gave out, they'd grab the purse he guarded and throw the Targaryens into the streets.
Viserys intended to make sure that day would never come. This would be the first step in rewriting his fate.
The steward was acting. But so was Viserys.
He played the part of the courteous, humble exiled prince — a role that came easily to someone carrying the mind of a man from another world. And the servants, fooled by his gentle demeanor, had grown complacent, underestimating him.
No one retakes a kingdom with words alone, he reminded himself, while leading Daenerys gently by the hand.
The Iron Throne could only be won with dragons and steel — and right now, he had neither. The royal vault of dragon eggs was lost, hidden gods knew where.
Years ago, when Rhaegar was born, the court had dared to experiment with wildfire and seven dragon eggs. The result was the tragedy of the Summerhall blaze. Later, Aegon the Unworthy and Aegon the Dragonbane had both tried to hatch more eggs — and failed.
When the dynasty fell, every last egg disappeared.
Centuries later, the world would marvel again when three petrified eggs hatched in the hands of a foreign merchant's gift to Daenerys — but that was far ahead in time.
Dragons could wait. Strength could not.
And Viserys's greatest flaw was obvious — he had no might of his own. Ser Willem was dying, their loyal guards were buried, and sellswords couldn't be trusted.
A warrior's greatness, he knew, came from three things: social birth, natural talent, and early training. Sweat alone meant nothing without privilege and power.
He had the bloodline of kings, even some skill — but no proper start.
He'd wasted his childhood in King's Landing under his father's suffocating paranoia, and six more years in Braavos under exile. At fourteen, he was barely more than a green trainee.
By his age, prodigies like Daemon Blackfyre had already earned their knighthood, and even average noble boys were training full-time as squires.
As Viserys walked the corridor, a sudden ripple passed through the air. He froze.
Then — light.
A half-transparent panel appeared before his eyes, glowing with strange clarity. Lines of text began to unfold across it like molten silver.
Viserys Targaryen
- Age: 14
- Title: Landless Prince, Forgotten by Most
- Profession: None
- Charisma: High
- Companions: None
- Attributes:
- Strength 1.1
- Endurance 1.3
- Agility 1.2
- Spirit 1.4
- Unique Talent: Unknown (Panel activation reward—1 talent granted)
Viserys's heart leapt. Finally. My golden finger has arrived.
Every transmigrator he had ever read about got their cheat eventually — and now, at last, destiny had stopped ignoring him.
He had always felt small next to his gifted kin: Rhaenys, the shapeshifting prodigy; Daenerys, the dreamer who would become Mother of Dragons.
Now, the universe was offering him his part in their legend.
The fear, confusion, and hopelessness of exile melted into anticipation. With power, he thought, everything changes.
The elite of Westeros were lions, wolves, and stags — each sharpened by privilege. But Viserys had lived like prey too long. That was about to end.
The glowing panel blinked again — an unopened card appeared: a single golden question mark.
Viserys exhaled slowly and touched it.
The card flipped.
A black dragon appeared on its surface, scales darker than coal, eyes burning sickly green, radiating hunger and malice.
[Talent: The Glutton]
Gain power through eating. Consuming magical or extraordinary creatures grants stronger effects.
Viserys's lips parted in awe. The Glutton — homage to the legendary wild dragon who devoured its own kind.
The ancient beast had feasted on the corpses of dead dragons, hatchlings, even unhatched eggs. Terrifying, unstoppable.
Training like a knight would take him years. This, however... was a shortcut.
If he could grow stronger by devouring—then he would eat his way to power.
He dropped Daenerys off in her room and slipped into the kitchen.
The shelves were modest — basic supplies rather than a king's feast. Still, the exiled prince studied them like a scholar at war.
Most of the food was from the sea: smoked sturgeon, pickled crab, plump oysters, and shelled mussels. Meat was rare in Braavos—imported from the mainland and sold at a high price.
Braavos thrived on trade and mining, not pastures. Unlike Westeros's manor estates, every bite of meat here cost dearly.
"Your Grace," the cook greeted him, unsurprised. Viserys often came here to cook for himself. She thought it pitiful — a noble reduced to kitchen labor. To her, this prince had lost his will.
Cooking was for servants. A true lord of Westeros belonged on the battlefield, not behind a pot.
Viserys caught the flicker of disdain in her eyes but let it pass. Soon, she would learn her mistake.
When she left, the kitchen was his alone.
He began to eat.
Sturgeon. Crab. Oyster. Cake.
Each dish vanished, but nothing happened—until he tasted the sea snail.
It was rich, salty, and alive with flavor. The moment it slid down his throat, warmth surged through his limbs.
[Strength ↑]
Viserys grinned.
He devoured the rest of the snails in seconds, savoring the burn that followed. The panel pulsed once more, confirming the gain.
To be safe, he experimented—more fish, more crab, shrimp. Nothing.
Only the sea snail worked.
Turns out, even this new gift was picky. The Glutton would reward only the rare, the vital, the living.
Sea snails were Braavos's treasure — prized for their dye and flavor, valued more by merchants than chefs. Even he couldn't afford to eat them often.
"Then I'll just become rich enough," he murmured, eyes bright. "Rich enough to feast like a dragon."
Because for the first time in his cursed life, power finally had a taste.