Deep within the courtyard of the Magister of Pentos, in a study filled with the scent of spices and covered in Myrish carpets,
Illyrio Mopatis remained silent for a long time.
His obese frame was sunk into a high-backed velvet chair, and between his thick fingers, adorned with gold and gemstone rings, he held three reports that had arrived almost simultaneously.
Lys had changed hands, Tyrosh had fallen, and Myr had surrendered.
Each report used the briefest of words to recount the most impossible of events.
"Impossible..."
He murmured to himself, his voice so soft it was as if he feared disturbing something.
But his eyes swept over the concrete details: the Golden Company's defection, Marco Sollen's surrender, the extermination of the Antalion family, Magister Miloto's surrender announcement... it was too specific, too coherent to be false.
Not to mention that dragon.
"Pale gold, three heads, breathing golden lightning and fire..."
Illyrio's fingertips rubbed over the last line of text, his fingernails turning white from the pressure.
"No."
He shook his head violently, tossing aside those absurd thoughts.
Dragons had long been extinct.
This must be some kind of sorcery, some trick, some... Smack!
The thick oak desk let out a dull thud.
Illyrio's fist slammed onto the tabletop, overturning a gem-encrusted inkwell; the pitch-black liquid quickly stained the expensive Myrish carpet.
"Bastard!"
He growled, the mask of a kind and approachable man shattering completely to reveal the distorted rage and fear beneath.
"...How dare he?! How dare he?!"
Ten years.
No, fifteen years, or even longer.
He and Varys, like the most patient of gardeners, had buried seeds in barren soil.
Watering them with lies, fertilizing them with conspiracies, and carefully nurturing that seedling named "Blackfyre" with gold and blood.
They had planned everything: Viserys, that vain, short-tempered silver-haired fool, would serve as the public target to draw fire.
They would use his sister's marriage alliance to recruit an army for him that they didn't have to pay for, let him lead that army to challenge the Stag's iron throne, and keep every eye in Seven Kingdoms fixed on him.
Meanwhile, the saved resources would be given to their true investment, the one they hid in the shadows, packaged under the name of Rhaegar's son... that boy who would accumulate strength amidst the chaos and ultimately reap the spoils.
A perfect plan.
It required time, patience, and a little bit of luck.
But now... six months.
In less than half a year, a youth calling himself Aegon Targaryen, with silver hair and purple eyes, and even bringing a three-headed dragon, had smashed the entire chessboard in the most brutal, direct, and incomprehensible way.
Lys, Tyrosh, Myr.
Three Free Cities, three crucial springboards and resource hubs in their future plans, were now all flying the three-headed dragon banner of House Targaryen.
And what that youth used was the very foundation they had prepared for Aegon Blackfyre.
The Golden Company.
He thought of the funding and promises he had sent to the Golden Company; those gold coins and Soldiers should have been the capital for that boy's rise.
But now, they had become the stepping stones for another.
"Jon Clinton!"
"Damn it... damn it... damn it!!"
Illyrio ground his teeth.
He stood up abruptly, the heavy body knocking over the chair, which hit the carpet with a dull thud.
He paced back and forth in the study like a trapped mountain bear, his breathing heavy.
Rage flowed through his veins like molten lava.
Over a decade of planning, countless gold, and meticulously woven lies were as fragile as a child's building blocks in the face of the other's arrogant rise.
But beneath the anger, there was another colder emotion, a sliver of... sadness that he had almost ignored?
That boy who had been sent away while still in swaddling clothes, given to Jon Clinton to be raised in secret.
Where was he now?
In some dark dungeon? Or already a nameless floating corpse in Rhis?
Illyrio stopped and closed his eyes.
He was not a sentimental man.
In the game of thrones, chess pieces are always sacrificed.
But that boy was the piece he had poured the most effort into... he was also his... now, it might all be over.
He took a breath, forcibly suppressing the surging emotions. Now was not the time for anger or sadness.
Varys's little birds must have received the news as well; The Spider was likely deep within the Red Keep in King's Landing right now, reporting the same content to Robert Baratheon in his sweet, cloying voice.
And he, he had to react in Pentos.
Illyrio righted the chair and sat back down, the composure of old gradually returning to his bloated face.
Or rather, a cold calculation.
Pentos was too close to Myr.
Since that Aegon could take three cities in a row, where would his military advance stop?
He called himself the son of Rhaegar; once this name spread across both sides of the Narrow Sea along with his military prestige, the legitimacy of any "Targaryen" in their hands would be greatly diminished.
No, it would be utterly gone.
Whether that boy was alive or dead, his and Varys's schemes were completely bankrupt.
A son of Rhaegar so powerful, holding three Free Cities, tens of thousands of troops, and a dragon, had appeared out of nowhere; all eyes and all hostility would converge on him.
Viserys, that foolish, short-tempered, and vain Beggar King, had lost even his value as a target.
No.
Illyrio's fingers tightened suddenly.
The target had lost its value, but the piece itself was still useful.
He needed to redefine Viserys's value.
That youth calling himself Aegon was his obstacle, the destroyer of his plans, a... bastard who had to be erased!
And Viserys, this exiled, legitimate Targaryen bloodline, perhaps... could become a blade pointed at that bastard.
Illyrio's mind raced, his obese face full of gloom as a new, even more ruthless plan began to take shape.
The marriage between Daenerys and Khal Drogo must be pushed forward immediately, at all costs.
Tens of thousands of screamers—this was the power that could most quickly be obtained to shake the situation.
With this army, Viserys would no longer be a Beggar King, but a throne claimant supported by a Dothraki horde.
He would be qualified to stand at the forefront and contest the righteous name of the Targaryen legitimacy with that "Aegon" who occupied the three cities.
Secondly, that bastard must not be allowed to continue integrating the three cities peacefully.
A cold ruthlessness flashed in Illyrio's eyes.
He took out a piece of letter paper, spread it on the desk, and quickly wrote with a quill dipped in ink:
To the House of Black and White in Braavos:
Target: Aegon Targaryen, approximately fifteen years old, silver hair and purple eyes, currently occupying Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, often accompanied by a pale gold three-headed dragon.
Reward: Five hundred thousand gold coins, or equivalent value in gemstones, land, or Valyrian Steel products.
He blew the ink dry, rolled it up, and sealed it with pure black wax.
"Someone, come."
The study door slid open silently, and that lean man with the blurred face appeared once more.
"Take the fastest ship and deliver this personally to Braavos, to the servants of the many-faced god."
Illyrio's voice was calm and flat: "Remember, no one in heaven or on earth must know of this except for you, me, and the recipient."
The man took it, bowed silently, and vanished into the shadows.
The door closed again.
Illyrio leaned back against the chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest.
Five hundred thousand gold coins was nearly half of Pentos's annual Port taxes, but he didn't even blink.
Compared to the iron throne and over a decade of investment, this price was worth it.
Then, he clapped his hands.
An Attendant entered in response.
"Go, take that purple gown prepared for Princess Daenerys and give it to His Majesty Viserys."
Illyrio's face had returned to its usual, spring-breeze-like smile: "Tell him it is a small token of my, the Magister's, esteem for His Majesty's sister, and that I hope she will welcome the upcoming wedding in her most beautiful state."
He paused, his smile unchanging, but his eyes were as deep as an abyss.
"Additionally, command the Port to detain all merchant ships, messengers, and rumors coming from the south, especially from the directions of Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr."
"All news must first be reported to me."
"Before receiving my explicit instructions, not a single word is to be leaked to anyone, especially our two noble Targaryen guests."
The Attendant bowed: "Yes, Magister."
"One more thing."
Illyrio added.
"Tell His Majesty Viserys that I am looking forward to the banquet the day after tomorrow."
"Khal Drogo's envoys have already arrived in Pentos, and the Khal himself is... deeply interested in this marriage alliance. Have His Majesty persuade his sister well."
The Attendant left.
Silence returned to the study, with only the spilled, spreading ink on the carpet looking like an ugly scar.
Illyrio looked out the window; the eastern horizon was turning pale like a fish's belly, and a new day was about to begin.
But for him, the old world had already ended.
Viserys was no longer a discarded piece, but a blade that needed careful support.
Daenerys was a bargaining chip that had to be cashed in as soon as possible.
And that "Aegon" rising in the south... Illyrio rubbed a heavy agate ring on his finger, the last trace of emotion fading from his eyes, leaving only pure, cold calculation.
"Come and fight for it, little bastard."
He whispered softly toward the whitening horizon, as if instructing an invisible opponent.
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