A biting wind swept across the deck of the Braavosi cog as it knifed through the Narrows, carrying Aryan—reborn as Viserys Targaryen—toward the unknown. The salt spray stung his cheeks and set Daenerys's silver hair dancing under her hood. To an onlooker, they might be refugees, or perhaps merchants' kin heading for fortune in the Free Cities. Yet beneath the hum of the wind and waves, Aryan felt the weight of his memories, old and new: echoes of forums and story analysis guiding him, every throb of the ship's timbers a reminder that he was scripting his own legend—one that wouldn't be cut short by pride or cruelty.
Welcome to Braavos
Misty dawn revealed the silhouette of Braavos—the Titan's shadow looming, canals glinting in the diffused sunlight. Aryan stood at the rail, tension fraying the edges of his careful calm. For the first time since awakening in Viserys's skin, he was beyond Illyrio's reach, but that didn't dull his caution. He felt the story branching into new territory: the land of water-dancers, coin-masters, and secrets that lingered long after the fog.
Ser Willem, ever vigilant, nudged Aryan. "This city swallows the unwary, my prince. Best you remember which face you show, and which you hide."
Aryan nodded. "From now on, trust is currency. And no one sees my true hand."
He rehearsed the tale they'd share:
They were Velaryon kin, seeking work and a just cause after a ruinous fire at home.
Ser Willem, their gruff guardian, would deal with most adult business. Aryan and Daenerys, hiding their heritage in plain sight, focused on survival and new alliances.
First Steps Among Shadows
Braavos was chaos tamed by commerce and steel. Aryan led his little band from the harbor, passing chattering spice-sellers, lithe knife-grinders, and the masked priestesses of the Red Temple. The coins from Pentos were spent quickly—a room in a narrow-pillared inn, food plain but filling.
But Aryan wasted no time. He spent hours trailing Ser Willem to the docks, mapping safe routes and learning how to vanish in a crowd. He asked careful questions about labor—where young scribes and clever hands might be hired discreetly.
His meta-awareness served him well. Aryan no longer expected the story to follow canon: here, every merchant or guardsman could be a former loyalist, a rival, or worse—a whisper for sale to the highest bidder.
He purchased cheap, hooded cloaks in the fish market, and taught Daenerys to watch for following footsteps. Marei, ever resourceful, traded small tasks for gossip among the harbor urchins.
Seeds for the Future
Aryan's first real move was subtle. He wrote anonymous notes, slipped to three different Braavosi merchant houses, each phrased with a code only those who remembered the Blackfyre Rebellions or ancient Targaryen ties would recognize:
"A child of old Valyria seeks flame in the fog. Loyalty brings golden summer after long winter."
One letter was left in the hands of a grey-bearded dockmaster who claimed, over cheap wine, to have once worked a ship for the rogue Bittersteel. Aryan knew not all of these would yield results, but he understood: early trust, risked invisibly, would bring dividends far grander than coin.
Daenerys Grows Bolder
In Braavos, Daenerys found new confidence. No longer locked to a silent, gilded prison, she walked the canals with Marei and returned each day with stories—of a girl who danced on the rooftops for coins, of a kindly washerwoman who recognized "the sadness in lost foreigners' eyes." Aryan encouraged her, praising each tale, letting her choose their bread or guide horses' reins.
He taught her to keep her old name as a prayer, not a badge, and shared his hope that they could find—maybe for the first time—a place to belong, at least for a while.
Meta-awareness guided Aryan's approach; he nurtured Daenerys's independence, determined that no future Khal or lord would break her as canon Viserys did. Each night, he encouraged questions, joint planning, and even allowed her to speak in council as Marei and Ser Willem listened. It was new to her—but power, he knew, grew best when shared.
Contingency and Preparation
Aryan's new life demanded systems:
He split their coin into five separate stashes, never keeping all their gold in one hideout.
He arranged a meeting—under assumed names—with a broker for the Iron Bank, exploring how "Velaryon nephews" might sell their services as scribes or small traders.
He enrolled Daenerys and Marei in an afternoon school for foreign-born children, run by a Lyseni woman who accepted barter and simple coin.
Ser Willem, who'd watched Braavos as a knight and mercenary both, warned Aryan and Daenerys daily: "Hold loyalty close and keep steel closer. Free cities may sneer at Westerosi games, but betrayal wears the same smile everywhere."
Dreams and Doubts
One cold night, Aryan found himself staring across the canal at the Temple of the Many-Faced God, its brooding bulk mirrored in the inky water. For the first time since his arrival, he felt the full sweep of uncertainty: the meta-strategy, the "cheat" of his knowledge, would it be enough? Here, so far from dragons and thrones, was he forging his own tale—or just fleeing?
Daenerys curled beside him, already asleep, the faintest smile on her face. Ser Willem's slow, even breathing echoed his weariness and trust.
Aryan drew strength from their presence. It wasn't just about seizing a crown. It was about forging a family, a legend, a place in a world that tried to write over them. He stroked the ring at his finger, a token from Illyrio—reminder of debts unpaid and lessons unfinished.
He whispered into the darkness:
"We will not wait to be found or used. We will build. We will shape. The dragon's future begins in exile, but someday, the world will remember our name."
End of Chapter 10