At the end of a narrow alley beside the bustling market of Tyrosh stood a vast, high-walled courtyard.
In the center of the courtyard, beneath the shade of a flourishing pomegranate tree, Viserys Targaryen stood tall, his pale silver hair gleaming faintly in the light. He wore a slightly worn black velvet cloak, its collar and cuffs embroidered with vivid red silk in the shape of dragons. His expression was proud and imperious as he addressed the obese and bloated Magister of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis.
"This Easterner—just how many men can he provide?"
Illyrio's face stretched into a practiced smile, his tone smooth and oily. "Prince, the Eastern sorcerer has conquered the Stepstones and Tyrosh. They are readying themselves to invade the Seven Kingdoms. According to reliable reports, he commands ten thousand well-trained soldiers and an army of a thousand corpses."
Viserys frowned, his deep violet eyes clouded with doubt. "An army of the dead?"
He gave a short, derisive laugh. "Illyrio, when did you start repeating the nonsense of tavern bards? The dead cannot rise to fight."
Illyrio bowed slightly. "It is true, my prince. Beyond the army of the dead, it is said the Sorcerer from the East is accompanied by a great dragon."
A flicker of shock crossed Viserys's face. "A dragon?!"
He sneered. "Only those of true dragonlord's blood can tame such beasts. He's just a nameless man from Yi Ti. If he truly had a dragon, I would've seen it when he took Tyrosh."
Illyrio's expression remained calm, though unease stirred within him. Varys had assured him that Eddard Stark never lied—the armies of the Seven Kingdoms had indeed been shattered by that sorcerer's golden dragon. And the lords at King's Landing claimed the beast stretched over two hundred feet long.
Yet, as Viserys said, on the day Tyrosh fell, there had been only blood and steel—no dragon in sight.
Illyrio pushed down his doubts, choosing in the end to trust the word of his old friend Varys.
He smiled again, voice dripping with persuasion. "Prince, whether or not the dragon is real, the army of the dead armed with Valyrian steel is undeniable. The man of the East also command hundreds of warships. They have just defeated the Seven Kingdoms' navy at the Stepstones, and the King himself was nearly captured."
He intentionally exaggerated the power that lay in Lo Quen's hands.
Viserys snapped, correcting sharply, "The usurper! The pretender who stole the Iron Throne that rightfully belongs to House Targaryen."
Illyrio bowed his head lower. "Of course, my prince. I do not doubt your words. All you need is the support of this Eastern army."
A gleam of hope brightened Viserys's face. He could already picture it—leading the armies of the Stepstones and Tyrosh ashore in Westeros, greeted by the people of the Seven Kingdoms raising their cups in joyous welcome.
But Illyrio's honeyed smile cut through his fantasy. "Prince, it's nearly time. Is the princess ready? Today is the coronation of that Eastern Sorcerer. It would not do to arrive late."
Even as he spoke, the carved wooden doors creaked open.
Daenerys Targaryen stepped out slowly, supported by two handpicked attendants of Illyrio. She wore an exquisite silver-white silk gown that trailed along the floor, the hem embroidered with fine spiraling patterns that shimmered like frost in the sunlight. Her long silver-gold hair flowed like molten platinum, framing a face that was delicate yet still touched by innocence.
But her beautiful violet eyes were filled with confusion and sorrow. She moved as if in a daze, her thoughts far from the courtyard—as though her soul had wandered elsewhere.
Years of exile had left her as slender as a tender branch in early spring, not yet fully blossomed, carrying a fragile beauty that could break one's heart.
Viserys's cold, critical gaze swept over his sister, his brows tightening even further. He turned to Illyrio, impatience creeping into his voice.
"Are you certain that the Easterner would fancy such a young girl? She's too thin, too timid—hardly bearing the poise of a princess."
As Viserys said, Daenerys had spent her life wandering the Nine Free Cities with her brother, her body's growth stunted by hardship. She was still a child—too young, not yet even come into her womanhood.
Illyrio's smile remained perfectly intact. "Prince, according to multiple reliable sources, the Eastern conqueror is young and has no lawful wife. The princess possesses the purest Valyrian blood. Her nobility and beauty will surely captivate him. She is more than worthy of a queen's throne."
Viserys pressed his pale lips together, still uneasy. "But she hasn't come of age yet. Wouldn't that be..."
Illyrio interrupted smoothly. "All is easily arranged. We can first establish a sacred betrothal. Once the princess is in full health and her flowering arrives, the wedding ceremony can be held without delay."
Viserys finally gave a reluctant nod. Then he turned sharply toward Daenerys, his tone turning harsh and cutting.
"Come here! My dear sister!"
Daenerys flinched at the sound of his voice and moved closer, timid and hesitant.
"Listen..."
Viserys looked down at her, his deep violet eyes devoid of warmth, filled only with a cold warning. "When you meet that Eastern king, keep your head up. Smile. Show your figure. Carry yourself as a true Princess of House Targaryen. If you dare bring shame to me, if there's even the slightest mistake... you know the consequences! You wouldn't want me to awaken the 'Sleeping Dragon's Wrath,' would you?"
Daenerys's slender shoulders quivered, her violet eyes glazing with tears.
The 'Sleeping Dragon's Wrath' again...
Once, Viserys had told her tales of their family's glory, of the mighty dragonlords of old, teaching her to take pride in her true Dragonblood. Those warm memories had long since withered, fading away in their endless flight and the despair of their hopeless exile.
Reality had turned him cruel and volatile. He blamed her for their mother's death in childbirth, beating and cursing her whenever his rage took hold.
Once, she had naively believed she might marry her brother, as the ancient dragonlords of Valyria had done. But now, that childish illusion had shattered. She saw clearly at last—Viserys's obsession with reclaiming the throne had devoured his sanity. He had become a madman willing to sell her to anyone for the faint promise of a crown.
And so, just as now, he had been seduced by a lie spun sweetly by a Pentos broker—eager to trade his sister to a man he had never met, the Eastern sorcerer whose name carried a dark and fearsome reputation throughout the city of Tyrosh.
Before she could think further, Illyrio clapped his plump hands. Four strong slaves carried in a beautifully carved sedan chair.
The three of them climbed inside. The curtains fell, and the chair began its slow journey toward the royal palace of Tyrosh.
...
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