The candles in the Red Door manor burned bright that night, their flame scent thick with exotic spice.
The glow fell on the embroidered red dragon crest of the young king in exile — Viserys Targaryen, silver hair glinting faintly as he stood amid the flickering shadows. In another life, those same symbols had commanded armies, crowned princes, and ruled seven kingdoms. Now, they left faint reflections on stone walls in a foreign city.
The courtesan known as the Swordswoman could not help but admire the portrait before her. Life had treated this boy-king with merciless irony — to lose the world and smile anyway required a kind of dignity few possessed.
Westeros and Essos, she knew, were divided by the Narrow Sea but bound by its tides. Hundreds had crossed one way or the other — exiles, fugitives, and sell-swords.
Viserys also knew the kinds of men who washed ashore in these Free Cities.
The first kind were the defeated — dispossessed lords, loyalists, political casualties, all clinging to old dreams of home. The second were the damned — murderers, poachers, smugglers, and pirates, the discarded refuse of Westeros.
Both kinds were dangerous. Only one kind was useful.
He wanted the first: the loyalists, the remnants of the royalist cause who still remembered the dragons. But they were few — most had died in Robert's Rebellion, taken the black, or found new masters.
"The knights of Westeros," the Swordswoman repeated, watching him closely. Amusement glinted in her eyes. "You still dream of them — and your throne."
"Dream?" Viserys said calmly. "It's simply unfinished business."
She smiled faintly. The boy was handsome, proud, and utterly idealistic. But she couldn't help wondering if he understood the scale of what he claimed — a land of millions, armies of hundreds of thousands, against one boy with a sword and a starving purse.
Still, there was something magnetic in that kind of delusion.
"I'll see what I can do," she said, after a pause. "It won't be easy. But perhaps…"
Viserys's face softened with gratitude — genuine, though measured.
Courtesans of Braavos wove information through their relationships like pearls in a strand. Through nobles, merchants, officers, and assassins, their influence knotted the city together. The more renowned the woman, the wider her web.
For the Swordswoman, arranging introductions, passing messages, brokering quiet favors — all that came easily. It was business wrapped in grace. Tonight's "gift" was simply part of that exchange.
"But before I can find a Westerosi knight with your qualifications," she continued, "allow me to offer something sooner."
Viserys raised an eyebrow. "Something sooner?"
"A teacher," she said. "A water dancer."
Viserys blinked. "Truly?"
"The gift of a courtesan ought to be useful, don't you think?" Her tone was playful, but the offer was genuine.
He almost laughed. A free master-at-arms, handed to me on a platter. Now he understood why men risked everything for these women — they dealt in generosity that always came with strings of silk instead of chains.
"Then I'm most grateful," he said, bowing slightly.
Sisa, sitting nearby with a cup of red wine, perked up. "And where, my lady, will you find such a dancer? They're rare, even here."
"Not so far." The Swordswoman's lips curved upward. She pointed toward the corner, where her silent, bearded guard stood, motionless as stone.
"Lord Viserys," she said, "this is Moro. My protector — and now, your teacher."
"What?" Viserys began. "That's far too generous—"
"Think nothing of it," she interrupted smoothly. "Until I locate your knight, he can train you in the Water Dance. It's unlike your iron-clad wars, but its lessons may serve you."
Viserys hesitated. "And who will keep you safe?"
She smiled, leisurely drawing a curve along the rim of her glass. "My kind never lack for guardians. There's always another blade eager to serve. That's our charm, Your Grace."
She wasn't wrong. In this city, courtesans rarely walked alone. Admirers, rivals, and fools would all kill in their names.
Sisa chuckled. "And you, Moro? Do you agree to this arrangement?"
The bearded swordsman finally spoke, his voice deep and rough. "If my lady commands it, so be it. But tell me, will there be this kind of food every day?"
"There will be," the Swordswoman said warmly. "His Grace is a most generous host."
Sisa laughed. "Then it's settled! Take him, Your Grace. You need the protection."
Viserys saw it now — a perfect collision of opportunity and necessity. Moro would be both sword arm and teacher. Whatever loyalty the man had was to his lady, not to gold, but that was fine.
He would take what he could get.
"I accept," Viserys said. "And you, my friends, shall dine here again soon — on better wine, if I can find it."
Sisa lifted his cup. "Ha! Spoken like a true Braavosi now. The city loves a man who feeds it."
As they toasted, Viserys let himself savor the moment.
This — this was the beginning. His first real alliance, fragile though it was. His first companion, his first teacher, his first network.
Every empire, he realized, begins not with power — but with people.
"The Swordswoman's generosity humbles me," he said, his tone sincere and smooth.
Her eyes glinted with humor. "Don't thank me yet. The Water Dance rarely ends the way one expects."
Viserys smiled. "I'll take my chances."
Cups clinked, and laughter followed, light and deceptive.
But beneath it all, Viserys Targaryen's heart beat faster.
It wasn't much — a courtesan's gift, a Braavosi swordsman, and a promise.
Yet for him, this was everything:
A foothold.
A beginning.
A step back toward destiny.
The boy-king in exile finally had something the usurper's throne could not take from him — momentum.