A few days later, Gawen, dressed in a blue robe, was invited by Illyrio to the Governor's Mansion.
The mansion stood behind twelve-foot-high brick walls topped with iron spikes. Lavishly decorated, it overlooked the entire harbor of Pentos.
At the main gate, Gawen saw Unsullied guards. In the Free Cities, the Unsullied were commonly used as house guards—castrated slave soldiers trained from childhood in Astapor, known for absolute obedience and fearless discipline in battle.
Their most famous feat was the Battle of Qohor, where just three thousand Unsullied repelled an attack by over fifty thousand Dothraki under Khal Temmo.
In the mansion's great hall, Gawen finally met the broad-shouldered Illyrio Mopatis.
Illyrio's fingers sparkled with rings, his oiled yellow mustache gleamed like gold.
Gawen placed a hand on his chest and greeted him respectfully, "Good day, Governor Illyrio. It is an honor to be received by you."
Despite his corpulence, the former assassin Illyrio moved with surprising elegance and lightness.
Illyrio's tone was warm. "Good day, Lord Gawen. Welcome. May the Lord of Light bless your path."
As he drew closer, Gawen caught the heavy scent of perfume emanating from Illyrio's robes.
His smile was youthful and sincere. "My lord, I thank you again for your help—and for the introduction from Lord Varys."
Illyrio chuckled softly. "Varys and I have been old friends, though we've had little contact since he returned to Westeros. Seeing his letter again filled me with joy."
After a brief pause, he added, "If Varys recommended you, then I trust you must be an exceptional young man. I trust my friend's judgment. You needn't be so formal."
Gawen nodded politely and followed Illyrio into the inner chambers.
Once seated, a servant brought out delicately crafted cakes and white amber wine. Gawen sipped the wine lightly, then set the cup down.
"Governor Illyrio, forgive my boldness, but I would like to meet the Targaryens."
The hall fell silent.
Illyrio stared at Gawen for a moment, then smiled and shook his head. "I truly underestimated my old friend. He clearly holds you in high regard."
Gawen blinked, slightly embarrassed.
Illyrio sighed lightly. "If Varys has sent you to me, then I imagine you already know much. To your king, they may be fugitive Targaryens, but to me, the war is over—they're merely homeless children."
After a moment of quiet, Gawen replied, "That is exactly how Lord Varys sees it as well... and I agree. King Robert has claimed the Iron Throne, and the Targaryens have long since fled Westeros. To me, it should end here."
Illyrio looked at him with some pity. "The pursuit from Westeros leaves them restless, constantly on the move. They're only staying here temporarily. All I can offer is brief refuge."
Gawen clenched his fists, then slowly released them. "I now understand Lord Varys's intentions. Hunting the Targaryens is no act of honor."
He bowed his head. "Your compassion, my lord, is not only admirable—it is worthy of respect."
Illyrio studied Gawen's expression and quietly curled the corner of his mouth.
Gawen then openly shared the history of House Crabb and its awkward standing in the realm.
Seeing Illyrio listening intently, he continued, "King Robert has never trusted House Crabb. After years of fruitless hunts, he appointed me as the lead pursuer of the Targaryens—more as a test of our loyalty than a real expectation."
"And you?" Illyrio asked, his voice openly cautious.
Gawen shook his head calmly. "Rest assured, my lord. You may tell the prince and princess this: for as long as I hold this responsibility, no harm will come to them. Let them have peace of mind."
Illyrio gazed at him, then sighed. "Now I understand what it means to be 'loyal without fear.'"
Gawen simply let out a soft breath in response to the compliment.
Illyrio's tone turned gentle again. "But if you do this for too long, won't things become difficult back in Westeros?"
Gawen shrugged. "Not yet. I trust Lord Varys."
He paused, then added, "But Varys is a rare man of principle—I don't want to leave all the burden to him."
He rose and placed a hand over his chest. "Governor Illyrio, if I may be so bold: at the appropriate time, I'd like to stage a fake pursuit in Pentos. It will help ease suspicions. With your permission, of course."
Illyrio raised an eyebrow. "A fake pursuit?"
Gawen nodded. "It's for show—there are too many eyes moving between Westeros and Pentos. This will help calm certain parties. And it will make Lord Varys's work easier."
Illyrio nodded in approval on the surface, but inwardly grew more guarded.
"You're right. Pentos is no doubt crawling with spies. Best be cautious."
He then asked casually, "How would the prince and princess assist in this... performance?"
He was probing. Illyrio, despite Varys's letter, wouldn't fully trust Gawen so easily.
The two Targaryens had value—different value depending on where they were placed.
Brought before King Robert, they could earn Gawen great reward and absolve him of suspicion.
To Illyrio's inquiry, Gawen firmly shook his head.
"My lord, they were not appointed to this task out of trust. We still worry there may be assassins lurking in the shadows. That's what troubles Lord Varys most."
"My men can create some noise. But the prince and princess must not appear—it's for their safety. I believe they are safest here, under your care."
Illyrio nodded. "You're right. It was naive of me. For their safety, caution is warranted."
"I'll arrange someone to help you when the time comes," he added.
Gawen bowed slightly, expressing gratitude.
Illyrio said kindly, "As for meeting them—I'll relay our conversation to them. I believe they will be pleased to meet you."
Gawen thought silently: but.
Illyrio hesitated before continuing, "Prince Viserys still bears the trauma of the war and years of pursuit. He's grown wary of anyone from Westeros."
Gawen nodded understandingly. "Anyone in his place would feel the same. I admire his resilience."
Illyrio smiled faintly. "I believe Princess Daenerys will be more eager to meet you. She remembers nothing, but she's always been curious about Westeros. I've never met a purer soul—she's like a sprite born of magic."
Gawen was not surprised he wouldn't be seeing Viserys.
Viserys was Varys and Illyrio's mad dragon, groomed carefully to disrupt Westeros.
Daenerys, for now, was merely a tool to help Viserys trade for an army... and eventually, a sacrifice to enrage the horselord.
Illyrio had hired golden-haired bedmaids from the pleasure houses to train Daenerys in the arts of seduction... the beloved Khaleesi assassinated, blamed on Westerosi agents... the sleeping dragon and the horselord united in vengeance... Westeros drowned in blood.
Varys and Illyrio's schemes were woven tightly. Vile, intricate webs.
Gawen smiled politely. "That is welcome news, my lord. I thank you again for your aid. I look forward to meeting the princess."
Meanwhile, in a secret room of Chataya's brothel in King's Landing...
Lysa Tully clung tightly to Petyr Baelish, her voice shrill.
"Why?! No, it's impossible! Little Robert can't live without me!"
Petyr looked especially weak that day.
"My dearest Lysa, I'm sorry. I've only just learned this myself—Jon Arryn has kept it secret from everyone. Even from you and me."
Lysa froze. "Has he found out about us?"
Petyr shook his head. Lysa, tense as a bowstring, finally relaxed—nearly collapsing.
Petyr held her, his voice smooth and soothing. "Lysa, don't be afraid. You've done nothing wrong. It's my fault—I couldn't let you go. Even if I die, I'll protect you. No harm will come to you."
"Littlefinger..." A tear slid down Lysa's cheek.
After a quiet embrace, Lysa asked, "Then tell me—what does he plan to do with my son?"
Petyr's gray-green eyes fixed on her, full of false sympathy.
He sighed. "Jon fears he can no longer guide the boy. He wants to send him to Dragonstone, to be raised by Lord Stannis."
Lysa screamed, "And what about me?! He's my son! Why can't I raise him myself?! Why take him from me?!"
Petyr gently patted her back. "Since falling ill, Lord Jon has grown more stubborn. He trusts Lord Stannis—someone far away—more than those closest to him."
He met her gaze and continued, "Lysa, you know how much I love little Robert. I have no children. I see him as my own. I want him with his mother, just like you do."
Lysa caressed his face, deeply moved. "Littlefinger, my only regret is not giving you a child of our own... You may treat Robert as yours. I know you love him more than Jon ever could. I'll go to Jon myself—he won't take Robert from me without my consent!"
Petyr shook his head, exhausted. "It's no use. I've already argued with him. He said it's precisely because he doesn't trust you that Robert must leave."
Lysa shrieked, "That old fool! That old wretch! Why?! Why?!"
Watching her descend into a frenzy, Petyr quietly smirked.
Their marriage was loveless—Jon was already an old man when they wed. Lysa, shamed by past infidelities and repeated miscarriages, had become paranoid. Robert was her only comfort—and obsession.
After so many stillbirths and losses, she saw enemies everywhere... except in the man she believed truly loved her—Petyr Baelish.
Lysa clutched him desperately. "Petyr, do something! I can't lose my son! Stannis will kill him!"
Petyr's expression was pained. But under Lysa's pleading eyes, he finally gave a solemn nod—as if making a difficult decision.
Three days later, at Illyrio's mansion...
Daenerys stepped into a steaming bath, her silver hair wrapped in rough cloth. The water was scalding—but she didn't flinch. She liked it hot. It made her feel clean.
Viserys often told her, "We Targaryens don't fear heat. We are the blood of the dragon."
After bathing, she combed her silver hair until it shone like molten metal. She dabbed perfumed oils on her body, then donned a purple silk robe that accentuated her violet eyes. Golden sandals, a bracelet with amethyst inlay—each piece placed with care.
She examined herself in the mirror.
A small, timid, uncertain girl stared back.
Sadness flickered in her eyes. Not long ago, her brother had tried to trade her to the Dothraki for an army.
Today, he wanted her to win the loyalty of a half-wild noble.
She felt like a bargaining chip.
Part of her rebelled—but fear of waking the dragon kept her silent.
The servant had relayed Illyrio's instructions: the half-wild Westerosi was already waiting in the courtyard. She was to appear just a little later—to elevate her dignity.
Daenerys didn't fully understand what "royal dignity" meant. She only knew she had to succeed. If she failed, Viserys would cast her aside.
And there was nothing more terrifying than that.
She took a breath and stood tall.
Turning toward the door, she straightened her slender back and folded her hands over her belly.
In the sunlight, the fragile silhouette of a girl lengthened across the polished floor.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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