In the courtyard of the seaside manse in Pentos, Viserys sat on a folding campaign chair, surrounded by creeping ivy.
Several spears planted in the ground bore the tarred heads of Dothraki—the grim fate of the defeated.
"Your 'fruit' is too dangerous. Handle it with extreme care," Viserys warned Valentine, the pyromancer.
"Fruit" referred to wildfire, the Alchemists' Guild's euphemism for the volatile substance.
Seeing the jars of wildfire, Viserys couldn't help but think of the future Battle of the Blackwater—the surging green tide, the monstrous waves of flame.
Without the resurgence of magic boosting production and Tyrion discovering the caches laid down by King Aerys, the Imp wouldn't have had such a spectacular stage for burning the river.
Now, Viserys was prioritizing this strategic resource early.
"Rest assured, Your Grace. I always store the fruit securely. The cost is high, so I only produce it on demand; the Magisters forbade me from stockpiling too much anyway," Valentine said. He felt like a man whose luck had finally turned after half a lifetime of destitution.
Seeing the severed heads, Valentine understood that his wildfire was no longer for mere parlor tricks, but for war.
Wealth is found in danger; this was his chance.
"Good," Viserys nodded.
A thought struck him. The pyromancers in King's Landing were starving and destitute, too.
Years ago, the Alchemists' Guild had been powerful, but after the Kingslayer's purge and the change of regime, their influence had waned drastically under Robert Baratheon.
Now, only a few old acolytes remained in the guild.
Perhaps Viserys wouldn't even need to lift a finger; they might come to him.
After all, reputation casts a long shadow. The pyromancers, frustrated under Robert, might long for the son of the King who had favored them—their glory days.
But that was a plan for later. For now, Viserys relied on Valentine to start production. Something was better than nothing.
With magic at a low tide, wildfire production was slow; they needed to start immediately.
"You will come with me to Andalos. Buy the materials you need here; I will provide the funds. Make a list. If Andalos lacks anything, stock up in Pentos," Viserys instructed.
"I understand, Your Grace," Valentine promised. "I guarantee more and better fruit."
"What about your belongings and family?"
"Just my small workshop, two apprentices, my wife, and daughter. I have little property in Pentos; we can pack quickly."
"Very well," Viserys considered. "I'll assign some men to help you. Meet me here at the manse when you're ready."
"That would be wonderful, Your Grace," Valentine said joyfully.
After Valentine left with a thousand thanks, Viserys continued interviewing artisans.
Some were recruited directly from the streets of Pentos by Garin, who looked inconspicuous enough to handle the task.
Others were bondsmen arranged by Magister Ordello.
And some were special recommendations from Ordello—skilled craftsmen with bad tempers who couldn't find work, or apprentices held back from mastery by jealous guild masters, starving for a chance.
Viserys hadn't informed Illyrio, ensuring this recruitment drive was swift and under the radar.
He was wary of any artisans who volunteered too eagerly, suspecting they might be Illyrio's spies. He preferred those with clean slates.
What the fat Magister thought was his own business; hypocrisy was the norm in the Free Cities.
"Tell me of your craft," Viserys asked, bringing in a group to speed things up.
Men and women, old and young—mostly the very old or very young.
A blacksmith with his hammer, a gaunt fletcher, a trembling brewer.
They were at the extreme ends of their careers, the hardest times.
The artisans looked at the Dragon King—a handsome, martial youth—but the Dothraki heads in the courtyard terrified them.
This wasn't just a royal manse; it was a den of wolves and tigers.
Almost all of them knew of the recent battle where the Dragon King had slain the Horselord.
"Your Grace, I am a smith. I repair mail and forge plate. I am skilled. I require a wine ration," a squat smith said.
"Your Grace, I am a fletcher. I make arrows faster than anyone."
"Siege engineer. I remember how to assemble trebuchets..."
Viserys observed them. This was the advantage of a city.
Though a city had a massive defensive perimeter to man, it also teemed with mature artisans crucial for defense.
Viserys desperately needed craftsmen: crossbow makers, smiths, armorers, siege engineers, scorpion builders, painters, brewers.
Relying solely on the talent pool of Andalos and the Rhoynar was too slow; poaching was necessary.
The world was vast and thinly populated, but timber and stone were plentiful. Even Meereen could build giant trebuchets on site; Andalos could certainly do the same.
"I will make it clear again: you will not be serving here, but in Andalos. Those who serve me will be paid well, but you will face the danger of war."
"Of course, those willing to take the risk are brave. In Viserys Fort, I will provide free housing, and your pay will be higher than in Pentos," Viserys offered the carrot and the stick.
Viserys Fort lacked talent, but it didn't lack stone houses.
The artisans murmured among themselves, but the vast majority chose to stay.
Many Pentoshi knew of the tension between the Dragon King and the Horselords, but for a livelihood, they would endure the risk.
They had been living hand-to-mouth in Pentos and were eager for a change.
For now, risk was secondary to survival.
"Those who stay have made their choice. Show me your skills briefly," Viserys ordered. "I will assign you accordingly. I am an honored guest of the Magisters, and I treat you as my honored guests. Do not disappoint me."
"Aggo," Viserys called.
"Look at these heads. They belonged to a Khal and his riders. The Dragon can tolerate mediocre skill, but he will not tolerate liars. This is your second chance..." Aggo pointed at the gruesome trophies. The artisans stared at the black, tarred things.
"Yes, yes, of course," they stammered, heads bowed.
After a simple screening, the capable artisans were retained.
One type of talent Viserys couldn't poach: shipwrights and sailors.
Building a navy was expensive and time-consuming, the crown jewel of industry.
Andalos had no navy of its own and relied on mercenary fleets. If he wanted to take his people far away, he would need to hire ships.
Still, Viserys was satisfied. He had filled most of the gaps.
The young could work immediately; the old could teach.
Recruiting artisans was his final task in Pentos. Between the feasting and the killing, the Magisters were already on edge.
He bade a breezy farewell to the Magisters of Pentos.
Magister Illyrio approached Viserys and whispered a piece of intelligence. "Khal Drogo is currently in Vaes Dothrak. He may go hunting the Lamb Men next."
Viserys was surprised. Drogo was far away.
Vaes Dothrak was in the far east of the Dothraki Sea, beneath the Mother of Mountains, by the Womb of the World.
The Lamb Men lived in Lhazar, southeast of Vaes Dothrak, frequently raided by the Khals.
The distance bought him time.
"I appreciate your kindness," Viserys patted Illyrio's shoulder, looking sincere. "Recruiting these artisans is just a precaution."
"It is Illyrio's honor," Illyrio replied, looking gratefully teary-eyed.
"You have a window of time now. You must prepare quickly," Illyrio advised, assuming Viserys wanted the artisans to fortify his city against the Khal.
The sea breeze was cool. Viserys spurred his horse forward.
Goodbye, Pentos.
Many Magisters breathed a sigh of relief as he left.
Viserys looked back at the high walls of Pentos. We part today, but we shall meet again.
He raised his sword, and his army and the Dothraki tribe followed him.
The army led the way; warriors guarded the baggage train and the remnants of the Dothraki tribe in the rear.
Viserys's trip to Pentos had been a massive success, yielding gold and supplies.
But what pleased him most wasn't the money, but the talent: twelve Unsullied servants, Dothraki riders, a team of artisans, and the gems he had found.
Now that everything was in place, he had a grander plan in mind.