A black cat leapt onto the desk, pinning down the curling edge of a map with one paw.
Rhaenys Targaryen reached over to stroke its dark fur. The one‑eared creature purred and settled, content again. When it wasn't prowling, it almost seemed calm — as if it forgot it was wild.
"You think those urchins outside are little birds?" she asked.
"If they wore rags, pale faces, and none of them spoke a word," said Viserys, "then yes — Varys's flock without question."
"But shouldn't his birds be in King's Landing?"
"They are," he replied, smiling grimly. "But never forget where the Spider hatched. Varys came from Pentos. He still keeps friends there — powerful ones."
He knew that much for certain. He knew, in fact, far more — enough to guess the unholy partnership between the Spider and the Fat Magister.
Rhaenys gripped the dragonbone hilt of her dagger. "I remember Father hating him," she said quietly. "He was the one person Rhaegar mistrusted most. I see why now."
Viserys said nothing for a moment. It was true — the Mad King's court had drowned in sycophants and liars: the Foolish Lord Rossart, the simpering Chesterfield, the whisperers who flattered madness and poisoned loyalty.
Only Varys still lived among them all.
---
"We'll have our vengeance," Viserys said at last, his tone measured, almost ritual.
"The dragons never forget," Rhaenys answered.
Neither smiled.
"Why send their spies now?" she asked.
"Because we still have value," he replied simply. "Even a broken sword can serve as bait."
It was the truth. The Spider and Illyrio didn't want him dead — they wanted him useful, a Targaryen banner to wave above their own schemes.
He had never sought them, yet still they watched him.
"Whose side is Varys even on?" Rhaenys continued. "He served the Mad King, then the usurper, yet he now searches for us again."
"Probably no one's. People like him are loyal only to themselves."
Viserys stood by the map of Essos, his gaze settling on Pentos. "He's not just a merchant of secrets. He's a man with ambition — and ambition wrapped in silk folds deeper than any dagger."
Rhaenys frowned. "He's just a servant."
He gave a low laugh. "In an age where thrones crumble, even rats dream of crowns. Men like Varys and the Little Finger hide behind humility — it's the best disguise power can buy."
"So what do we do about the children?" she asked.
"Nothing, as long as they don't creep too close," he said. "This is Braavos. Even Pentos wouldn't dare cross the Sea Lord here."
"That's true," Rhaenys nodded. "They're too frightened of him."
For two centuries the Sea Lord and Pentos had fought bitterly — six wars in all, blood spilled over land, trade, and the question of slavery itself.
Braavos had won four times outright. After the last war, eighty years ago, the defeated city had gone mad with superstition — sacrificing four of its rulers to the gods before a fifth prince, Nelo Neratis, finally sued for peace.
Under the terms of that treaty, Pentos had been forbidden from keeping more than twenty warships, banned from hiring mercenary armies, or equipping knights beyond a token guard.
A city declawed.
"Beaten dogs still try to bite," Viserys murmured.
"Hard thing, teaching slavers to live without slaves," he added. "Officially, they freed them. Unofficially, they sell contracts instead of chains. Different name — same misery."
He leaned over the map. "Varys and Illyrio's alliance isn't just about crowns. They want the treaty undone, Braavos humbled, the Free Cities divided again. If they ever find a dragon to sit on their leash, they'll burn the world to rewrite it."
Rhaenys pressed her lips together. "Pentos won't attack us, but knowing they're watching still turns my stomach."
"They're flies on meat," he said. "Let them buzz. For now."
Her eyes drifted to the map again. "If we claim land at the Rhoyne or beyond, we'll have to deal with them eventually — merchants, smugglers, maybe soldiers."
"And milk‑men, butter‑barons, and cheese‑lords," he said dryly. "Pentos lives on fat. We'll learn to trade with it."
The statement earned him a reluctant smile.
The black cat yawned, stretching across the map's painted rivers. "Balerion will keep watch," Rhaenys said. "No killing?"
"No. Not yet."
He nodded toward the horizon. "Spies feed on fear. Let them think us calm."
For now, it was enough to let the cat stalk shadows, to know the watchers would not dare step past Braavos's boundary.
"We'll use Ser Roland," Viserys continued. "He knows the Free Cities — their customs, their mercenaries, their weaknesses. We'll listen and prepare."
The knight, newly sworn and loyal, was a rare gift; a man who understood both Westeros and Essos. For now, that was priceless.
As long as the dragon lived, even hidden, people would be drawn to him — merchants, mercenaries, fools, and kings alike.
But the appearance of Pentoshi spies had also stirred something new in Viserys's mind — a word that burned in every prince of his line.
Dragon.
Personal strength, money, soldiers — all could be built. But dragons were destiny.
His training advanced swiftly; his strength grew by the day, his mind sharper, calmer. Yet power without fire was still only mortal.
He needed a dragon.
And dragons began with their eggs.
He looked again at the map: King's Landing, Dragonstone, Summerhall — places that might still hide remnants of his house. But nothing was certain.
Only scattered rumors of petrified eggs in hidden vaults, trophies traded from one greedy hand to another.
One fact, though, he did know — Euron Greyjoy would someday sail into the smoking ruins of Valyria and claim an egg from hell itself.
And Illyrio Mopatis already possessed three — relics turned to stone, useless to him except as bait.
That was the true nature of the Fat Magister's trap: he would one day wave those relics before desperate princes and watch which fish rose to strike.
If he knew the eggs could hatch, he would keep them for himself — or for his false Aegon.
No, Viserys thought, those stones were his once already. Let them remain dead until I arrive to wake them.
Dragon eggs. Soldiers. Land. Gold.
Four words that would rebuild an empire.
He could almost feel the fire humming under his skin.
The day would come when even Illyrio's gilded halls, and Varys's webs, would tremble before the beating of dragon wings.
read more inpat***
caveleather