Chapter 7: The Squire’s Vow

The Sept of Braavos stood quiet as a tomb. No bells rang. No songs stirred the morning air. Only the faintest glimmer of colored light broke through the stained-glass dome above, casting long beams of crimson and gold across the cold stone floor.

Viserys Targaryen entered in silence, shadowed by Ser Willem Darry. The boy-king moved with deliberate steps, his boots soft against the flagstones. The doors behind them groaned shut. The world outside—the salt of the sea, the buzz of Braavosi merchants, the stink of fish and coin—vanished.

He had expected to feel alone. Instead, a warmth brushed the edges of his mind, like sunlight pressing through fog. It was faint. A whisper, nothing more. But it was there.

Not like before. Not the roaring presence that had engulfed him on the day he woke to this second life. This was thinner, gentler. Still, it soothed him. It quieted the panic that had threatened to rise in his chest since dawn.

He turned his head to speak, but Ser Willem's voice broke the silence first.

"Are you well, Your Grace?" the old knight asked, watching him with narrowed eyes.

Viserys exhaled, nodded once. "Yes."

They walked deeper into the Sept. Seven walls curved around them—each marked with its own alcove, its own statue. The Father with his scales, the Mother with her arms wide, the Warrior in his armor. The Maiden, the Crone, the Smith, the Stranger.

Seven gods. Seven faces. Seven prayers.

Viserys looked from one statue to the next and thought: But they are not seven. He had seen it—or felt it—in that first moment of rebirth. The Seven were but aspects of a single god. The truth felt obvious now, like sunlight breaking through stormclouds. Most men couldn't grasp it. They saw seven separate beings, warring in the hearts of their followers. But Viserys knew. He had met the divine. It had worn no face at all.

He frowned. And yet they call us mad, when we see things others will not...

The Sept was empty, save for the gentle echo of their steps. The Westerosi who worshipped here were few, and none had come this morning. The septons and septas kept to the far end, whispering among themselves, too distant to hear.

Ser Willem stopped before the altar of the Warrior. "This one I favor," he said, quietly. "He's never far from a knight's thoughts."

He knelt. Viserys followed suit, the bruises from his duel with Oberyn twinging as his knees touched stone. Willem muttered a short prayer under his breath.

A septon approached from the shadows—a thin man, robes patched and faded, a star of crystal gleaming at his throat. "May the Seven bless your morning," he said in the Common Tongue. "Do you require aid, ser knight?"

Ser Willem looked up. "I've come to swear a boy to my service. Before the eyes of the gods."

The septon bowed slightly. "Your names?"

"That's no concern of yours," Ser Willem said firmly. "Only the Seven need know them."

The septon hesitated, then inclined his head and withdrew without protest.

Willem rose. His eyes found Viserys's. "This is where it begins."

Viserys stood slowly. His chest was tight. Not with fear—no, something heavier. Expectation, maybe. Duty. He felt the presence again at the edges of his mind. Silent. Watching.

Ser Willem turned toward him fully. "Kneel, squire."

That word stung. For a heartbeat, pride flared inside Viserys like fire on dry parchment. A king on his knees? A dragon fetching swords and saddles? No, the old Viserys hissed. You are not meant to serve.

But that voice was weaker now.

He closed his eyes. Slowed his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm steadied his pulse. Basic Meditation—a skill gained through sweat and silence. It helped. It held him.

He opened his eyes, and the pride had cooled. This wasn't humiliation. This was a step forward.

He dropped to one knee.

"Do you swear to serve faithfully, to train your body and mind, and to obey my commands until such time as you are knighted, or released from service?"

"I swear it," Viserys said.

"Do you swear to carry my shield, to keep my arms in readiness, to learn the ways of the sword, the horse, and the lance?"

"I swear it."

"And do you swear to uphold the honor of knighthood, and to strive always to be worthy of the Seven's light?"

"I do."

Willem came closer and said in a whisper, 

"Then rise, Viserys of House Targaryen, squire to Ser Willem Darry, knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

A soft chime rang in Viserys's ears—no sound in the room, just within him.

New Trait Gained:

Squire: You have sworn yourself to the service of a knight. You will now learn the skills of a knight faster.

He stood. He felt different. Taller, though he knew he was not. The weight of the oath pressed on his chest like armor—not a burden, but a brace.

That night, in the dark of his quarters, he found himself lying awake. The gods had watched him take his first real step toward honor. The gods. Real. No longer mere statues or stories whispered in Septa Lemore's voice. They had looked on him, and they had not turned away.

He thought of how nobles paid lip service to faith—how even Rhaegar, for all his songs, had never truly believed. They bent knees in septs and swore hollow vows for favor or spectacle. But he had felt the divine.

That changed everything.

The next morning brought bruises and blisters.

Ser Willem spared him no mercy. "No more drills like a boy," he said, handing him a practice sword. "You're a squire now. Time you earned the bruises."

Viserys rode every morning before sunrise. He drilled with sword and shield, with spear and mace. His shoulders screamed. His ribs ached. The blood on his hands returned, raw from gripping reins and hilts.

In the evenings, he studied. Ser Willem brought him old tomes and histories—The Fall of House Blackfyre, The Dornish Wars, The Reign of King Viserys, First of His Name, and the Dance of the Dragons That Came After. He read of Dorne's resistance, of Elia Martell's doomed marriage, of how the Stormlords rallied behind Robert while Viserys and his sister fled.

One night he fell asleep over a page and dreamed of his old life—the mad boy in tattered silks, screaming at beggars and clinging to empty pride. The Beggar King, the man who had almost perished in his own delusion.

He woke sweating.

Willem saw the fatigue in his eyes the next morning. "You've tasted failure," the knight said, pausing their swordwork. "So have I."

He told a story, unasked—a squirehood filled with petty pride and a mistake that nearly cost his master's life. "The gods gave me shame so I'd know humility," he finished. "You're learning that faster than I did."

A week passed.

Viserys stood taller. His bruises faded, his muscles began to harden. The sword still felt heavy—but less so. He moved more surely in the saddle. He found rhythm in the swing of arms, the placing of feet.

Basic Swordsmanship — You have taken your first true steps in the art of the blade. Precision, posture, and discipline now shape your strikes. +0.1 Agility

Basic Horsemanship — The saddle feels familiar beneath you. Reins obey your will. The bond between rider and steed has begun to form. +0.1 Constitution

He was improving. Slowly, painfully in his opinion —but quite fast for the common squire.

On the eighth morning, Willem waited for him at the stables.

"It's time," he said simply. "Prince Oberyn will be waiting."

The words struck like a warhorn.

Viserys swallowed. His sword rested at his hip—not for battle, but it felt right, now. His posture was straight. His boots rang true on the cobbles.

They walked together through the early mist of Braavos, the harbor's fog clinging low. Willem strode ahead, a looming figure in grey cloak and mail. Viserys followed—not behind, but beside him now.

When they reached the gates of the inn, Ser Willem stopped and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you ready?"

Viserys looked past the doors, into shadow and firelight, and said:

"No. But I will be."