Viserys watched as the dazzling display of treasure was laid out before him.
Gold, silver, gemstones, spices, fine silks, plate armor, castle-forged steel, and vintage wines. The contents of every cedar chest were worth a small fortune.
Of course, there were no petrified dragon eggs.
Viserys found this unsurprising. No one gave away their greatest treasure as an opening move. The fat Magister wasn't a fool; he was testing the waters. Furthermore, it appeared these gifts weren't funded by Illyrio alone, but pooled together by the Magisters of Pentos.
Viserys felt confident he could eventually get his hands on the fossilized eggs. To Illyrio, they were mere curiosities—expensive stones that would never hatch. He had likely tried for years to wake them and given up. But to a Targaryen, a live dragon and a stone egg were two very different concepts of value.
He had a plan: secure the eggs first, then send Illyrio on his way.
"And these wines?" Viserys asked.
"Vintages from every corner of the world," Illyrio introduced, gesturing grandly. "Sweet reds from the Reach, sour reds from Dorne, white amber wines from Pentos, green nectar from Myr, pear brandy from Tyrosh, and the golden vintages of the Arbor. I even have spirits imported from the legendary East—from Qarth, Yi Ti, and Asshai-by-the-Shadow."
"A thoughtful gesture," Viserys praised. As he was preparing to launch his own distillery, it would be useful to sample the competition.
"Take this one, for example." Illyrio held up a bottle. "A strong vintage. The label claims it comes from the private cellars of Lord Runceford Redwyne, grandfather to the current Lord of the Arbor, Paxter Redwyne."
Viserys eyed the gifts. These merchant princes were truly filthy rich. Through trade and shipping lanes, they had amassed mountains of gold. Even with the Dothraki choking the overland routes and the Sorrows plaguing the Rhoyne, the sea remained open, and the port cities grew fat.
Pentos was a second-tier power among the Free Cities—wealthier than Lorath or Norvos, but lacking the military teeth of Braavos. And wealth without a sword to protect it was just waiting to be plundered.
"These are but small tokens of goodwill from the Magisters of Pentos," Illyrio said, pointing to the group of young women standing nearby. "And these servants are a personal gift for you, Your Grace."
It was easy to understand why Pentos was so eager to pay Viserys. For the last century, Pentos had been essentially bleeding gold—paying war reparations to Braavos and bribing Dothraki Khals to not burn their city down. They were used to being squeezed.
The Dothraki weren't stupid; they preferred to raid the soft, wealthy targets like Pentos rather than the hard, poor lands of Andalos. But now that the Andals were uniting, the Pentoshi were wary. They knew the history of Andal martial fervor all too well. This "gift" was essentially a bribe for peace.
"As I understand it, the treaty with Braavos forbids you from holding slaves," Viserys noted.
"Indeed. But these are merely servants... bonded servants. Pentos abolished slavery a hundred years ago per the Braavosi peace treaty. I only meant to say they will be... obedient," Illyrio explained with a knowing smile.
Viserys looked at the beautiful girls. They were lovely, but their eyes were filled with dread. They were slaves in everything but name.
"Andalos forbids slavery. As they are a gift, I shall grant them their freedom," Viserys commanded.
He had no intention of bedding them. He would assign them as handmaidens or servants to his officers. They would be screened for espionage, of course, but after that, they would be free to stay or go.
"That is your right as King," Illyrio said, taking a deep breath. "Children, by the King's decree, you are free."
Illyrio handed over their bond parchments—debts so high they could never be repaid in a lifetime, the legal fiction that kept them enslaved. The women wept with joy and were led away by the guards.
Illyrio remained impassive. To him, they were a trivial expense. He also knew that Andalos followed the Faith of the Seven, which frowned upon slavery.
Viserys turned back to the wealth. The Pentoshi were generous; the gold and silver alone were blinding. It was no wonder the Horse Lords loved to ride to Pentos to "view the sea"—they were terrified of the poison water, but they loved the gifts the weak Magisters showered upon them.
"Your gifts are generous indeed. I accept them," Viserys said.
Building Viserys Fort and training his legions was burning through his treasury. The grain from taxes kept them fed, but steel, horses, and infrastructure required coin. The funds from the Greenvine confiscation and the Black Pearl's loans were barely keeping him afloat. He would happily take the Pentoshi gold.
"My gifts are delivered, and friendship is forged between Pentos and Andalos," Illyrio beamed. "If it pleases you, we have also prepared a large manse for you in Pentos, should you ever wish to visit."
"A manse? You are too kind. Once I have organized my forces, I shall bring my Royal Guard to Pentos to thank the Magisters in person," Viserys said, locking eyes with Illyrio.
Pentos had a tradition of building seaside villas for the Dothraki Khals to appease them. Now, Viserys was demanding the same treatment as a Khal.
"Your... Guard?" Illyrio felt a sudden absurdity. Was he planning to come begging with an army? "How many troops do you have, Your Grace?" he asked cautiously.
"Andalos is vast and thinly populated, but I command many thousands of elite soldiers. I have seven thousand in the Royal Guard here at the White Keep alone," Viserys lied effortlessly.
The number was inflated, of course. He was counting his longbowmen, cavalry, engineers, regular infantry, garrison troops, and even the peasant levies to get anywhere near that number.
Still, Illyrio drew a sharp breath. Even if the number was exaggerated, thousands of hungry, battle-hardened Andals on his doorstep would be a disaster for Pentos.
"If the Magisters think that is too many, I can bring half. Looking out west across the Narrow Sea might soothe my homesickness," Viserys said with a touch of feigned melancholy.
Seeing that Illyrio wasn't quite taking the bait, Viserys decided to start "acting."
"With such fearless warriors, retaking your homeland of Westeros would not be difficult. You would be the master of two continents," Illyrio said, seizing the opening.
His plan was simple: incite a conflict. Arm Viserys, send him to fight the Usurper, and let them bleed each other dry. When both sides were exhausted, he and Varys would swoop in to harvest the fruit.
"Justice will prevail over evil. I believe you will liberate Westeros. I, too, wish to offer my own small contribution—not from Pentos, but from myself personally," Illyrio whispered conspiratorially.
Viserys stepped down from the dais and walked right up to the fat Magister.
"When I sit the Iron Throne again, I will not forget the friends who helped me when I was out in the cold," Viserys said, clapping the fat man on the shoulder, feigning a look of fanatical ambition.
He's still a child, after all, Illyrio thought, delighted. A few words and he's ready to march.
"With the elite soldiers of Andalos and the friendship of Pentos, the Kingslayer and the Usurper will wet their breeches," Viserys boasted. "I have tens of thousands of Andal warriors ready to sweep across the Seven Kingdoms. The great houses will rise for their true King. The Tyrells, Redwynes, Darrys, Greyjoys... they hate the Usurper as I do. The Martells of Dorne burn for vengeance for Princess Elia. And the smallfolk... they sew dragon banners in secret!"
Viserys scoffed internally at his own speech. He knew the "secret toasts" were mostly a myth. The Great Houses would side with the winner, not the rightful heir. Without overwhelming force, returning to Westeros was suicide.
But he needed to play the role of the delusional, arrogant claimant to keep Illyrio's support.
"Exactly so, Your Grace. The smallfolk pray for your return," Illyrio replied with a benevolent smile, playing his part in the mummer's farce.
Viserys knew the fat man's game. Illyrio wanted him to be a sacrificial pawn. Viserys, in turn, planned to milk the cow dry and then slaughter it.
"For my crossing, Magister, I will need a fleet. I am busy building my capital, but a King needs ships," Viserys said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
"I... I will try. But Pentos has been stripped of its rights; we have only twenty warships," Illyrio said, feeling faint. This Viserys was greedier than a Dothraki Khal!
But he had hooked the fish. He had to use bait. If necessary, he would dangle the dragon eggs later to ensure Viserys marched to his doom.
"I also hear your friends span the Nine Free Cities, Magister Illyrio. I wish to purchase Myrish equipment. Can you arrange this?"
Myr was famous for its artisans. They produced complex mechanisms, lenses, telescopes, and lace. But they also made the best crossbows in the world—repeating crossbows that could fire three bolts in succession. Viserys wanted those.
"As a Magister, I have some small influence. I will arrange for Myrish merchants to visit you, Your Grace," Illyrio smiled, though internally he was cursing Viserys's avarice.
"One more thing, my new friend." Viserys patted Illyrio's shoulder again. "I hear you trade in dragonbone. I have a great need for it. If you don't have enough... well, I suppose fish bones from the Rhoyne will have to do. I am a forgiving man..."
This was a direct hit. Illyrio dealt in spices, gems, and dragonbone. It was a lucrative trade. Viserys was essentially demanding a cut of his inventory for free.
"Since the King desires it, it is my honor. I may have some stock in my cellars. I shall gift it to you as a token of my goodwill," Illyrio said, his heart bleeding coin.
"You shouldn't have! You are too generous, my fat friend!" Viserys beamed, delighted at the successful shakedown.
"It is only right, only right," Illyrio forced a smile.
"And Valyrian steel swords? Do you happen to..."
Illyrio looked ready to cry. He was being treated like a wishing well. "That, I truly do not have, Your Grace."
"I was only jesting, Magister. Valyrian steel is beyond price," Viserys chuckled, returning to his throne. "Since my fat friend has been so generous, I must prepare a feast. Judging by your size, you are a man who appreciates fine dining. We shall eat well tonight."
"It would be my honor," Illyrio sighed in relief.
The Magister was satisfied. This greedy, arrogant Viserys was exactly the kind of obsessed revanchist he needed. When the time was right, he would offer the dragon eggs, and the boy would charge blindly into the jaws of death, just as planned.
He smirked internally. Let Viserys and the Usurper break each other. He and Varys, the overlooked players in the shadows, would be the ones to pick up the pieces.
He had no idea that the young King on the dais, looking so arrogant and harmless, was already calculating exactly how to exterminate his house and seize his fortune after squeezing him dry.