The Bloodthirsty Violet Swordsman

Under the moonlight, in the courtyard.

Viserys was still chatting with his instructor, Roland.

Viserys planned to establish an offshore base upstream of Andas's water source, then secretly contact the few remaining royalists across the sea.

"Even if we have a stronghold, it will still take time to build it up. And the longer the Usurper sits on the Iron Throne, the stronger he will become." Ser Roland Lake's words carried no small amount of concern.

Building a new base and recruiting troops both required time and effort.

Not to mention the harassment from bandits and Dothraki.

Westeros had once been known as the Seven Kingdoms. The longer time passed, the stronger House Baratheon would become.

This book was first published on Tiantian Kan Xiaoshuo, offering smooth reading, error-free chapters, and no chapter disorder.

Midsummer was fair to everyone. Both shores of the Narrow Sea would enjoy its nourishment.

Even setting aside the marginalized Reach and the discontented Dornish, the Iron Throne's overall strength remained formidable.

"There will be a turning point," Viserys said. "This cannot be rushed."

For an exiled king to reclaim his throne was one of the most hellishly difficult tasks in the world. It could not be accomplished with a simple wave of the hand.

Troops, food, and people—none could be lacking.

Viserys was prepared for a long war and had been tirelessly strengthening himself day and night.

The terrifying foes were not only the Usurper and his allies, but also the strange mages and White Walkers that would arrive with the Magic Tide.

To achieve a complete victory, exploiting the system and quietly building strength were the right answers for this era.

When striving to rise again, impatience was the least appropriate emotion.

Wait for opportunities, create opportunities, seek opportunities.

If his attributes became high enough, Viserys felt that perhaps he could bring forward the Blood-Red Comet.

It was perfectly normal for a restoration claimant to wait ten or twenty years. Viserys was not that old, and besides, he possessed hindsight regarding the future course of events.

Thanks to the mess Robert Baratheon and his wife had made, Robert had divided his lands into three, while the arrogant Cersei and the Kingslayer were carrying on an affair. Those were all buried landmines.

Together with the Spider and Littlefinger, those two schemers fanning the flames in the shadows, the Baratheon Dynasty looked powerful on the surface, but was riddled with cracks within.

"Please believe me, Ser Roland. Tywin and House Tyrell have been excluded from the court, and neither are people who can sit still. The enemy is not a solid block of iron, nor are we a lone army at the end of its road," Viserys said confidently.

Many people could see the broader situation, but the effect was completely different when those words came from someone in his teens rather than someone in their forties or fifties.

At least in the workings of power, Viserys had already demonstrated his intelligence.

"Your Majesty is right." Ser Roland Lake still had great faith in Viserys's judgment. "Given the current situation, remaining calm and defending our position would be the safer course."

As a branch member of a second-tier noble house, he had not been part of Rhaegar's close circle. Ser Roland had held a very low position at the court in King's Landing and had never come into contact with the upper workings of power.

Now that Viserys could make money and build connections, the emergence of a true dragon was already enough to convince Ser Roland.

"Prince Rhaegar was very capable. He was resolute, calm, loyal, and sincere. But he was also willful and gloomy. You should learn from his strengths and discard his weaknesses. Only then can you surpass Rhaegar and defeat the Usurper."

The stunts Rhaegar had pulled were not exactly normal either.

"Yes. I have long faced his failure head-on. Rhaegar is dead. Now this is my war, Viserys's war." Viserys looked at Ser Roland's face. That failed war had left him with much bitterness.

Ser Roland did not possess much strategic talent, but just like Ser Willem, his loyalty alone was enough.

If there was anyone Viserys knew with strategic vision, it was probably Syrio, who had served beside the previous Sealord for eight or nine years.

The First Sword not only protected the Sealord, but also managed the Sealord's guard.

However, Syrio was ultimately Braavosi. It was an unspoken understanding between him and Viserys that Syrio would not become too involved in Westerosi affairs, and Viserys would not bring Syrio into the restoration effort.

Viserys continued living according to his own routine: consuming dragonbone, consuming premium ingredients, making money, practicing Water Dancing and Iron Dance, and so on.

Every so-called great undertaking depended on countless small accumulations.

From time to time, Viserys also had to let his Silver Flash taste blood.

It was midnight at Braavos's Moon Pool.

The people gathered there had naturally formed a large ring. The noisy assassins stood in the inner circle, while swordless spectators watched from outside.

Some had come simply for the entertainment, some had placed bets, and some obscure courtesans had come to watch.

Some Water Dancers fought for courtesans, serving as a kind of protective swordsman.

The higher such a swordsman's ranking, the more he could elevate the courtesan's reputation.

The Water Dancers were all dressed as flamboyantly as peacocks spreading their tails, wearing splendid and ornate clothes.

They wore garments in every color and carried slender swords.

Red, purple, green, gold—their clothes made them seem as noisy as Pentoshi.

From the shadows, Viserys watched the Water Dancers fight. Their reasons for killing one another were all bizarre.

According to the Water Dancers' rules, anyone carrying a sword at night could be challenged.

"Black Pearl is the most beautiful courtesan," declared an assassin in a wine-red robe.

"Bullshit. Nightingale is the true beauty." An assassin dressed in green velvet stepped forward.

"I challenge you." The assassin in the wine-red robe waved a hand.

"Come."

The two Water Dancers turned sideways and drew their slender swords at the same time, cold light flashing along the blades.

Water Dancers moved with speed and elegance. Their blades were one-handed rapiers, and sudden lunges and thrusts were their primary means of attack.

They used speed to seek out openings, then drove their blades in.

Their speed quickly reached terrifying heights. Water Dancer duels usually did not last long.

This was not a practice match, but a true fight to the death.

Because the assassins wore no armor, a piercing wound or a large slash could both prove fatal.

Viserys watched the two Water Dancers trade blows beside the Moon Pool, their blades whistling through the air.

Steel clashed with a powerful ring, followed by splashes of blood.

"Oh."

"Finish him."

"Finish him."

"Black Pearl."

"Black Pearl." As the battle intensified, the spectators erupted into a noisy roar, like boiling water rolling over.

Water Dancers competed in speed, agility, and flexibility—a waltz of death.

The green-robed swordsman was a beat too slow. He stabbed the wine-red-robed swordsman in the arm, cutting open a wound.

But the wine-red-robed swordsman's blade flicked upward, its point driving into his opponent's heart.

"Ah!" With a scream, the dead man collapsed limply to the ground.

Water Dancer duels were dazzling and dangerous. Some would spare opponents who sought peace, but many chose not to stop until one side was dead.

"Black Pearl is the most beautiful woman!" the wine-red-robed swordsman shouted. He sheathed his sword, then began picking through the dead man's belongings.

It was an accepted custom, and no one criticized him for it.

These assassins all loved making a spectacle of things. They only needed an excuse to start fighting and make a name for themselves.

They argued over who had the best swordsmanship, who was the most beautiful woman, which theater was best, even whose clothes looked the finest.

Ordinary assassins were impetuous and quick-tempered. If they disagreed, they killed.

"Blue Lantern is the best theater in Braavos."

"You are wrong. I think it is Mummer's Ship."

Then came another bout of deadly exchanges, as Water Dancers challenged one another for every conceivable reason.

After waiting for quite some time, Viserys finally found his target.

Ordinary Water Dancers were no match for him. Viserys could now choose more difficult opponents.

A scar-faced Water Dancer prowled the Moon Pool with the cruelty of the Stranger. He casually provoked duels solely to prove his swordsmanship.

A blade wound had left a crooked, centipede-like scar across Scarface's face. His blood-red robe was redder than blood.

This scar-faced Water Dancer was fairly well-known. He struck viciously and left no survivors in duels.

Among the Moon Pool's duelists, he was one of the most notorious.

"Scarface."

"Scarface." Many called out the Water Dancer's name, but no Water Dancer dared contend with him.

Scarface looked rather pleased with himself as he carefully wiped down his blade.

Another challenger had just died beneath his sword, and no one else dared step forward.

"Does anyone want to test themselves against me? If not, then I am tonight's finest swordsman."

Sometimes, the Moon Pool held successive battles among assassins to determine the First Sword of the night.

"I do." Viserys stepped out from the shadows.

The mask concealed his face, but it could not hide those violet eyes.

"The Violet Swordsman?"

Someone clearly recognized the challenger.

The Bloodthirsty Violet Swordsman.

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