Morning light filtered into the reception hall of Viserys's manse, where a sumptuous breakfast was underway.
Viserys had lost interest in browsing the Pentos market. There were few treasures left to squeeze out of the city.
However, the gem merchants, antique dealers, fishmongers, and bone peddlers of Pentos now knew a young, wealthy patron had arrived. They lined up daily outside the manse to peddle their wares.
Meanwhile, Viserys was attempting to recruit skilled artisans from within the city.
He had the kitchen prepare a feast: Tyroshi sausages, Dornish peppered starfish, boiled white eggs, seared beef, roast lamb, honey-glazed chicken, and more.
Large pitchers of hot milk, sour red wine, golden vintage, and amber wine sat on the table.
Viserys usually breakfasted with family or squires. In the absence of family, he ate with his commanders and trusted counselors.
Today, he invited the Crabb siblings to join him, moving the destitute pair to tears.
Nimble Dick Crabb was to be his squire, and his sister Dyanna a handmaiden to the Princess. They had earned their place at the table.
Dyanna Crabb was prettier than her brother, though just as thin, with dirty brown hair. It was no wonder she had nearly been forced to sell herself in King's Landing; poverty had ground them down.
The people of Crackclaw Point had suffered terribly after the Trident, punished by Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon. The anger and resilience of the defeated ran as deep and dark as their bogs.
Power is about slicing and sharing the cake. Regardless of the Crabbs' talent, employing them was a political statement—buying horse bones with gold to signal that loyalty would be rewarded.
Come to Andalos! The Dragon rewards those who serve!
Indeed, as Viserys's banner flew over Andalos, many minor lords and landed knights from Westeros had sent word through various channels, professing their loyalty and complaining of oppression.
There were no great lords among them, mostly opportunists and the disgruntled. The Iron Throne's spoils had been divided among the Wolves, Fish, Falcons, Stags, and Lions.
Feeling neglected, many lesser houses were considering a return to the Dragon's cause.
When Viserys eventually marched west, he would lift up these defeated loyalists—especially hard-bitten folk like the Crackclaw men—whose interests aligned with his own.
The great lords who bent with the wind had already flocked to the Iron Throne. Opportunists like the Tullys, who sold their liege lord for two marriage alliances, had little loyalty to speak of. The Tyrells, at least, had made a token effort during the rebellion.
The Crackclaw men might be rough and semi-wild, but their loyalty was fierce and born of anger. That kind of loyalty was priceless.
Viserys urged the siblings to eat their fill. It was the Dragon's bounty.
Faced with such delicacies, their reserve crumbled. They had been living hand-to-mouth for too long.
Viserys ate a lot because he needed the fuel; they ate like wolves because they were starving.
Dyanna burst into tears. "I haven't eaten a meal like this since my parents died."
Even Aggo was startled; Westeros was a rich land, yet this girl looked like she had missed many meals.
"Many have heard of Your Grace's deeds, though the Usurper and his dogs forbid the news. But we remember the True Dragon. More will come to you, Your Grace," Dick said between mouthfuls.
"I will always remember your loyalty," Viserys replied.
"We will be loyal to the Dragon until death!"
"Until death!" the siblings swore.
"Good, my squire Crabb." Viserys gestured for them to continue eating.
Dick was a broken scion of House Crabb, with nothing to lose. Others would follow.
"What is the situation on Crackclaw Point?" Viserys asked.
Dick rubbed his hands together. "Bad, Your Grace. Full of hungry young men like me, angry at Robert and old Arryn, unwilling to fight for the Iron Throne."
Viserys nodded. "It sounds harsh."
"Many factors, Your Grace. The losses at the Trident... every family had dead. Then came the fines and war taxes from Robert and Jon Arryn. We used to make coin smuggling, but Stannis is strict," Dick explained awkwardly.
Population loss, economic ruin, political suppression. Crackclaw Point was a powder keg.
"I hear the terrain is treacherous. Only locals can find the paths."
"Aye, Your Grace. Only the Dragon ever made the Point submit. Maidenpool, Claw Isle, Duskendale—they all tried and failed.
"We know the bogs and forests like no outsider can. If pressed, we vanish into the caves in the hills. When not fighting outsiders, we fight each other; blood feuds run deep. Sometimes a hero brings peace for a while, but when he dies, it goes back to the old ways," Dick said, wiping grease from his mouth. He was a squire now; he had to learn manners.
"I need a channel between Andalos and Crackclaw Point," Viserys said.
"If Your Grace's banner appears, the Point will rise. But we lack ships. Most travel through other ports," Dick explained.
"Map, Aggo," Viserys ordered.
He took the map of Westeros. Crackclaw Point faced Andalos across the Narrow Sea, much like the Vale.
The Andal invasion had started in the Vale for a reason.
Crackclaw Point's terrain and fierce inhabitants had resisted the Andals until Visenya Targaryen won them over.
Crackclaw folk could travel to King's Landing, Gulltown, or Duskendale to catch ships to Pentos, then on to Andalos.
But Dragonstone was too close. Smuggling people would have to be done in small batches.
This required men who laughed at death. Viserys considered striking a deal with Morosh to smuggle people instead of just goods.
The islands in the Gullet choked the sea lanes to King's Landing.
"If you wish, I can travel back and forth across the Narrow Sea, contacting loyal servants for Your Grace," Nimble Dick offered boldly.
"You're a clever lad, but this needs careful planning," Viserys said.
Many traveled secretly across the Narrow Sea. Viserys knew Illyrio kept a spot on Salladhor Saan's smuggling ships for messages to King's Landing.
As his fame grew, more would come. But he needed a foothold.
"Finish your meal. I have another guest," Viserys stood up.
He walked to the courtyard, where a peculiar craftsman waited.
A middle-aged man with pale, clammy skin, dressed in patched clothes, looking utterly destitute.
Aggo announced Viserys in a booming voice: "Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, 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!"
The craftsman fell to his knees. "Your Grace, Valentine is at your service."
"I hear you have a toy for me," Viserys said.
Valentine, the pyromancer, nodded. "I offer fire to the Dragon King."
Wildfire and pyromancers were most common in King's Landing, but they existed in the Free Cities too.
Viserys knew Qarth had charlatans who used wildfire and powders for street tricks to distract crowds while pickpockets worked. He hadn't expected a pyromancer in Pentos.
"Why not offer it to the Magisters?" Viserys asked.
Valentine lowered his head in embarrassment. "I tried, but they deemed my craft worthless. Pentos has no war... To survive, I sell small amounts to mummers and circuses for tricks."
"Show me the effect," Viserys commanded.
"At once, Your Grace. But please, stand back."
"Begin," Viserys said, moving to a safe distance.
Valentine carefully produced his gift from several nested jars packed with sand.
In the courtyard, a pile of logs sat surrounded by a sand barrier—sand being effective against wildfire.
Valentine looked at Viserys with admiration; a King who understood wildfire was a rare patron.
Wildfire was dangerous. Valentine brought out only a tiny jar. The clay was rough and patterned to improve grip.
A strange green liquid flowed, and then green flames erupted.
The wildfire burned on the logs relentlessly, consuming them until only ash remained, scorching the sand barrier black.
No one dared approach the flames. It was said wildfire was treacherous.
Wildfire was a cousin to dragonfire, though dragonfire was even more dangerous.
Viserys felt the heat. This was true wildfire.
He watched the green serpents dance until they faded.
The fire elements cheered; this was the power of fire.
Viserys noticed his silver armor glowing with a brilliant light, seeming to reduce the magical harm. The runes were working.
It seemed this armor was indeed as wondrous as Valyrian steel plate.
"Excellent. But what about production efficiency?" Viserys asked the key question.
Valentine rubbed his hands nervously. "My technique is perfected, but materials and runes are difficult. I cannot guarantee speed."
"That is not a problem," Viserys said. "Are you willing to pledge your loyalty to me and come to Andalos? I need men with your skills."
"I am willing, Your Grace," Valentine said.
There was no future for him in Pentos. When you're starving, artistic integrity takes a back seat.
In a low-magic era, slow production was expected. The key was having the technology to stockpile it slowly.
Viserys picked up a rough clay jar. Khal Drogo, if you come, I have a gift for you.