The Sound of Silence - (Viserys SI)

[Daario]

PROLOGUE​

---

289 AC, Braavos, The Darry Manse.

The rain in Braavos never truly ceased; it merely took pause before drenching the city once more in liquid grief. Beyond the thick stone walls, the patter of water against the slate roof sounded a dull, endless rhythm, yet within the chamber, heavy with the scent of herbal poultices and must, the silence was deafening.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a few candles burned low in their sockets, casting long, dancing shadows upon walls where the plaster had begun to peel.

"My prince?"

Ser Willem Darry's voice broke the stillness. It was frail, brittle, as though every syllable drained the last dregs of his life. Yet, the tone remained gentle, filled with a devotion that pained Viserys Targaryen to hear. It felt like a blade parting the skin softly, painful, yet done with the utmost care.

Viserys sat upon the edge of the bed, his back rigid. Ser Willem's skin, once as tough as old oak, was now pale, sallow, and thin as ancient parchment, his facial bones jutting starkly in the candlelight.

"Do you require anything, Ser Willem?" Viserys asked. His voice sounded too young, too delicate. Viserys was four-and-ten, stranded in a realm he did not know, the realm of death, and he could do nothing but watch as the only soul in the world who cared for him was about to be snatched away.

"I... I only wished to hear your voice, my prince. Forgive me, for my sight has grown dim."

The old man lay upon a rotting mattress, the rough linens reeking of cold sweat. Ser Willem's great hand, a hand that had once wielded a sword to shield kings, now groped tremulously at the air before finding Viserys's own. He clasped Viserys's hand with the grip of a babe seeking purchase on life, strong, desperate, as if fearing that should he let go, the Prince would be swallowed by the shadows.

Viserys did not withdraw. He allowed his slender, pale fingers to be engulfed by the knight's rough grasp. Gently, Viserys brought the old man's palm to his forehead, allowing Ser Willem to feel his physical presence.

"I am here, Ser Willem. Do not stir yourself so. Or you shall tire," Viserys whispered.

Willem Darry's face slackened, the furrows of pain upon his brow smoothing for a moment. "Warm... so warm," Ser Willem murmured, his eyes glazing over as he stared up at the dark ceiling, perhaps seeing a past where all was well.

Viserys remained there, still as a statue, listening as the old man's breathing grew heavier and rattled, like the sound of wind whistling through a blocked chimney.

...

Moments later, when Ser Willem's breath turned to the snoring of fitful slumber, Viserys withdrew his hand slowly, fearful of waking his protector. He rose from the hard wooden chair, his joints stiff.

Viserys slipped from the man's chamber, closing the timber door with a click that was barely audible. In the chill of the hallway, he leaned against the stone. His eyes were red, hot, and stinging, yet he permitted not a single tear to fall. Weeping was a luxury not afforded to a dragon, or at least, that was what this world demanded of him.

Since his arrival in this world, Willem was the first to gaze upon him with pure affection. Not because he was the 'Last Dragon' to be worshipped, but because he was a boy who had lost everything. The servants in this manse viewed him differently; there was pity, yes, but also a glint of avarice, impatience, and something else entirely, like wolves waiting for the campfire to die down before they pounced.

Viserys trod down the dim corridor toward the bathing chamber. The stone floor felt cold through the thin soles of his boots. This House with the Red Door was vast, yet it felt hollow, as if the very soul of the building had fallen ill alongside its master.

Stepping into the modest chamber, Viserys saw a basin filled with clean water. Without hesitation, he cupped his hands, gathering the cold liquid and dashing it against his face.

The bite of the water stung his skin, shocking his nerves. It was bracing, scattering his chaotic thoughts if only for a heartbeat. It felt as though he could scrub away this burdensome noble identity and return to being Mark.

Drop by drop, water fell from his face back into the basin, creating small ripples that disturbed the reflection on the surface. Viserys braced himself against the rim of the basin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked down, staring at his own visage.

There, upon the wavering water, was a youth with features so symmetrical they felt unreal. Wet silver-gold hair plastered to his forehead, high, sharp cheekbones, and alien purple eyes. The face had recently sprouted a few spots, a human sign of puberty upon a countenance that looked carved from marble.

He had been in this body for five moons, yet he still felt a strangeness when beholding the stranger in the reflection. As a graphic designer, Mark was accustomed to judging aesthetics, proportion, and color. The face of Viserys Targaryen was a masterpiece of character design, too beautiful, too conspicuous, a walking target.

He was not truly the original Viserys Targaryen, but a man who had recently entered university named Mark.

Memories of his old life flickered like a damaged film reel. Mark had no parents; he had lived in an orphanage all his life. He was used to sterile white-painted walls, not the ancient stones of Braavos. He was used to computer screens and graphic tablets, not swords and histories of conquest. Mark had been fortunate enough to secure a scholarship to pursue higher education, chasing his dreams in the world of visual arts.

He had toiled for that alone, staying awake for nights on end to complete his portfolio, scrimping on meals to buy equipment. Yet it had all vanished. Not by some dramatic accident, but simply due to a fever. A burning heat, and then darkness.

And when he opened his eyes, he was no longer a design student. He was the Beggar King.

The world was cruel, was it not? The irony of this fate tasted bitter upon his tongue. He had died of sickness in his previous life, only to live again and witness his sole protector die slowly of sickness as well.

Knock, knock, knock!

The soft rapping on the wooden door shattered his reverie. Viserys started, pulling himself back from the precipice of memory to this grim reality. He straightened his body, wiping his face with the sleeve of his fraying tunic.

"Yes?" he said, his voice attempting firmness, yet betraying a tremor.

"Viserys..."

The voice was soft, small, and filled with a worry that no child of her years should possess. Daenerys Targaryen.

"Is Ser Willem well?"

The question struck Viserys's chest harder than a warhammer. His heart felt as if it might tear loose. Daenerys was a sweet child, only five namedays old. In Mark's eyes, she was merely a toddler, an innocent little sister. She was not yet the Dragon Queen; she was not yet one who hungered for power. She was merely a little girl terrified of losing the roof over her head.

How could he explain to her that the man she regarded as a father was fading away in that room? That their last wall of protection was crumbling? That after this, they would be alone in a world that sought to slaughter them?

Viserys closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing the lump of emotion in his throat. He took a deep breath, calming his own racing heart, arranging his features so as not to look broken. He walked toward the door, gripping the cold iron handle.

Forcing a smile, a mask he was beginning to learn to wear, he opened the door.

Daenerys stood there. She looked so diminutive in the vast, shadowed corridor. Her silver hair was somewhat disheveled, and her large purple eyes gazed at Viserys with anxious hope. Her tiny hands clutched a doll made of cloth, the only toy she possessed, a simple thing far removed from the finery of a princess.

"Of course he will be well, Dany," Viserys said. The lie glided smoothly from his tongue, though it tasted like swallowing ash. He knelt to bring himself to her eye level.

"He is strong. He is the 'Old Bear', remember?" Viserys reached out, gently ruffling her silver hair, attempting to mimic the gestures of affection he had seen parents bestow upon their children in his past life.

Giggling softly, the anxiety on Daenerys's face melted away, replaced by a child's blind trust in her brother. She hugged her doll tighter to her chest. "I hope he recovers quickly. I wish to ask him to tell me more tales of Mother."

Viserys's hand froze in mid-air for a heartbeat. That innocent request pierced his heart. Their mother, Rhaella, had died bringing Daenerys into the world amidst a storm. And now, their surrogate father figure was leaving them as well. A history of loss, repeating itself.

He slowly unclenched his fingers, letting his hand fall to the tips of Daenerys's hair, touching the silver strands with profound sorrow. Mark looked at the little girl, seeing the fragility of her future, seeing the storm that awaited them beyond the doors of this house.

"I as well, Dany," Viserys whispered, his voice hoarse. "I as well."

 

[Daario]

A BAD PLAN​

---

The leather satchel slung across Viserys's shoulder pulled heavy, not merely due to the physical burden straining his muscles, but because of what lay within. Gold.

Concealed inside the pouch beneath his rough cloak were a thousand golden dragons. It was an absurd sum for a commoner, yet for a prince in exile, it was the slender thread between life and death. Viserys knew he could not continue to carry it. To hoard such treasure beneath a mattress in a rented manse was the height of folly, an open invitation to the notoriously slippery thieves of Braavos. Moreover, in the original tale, it was the servants who had stolen it. He would deal with them in due course.

His destination was clear: the Iron Bank.

Mark, now inhabiting the body of Viserys, thumbed the texture of the leather bag. His thoughts churned, not with dreams of the Iron Throne or conquest, but with sustainability. As a university student accustomed to living frugally on scholarship funds, Mark understood the concept of asset management. He would sequester this gold, secure it within an impenetrable vault of stone, and then find a way to make it turn. Investment. Trade. Something tangible. He still possessed many coins, perhaps eight thousand, along with jewelry, rubies, diamonds, and necklaces, but he would deposit them periodically, not all at once, lest he attract unwanted eyes.

This had to suffice as capital for a venture. In a world where swords determined power, Mark knew that coin was the only shield upon which one could truly rely.

He shook his head, attempting to banish the creeping anxiety. Viserys walked on, his pace measured so as not to appear hurried. Braavos was a bustling city, a labyrinth of canals and stone bridges that knew no slumber.

All around him, life pulsed with a mesmerizing intensity. Crowds ebbed and flowed, from oyster-mongers crying out in hoarse voices to men with slender swords walking with peacock arrogance. Viserys's eyes caught the glint of life in their gazes, hope, greed, exhaustion.

It looked breathtaking. Visually, the composition of the throng possessed a chaotic yet exquisite dynamism. If his heart were not currently laden with heavy burdens, he would have possessed the urge to paint them all. To capture the essence of this crowd upon canvas with oil paints.

The architecture and fashion here commanded the eye. The buildings of Braavos tended to loom vertical, hewn from sturdy grey stone to withstand the damp of the canals, a stark contrast to the modern world of glass and concrete Mark had once known. There was a rough texture to the walls, moss growing in the crevices of the stones providing natural green accents.

The garb of the populace held a unique palette as well. The wealthy donned somber hues, deep tyrian purple, sea-blue, and charcoal black, not the neon or pastel shades he was accustomed to seeing in modern fashion magazines. Their stitching patterns were intricate yet functional. It was a paradise for an artist seeking authentic inspiration.

Not really, his mind corrected. He still preferred his previous world. He missed the comfort of the internet, the ease of ordering food via an app, and most importantly, the security of knowing he would not be murdered simply because of his surname.

His steps halted. He had reached his destination.

Before him, one of the branches of the Iron Bank stood looming. It was not the massive main temple, yet it remained intimidating. The structure was of modest size, built of black stone that seemed to drink the surrounding light. There were no excessive ornaments, no statues. Only something solid, and cold. Above its arched entrance, words were chiseled neatly. Minimalist. Effective. Perfect branding for an institution that had no need to preen to demonstrate its power.

Viserys gripped the strap of his bag tighter, his knuckles turning white. He took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air mixed with the scent of metal, and stepped inside.

The interior of the building was a stark contrast to the clamor outside. Within, the atmosphere was hushed, cool, and smelling of old parchment and costly wax. The floors were of black marble polished to a sheen, reflecting the shadows of men like a dark mirror.

It was not crowded inside. Only a few well-dressed individuals, wealthy merchants or envoys of nobility, were discussing matters with tellers behind a long wooden counter. Their voices were low murmurs that did not echo, as if the walls of this chamber were designed to dampen secrets.

Viserys observed the queue for a moment, his eyes scanning the layout of the room. He chose an empty counter at the far end, where a woman was organizing a stack of parchment with tedious precision.

Viserys stepped closer. The woman looked up. Her face was flat, devoid of excessive emotion, typical of a bank clerk who had seen everything from beggars to rulers.

"May I be of service, Master?" the woman said. Her voice was polite, yet there was a sharpness there, as if she were appraising the value of the clothes Viserys wore in the blink of an eye.

Viserys straightened his back, attempting to project the aura of nobility that this body should have possessed naturally. "I wish to open an account for safe-keeping," Viserys said.

The woman folded her hands upon the table; not a single question regarding Viserys's name or origin was uttered. Her tone was monotonous, yet every word was spoken with the precision of a banker who had done this a thousand times.

"A savings account at the Iron Bank involves an annual storage fee, Master. Regarding security, your assets will be secured in stone vaults beneath the earth, sealed, and accessible only with a master key held by us and a spare key that you shall receive. This is to ensure dual security," the woman explained.

Viserys nodded, absorbing every key point. The teller then pushed forward several sheets of thick parchment and a quill.

"Please fill in all the necessary fields. Write clearly."

Viserys accepted the quill, his hand feeling slightly stiff as he began to write upon the parchment. After filling nearly all the columns, he paused, his eyes scrutinizing the small lines in the contract; the typography seemed unnervingly neat.

"What is the procedure if I wish to withdraw a portion of these deposits in the future?"

The teller glanced briefly at the document. "For withdrawals, you must be present physically. We will verify your signature, comparing it with the authentic seal you use at the opening."

After Viserys finished filling out the forms and handed them back, the woman extended her hand, signaling to receive the bag of gold to be deposited.

Viserys lifted the leather satchel from his shoulder. With a heavy motion, he set it upon the sturdy wooden counter. The sound of precious metal clinking together rang out—melodic yet mournful to his ears.

He undid the knot of the cord, revealing the contents. The glint of pure gold reflected the light of the oil lamps in the room, casting a warm yellow glow upon the banker woman's flat face. Her eyes widened slightly, if only for a heartbeat, before returning to professional indifference.

Viserys handed over the thousand golden coins to the woman to be counted and weighed. He watched as the coins changed hands, entered an iron drawer, and were recorded in a great ledger. It was truly saddening to lose the physical weight of the coins, Viserys thought. There was a false sense of security in holding wealth directly, and now he was exchanging it for numbers on parchment. But this was for the future. For survival.

…

Viserys stepped out from the heavy doors of the Iron Bank, squinting as the pale light of the afternoon sun greeted him. In his hand, he held a small, polished wooden casket containing the parchment of agreement and the deposit receipt. The box looked costly enough, with simple geometric carvings at the corners, the kind of minimalist detail Mark would usually appreciate in packaging design, but this time, the contents were far more valuable than the exterior aesthetics.

He let out a long sigh, stuffing the object into his leather bag, exhausted. What next?

The question hung like a candle on a wall. His survival logic screamed that he required protection. He was the "Beggar King," the heir hunted by Robert Baratheon, that drunken swine of a king who wished to see all Targaryens dead. Viserys was deeply worried. Hiring a sellsword was a double-edged blade; his guard might be more interested in the bounty offered by the Iron Throne across the sea than the weekly wage Viserys could provide.

The anxiety crept up his spine, making him want to hide. However, Mark suppressed that rising dread. Fuck it, he thought. I shall take the gamble.

He would not live in fear, hiding in the shadows until he went mad like the original Viserys. Mark possessed an advantage no one else in this world had: knowledge. In the original story, Viserys was not killed by an assassin in his sleep. He survived for years on the run. That proved one thing: Robert Baratheon, or at least his spies, did not possess absolute power or that much competence in Braavos. There were gaps.

Where should he look for a bodyguard? The docks, naturally.

Viserys adjusted his cloak and strode toward the Port District. The docks were where desperate men gathered, and where there was desperation, there were reasonable prices to be found.

The wind at the wharves was far more savage than in the city center. The stench of salt, rotting fish, and tar assaulted the nose. The sea wind pierced through the layers of the wool tunic and linen cloak he wore. His skin prickled with gooseflesh. In moments like this, memories of his old life surged with a nostalgic pain. Mark longed desperately for his favorite red hoodie, a warm, soft thing with a comfortable front pocket to hide his hands. That hoodie was his old friend, his shield from the outside world. A pity they would never meet again; he hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye! Here, he had only scratchy, rough cloth.

To ward off the cold, Viserys stopped at a filthy street stall. He bought a cup of warm herbal drink for a few coppers. The liquid tasted bitter and spicy, burning his throat in a pleasant way. He held the clay cup with both hands, his posture slightly hunched, yet his eyes sharply scanned the crowd, trying to look like a fighter taking a rest, not a lost noble.

Amidst the hustle of sailors unloading cargo and harbor whores peddling their wares, his eyes caught a subject of interest.

There, leaning against a stack of wooden crates, was a man. His black hair was messy, greasy, and stiff with salt spray. His mustache was thick, curving down to cover his lips, bushier than the beard that grew wild and unkempt. The man looked pathetic, trying to speak to passersby with stiff hand gestures, but everyone ignored him as if he were the plague. However, there was one detail that caught Viserys's attention: a longsword hanging at his waist. The scabbard was worn, the leather peeling, but the hilt looked well-used.

Viserys approached slowly, his footsteps inaudible amidst the market's clamor. He leaned his shoulder against a wooden post, watching the man be rejected again by a fat merchant.

"What is it you do here?" Viserys asked, his voice flat but loud enough to cut through the man's grumbling.

The man turned sharply, eyes narrowing with suspicion. There were dark circles under his eyes, signs of lack of sleep or too much drink. "None of your concern. Be off with you, boy."

Viserys did not budge. He sipped his drink casually, his eyes assessing the man's posture. Broad shoulders, though slightly stooped by the weight of life. "You seem desperate to offer your services, do you not?"

The man snorted roughly, about to turn away.

"What service is it?" Viserys continued, his tone slightly challenging. "I am looking for a bodyguard experienced with a sword, something that can stick a great pig until it dies. Answer only if you can do it, and I shall test you."

The man's steps halted. The word 'bodyguard' seemed to catch his attention more than any insult. He turned his body to face Viserys fully, his eyes now appraising Viserys's clothes, looking for signs of wealth beneath the dust of travel.

"Do you have coin?" the man asked, skeptical.

"Certainly." Viserys nodded slowly, placing his empty cup atop a nearby barrel. "If I did not, why would I speak to you here? I am not so confident as to play the role of a swindler."

The man rubbed his rough chin, the sound of stiff bristles audible. His eyes traced the fabric of Viserys's cloak once more, seeing the cut and material which, though dirty, was clearly not the work of a cheap tailor.

"Your clothes beneath that look convincing enough, though your cloak looks as if it has never seen a wash," the man commented with brute honesty. He seemed to think for a moment, calculating in his head. "I ask two silvers for every week."

A cheap price for a man's life, Mark thought. But for the desperate, silver was gold.

"Fair enough," Viserys said. "But I will see if you can truly protect me or not. I have no need of a scarecrow. I will test you."

The man raised a thick eyebrow, the corner of his lip lifting in slight derision. "With what will you test me, lad? You want me to hit a wooden barrel?"

"This."

Viserys swept back his cloak slightly with a dramatic motion he had learned from action movies, revealing the hilt of the sword hanging at his waist. It was no toy. It was proper castle-forged steel. Ser Willem had taught him the basics of fighting in the past. Although Mark himself had never held a sword in his life in the modern world, Viserys's body remembered. The muscle memory was still there, buried beneath the skin, waiting to be awakened.

The man looked hesitant for a moment, perhaps surprised this teenager carried a real weapon, but then he nodded. "Very well. But if you cry from a bruise, it is not my fault."

They walked away from the main crowd, toward a gap between two quiet fish warehouses. The stench of fish was more pungent here, and the ground was muddy. Sunlight was blocked by the tall buildings, creating a gloomy arena.

Viserys removed his cloak and his bag, placing them atop a dry crate to keep them from the filth. He drew his sword. The sound of metal sliding against the leather scabbard rang loud and satisfying. The weight of the sword felt real in his hand.

"Before we begin, what is your name?" asked Viserys, assuming the stance he remembered from Ser Willem's lessons. Left foot forward, knees slightly bent.

"Karl," the man answered briefly. He drew his own sword with a motion less elegant but efficient. The blade bore some stains of rust and small nicks on the edge, a weapon that had tasted blood and parried steel. "You?"

"No need to know," Viserys scoffed.

Karl did not wait for a signal. He lunged forward.

The attack was no elegant dance. It was fast, rough, and aimed directly at the shoulder. Viserys was startled. His body reacted instinctively, raising the sword to parry.

Clang!

A violent vibration traveled from wrist to shoulder as the two steels collided. It felt like hitting an electric pole with an iron bar. He grimaced, teeth clenching. He managed to withstand the blow, but Karl's strength was far above his own.

"Not bad for a pampered lordling," Karl sneered, pressing his sword harder, forcing Viserys a step back into the mud.

Viserys rotated his wrist, attempting a technique he remembered visually. He pushed Karl's sword aside and tried to thrust. However, what was in his head did not synchronize perfectly with his body. His movements were stiff; there was a split-second delay between intent and action, a fatal pause.

Karl easily swatted the thrust away, then swept Viserys's legs with a dirty, low kick.

Viserys lost his balance. The sky and the earth traded places. His back slammed into the muddy ground hard, forcing the air from his lungs.

"Oof!"

Before he could process the pain in his tailbone, the tip of Karl's blunt and rusty sword was two inches from his throat.

Karl's breath came in ragged gasps, but his eyes were steady. No grand technique, only brutal street efficiency.

Viserys stared at the sword point. His heart raced, adrenaline flooding his nervous system. He had lost completely. In a matter of seconds. Ser Willem's sword skills were there, but this body was weak, and Mark's soul did not yet know how to use them in real chaos.

"Dead," Karl said flatly.

Viserys swallowed, feeling the cold mud seeping into his trousers. He raised both hands slowly, a sign of surrender. He grinned.

Damn it, he thought.