Along the bay outside the city of Pentos, a row of luxurious manses stood separated by respectable distances, forming an exclusive seaside villa district.
These manses were reserved by the Pentoshi for distinguished visitors from the Free Cities or the occasional Dothraki Khal.
Years ago, during his exile, the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen, and his wife Laena Velaryon had resided in Pentos for a long time.
Viserys's new residence was situated here as well. Seven tall towers rose from the manse, their high brick walls draped in pale ivy.
Though these manses were maintained by eunuchs, Unsullied, and servants, their occupancy rate was extremely low. Khals only stayed briefly, and with Khal Drogo's bloody rise to power stirring chaos in the Great Grass Sea, fewer horselords were venturing this far west.
Recognizing Viserys's strength, the Pentoshi had gifted him one of these manses.
"This manse is a gift from the Magisters," Illyrio Mopatis announced. "It is a tale for the ages: the Dragon returns to Pentos."
"A truly thoughtful gesture," Viserys replied, not bothering with false modesty.
The Pentoshi respected strength. If you didn't squeeze them hard, they wouldn't know how to treat you.
Viserys ordered his soldiers to make camp near the manse.
"Khal Drogo's name has shaken the Dothraki Sea of late; chaos reigns there. Your stay here will be much quieter without noisy neighbors," Illyrio said, personally escorting Viserys to the gate.
"Good. I have no love for stinking horselords," Viserys answered arrogantly. His power base—the Andals and Rhoynar—held a blood feud with the Dothraki. A reckoning was inevitable.
"We do not truly fear the savages," Illyrio explained with a smile. "The red priests assure us that the Lord of Light protects us. Even if a million Dothraki came, we need not fear—but since their friendship is so cheap, why not buy it?"
Viserys almost laughed. These Magisters were masters of gilding their own cowardice. But he didn't bother exposing them.
"This way." Illyrio led the way.
Viserys followed. Unsullied guards stood at the gate, wearing spiked bronze helmets and holding spears.
"Originally, the city planned a grand feast for you within the walls, but now it seems best to host it here in the courtyard," Illyrio said, his voice dripping with honey. "Many important figures are eager to glimpse the Dragon's demeanor."
Viserys remained noncommittal. "The heir of the dragon is here. Let them look their fill."
"Your Grace is humorous." Illyrio chuckled.
The Unsullied opened the doors, and Viserys and Illyrio entered the courtyard.
Servants were already lighting expensive incense—fire peppers, cinnamon, and sweet lemon. Every scent spoke of wealth.
They entered the reception hall, where stained glass windows depicted the Doom of Valyria in vivid color.
Hugo and Garin followed Viserys, while Aggo remained outside to organize the encamped knights.
"Please wait here until evening. I promise you a grand feast," Illyrio assured him.
"Who will be attending?" Viserys asked.
"The dignitaries of this great city—Magisters and the Prince himself," Illyrio explained briefly. "To avoid loose tongues, we have limited the guest list."
"It seems past banquets were more... enthusiastic," Viserys noted curiously.
"When we host a Khal, naturally, all sorts are invited. But you are a true Dragon; the standard is higher. Tonight's feast will have no untrustworthy ears. The Magisters have agreed to exclude outsiders. No assassins from Pentos, Myr, or Tyrosh; no red priests fatter than myself; no hairy men from Ibben; no jet-black princes from the Summer Isles; and certainly not the brother of the Archon of Tyrosh. Such men have loose lips."
"Excellent. I thank the Magisters for allowing me to meet the elite of this great city." Viserys's violet eyes shone with a strange beauty.
"It is our duty," Illyrio said, feigning humility.
---
Night fell quickly, and the grand feast began.
An Unsullied eunuch announced the arrivals in a high-pitched voice. "The Prince of the Free City of Pentos, Luca Kraus! Master of Trade, War, and Law, First Citizen of Pentos!"
Prince Luca walked with a unsteady gait, looking like a man worn down by wine and women.
Three heralds cleared the way for him, carrying the golden scales of trade, the iron sword of war, and the silver scourge of justice.
The Prince entered the courtyard, where pale ivy climbed stone pillars and the moonlight turned the leaves as silver as bone.
The Prince of Pentos was chosen from forty noble families. He was the nominal head of state, presiding over ceremonies and sitting high at balls and banquets.
In reality, the Prince of Pentos was a pitiful figurehead. Nominally, people gave him face, but everyone knew his fate: to eat, drink, be a playboy, and pray for good weather. If famine or war came, his throat would be slit as a sacrifice to the gods.
Only one Prince-elect in history had escaped his fate, fleeing to become a sellsword—the Tattered Prince.
"Noble King Viserys, welcome to Pentos," Prince Luca laughed.
"I am honored to be a guest of this great city," Viserys replied courteously.
Tonight, Viserys would sit at the high table alongside the Prince.
Next came the Magisters.
"Magister of the Free City of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis." Illyrio was clearly a senior Magister.
From Viserys's observation, Illyrio seemed to handle the dirty work of pandering to difficult guests—Khals, adventurers, and now Dragons.
For a man who started as a no-name bravo, Illyrio had climbed high. But his ambitions were larger than Pentos alone.
"Magister of the Free City of Pentos, Ordello Larissus."
An arrogant-looking middle-aged Magister stepped forward and bowed to Viserys.
Whether old, young, or middle-aged, almost all the Magisters were friendly toward Viserys. Since Braavos had neutered their military, the doves dominated Pentoshi politics.
They saw a dazzling young silver knight in gleaming armor, shining like a sun in the night.
Over his silver scale armor, Viserys wore a black and red dragon robe. With his handsome, sharp features, silver hair, and violet eyes, he was the picture of youthful power.
More importantly, he carried the aura of a King—a relaxed confidence that comes from sitting at the peak of power. Without a word, he outshone the flabby, dissipated Prince of Pentos.
The Magisters' last shred of arrogance vanished. In appearance and presence, King Viserys was undeniably a force to be reckoned with.
"May the Lord of Light protect our path, may Pentos prosper, and may King Viserys feel at home," the Prince toasted from the dais.
"Prosperity!"
"Prosperity!"
Goblets were raised, signaling the start of the lavish banquet.
Illyrio clapped his hands, and servants brought out the courses.
First came crab and flatfish stew, followed by cold egg and lime soup. Then came honeyed quail, roast lamb chops, goose liver in wine, buttered turnips, and suckling pig.
The feast was dazzling, accompanied by wines of every color.
Viserys knew the time was right. He ate heartily.
For a slender warrior, his appetite was prodigious, rivaling the Mountain's. His high core stats demanded fuel.
"King Viserys has a truly impressive capacity," the Prince complimented enviously.
Handsome, able to eat like a horse, and full of life. The Prince, though high in status, was merely a sacrifice in waiting. This beautiful palace, the beautiful women—they were his cage.
"I wonder, King Viserys, how many men do you command?" Magister Ordello asked the key question.
"About twenty or thirty thousand, I suppose," Viserys said casually.
It was a blatant exaggeration, but the Pentoshi had no way to verify it.
If Viserys counted every regular soldier, auxiliary, and peasant levy, maybe he could reach that number.
Unifying a fragmented, village-based nation took immense effort.
At their peak, the Rhoynar could field 250,000 men against Valyria. The Andal invasion of Westeros had likely involved significant numbers as well. This showed the war potential and resources of the region.
But now, most Andals had migrated, and the Rhoynar civilization had collapsed.
Even by scraping together the remnants and absorbing runaway slaves, Viserys could only slowly build his strength.
Rebuilding a fragmented nation was a process of recovery. The population base wasn't what it used to be. fielding 50,000 soldiers out of nowhere would be absurd.
Still, a force of over ten thousand was enough to be considered a major power.
"Ooh, that's more than the Golden Company," the Magisters whispered among themselves.
The guards they had seen outside were well-equipped and murderous—a true elite force. If Viserys had an army of such quality, Pentos would be easy pickings.
The Golden Company lived on commissions and had a century of savings. Viserys was young, yet he commanded such a mighty host. His value skyrocketed in their eyes.
"Let us toast to the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, King of Andalos and the Rhoyne, Viserys Targaryen the Third! We are fortunate to have such a new friend," the Prince raised his glass, speaking with exaggerated flair.
The crimson wine was like blood; every sip of the Arbor vintage tasted of gold.
"To King Viserys!"
"To King Viserys!"
"If we weren't so terribly oppressed, we could offer Your Grace even more gifts," one Magister emphasized, seemingly drunk but clearly intentional.
Viserys feigned surprise. "What do you mean?"
"It is the unequal treaty forced upon us by the Braavosi. We pay war reparations and must remain an undefended city," Magister Ordello said with a grim face. "You must be careful, Your Grace. As Andalos grows, you will inevitably touch Braavos's sphere of influence."
Viserys listened quietly. This was naked provocation.
Trying to get me to fight Braavos? As if I don't have enough trouble right now.
"The Sealord of Braavos was my protector. The debt of gratitude is great," Viserys sighed.
"That was the old Sealord. We all know the new Sealord has forbidden the Iron Bank from lending to you, Your Grace. If a man restricts your actions, how can he be called a friend?"
"However, my people in Andalos are weary. I need vast quantities of armor and weapons, my wealthy Magisters," Viserys said bluntly.
To deal with my 'dear friends,' you have to pay more.
"That is not a problem," Magister Ordello smiled. "As long as we maintain a good friendship."
The Magisters were willing to provide money and equipment. A well-armed young King might just take a bite out of Braavos.
They knew young men like this—arrogant, fearless, outwardly grateful but inwardly venomous. Such men were the easiest to manipulate.
Viserys ignored the hint and focused on eating and drinking.
The Magisters were secretly pleased. As long as the seed of rebellion was planted in the young King's heart, sooner or later he would clash with Braavos.
Viserys looked at these useless, decadent Magisters. He had no interest in their petty revenge or their instigation.
He had a bold, crazy idea. Since Pentos was always giving away so much money to so many people, why not take it all for himself?
If he could exterminate the Dothraki Khals, wouldn't all that tribute money belong to him?
A crowd of beggars gets a small share. But if Viserys was the only one knocking on the door, the profit would be immense.
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