Viserys Targaryen's expression turned pleased. "That's my good little sister."
"In a few days, I want you to meet someone. He's the Lord of Whispers Hold. His name is Gawen Crabb."
Whispers Hold? A look of confusion crossed Daenerys Targaryen's young face.
"Brother, is he from Westeros?"
Viserys's smile deepened. "Yes, Daenerys, you guessed correctly. You must win Lord Gawen's allegiance on my behalf. Whatever it takes. Do you understand?"
As he spoke, Viserys lightly patted the tear-streaked cheek of his sister.
Daenerys's eyes widened. "But… brother, how could I possibly do that?"
To make a Westerosi lord swear loyalty to her? Even in her dreams, Daenerys had never imagined such a thing.
How could she possibly achieve it?
Seeing her hesitation, Viserys's smile faded and his brows creased.
His voice turned cold. "Are you thinking of defying me, Daenerys? Do you wish to awaken the wrath of the sleeping dragon?"
A jolt ran through Daenerys. She shook her head urgently. "No, I don't! Brother, I… I'm just afraid I'll fail you."
Viserys's long fingers slowly traced across Daenerys's slender shoulder.
His gesture seemed gentle, yet it filled Daenerys with fear. Her body began to tremble.
Smiling, Viserys said, "My good little sister, why would you ever wish to disappoint me?"
That smile sent chills down her spine.
Daenerys dared not move. She knew that the slightest misstep would unleash his fury.
She quickly denied it. "No, brother. I'm thinking of a way. I would never dare disappoint you!"
Viserys gripped her chin. "Then tell me now—have you figured it out?"
Daenerys was truly puzzled. Why wouldn't her brother handle it himself? But she dared not ask.
So she nodded. She didn't dare admit she hadn't thought of anything yet.
Fortunately, Viserys didn't press her. He had always told her that a king only cares for results… such was the breadth of a true ruler.
He finally let go of her, sizing up her small frame. "He has some men and ships, but he's nothing more than a half-wildling lord. I permit you to use your body if necessary—but remember this: preserve your purity. A Targaryen never mingles with lesser blood."
Barbarian… half-wildling… Despair swept over Daenerys. Viserys always claimed they were of true dragon blood, descended from the Valyrian Freehold—yet now he was pushing her into this?
Was she not a Targaryen too?
His words contradicted themselves, but Daenerys could neither argue nor resist. All she could do was obey.
More than anything, she feared being cast aside by her brother. As long as she stayed by his side, maybe—just maybe—the kind brother she once knew would return.
She had always believed that when she came of age, she would marry Viserys.
He had told her countless times: since Aegon the Conqueror wed his sisters, Targaryens had practiced sibling marriage for centuries.
Targaryens bore the blood of kings—the proud, golden blood of ancient Valyria. To preserve that bloodline, dragons did not mate with common beasts, and neither should their kin mix with lesser peoples.
And yet now… a barbarian? A half-wildling? Daenerys felt like her title of "Princess of Dragonstone" was a cruel joke.
Lowering her tearful face, she whispered, "Yes, brother. I'll remember."
Viserys's withered face twisted with disgust. "Stop pouting. Lift your head. Stand straight. By the gods, you're already flat enough."
Dragonstone — The Painted Table Hall
Stannis Baratheon stared into the brazier, his clenched jaw creaking audibly.
Standing beside him, Davos Seaworth glanced up and spoke respectfully: "Lord Stannis, there are more contenders for the role of Hand of the King than we expected."
Stannis's face remained taut as he scoffed. "Renly and Mace are both fools. If imbeciles are allowed to rule, the realm will fall."
Davos placed a hand over his heart. "My lord, I suggest you put your name forward to Jon Arryn as a candidate for Hand without delay."
Stannis's brows knit together. He had been waiting for Jon Arryn's investigation to conclude.
The issue of the royal bloodline could not be taken lightly. If the results matched his suspicions, then Stannis would be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
Due to his position, he could not be the one to investigate—it had to be someone impartial.
If he were the one to expose the truth, people would accuse him of fabricating lies to gain the crown. Even the guilty parties would have grounds to deny it. The evidence would be tainted by his own claim.
Jon Arryn still possessed a measure of honor. And as Hand of the King, it was his duty to uncover the truth.
Now, the two matters—the legitimacy of the royal bloodline and the succession of the Hand—had become entangled, complicating everything.
The hall was silent for a while before Stannis gave a slight nod.
Seeing his grave expression, Davos added, "Many nobles in the Crownlands and the Stormlands support you, my lord."
Stannis's eyes flicked toward him. "What of the Stormlords' stance?"
Davos nodded. "At least one-third openly support you."
Stannis said coldly, "They still prefer Renly's wine to my pure water."
Davos explained, "The rest haven't all chosen Renly. Many are waiting to see how things play out."
Stannis narrowed his eyes. "Loyal Davos, I am not surprised. Cowards and schemers like to wait and watch. Let them—scraps are all they'll ever deserve."
Davos agreed, "As it should be, my lord. The brave deserve a seat at the feast."
Stannis gave a slight nod. "Davos, go to the Red Keep on my behalf. Meet with Jon Arryn. Tell him I am volunteering as a candidate for Hand of the King."
Davos bowed, then hesitated. "Shall I also pay respects to King Robert?"
Stannis snorted. "No need. My brother isn't a fool. He knows that only I can keep him from drowning in wine and women."
Pentos — One of the Nine Free Cities
It was a bright and breezy day as five ships—two original and three captured—flew the golden mermaid banner and docked at a harbor in Pentos, the closest Free City to King's Landing across the Narrow Sea.
As Gawen stepped off the ship, he took in his surroundings and felt like he had arrived from a backward civilization into a more refined one.
Most Westerosi cities were filthy and chaotic. Pentos, in contrast, was clean and orderly.
Its people mirrored the city.
That was Gawen's first impression.
Spotting his arrival, Steward Rossell—who had gone ahead carrying Varys's letter of introduction—quickly stepped forward.
"Good day, my lord. Rossell sends you greetings."
Gawen had no intention of using Varys's letter solely to make connections with Illyrio Mopatis.
Now that he had money and ships, he aimed to establish trade between Mermaid's Port and Pentos.
Varys had treated him well—Gawen would not respond with indifference.
He knew full well the close relationship between Varys and Illyrio.
Gawen would simply borrow Varys's name to leverage Illyrio's influence and discreetly set up the Crabb-Pentos Trading Company. A foothold and trade in one move.
Gawen smiled. "Thank you, Rossell."
At that moment, Rick Snow approached. "My lord, our ships need some repairs."
Gawen now had five ships total—two original, three captured from pirates.
As for those pirates?
Gawen judged by deeds, not words. He had no intention of letting criminals join his army.
"Inspect the vessels thoroughly before repairs. No risks. Take the funds from Rossell."
Now flush with cash, Gawen glanced toward Mondon Waters in the distance.
Catching his gaze, Mondon grinned sheepishly.
Gawen gave a subtle nod, then turned to Rossell. "Lead the way. And tell me what's happened here."
Rossell followed at his side, choosing his words carefully. "Thanks to the letter you entrusted to me, my lord, I was honored with a personal audience with Governor Illyrio. He welcomes and anticipates your visit."
He lowered his voice. "Just as I began inquiring about real estate, the governor's steward approached me with an offer for a fine estate—at a very fair price."
Gawen's brow arched. "I see. You've done well. Be thoughtful when selecting the queen's gift."
There were too many eyes and ears at the docks. A few words would suffice.
Illyrio's warm gestures were also subtle warnings—he was showing off his influence without saying a word.
But Gawen, thanks to his past life and the knowledge he had gained in Westeros, could already see through Varys and Illyrio's schemes.
He chuckled to himself. He was already weighing which of the two to eliminate first.
He wouldn't tolerate any puppeteers pulling strings above him.
Let them come to his table instead.
Pentos wasn't suited to horseback. Gawen followed local custom and climbed into a palanquin.
Though the city was neat, a strange scent lingered in the air.
As they left the docks, the streets filled with unfamiliar chants and the laughter of children.
Suddenly, Gawen looked toward a certain corner—sensing something—but saw nothing out of place.
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
At the Red Keep, the throne room was empty save for Petyr Baelish.
He smirked as he gazed at Grand Maester Pycelle's empty seat. Though he lacked direct proof, he was nearly certain the old man had pledged himself to the Lannisters.
As for Varys… he needed watching. Petyr trusted his instincts—Varys was up to something.
The Small Council was the ultimate stage for players of power, each hiding ambitions they dared not speak aloud—including Petyr himself.
His grey-green eyes locked on the Iron Throne.
The time was right.
Thanks to Lysa Tully, he had uncovered what Jon Arryn had been secretly investigating.
So much for "noble blood." Petyr's smirk deepened.
Jon Arryn was nearing the end of his usefulness. His final value would be in exiting the stage.
Petyr could already envision the chaos he would unleash—and the staircase it would become.
His smile grew.
Soft footsteps broke the silence behind him.
He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
Only one man moved like that—the Spider.
Varys stepped up beside him, also gazing at the Iron Throne. "Lord Petyr, I sometimes wonder—what do you think about when you look at it?"
Petyr rasped, "Perhaps we think of the same thing, Lord Varys."
"Oh?" Varys chuckled. "Do you mean you too miss the majestic sight of King Robert seated upon it?"
Petyr's eye twitched. "Lord Varys, are you implying something?"
Hands folded, Varys smiled. "Not at all. I'm simply a fearful man, and His Grace gives me courage. In such delicate times, I long to see him more than ever. Don't you?"
Petyr curled his lips. "How unfortunate that the king isn't here to hear your flattery in person."
Varys bowed slightly. "I only speak from the heart. Though the Red Keep is full of unseen ears, I always trust in His Grace's wisdom."
Petyr's eyes flickered at that.
With a graceful smile, he said, "Lord Varys, your tongue truly is… honeyed."
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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