Viserys brandished the Valyrian steel sword in his hand, flaunting it as a madam might boast about her best girls.
"This is the real deal. Don't believe me? Ask around. What was the prize for the Braavos Swordsmanship Competition this year?"
He scanned the crowd, noticing no one was willing to step forward. Sensing an opportunity to provoke further, he continued, "Who's brave enough?"
"I'll do it."
A strange voice cut through the tension. All eyes turned to see the towering figure of Caggo striding forward. Standing over 1.9 meters tall, he was instantly recognized by everyone.
"Caggo!"
"It's Caggo! He's going to fight!"
Excitement rippled through the crowd. Caggo, known as the "Corpsekiller," was a legend among mercenaries. When they weren't fighting or talking about women, the mercenaries often debated who was the strongest in their ranks. To them, Caggo wasn't just the mightiest in the Windblown group—he was the strongest in the entire mercenary company!
Once, people might have compared him to the Tattered Prince, but as the prince aged, his undefeated reputation began to wane. Now, Caggo stood unchallenged.
Caggo approached Viserys, his massive frame blocking the sun, casting an imposing shadow over the mercenaries behind him. Those closest to him instinctively took a step back, feeling the weight of his presence.
Even Dick, who was usually unflappable, began to worry. Regis, always confident in Viserys, felt a twinge of fear.
Caggo unsheathed his curved blade and declared, "If you win, you can take my blade too!"
"Then let's do this," Viserys replied with a grin.
The two squared off, their weapons drawn. The air grew thick with tension, a palpable sense of impending violence that caused the onlookers to retreat further.
Caggo lunged first, his curved steel blade slicing downward with immense power. This was a move that had felled countless foes, the sharpness of the blade making flesh seem like butter. The Dothraki, who rarely wore armor on the Great Grass Sea, were especially vulnerable to such attacks. Caggo was nearly unstoppable—until he met his match.
When the sound of steel meeting steel rang out, it was a crisp, resonant note, like the lingering tone of a string instrument. Caggo was taken aback. He hadn't expected the boy before him to block his full-force strike so effortlessly. And yet, Viserys didn't even appear to be struggling.
The memory of a previous battle flashed through Caggo's mind, but he refused to believe a boy under seventeen could possess such strength.
What followed was a display of raw power, as Viserys and Caggo abandoned technique in favor of sheer force. They met each other head-on, blow for blow.
The relentless clash of steel echoed like a fierce musical composition.
"My gods! They're fighting with pure strength!"
"This Viserys can actually match Caggo!"
"This... is incredible!"
The mercenaries of the 7th Battalion, who had initially been skeptical of Viserys, now found their attitudes shifting from doubt to admiration. Especially Webber. He now realized just how much Viserys had held back when they fought. On the battlefield, Viserys could have killed him with a single blow. 'I'm no match for him,' Webber thought to himself, though he remained doubtful that even someone with such extraordinary martial prowess could turn the tide for the 7th Battalion. What they needed most now was to rebuild their morale.
As time passed, Caggo, who had been relying on brute strength to overpower Viserys, began to sense something was amiss. His energy was waning; he found himself needing to retreat and maneuver just to catch his breath.
Meanwhile, Viserys, who had already fought three rounds, remained composed and steady. When Caggo deliberately slowed the pace to regain his strength, Viserys didn't press the attack. Instead, he allowed Caggo to recover, clearly aiming to break his spirit completely.
After nearly five minutes of intense combat, it was evident to anyone watching that Caggo was running out of steam, while Viserys continued to breathe easily. Caggo felt like a gust of wind against Viserys, who was as immovable as the earth. No matter how fierce the storm, the earth remained unchanged. Caggo saw no path to victory.
'Is this guy a monster?' he thought, his confidence crumbling.
Sensing the moment was right, Viserys launched a fierce assault. Exhausted and off-balance, Caggo couldn't keep up. With a swift move, Viserys kicked Caggo's scimitar out of his grasp, leaving the mighty warrior defeated.
For a brief moment, the air seemed to freeze. The only sound was the metallic clatter of Caggo's scimitar hitting the ground. Everyone stared in stunned silence, their eyes wide as they tried to etch this moment into their memories. Some swallowed nervously, struggling to process what they had just witnessed.
Three rounds of battle, three consecutive victories. Viserys had not only defeated the last sergeant of the 7th Battalion but also bested two Gerrolds and now, Caggo, the undisputed strongest warrior in the Windblown.
Caggo stood frozen, staring blankly at the scimitar on the ground, as if he had lost his soul. Finally, Regis broke the silence, shouting Viserys' name: "Viserys! Viserys! Viserys!"
At first, Regis was the only one chanting, but soon Jorah joined in, albeit reluctantly. He hadn't realized that when someone is strong enough, old grudges cease to matter. One by one, others followed: Dick, Webber, and then more mercenaries from the 7th Battalion, until the entire crowd was chanting Viserys' name.
"Viserys! Viserys! Viserys!"
Seeing that the time was right, Viserys raised his hand to silence the crowd. He picked up Caggo's curved blade from the ground and, to everyone's shock, handed it back to him.
"Your curved blade," Viserys said.
Caggo reached for the blade instinctively, but then hesitated and shook his head. "No, that's your blade now."
'There's nothing free in this world, is there?' Viserys thought to himself before replying, "Then I'll lend it to you." He turned to the others and declared, "This curved blade is now on loan to Caggo—for a thousand years!"
Lending a weapon for a thousand years was no different from giving it away. Dick realized that Viserys was deliberately extending a hand of friendship to Caggo, a gesture that did not go unnoticed.
Caggo reached out to take hold of the familiar blade, but after a moment's struggle, he let go. He wasn't one to accept a favor without offering something in return, and he knew Viserys still intended to reclaim the scimitar eventually.
Seeing Caggo's hesitation, Viserys added, "Of course, I'm not lending you this scimitar for free. In the future, you must promise to do me a favor when I ask."
In the end, Caggo couldn't bear to part with his scimitar. He took it from Viserys' hand and, without hesitation, cut a three-to-four-inch wound across his own face.
"By the horse god, I will help you with whatever you ask of me!" Caggo swore.
Viserys glanced at the dense scars covering Caggo's face, knowing each one marked a debt. Now, there was no doubt left about Viserys' strength.
Within just two hours, the mercenaries of the 7th Battalion began to accept their new sergeant. Not long after Caggo and the others had left, the mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat filled the air—it was time for dinner.
The mercenaries were astonished. Their recent defeats had left them with significant equipment losses, forcing them to save every coin to replace weapons and gear. This frugality had extended to their meals, with many going without proper food for weeks, a harsh reality for soldiers who trained daily.
Now, as large barrels of lamb and venison were brought in, their mouths watered at the unexpected feast. After asserting his authority, Viserys knew he needed to reward the men. He planned to retrain the mercenaries, and to do so, their morale and strength had to be restored—starting with better food.
'Incentives and discipline,' Viserys thought, 'that's how you win loyalty.'
As the mercenaries gathered around, Viserys addressed them with a firm promise. "From now on, you'll have meat every three days," he declared, "but understand this—I'm going to train you hard for the next three months. If you want to leave, do so now and join another camp. But if you desert during my training, you'll be treated as deserters!"
The mention of desertion sent a shiver through the ranks. In the Windblown, deserters were handed over to Meris, the infamous interrogator, who was known to torture men for a month before they finally died. But still, the men reasoned, this was just training. How hard could it be? And besides, the promise of regular meals was something most camps couldn't offer.
As the mercenaries lined up for their meals, Viserys decided to convene a meeting later that night. He picked up a lamb chop and pondered what he would say.
Viserys watched as the men devoured their food, some nearly choking in their haste. Despite their hunger, they didn't forget to whisper about his identity, speculating as they ate.
After about half an hour, once the men had nearly finished their meals, Viserys stood and walked to the front of the group. He turned to Webber first.
"Lord Webber, you're from Coldmoat, aren't you? What brings you to the Free Cities?"
Webber replied with a flat tone, "Expelled by my House."
Viserys then addressed a red-haired Westerosi mercenary. "And you?"
"I committed a crime. I stole from my Lord," the man admitted.
Viserys pointed to another Westerosi mercenary with yellow hair. "What about you?"
"My father doesn't like me," the man replied.
Viserys continued to question the group. Many had not come to the Free Cities by choice, and even those who had, confessed that they missed their homeland dearly.
"Do you know why I came to Westeros?" Viserys asked.
"Because of the usurper!" shouted a mercenary who had the look of someone from Dorne.
"Yes, because of the usurper," Viserys confirmed. "I hope to return to Westeros one day."
But as soon as Viserys spoke those words, many of the mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances. The idea seemed far-fetched, almost laughable—if not for the display of strength Viserys had shown earlier, some might have mocked him openly.
"I know you don't believe I can reclaim the throne," Viserys continued, his tone firm. "But understand this: for most of you, the only way you'll ever return to Westeros is if I retake the Iron Throne! If you have no land, I can grant you land. If you lack titles, I can bestow them upon you."
Viserys began to paint a vivid picture of the future, a vision where each of them could return home adorned in finery. A few mercenaries allowed themselves to dream, their faces reflecting a flicker of hope. But most remained skeptical, aware of the immense challenges that lay ahead.
"Listen," Viserys said, his voice commanding their attention, "I know many of you doubt me, and I won't repeat myself." He glanced at Jorah, who nodded and motioned for three covered carts to be brought forward.
When the canvas was pulled back, the mercenaries gasped as cold, gleaming swords and spears were revealed, their brilliance momentarily blinding the crowd.
"These weapons are for you to use," Viserys announced. "And soon, I will acquire armor, which will be distributed based on your training. From now on, every member of the 7th Battalion will have armor to wear!"
At the mention of armor, every mercenary's eyes lit up. The difference in pay between those with armor and those without could be as much as fivefold. Heavy cavalry mercenaries earned ten times more than their unarmored counterparts.
It dawned on them that they had finally found a sergeant major who would take care of their needs—from weapons to food to a brighter future.
But then Viserys offered an even greater incentive. "From now on, for every period you serve in the 7th Battalion, I will deposit a sum of money in the Iron Bank for you. This money will be there to support you if you're injured or when you're old. If you die in battle, it will go to your family. If you have no family, I will ensure you receive a grand funeral!"
For mercenaries, who lived for the moment and rarely thought of the future, this was a game-changer. Typically, they squandered their earnings in brothels and gambling dens, believing they had nothing to save for. But Viserys had just offered them something they never expected—a sense of security, a reason to stay loyal to the 7th Battalion.
Where once they had thought about leaving the 7th Battalion for better opportunities, now they found themselves wondering how they could ensure they stayed.
Webber, the former sergeant, was particularly impressed. 'Viserys not only has strength but also financial power. I can't compete with that.'
"Long live Viserys!" a red-haired mercenary suddenly shouted, breaking the silence. Regis, taken aback by someone else taking the lead, quickly joined in, unwilling to be outdone.
"Long live Viserys!" Regis echoed.
"Long live Viserys!" Webber shouted.
Soon, the entire camp was chanting, "Long live Viserys! Long live Viserys!" The sound grew louder, spilling out into the neighboring battalions, turning heads in curiosity.
But three months later...
"Viserys, that son of a bitch!"