Chapter 10: The Alleys' Whisper and the Silent Hand of Coin
The subtle inquiry from the Iron Bank's periphery had settled like a sliver of ice in Viserys's mind, a constant, low-humming alarm beneath the surface of his daily calculations. It was a reminder that Braavos, for all its labyrinthine anonymity, was a city of interconnected nerves, and even the faintest tremor on the web could attract unseen predators. His operations, while still nascent, were growing, and with growth came visibility, however unwelcome. Alistair Finch, the historian, knew that empires often crumbled not from external assault, but from internal rot or the unforeseen consequences of their own expansion. Viserys, the burgeoning king, was determined his fledgling enterprise would not suffer such a fate.
His immediate response was to deepen the shadows around himself. He instructed Joss Hood, with even greater emphasis, to ensure Narbo and his other "clients" maintained absolute silence regarding their "advisor." The story was to be one of their own newfound business acumen, perhaps a lucky streak, or even divine favor – anything but the truth of a preternaturally gifted child pulling their strings. He knew it was a flimsy shield, especially given Narbo's tendency towards bibulous boasting, but it was the best he could do for now.
More strategically, Viserys began to diversify his information streams and create more intricate cutouts. His network of "Little Sparrows," the street urchins, became less a loose confederation and more a structured intelligence-gathering unit, albeit one whose members remained blissfully unaware of the true extent or purpose of their collective efforts. Kipp, the one-eyed boy, his loyalty cemented by Viserys's consistent, if small, rewards and the occasional shared piece of fruit or warm bread, was elevated to a more trusted position.
Viserys began to "train" Kipp, not in any formal sense, but through carefully guided conversations and tasks. When Kipp brought him a rumor, Viserys would ask probing questions: "Who told you this, Kipp? Were they sober? Did anyone else hear? What did they not say?" He taught the boy the value of observation, of listening more than speaking, of noticing details others missed – the sigil on a rich man's ring, the nervous tic of a merchant making a deal, the subtle shift in the City Guard's patrol routes.
One evening, in a quiet alcove near the Arsenal, Viserys pressed a small, well-balanced throwing knife into Kipp's hand. It wasn't a weapon of aggression, but of defense. "Braavos can be a dangerous place for those who see too much," Viserys said, his voice low. "This is for protection, Kipp. Learn its feel. Be quick, be unseen. Some shadows have teeth." He then showed the boy a few simple, effective defensive moves, his own movements fluid and precise, a startling display of controlled power that made Kipp's good eye widen further. It was a risk, arming even a loyal subordinate, but Viserys calculated that Kipp's increased usefulness and ability to protect himself – and by extension, Viserys's information network – outweighed the danger. Kipp, who had known only the brutality of the streets, looked at the knife, then at Viserys, a fierce, almost worshipful loyalty dawning in his gaze. He was no longer just an urchin; he was an agent, however rudimentary, of a hidden power.
This careful cultivation of his network soon bore fruit, leading to a new, more significant opportunity, and with it, a more sophisticated challenge. Narbo, ever the garrulous fool when his cups were full, had, despite Joss's best efforts, let slip to a more prominent merchant some vague allusions to an "oracle of finance" who had blessed his endeavors. This merchant was Ferrego Antaryon, a younger son of a moderately wealthy Braavosi trading family known for their shrewdness and ambition. House Antaryon dealt in more than just local commodities; their ships plied the routes to Pentos, Myr, and even distant Volantis. Ferrego, eager to make his own mark and suspicious of Narbo's sudden acumen, began his own discreet inquiries.
He didn't approach Joss directly. Instead, a message found its way to Narbo, a polite but firm invitation to discuss a potential joint venture, with a pointed request that Narbo bring his "esteemed financial counsel" to a preliminary, private meeting. Narbo, terrified of offending House Antaryon and equally terrified of Viserys's wrath if he mishandled the situation, came to Joss in a state of near panic.
Viserys listened to Joss's relayed account with cold calculation. This was a significant escalation. Ferrego Antaryon was not a desperate, disorganized fool like Narbo or Malatso. He was a player in a larger game, likely intelligent, observant, and not easily fooled. To refuse a meeting might arouse suspicion, to attend directly was unthinkable.
"Ferrego Antaryon does not seek a child prodigy to balance his ledgers, Joss," Viserys said, his voice quiet as he paced their small main room, Daenerys watching him with wide, curious eyes from her corner where she was meticulously arranging seashells into patterns. "He smells profit, and he seeks the source. He likely believes Narbo has stumbled upon a more experienced, hidden advisor – perhaps a disgraced banker, or a Westerosi exile with useful connections."
His solution was to create another layer of obfuscation. He would not attend. Joss would go, not as a mere messenger, but as the purported "trusted agent" of this mysterious advisor. Viserys spent an entire evening coaching Joss, drilling him on what to say, how to act – dignified, discreet, knowledgeable but revealing little. Viserys provided Joss with a carefully curated portfolio of insights regarding Antaryon's known trade routes, potential market instabilities in the Disputed Lands, and a surprisingly accurate (and slightly inflated) valuation of a recent Antaryon cargo of Summer Islander spices. This information, gleaned from Viserys's web of informants and Alistair's analytical prowess, was designed to impress Ferrego with the advisor's reach and acumen, without revealing anything personal.
The meeting, held in a private chamber at the Antaryon family's imposing manse near the Palace of Truth, was a tense affair. Joss, terrified but resolute, stuck to Viserys's script. Ferrego Antaryon, a man in his late twenties with keen, assessing eyes and the predatory stillness of a water dancer, listened intently. He asked pointed questions, testing Joss's knowledge, probing for weaknesses. Joss, relying on Viserys's detailed briefing, managed to answer with a semblance of confidence, always deflecting personal inquiries about his "master" by emphasizing the advisor's desire for absolute anonymity.
Ferrego was intrigued. The information Joss provided was undeniably valuable, specific, and in some cases, known only to a few within his own House. He proposed a trial venture: the Antaryons were considering a large shipment of timber from Qohor to Myr, where recent fires had created a sudden demand. Ferrego asked for the "advisor's" assessment of the risks, the optimal pricing, and potential pitfalls.
Joss returned to Viserys, sweating and exhausted, but with a detailed account of the meeting and Ferrego's proposal. Viserys saw the opportunity. This was a far larger scale than Narbo's fish or Sylas's dyes. Success here would mean a significant infusion of capital. Failure, however, could bring the unwelcome attention of a powerful Braavosi family.
For two days, Viserys immersed himself in the problem. He sent Kipp and his other sparrows to gather every scrap of information about the Qohorik timber trade, Myrish reconstruction efforts, potential pirate activity along the Narrow Sea routes, and even the current political climate within the feuding artisan guilds of Myr who would be the primary buyers. Alistair Finch's mind became a whirlwind of logistical calculations, risk assessments, and profit projections. He factored in shipping costs, insurance (a Braavosi invention he understood well), currency fluctuations, and the notoriously fickle nature of Myrish politics.
He then provided Joss with a detailed, multi-page analysis for Ferrego. It recommended specific Qohorik suppliers, optimal shipping routes that bypassed known pirate hunting grounds (information gleaned from a drunken sailor's tale), a staggered pricing strategy for the Myrish guilds, and even a contingency plan involving diverting part of the cargo to Tyrosh if the Myrish market proved unexpectedly volatile. He also included a subtle warning about a particular Qohorik customs official known for demanding exorbitant "facilitation fees," and a suggestion on how to discreetly circumvent him.
Ferrego Antaryon, upon receiving the analysis via Joss, was reportedly stunned into silence for a full minute. The depth, precision, and foresight of the report were far beyond anything he had expected. He agreed to the venture, following the "advisor's" recommendations to the letter. And he agreed to Joss's cautiously proposed commission for the anonymous counsel: a significant, though still modest, percentage of the net profits.
While these intricate games of commerce and information unfolded, Daenerys remained Viserys's most constant, and in some ways, most challenging responsibility. She was growing rapidly, her mind as quick and inquisitive as his own had been at that age, before Alistair's awakening. She was now nearly six, and her questions about their past, their family, and their strange, isolated life in Braavos became more pointed, more difficult to deflect with simple answers.
"Vizzy," she asked one afternoon, as he was teaching her the sigils of the Great Houses of Westeros, using charcoal to draw them on a piece of smoothed driftwood. She pointed to the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. "That's us. You said we were kings and queens. Why are we here, in this small house? Why don't we have a castle, like in the stories Ser Willem told?"
Viserys looked into her earnest violet eyes, so like their mother's. He could not tell her the full, brutal truth of Aerys's madness, Rhaegar's folly, the Sack of King's Landing, Elia's murder. Not yet. She was too young, too fragile for such horrors. But he also knew he could not feed her empty platitudes. He needed her to understand the injustice, to nurture the seed of their shared destiny.
"Bad men stole our home, Dany," he said, his voice carefully modulated. "Jealous men who feared our power, our name. They killed many of our family. Ser Willem brought us here to keep us safe, to hide us until we are strong enough to take back what is ours."
"Will we fight them?" she asked, her small chin set with a surprising determination. "With dragons?" Her eyes shone at the thought.
"One day, little sister," Viserys said, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. "One day, there will be dragons again. And we will remind the world what it means to oppose House Targaryen. But for now, our weapons are our minds, our cunning, and our will to survive. You must learn, Dany. Learn everything I teach you. Your mind must be as sharp as any Valyrian steel blade." He saw the flicker of understanding, the nascent Targaryen fire in her gaze, and he felt a grim satisfaction. He was forging her, just as he was forging himself.
His own physical training in the Titan underworks became more intense, more daring. The near-constant thrum of the super-soldier serum demanded an outlet, and the primal power of the X-gene craved testing. He began to explore the deeper, more unstable sections of the ruins, places where the ancient stonework groaned under the immense weight of the sea and centuries. He practiced scaling sheer, crumbling walls using only his claws and the incredible strength in his limbs, his movements a blur of controlled power. He learned to navigate by the faintest echoes, the subtle shifts in air currents, his senses amplified to an almost preternatural degree.
One day, while exploring a partially collapsed chamber deep within the Titan's leg, the floor suddenly gave way beneath him. He plunged into darkness, a shower of rock and debris raining down around him. He twisted in mid-air, his reflexes instantaneous, and managed to extend his claws, sinking them deep into a rotting wooden beam that miraculously held his weight just inches above a jagged bed of fallen stone. He hung there for a moment, his heart hammering, the scent of dust and decay filling his nostrils. The beam groaned ominously. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he hauled himself up, muscles straining, and scrambled to a more solid ledge, his hands and knees scraped raw despite his tough skin.
Lying there, panting in the darkness, he examined his injuries by the faint light filtering through a crack in the ceiling. The abrasions were already beginning to knit, the familiar tingling of his healing factor at work. This time, however, he focused his will, trying to slow the healing, to observe it more closely. Alistair Finch, the scientist, was intrigued. Could he control it? Modulate it? It seemed less an active process he could direct and more an intrinsic, relentless function of his biology. But the very act of focusing on it seemed to give him a greater awareness of the energy flow within his own body. He realized, with a start, that the pain from the impact, which should have been significant, was already fading to a dull ache. His resilience was truly extraordinary. This incident, while terrifying, was also instructive. He was powerful, yes, but not invincible. Recklessness was a luxury he could not afford.
The venture with Ferrego Antaryon proved astonishingly successful. The Qohorik timber, secured at favorable prices thanks to Viserys's intel, reached Myr just as the rebuilding efforts hit peak demand. The staggered pricing strategy maximized profits, and the warning about the corrupt official saved Antaryon a significant sum in bribes. Ferrego was ecstatic. The commission paid to Joss (and swiftly passed to Viserys) was more gold than their household had seen since fleeing Dragonstone.
With this new influx of capital, Viserys began to think more strategically about their long-term security. He had Joss discreetly purchase the small house with the red door, using a portion of the Antaryon money. Ownership, even of such a humble dwelling, provided a measure of stability, a tangible asset. He also had Lyra begin setting aside a portion of their earnings, converting it into small, easily concealable gems – diamonds, rubies – a more portable and less traceable form of wealth than coins. Alistair Finch knew that in times of upheaval, hard assets were king.
Joss and Morrec, their roles evolving, became more than just bodyguards. Joss, despite his initial bewilderment, proved a surprisingly adept and trustworthy agent, his loyalty to Viserys and Daenerys absolute. Morrec, still taciturn, became their silent enforcer, his grim presence enough to deter most casual threats in their neighborhood. Viserys began to subtly train them further, teaching Joss basic codes for messages, instructing Morrec in more sophisticated methods of surveillance and counter-surveillance. He was forging them into the first officers of his invisible army.
News from Westeros, delivered through Kipp's expanding network, remained a dark cloud on their horizon. Robert Baratheon, it was said, was growing fat and complacent on the Iron Throne, but his hatred for Targaryens remained undiminished. Stannis Baratheon, now Lord of Dragonstone, was rumored to be building a new fleet, his ambition a cold, patient fire. And whispers spoke of unease in the North, of quiet resentment among some of the Stark bannermen over Lyanna's fate and the outcome of the Rebellion. Westeros was a slumbering volcano, and Viserys knew that one day, he would be the one to reawaken its fires.
The "silent hand of coin," as Viserys thought of his growing financial influence, was slowly but surely tightening its grip on their small corner of Braavos. He was no longer just reacting to circumstance; he was shaping it, bending it to his will through intellect, information, and a ruthlessness that was becoming second nature. He was building a foundation, stone by painstaking stone, for the day he would finally step out of the alleys' whisper and reclaim his name, his throne.
Yet, with each success, with each expansion of his web, came a deeper understanding of the solitude of his position. He could trust no one fully, not even Joss or Morrec, with the entirety of his knowledge, his powers, his plans. Daenerys was his blood, his future, but she was still a child. Alistair Finch's vast intellect, his centuries of accumulated knowledge, resided within him, an isolating burden. He was a king in waiting, surrounded by loyal but uncomprehending servants, his true nature a secret that, if revealed, could destroy everything he was working to build.
As he lay on his pallet one night, the sounds of Braavos a muted symphony outside their now-owned red door, Daenerys breathing softly beside him, Viserys stared into the darkness. The path ahead was long, fraught with peril. But for the first time, he felt a sense of tangible progress, of real power accumulating, however silently, in his hands. The echoes in the vaults of the Iron Bank had been a warning, but also a spur. He would be more careful, more cunning. He would ensure that when the great powers of the world finally turned their full attention his way, they would find not a beggar prince, but a dragon whose roots had grown deep and whose reach was already far longer than they could ever imagine. The game of thrones was being played on many levels, and Viserys Targaryen was mastering them all, one shadowy move at a time.