When dawn broke over Pentos, Aryan—now Viserys—awoke not as a prince pampered by dreams, but as a survivor sharpening his will. Yesterday's revelations had kindled resolve inside him; knowledge alone would not win the Game of Thrones—he needed strength, skill, and the shape of a true dragon.
Early Resolve
He began before the household stirred, slipping from his quarters into the garden, cool marble slick beneath bare feet. Every muscle felt alien—slender, soft, more suited to pens than swords. Aryan knew what this meant: Viserys, the exile, had little in the way of physical training. That had to change.
"To outplay wolves and lions, first you must make them think you're one yourself."
List of Initial Goals
Build muscle and endurance: run, stretch, repeat.
Learn the sword, starting from the basics.
Develop a daily discipline to transform his image—from frail prince to a leader capable of wrestling loyalty from hardened sellswords and ruthless Dothraki.
Training Begins
With only half a loaf and water for breakfast, Viserys started small. He jogged the length of Illyrio's courtyard, heart pounding and legs burning. He stretched until sweat beaded on his brow, mimicking memories from gym classes and online fitness videos of his old life.
Each day, he added:
Push-ups and sit-ups on the cold stones, counting beneath his breath.
Sprints beneath the shadow of lemon trees for agility.
Balancing on old garden stones, learning coordination and focus.
At first, the servants watched, giggling into their sleeves. By the third morning, their laughter faded, replaced by wary silence. Let them talk, Aryan thought grimly; rumors of a changed prince could be more dangerous than any weapon.
A Sword in Hand
True sword training required a teacher. Aryan approached Ser Willem, the loyal knight whose joints now creaked with age but whose eyes still glowed with the discipline of a true Kingsguard.
"Ser Willem, will you teach me?" he asked.
The old knight hesitated, surprised. The Viserys he knew never stooped to sweat or sore muscles.
"Why, my prince?"
Aryan met his gaze. "If House Targaryen is to rise again, I must not only claim my birthright, but defend it."
Ser Willem smiled—a sad, proud thing. He found an old practice blade, blunt but heavy, and began with fundamentals. Stance, grip, the arc of a parry—all repeated till Aryan's arms ached and blisters stung.
Basic Swordsmanship Drills
Stances: forward, sideways, guarding.
Footwork: circle, advance, withdraw.
Blocks and simple cuts, shadow fencing under the watchful gaze of Willem.
Each misstep brought gentle correction, not the scorn of past days. Aryan learned humility along with skill—willing to sweat, stumble, and try again.
Transformation
By the second week, new calluses formed on his palms. Sandaled feet grew surer, and he held the practice blade with less trembling. There were bruises, yes, and moments he could barely lift his arms, but Aryan smiled through it. Each pain was proof that he was building something more dangerous than royal blood: resilience.
"The man who knows his own weakness is the man who turns weakness into strength."
He noticed Daenerys watching once from her window, curiosity illuminating her young face. Aryan offered her a smile, silent reassurance: she was not alone, and neither was he.
Small Victories
Illyrio noticed as well. The merchant, ever calculating, sent an improved breakfast the next morning—still meager compared to Westerosi banquets, but richer than before. Viserys thanked him with cool politeness, careful not to reveal gratitude or suspicion.
Rumors in the household shifted. Some whispered that the exiled prince had gone mad; others, that the "dragon" was being reborn.
Let them whisper, Aryan thought as he continued his routine. Let them wonder until the rumors grew teeth.
End of Chapter 2
The chapter closes with Aryan-Viserys gazing at his blistered hands, proud of the small gains. A storm brewed beyond Pentos, and he vowed one day to meet it sword in hand—not as a beggar prince, but as the steel-hearted heir the realm would learn to fear.