The courtyard was silent but for the soft trickle of water from the marble fountain and the distant cry of gulls wheeling over the Braavosi rooftops. The sun had gone down behind the spires of the city, leaving behind a sky stained with hues of fire and ash. Shadows clung to the stone like old regrets.
Viserys Targaryen sat on the cold bench near the well, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, rinsing dried blood from his hands. The water was red for a moment, then pink, then clear. His palms were raw, scraped from where he had caught himself in the dirt during the duel. The bruises on his ribs were beginning to darken, as were the ones across his arms, stark against the pale silver of his skin.
He winced as he moved, but the pain was not unwelcome. It anchored him—reminded him that this was no fever dream. Oberyn Martell had come. Oberyn Martell had tested him. And he had not broken.
When Ser Willem Darry appeared, he bore two earthenware cups in his hands, the scent of watered wine wafting softly from them. The old knight's eyes found Viserys's injuries immediately, but he said nothing at first, only offered him a cup and took the bench beside him with a grunt.
"For your courage," he said at last.
Viserys took the wine, his knuckles stiff. "It was not courage," he murmured. "I was terrified."
Ser Willem snorted. "That's as good a measure of it as any."
They drank in silence for a time, the air cooling around them. A breeze stirred the leaves in the courtyard garden, rustling like whispers between old stones.
"I'll not lie to you, lad," Ser Willem said at length. "Gods help me, I thought he'd break you. He came at you with all the fire of Dorne behind him. There was a moment—I had my hand on the hilt—I nearly stepped in."
Viserys said nothing. He was still remembering the way Oberyn had moved—like a serpent striking, every blow a question, every feint a jest with a knife's edge.
"But you didn't," he said.
"No. Because you didn't yield." Willem's voice was quiet now, almost reverent. "In all the years I've known you, I've never seen you like that. Focused. Hungry."
The old knight turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed as if seeing the boy anew.
"You're no knight yet," he said. "But I begin to see a man."
Viserys lowered his gaze. Praise from Ser Willem was rare and hard-won. Yet it left him uneasy, as though he were borrowing a title he had not earned.
"There's something I've been thinking on," Willem said after a pause. "And after today… I think it's time we spoke of it plainly."
He set his empty cup aside and folded his hands over his knee. "If you're serious about this path—this path of blades and blood, of honor and burden—then I must offer you more than drills and bruises. A sword is not enough. Nor even training."
Viserys looked up sharply.
"I would have you as my squire."
The words hung in the air between them, weighted and strange.
"A squire?" Viserys echoed.
"I cannot make you a page, Your Grace. That would be beneath you. But neither can I name you knight. Not yet. Knighthood is sacred. It is a vow taken not in pride but in sacrifice."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You are a king in exile. But if you would command knights, you must understand what it means to be one."
For a moment, the old fire flared within him. A squire? The word stung like a slap. He was Viserys of House Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, not some hedge knight's cup-bearer. His pride reared its head, hot and snarling, whispering of thrones and crowns and the injustice of bowing to anyone. His jaw clenched, fists curling tight around the cup in his hands. But then he breathed—slow, steady, deep. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He called upon the stillness he'd begun to practice each night, the quiet place within where fury could not reach. Basic Meditation (Novice), his mind whispered, almost mockingly. Yet it worked. The fury ebbed like a receding tide, and in its wake came clarity. Ser Willem was not belittling him. This was not humiliation—it was a path. Not downward, but forward.
Viserys considered that. In his other life, he would have laughed, perhaps raged, at the thought of serving another man, even for a time. He had demanded crowns and obedience, not tasks and humility. But now…
Now he thought of Oberyn, whose eyes had bored into his soul, and of Arianne Martell, whose name was a whisper of alliance and danger. He thought of Rhaegar, whose memory stood like a monument before him.
"I am not too proud," he said softly. "Not anymore."
Ser Willem's face softened. "Then let it be done properly. In the morning, we'll go to the Sept of Braavos. If we are to bind ourselves in duty, let it be before gods, not just men."
Viserys nodded, a strange feeling blooming in his chest. It was not joy, nor pride. It was something deeper. A sense of purpose.
"I would like that," he said.
The knight stood, his joints creaking with age and war. "Good. Then we rise early. And tonight—rest. You've earned that much."
That night, Viserys sat alone in his chamber, sharpening his blade by candlelight. The steel rasped softly against the whetstone, a steady rhythm that matched the cadence of his thoughts.
The old Viserys—the boy-king in exile, strutting and screaming, demanding a throne for which he had neither the sword nor the spine—would never have accepted squireship. He would have called it an insult.
But that Viserys was gone. Or dying, at least.
He thought of Elia Martell, and the children crushed beneath Gregor Clegane's mailed fists. He thought of Oberyn's veiled eyes and how close they had danced to truth and fury in the yard. He thought of Ser Willem, who had knelt beside him in exile and never left his side.
To command hearts, he must show his own. To win swords, he must sharpen more than steel.
He ran the blade one final time over the stone, then whispered aloud, "Let the world see that I am a real dragon."
The morning broke misty and pale, the streets of Braavos veiled in a silver fog. The bells of the city chimed softly as Viserys and Ser Willem made their way through the narrow alleys and wide bridges, passing fishmongers setting up their stalls and beggars dozing on stoops.
Willem walked ahead, broad-shouldered and silent, his boots echoing on the wet stones. But Viserys no longer lagged behind. He walked with purpose, every step another oath.
The Sept stood near the western harbor, its dome rising from the morning haze like a promise of light. Though the Faith of the Seven was not strong in Braavos, the Sept was well-tended, a refuge for Westerosi pilgrims and knights of solemn heart.
They climbed the steps together.
At the top, Willem paused and turned. He placed a hand on Viserys's shoulder, his gaze steady.
"Are you ready?"
Viserys looked at the heavy wooden doors, then back at the man who had taught him how to hold a sword, and perhaps, how to hold himself.
"No," he said. "But I will be."
And then he stepped forward.
The Sept of Braavos loomed before him, its ancient stones veined with salt and shadow, the doors carved with likenesses of the Seven. Viserys stepped inside beside Ser Willem, and at once the scent of incense and old candles wrapped around him like a forgotten memory. The light within was dim, filtered through stained glass that cast shards of red, gold, and blue across the floor. As he crossed the threshold, something struck him—not a sound, not a sight, but a sensation, vast and trembling. His breath caught. It was the same presence he had felt on that night in the alley, when the world had gone still and he had touched something greater than himself—something divine. The weight of it pressed gently against his chest, not heavy, but infinite. His knees almost buckled. He is watching.