The atmosphere within the manse had curdled. The air was thick with the scent of boiled herbs and the cloying, sweet smell of a body surrendering to decay. On his sickbed, Ser Willem Darry was no longer a knight; he was a ruin of gray hair and labored breaths, his legendary strength reduced to a flicker of light in a drafty hall.
His longsword and yew bow hung on the wall, gathering dust. They were artifacts of a lost age, as useless to the dying man as they were to the children he protected.
The Braavosi healer withdrew his hand from the knight's brow, his face a mask of professional resignation. "My arts are spent here," he whispered, casting a wary glance at Viserys's Valyrian features. He saw only a high-born Lysene boy, not the heir to a throne. "The gods have called for his flame. He will not see another sunset."
"Your honesty is appreciated," Viserys replied. He pressed a silver coin into the doctor's palm—a heavy piece minted with the iron-crowned face of the Titan.
The steward, standing in the shadows of the doorway, didn't watch the doctor. He watched the coin. His eyes gleamed with a predatory greed that he no longer bothered to mask. He knew the master-at-arms was a corpse in all but name, and once that name was gone, the gold beneath the bed would belong to the swiftest hand.
Rhaenys stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the steward. She saw the twitch in his jaw, the way he calculated the value of the silver. Beside her, Daenerys clutched a tattered blanket, her eyes wide with a confusion she was too young to voice.
"Braavos is a city of salt and coin," Viserys thought, his expression as still as a frozen lake. "Here, the blood of kings is worth less than the credit of a merchant. They think us weak because we have no army. They forget that the smallest blade, if placed correctly, can fell a giant."
As the sun dipped below the jagged horizon of the city, the manse grew cold. Whale oil candles were lit, casting long, dancing shadows across the faded Myr carpets.
Viserys sat in a high-backed chair, the center of a silent vigil. He looked frail, his shoulders slumped in a display of grief that felt entirely authentic to the vultures watching him.
"Your Grace," the steward said, stepping forward with a veneer of concerned humility. "You and the little princesses must eat. Shall I have the cook prepare a broth? It is a cold night, and you have been at his side for hours."
Viserys had spent weeks preparing for this moment. He had frequented the kitchens, playing the part of a boy obsessed with gourmet comforts. He had specifically requested a thick butter-mushroom soup for the late-night vigils, ensuring the servants grew accustomed to the habit.
"Yes," Viserys murmured, his voice weary. "The mushroom soup I selected. There is plenty in the larder. Ensure the staff has their fill as well—you have all worked hard during this trial."
The steward bowed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He signaled the cook, who grumbled under her breath about serving "beggar brats" while the old man was still warm. They saw this as one last act of service before they vanished into the Braavosi night with the Targaryen treasury.
The cook retreated to the kitchen, followed closely by the one-eared cat, Balerion. Through the feline's eyes, Rhaenys watched as the woman stirred the pot, oblivious to the pale, blood-spotted caps Viserys had subtly introduced to the pantry.
"If I do not eat them, they will eat me," Viserys thought, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
Moments later, the scent of savory butter and earth wafted through the house. In the servant's quarters, the steward, the laundress, and the cook fell upon the bowls with the gluttony of those who believed they had already won. The soup was rich, delicious, and seasoned with a lethal precision.
Inside the sickroom, Ser Willem stirred. His blind eyes fluttered. "Wine..." he wheezed. "The tart red... from the Riverlands."
It was a peasant's drink, sour as tears, but it held the taste of the home he had lost. Viserys poured a glass, the liquid dark and bitter. He took a sip himself—a silent communion with the dying man—before pressing the cup to the knight's lips.
"Good... good wine," Willem whispered, falling back into a final, fevered dream.
Then came the sound from the outer hall.
Clang.
A brass bowl hit the floor. Viserys stood, his movements slow and deliberate. He walked to the door and looked out.
The steward was slumped against the wall, his face the color of wet ash. He clutched his chest, his eyes bulging as his heart began to thrash like a trapped bird. Across from him, the cook was on her knees, clawing at her throat, her mouth opening in a silent scream she no longer had the breath to utter.
Viserys watched them die with the cold, detached interest of a master playing a winning move. The weight of the world was shifting. He felt the Glutton within him stir, sensing the transition of power.
The wolves had come for the sheep, but they had found a dragon waiting in the dark.