Chapter 15: The Forgemaster's Hand and the Unseen Coin
The winds of Braavos, carrying the scents of salt, fish, and a thousand distant lands, seemed to whisper a new tune to Viserys as he stood on the cusp of his twelfth nameday. It was no longer just a song of survival, of cautious maneuvering in the city's shadowed underbelly. It was evolving into a complex symphony of burgeoning power, of clandestine networks spreading like mycelium beneath the ancient stones, and of a young, exiled king consciously taking up the tools of a forgemaster to shape his own destiny and that of House Targaryen. The Nyx was a tangible symbol of this shift, her voyages bringing not just profit but a steady stream of information, the lifeblood of his growing enterprise. But a single ship, a handful of loyal but limited retainers, and a network of street urchins, however resourceful, were not enough for the grand ambitions Alistair Finch's mind was formulating. Viserys needed an organization, a true "Hidden Hand" comprised of skilled individuals bound to his will.
His warehouse near Ragman's Harbor, once a mere storeroom, had transformed. Beyond the stacked crates of legitimate (and sometimes less so) trade goods, a section had been discreetly walled off, soundproofed with layers of old sailcloth and packed wool, and converted into what Viserys internally called the "Nexus." It was sparsely furnished – a large, scarred map table dominating the center, several sturdy stools, shelves groaning under scrolls, ledgers (both real and decoy), and a collection of reference texts on everything from Essosi trade law to the migratory patterns of carrier pigeons. A single, heavily barred window, usually shuttered, offered a sliver of the grey Braavosi sky. Here, by the light of shielded oil lamps, Viserys plotted, analyzed, and began the perilous process of recruitment.
He knew he couldn't pluck skilled operatives from the ether. He needed individuals with specific talents, yet desperate or discontented enough to pledge their loyalty to an anonymous, unseen patron. He relayed his requirements, in meticulously coded messages, to Kipp in Pentos, and tasked his most trusted local "Sparrows" – particularly Lyra, the nimble-fingered girl (not Daenerys's nurse, but his young informant), and a sturdy, taciturn older boy named Gendry (no relation to any Baratheon smiths, as far as Viserys knew) – with a new kind of search. They were to listen for whispers of fallen fortunes, of skills going to waste, of individuals who possessed talent but lacked opportunity or owed dangerous debts.
The first potential candidate emerged from the smoky dens of the Chequy Port's less reputable scribes. His name was Corvin, a Myrish refugee who had once served a powerful Magister in his home city, renowned for his elegant script, his mastery of multiple languages, and his uncanny ability to decipher even the most obscure or damaged texts. Political upheaval in Myr had seen his patron fall, and Corvin had fled to Braavos with little more than the clothes on his back and a deep-seated bitterness. He now eked out a meager existence copying mundane shipping manifests, his true talents languishing.
Viserys, through an intermediary (a minor, indebted merchant known to Corvin but secretly in Viserys's employ for small tasks), commissioned Corvin with a "test." He was given a deliberately damaged and falsified trade ledger, supposedly from a defunct Lysene spice company, and tasked with reconstructing its true accounts and identifying the points of fraudulent activity. The complexity of the task, and the subtle clues woven into the falsified data by Viserys himself, were designed to test not just Corvin's scribal skills, but his analytical abilities and his discretion.
Corvin returned the reconstructed ledger within three days, his analysis appended in crisp, precise High Valyrian. He had not only identified all the deliberate falsifications but had also deduced the likely methods of embezzlement and even pinpointed, with startling accuracy, the probable (fictitious) culprits within the Lysene company. His work was flawless, his insights penetrating. More importantly, he had asked no inconvenient questions about the ledger's origins or purpose.
The second candidate was a young woman named Meera, though she often went by "Lynx" in the rougher districts near the Purple Harbor. She was Braavosi born, orphaned young, and had survived by her wits, her agility, and a remarkable talent with thrown knives, a skill honed performing with a now-disbanded troupe of street acrobats and bravos. She was fiercely independent, wary of authority, but possessed a strong, if unconventional, sense of loyalty to those who earned her trust. Gendry had identified her after she single-handedly (and non-lethally) disarmed three drunken sailors who had tried to accost her in an alley, her movements described as a blur of deadly grace.
Viserys's test for Lynx was different. Through another cutout, she was offered a generous sum to "observe" a specific minor agent of House Prestayn for a week – to detail his routines, his contacts, his vices, without ever being detected. As a final part of the test, she was to "retrieve" a small, valueless trinket (a specifically marked stone Viserys had arranged to be planted in the Prestayn agent's frequented tavern) from a table where he often sat, again without alerting him or anyone else. Lynx completed the surveillance with meticulous detail, her report concise and insightful. The trinket appeared on the cutout's doorstep the following morning, wrapped in a piece of oilskin.
Corvin the Scribe and Lynx the Blade. They were the first true recruits into the inner workings of Viserys's Hidden Hand. They were brought into the Nexus, one at a time, blindfolded for the final leg of their journey to the warehouse, their initial "interviews" conducted by Joss Hood, who portrayed himself as the gruff but fair chief steward of their mysterious patron. Viserys himself remained unseen, observing from a cleverly concealed Judas hole, his voice, when he chose to speak, slightly distorted by a speaking tube, giving his pronouncements an impersonal, almost oracular quality.
He offered them employment, not servitude. Good pay, protection from their past troubles, and challenging work that utilized their unique skills. In return, he demanded absolute loyalty, unwavering discretion, and unquestioning obedience to the (often cryptic) instructions of their unseen "Forgemaster." He made it clear that betrayal would have swift and severe consequences, a threat underscored by Morrec's silent, imposing presence during these initial meetings. Both Corvin, starved for intellectual respect, and Lynx, weary of precarious independence, accepted. They were given new codenames – Corvin became "Archivist," Lynx became "Shadowfoot" – and assigned their first tasks, always compartmentalized, never revealing the full scope of Viserys's operations.
Archivist was put to work organizing Viserys's growing mountain of intelligence, deciphering intercepted communications from rival merchants (Viserys occasionally "acquired" these through his Sparrows), creating flawless forgeries of shipping documents when necessary for the Nyx's more… creative… cargo manifests, and translating sensitive texts from obscure Essosi dialects. Shadowfoot became Viserys's chief urban operative in Braavos, tasked with more complex surveillance, discreet recovery of items or information, and sometimes, the subtle intimidation or misdirection of those who threatened their interests. She also began to train a select few of the older, more capable Sparrows in her own arts of stealth and observation.
The warehouse buzzed with a new, purposeful energy. Viserys established strict protocols: no one entered the Nexus without authorization, all sensitive documents were either in cipher or locked in his hidden strongbox, and operatives from different "cells" (the Sparrows, the Nyx's crew, Archivist, Shadowfoot) were kept largely ignorant of each other's specific tasks and identities. He was building an organization based on Alistair Finch's knowledge of historical intelligence agencies – a cellular structure, resilient to penetration, with himself as the untouchable, unseen core.
Daenerys, of course, noticed the changes. She was now a bright, inquisitive girl of nearly ten, her Targaryen intelligence making her preternaturally observant. She saw Viserys spending even longer hours at the "dirty old warehouse," saw the new, focused intensity in his eyes, sometimes overheard snippets of hushed conversations between him and Joss or Morrec that hinted at dangers and secrets far beyond her childish comprehension.
"Vizzy," she asked one evening, as they shared a simple meal of fish stew and crusty bread in their small house, Lyra humming softly as she mended a sailcloth bag. "Are you building an army in that warehouse? Like Aegon the Conqueror did before he flew to Westeros?"
Viserys paused, a piece of fish halfway to his lips. Her perception was, as always, startling. "Not an army of soldiers with swords and shields, Dany," he said carefully. "Not yet. I am building an army of… whispers and shadows. An army of clever minds and quick hands. In a city like Braavos, those can be more powerful than any legion of knights."
"Will I be in your army?" she asked, her violet eyes shining with a fierce determination that mirrored his own. "I can be clever. I can keep secrets."
He reached across the small table and gently touched her cheek. "You are more than a soldier in my army, little dragon. You are its heart. You are what we are fighting for. But yes," he added, seeing the disappointment flicker in her eyes, "you will learn. You will learn to be clever, to be strong, to see the world as it truly is. And one day, you will stand beside me, not as a soldier, but as a queen." He began to subtly include her in less sensitive aspects of his "work," showing her how to read more complex maps, teaching her the basics of the ciphers he used for mundane messages, testing her memory with lists of trade goods or the names of Braavosi officials. He was grooming her, not just as a future queen, but as a potential confidante, the only one who might one day understand the full scope of his burdens.
Kipp's reports from Pentos, delivered via coded messages carried by trusted sailors on returning merchant ships (the Nyx was not always available for such direct communication), were proving invaluable. He had successfully established a small network of informants among the dockworkers and servants in Magister Illyrio's sprawling manse. He provided Viserys with detailed accounts of Illyrio's vast trading empire, his close ties to certain Dothraki khals (including the rapidly rising Khal Drogo), and his penchant for collecting Westerosi exiles and artifacts. Kipp even managed to glean information about Illyrio's secret dealings with Varys, the Spider in King's Landing, confirming Alistair Finch's knowledge from the books and providing Viserys with a chilling insight into the intricate webs of espionage that spanned the Narrow Sea. This information heavily influenced the Nyx's trading strategies, allowing Viserys to exploit Illyrio's known routes and commodity preferences, while also avoiding any direct entanglement with the powerful Magister – for now.
With his growing wealth – the "Unseen Coin" of the chapter's internal title – Viserys began to make more strategic investments, not just for profit, but for influence. He learned, through Archivist's diligent research into Braavosi civic records, of a captain in the City Watch, a man named Tregar Ormollen, known for his honesty, his bravery, and his deep-seated frustration with the corruption among his superiors, particularly those known to be in the pocket of families like the Prestayns. Viserys, through a series of anonymous donations to a fund for injured Watchmen (a fund he knew Tregar administered with scrupulous fairness), began to subtly support the honest captain. He also arranged for anonymous tips to reach Tregar, leading to the successful disruption of several smuggling operations linked to House Prestayn's less reputable associates. He wasn't buying Tregar's loyalty, not directly. He was investing in competence and integrity, hoping to cultivate an unwitting ally within the City Watch, someone who might, in the future, be useful in countering threats from rivals or ensuring the smooth operation of his own discreet enterprises. Alistair Finch knew that such soft power, patiently built, could be far more effective than overt bribery or intimidation.
This expansion, however, brought new dangers. One of Archivist's first major tasks had been to analyze the Prestayns' known assets and trading patterns, seeking vulnerabilities. He had uncovered evidence that Malarys Prestayn was using a series of shell companies, registered in Lys and Tyrosh, to evade Braavosi taxes on certain high-value imports. It was damning information, but to use it directly against a powerful, established Braavosi family was incredibly risky.
It was Lynx, "Shadowfoot," whose past caught up with them in a way that forced Viserys's hand. Before joining Viserys, Lynx had, in her more desperate days, been involved with a small, violent gang of bravos led by a charismatic but ruthless Tyroshi named Drako "The Scar." Drako, believing Lynx had cheated him out of a share of some past loot, had been hunting for her. He finally tracked her to the vicinity of Ragman's Harbor. One evening, as Lynx was returning to the warehouse from a surveillance mission, Drako and three of his thugs ambushed her in a dark, narrow alley.
Viserys, who had been in the Nexus reviewing Kipp's latest dispatch, heard the faint sounds of the struggle – a muffled cry, the clash of steel, a thud – through the thick walls, his enhanced senses picking up what an ordinary person would have missed. Every instinct screamed at him. Lynx was one of his, now. An attack on her was an attack on him, on his nascent organization.
Without a word to Joss or Morrec, who were in another part of the warehouse, he moved. He snatched a heavy iron pry bar from a workbench, his mind a blur of cold fury and tactical calculation. He slipped out a hidden side exit, circling around to the alley's other entrance. The serum sang in his veins, his muscles coiled, ready. He saw them: Drako holding Lynx by the hair, a bloody knife at her throat, her own blades lost, his thugs grinning.
Viserys didn't announce himself. He didn't posture. He erupted from the shadows like a vengeful spirit. His first target was the thug closest to Lynx, the one holding her arm. The pry bar, wielded with the augmented strength of a super-soldier, crashed down on the man's exposed wrist with a sickening crunch. The man screamed, dropping Lynx's arm. Viserys didn't pause. He spun, the pry bar a blur, deflecting a wild sword thrust from another thug, the impact jarring his arm but his grip unbreakable. He used the momentum to slam the heavy end of the bar into the man's temple. The thug dropped like a stone.
Drako, shocked by the sudden, brutal assault from what appeared to be a mere boy, hesitated for a fatal second, his grip on Lynx loosening. That was all Shadowfoot needed. She twisted, kicked, and though injured, managed to break free, scrambling away.
Now it was just Viserys and Drako, and one remaining, terrified thug. Drako, enraged, lunged, his Tyroshi longknife flashing. Viserys met him, not with brute force, but with a speed and precision that was terrifying to behold. He sidestepped the lunge, the pry bar deflecting the knife, and drove the pointed end hard into Drako's thigh. The Tyroshi howled, stumbling back, his leg collapsing. The last thug, seeing his leader incapacitated and his companions downed by this demonic boy, turned and fled.
Viserys stood over Drako, panting slightly, the pry bar held ready. His violet eyes, in the dim alley light, seemed to glow with an unnatural intensity. He could feel the familiar itch in his knuckles, the urge to unleash his claws and finish this. But Alistair's cold reason prevailed. Dead bravos attracted too much attention. An injured, terrified bravo, however, might learn a lesson.
"You will leave Braavos, Drako," Viserys said, his voice low, chillingly calm for a boy who had just incapacitated three armed men. "You will never return. You will forget you ever knew her. If I ever see your face in this city again, or hear your name whispered in connection to mine or hers, what happened to your leg will be the least of your concerns." He pressed the pry bar against Drako's wounded throat, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. "Do you understand?"
Drako, his face pale with pain and terror, could only nod frantically. Viserys stepped back. Lynx, her face grim but her eyes shining with a fierce, newfound loyalty, had retrieved one of her knives and was now standing beside him. Morrec and Joss, alerted by the commotion, arrived then, their faces thunderous.
They cleaned up the alley quickly, dragging the unconscious thugs to a disused cellar to be dealt with later (stripped of valuables and left for the Watch to find, with an anonymous tip suggesting a brawl over gambling debts). Drako, clutching his ruined leg, was allowed to crawl away into the night, a broken man who would indeed spread the tale, not of a boy, but of a demonic protector in Ragman's Harbor.
Back in the Nexus, as Viserys bandaged a shallow cut on Lynx's arm (his touch surprisingly gentle, his own minor bruises already fading), he reflected on the incident. He had been forced to reveal a measure of his physical prowess, at least to Lynx, and indirectly, to Joss and Morrec, who could not have mistaken the efficiency of his actions. But it had also cemented Lynx's loyalty in a way no amount of coin could have. She had seen her "Forgemaster" (or at least, his hidden agent) act decisively, brutally, to protect her.
He was indeed forging an organization, its sinews strengthened by loyalty, by shared danger, by the "Unseen Coin" of his intellect and resources, and by the undeniable, if terrifying, power of his own "Forgemaster's Hand." He was no longer just a player in the shadows; he was becoming a master of them, his influence spreading, his pieces moving across the board with increasing confidence. The risks were immense, the moral compromises stark, but Viserys Targaryen, with the mind of Alistair Finch and the power of a nascent god, was just beginning to unveil the true scope of his ambition. The road to Westeros was paved with such nights, such choices, such brutal necessities. And he would walk it, unflinching.