Golden dusk spilled across the sky, scattering shimmering, shifting light over the sea.
Free City of Pentos – The governor's mansion of Illyrio Mopatis.
In the ivy-covered garden, Viserys Targaryen sat face-to-face with Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos.
Viserys was tall and slender, with long silver hair and the purple eyes of the dragonlords.
Handsome though he was, the gauntness of his face betrayed a weariness he could not hide.
Illyrio, by contrast, was corpulent, with a greasy, yellow-parted beard and a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth.
Viserys's violet eyes flared with the heat of barely contained rage. "Magister Illyrio, my future Master of Coin — I am the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Viserys Targaryen the Third — the one true king of the Iron Throne!"
Faced with his near-roar, Illyrio's reply was calm. "Your Grace, no one doubts your rightful claim to the Iron Throne."
The words eased some of the tension in Viserys's voice. "She is my chosen queen-to-be. So you will not try to awaken the wrath of the sleeping dragon again."
His chosen queen… Illyrio's eyes flickered. "She is far too timid. But you need an army to reclaim the Iron Throne."
At first, Illyrio had been struck by Daenerys Targaryen's beauty — even to the point of briefly considering removing Viserys and marrying her himself.
But with time, he found her far too shy, too meek, living each day in fear and apprehension.
To be bound to her, he decided, would be tiresome — offering no pleasure to his life.
Abandoning that hidden ambition, Illyrio began to consider another use for Daenerys Targaryen.
Viserys's violet eyes wavered. "Are you certain? That my sister could bring me an army?"
"Yes," Illyrio replied. "The princess's worth is enough to bring you the thousands you need to take back the Iron Throne."
Viserys could not keep the smile from spreading across his face. "Magister Illyrio — my most trusted Illyrio — I leave this matter in your hands."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Under my rule, you will forever stand apart from the rest."
Illyrio inclined his head in thanks and began to rise to leave.
But Viserys's voice came again, laced with dissatisfaction. "For the sake of the realm, I may have lost a queen, but surely I can at least have her body?"
Illyrio's lips trembled slightly.
Truly the Mad King's son.
Viserys Targaryen was shallow and greedy. Illyrio realized that this son of the Mad King was the first danger to guard against — for no matter how careful the plan, it could be undone by his unpredictable whims.
Red Keep — black storm clouds pressed low over the sky.
Varys finished reading the note that had just arrived and tossed it into the brazier.
Expressionless, he watched until the paper was nothing but ash, then turned to leave.
Near midday, a servant announced that Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, had come to call.
Varys paused, glancing out the window.
It had been pouring since morning, the weather outside grim and unwelcoming.
The rain did nothing to diminish Petyr's elegance. His deep grey robes were immaculate.
With a curve of his lips, his rasping voice was as smooth as silk. "Good day, Lord Varys. Forgive the intrusion."
Varys clasped his hands together, nodding in greeting, smiling warmly. "Good day, Lord Petyr. To receive a man burdened with the kingdom's affairs is both an honor and a privilege."
Sweet though Varys's words were, they put Petyr on edge, stirring an instinctive wariness.
His smile remained poised and polite. "This would not normally be worth disturbing you over, but the Hand has taken an interest, and so I had to come through the rain."
Varys invited him to sit, his tone earnest. "What is it the Hand requires, Lord Petyr?"
Petyr leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, his smile tinged with a hint of resignation. "It's nothing urgent, my lord — you make me nervous."
"My apologies," Varys replied. "I meant only that in the Hand's service, there are no small matters."
Petyr's smile tightened, his mouth twitching slightly at the words.
He shrugged lightly. "It concerns the Queen's Chief Attendant. The Hand and he agreed on a one-month deadline — and that time is nearly up…"
He spread his hands. "Perhaps it was the incident with the hidden chamber in the study that left the Hand impressed with him. Just now, the Hand asked me about his whereabouts. My information was limited, so I came to trouble the Master of Whisperers himself."
Varys nodded, pausing briefly before answering. "Baron Gawen Crabb should still be in Highgarden."
Petyr's eyes shifted. "On the Queen's business? Will he make it back in time?"
Varys kept his faint smile. "The Baron enjoys Her Grace's full trust. He went to the Reach to purchase grain."
"Grain?"
"He is the Queen's favored courtier. Acting in her name, he was sent to Highgarden — and everyone knows the Gold Rose delights in currying favor with the Crown."
Petyr's smile widened. "I thank you for your candor, Lord Varys."
His expression tempered again as he asked, "Buying grain is no great matter. If all went as planned, by now he should be in the Crownlands."
Varys inclined his head. "A mind as sharp as yours must have guessed he hasn't been so fortunate."
Petyr's smile stayed measured. "The Gold Rose is no easy prize — and Baron Crabb is not the Queen herself. I imagine he's not been so easily dismissed."
Varys hesitated for a heartbeat before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Ever perceptive, Lord Petyr."
His tone was that of a man chatting with an old friend. "Baron Crabb set up a dueling platform near Highgarden. According to my latest reports, he has already defeated over a hundred of the Reach's finest swordsmen. The whole of the Reach is abuzz with him."
Petyr's smile stayed polite — though inwardly, he was quietly delighted. That is so very Gawen.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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