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In every one of his dreams, Illyrio Mopatis, the illustrious magister, would see his beloved wife Serra still alive. He would stand by her side, watching as their son, young Griff, sat upon the Iron Throne, ruling over the Seven Kingdoms.
In truth, he had been working tirelessly toward that very dream every single day. And now, at last, the boy had come to fully believe he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the rightful heir and the first in line to claim the Iron Throne.
Should he ascend the throne, he would take the name Aegon VI Targaryen, bearing the same name as his glorious ancestor. Yet no matter how alluring a dream may be, the sleeper must awaken. As Illyrio stood on the balcony in the early morning hush, silently gazing upon the stillness of the harbor of Pentos before dawn, a deep, weary sigh escaped his lips.
There was no helping it. The current state of affairs was anything but ideal. His dearest friend Varys remained in King's Landing, yet had all but lost his grip on the unfolding situation.
Everything had spiraled out of control ever since Eddard Stark's unexpected escape from King's Landing. In their original plan, Eddard Stark was meant to die in King's Landing, and the Stark family was to be consumed by an unrelenting blood feud with House Lannister.
While Eddard's escape still ignited the flames of war between the two great houses, the uncontrollable turn of events left both Illyrio and Varys with a lingering sense of unease, as though a fishbone had lodged in their throats. Varys, the cunning spider with his web woven deep into the capital, now had to devote much of his attention to defending against Littlefinger's maneuvers and was already overwhelmed.
What followed only worsened their unease. They had assumed the Starks would eventually fall before the might of the Lannisters in this uneven war. Yet to their shock, two formidable commanders had risen from among the people of the North. One was the Stark heir, but the other—the mysterious young lord from White Harbor—filled both Varys and Illyrio with a deep, unspoken dread.
What a ruthless method it was. In a single battle, he annihilated more than ten thousand of the Lannisters' forces. With that one blow, he overturned the disparity in power and allowed the North to seize an unshakable advantage.
Had it not been for the unexpected capture of Ned Stark, the war might well have ended with a decisive victory for the North. And that was precisely what neither Varys nor Illyrio had ever wished to see.
According to their grand design, every one of the Seven Kingdoms—without exception—was to be worn down by endless conflict, drained of strength and will. Then, and only then, would young Griff, whom they supported, bearing the noble name Aegon Targaryen, march forth to conquer a fractured and weakened Westeros.
Yet now, with the North achieving swift and overwhelming success, not only had their strength remained intact, it had even grown significantly. The Iron Islands had become a kind of half-ally with them, and they now held dominion over the Riverlands. When combined, their power was unmatched by any other force on the continent.
Moreover, it was an alliance that is very difficult to divide. It was not some fragile union of three separate powers, but a cohesive military entity with the North at its absolute core.
Therefore, as long as the North remained stable, the entire alliance would stand unshaken. And it so happened that the North, with its fierce isolationism and remote geography, lay far beyond the reach of Varys's influence in King's Landing.
Now even Varys himself had been encircled within the capital by the combined forces of Stannis and Renly Baratheon. His own safety was in jeopardy, let alone his ability to scheme against the North.
Clearly, something had to be done. It might be time to attempt contact with the Northerners. If they had no ambition to seize the Iron Throne themselves, then perhaps there was no fundamental conflict of interest. There might even be room for negotiation. And if they could be persuaded to lend their support, then the war would be as good as won for young Aegon.
In his mind, Illyrio began to weigh the options and consider whom to send. The first candidate was the young lord of White Harbor, Clay Manderly. White Harbor was known to be the most open-minded of all Northern houses, and this young man held true power within his region. Moreover, due to his youth, he did not harbor the hatred that the North bore toward the Targaryen family as a result of the War of the Usurper.
Once the situation in King's Landing was settled, contact would have to be made at once. Still, they had little idea what kind of person this young lord was, nor did they know what preferences or weaknesses might be exploited. There was far too little information about him.
As Illyrio pondered all this, his cloudy eyes caught sight of a tiny black dot hovering above the waters of Pentos.
His first thought was that his vision was failing him again. He had been suffering from this problem for a long time. Black specks constantly drifted across his sight, particularly in strong sunlight.
Squinting hard and rubbing his face roughly with his fat hands, Illyrio opened his eyes again, hoping that the annoying little black spot would disappear. However, as his vision cleared, his hand, which had not yet been lowered, froze mid-air.
The mighty magister of Pentos, a man accustomed to boundless luxury and unrivaled influence, went visibly pale in that moment, as though he had just seen something beyond all belief.
For he had recognized the shape now rising into view!
It was a dragon. A living, breathing dragon. And it was most certainly not one of the three fledgling creatures conjured by that girl, Daenerys Targaryen. This was a blue dragon of enormous size, the likes of which Illyrio had never seen before.
Within only a few breaths, the great beating of the dragon's wings resounded across the skies above Pentos. It was still early morning, and few people were out in the streets, yet those who were awake either froze where they stood, struck dumb by terror, or screamed at the top of their lungs, dropping whatever they held and fleeing in every direction.
Even those who had no idea what manner of beast was soaring over their heads could feel, deep in their bones, an instinctive sense of dread. And so, as the first golden rays of dawn began to pierce the eastern sky, the city of Pentos descended into chaos.
Perched atop Gaelithox's back, Clay felt an unexpected frustration. This was not how he had planned it. He hadn't expected to arrive in Pentos at this hour. Unfortunately, it was his first time here, and he had failed to calculate the timing properly. His grand entrance had been completely ruined.
Well, it couldn't be helped. So be it. For now, he needed to find a place to land. But Pentos, as a bustling port city, had used every available inch of land. Buildings stood packed tightly together, and the alleyways and roads were narrow and winding. It was a nightmare for a dragon to descend.
Left with no other choice, Clay abandoned the idea of landing at the harbor. At that moment, Gaelithox let out a powerful roar, conveying to Clay a location it had deemed suitable for landing.
It was a magnificent courtyard, sprawling and luxurious, perched atop a hill behind the harbor. Surrounded by layer upon layer of stone walls, it was clearly the estate of a person of considerable stature.
That was of no concern. Clay had not come here to play "liberator" for the downtrodden of Pentos. In fact, the living standards of Pentos' free citizens were far better than those of the average Westerosi peasant.
If he had time to spare, he would do better to focus on leading his own people toward prosperity, toward building and thriving.
As the Magister of Pentos stared in stupefied silence, Clay guided Gaelithox into a steady descent, landing precisely within the courtyard of the man's own estate. The beautiful Lyseni handmaidens, who had been laying out a sumptuous breakfast for their master, screamed and fled in terror.
Much like the ship's first mate earlier, Magister Illyrio had initially assumed that the creature before him was a wild dragon. His mind leapt instantly to the thought that, no matter the cost, he had to find a way to tame it. If young Aegon could be made to ride such a beast, then no one would ever again question Aegon Targaryen's claim.
But now, his mind had come to a screeching halt. The moment he laid eyes upon the young brown-haired man seated on the dragon's back, all his thoughts scattered. Even with his many years of experience, he was completely dumbfounded at this moment.
Impossible. How could this be? How could such a thing be real?
Why was there a grown man—a full-fledged dragonrider—still alive in this world? He clearly was not the deceased Viserys. So who in the world was he?
In that instant, the Magister, who had long dreamed of restoring Aegon Targaryen and crowning himself the uncrowned king of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself soaked in cold sweat. A adult male dragonrider—this was a claim to the Iron Throne more powerful than any other.
His clouded, bloodshot eyes strained desperately to make out Clay's appearance. Unfortunately, the sun had not yet risen fully, and the dim light obscured his view. He could not see clearly. Gripped by urgency and paying no heed to the risk of offering himself as dragon feed, the rotund Magister surged forward. With surprising speed for a man of his girth, he burst from his bedchamber and charged directly toward the feet of Gaelithox.
Clay, who had been wondering whom to speak to in order to explain his presence, looked up just in time to see a door open in the darkness and a round, fat man rushed out. The Magister only came to a halt when Gaelithox, his jaws half open, forced him back with a low growl.
Only then did Illyrio truly feel the dragon's heat. And only then did he realize the mortal danger he had placed himself in. In this entire world, apart from Daenerys and the mysterious rider before him, there were likely none who had any experience in dealing with dragons.
He looked up at Clay's youthful face, which bore a faint and enigmatic smile. The blue-and-gold dragon's immense eyes shimmered with a malevolent gleam. In that instant, terror seized him completely. Raising both hands high into the air, he cried out in a loud voice:
"Friend on the dragon's back, I am Illyrio Mopatis, the Magister of this city. I mean you no harm. Please, be at ease!"
Clay was momentarily stunned. Well now, he had found the right person right away. That saved him some trouble. Still, he had no intention of asking directly where Daenerys Targaryen was. He already knew all too well what plans this particular Magister had been scheming.
If he arrived riding a dragon and immediately inquired after Daenerys, even a fool could guess his intentions. Wasn't this very Magister the one who had been dreaming of marrying young Aegon to his nominal aunt so that they might return together to conquer Westeros?
But now, Clay has appeared. A man with a dragon, and not just any dragon, but one far larger than any of Daenerys' fledglings. His identity would be difficult to place, yet powerful beyond doubt.
Even if he made no claim to Targaryen blood, merely proposing a marriage alliance with Daenerys would secure his dominance over all dragons. If that came to pass, there would be no stronger claimant to the Iron Throne in the world than Clay.
Illyrio knew perfectly well that his beloved son, young Aegon, could never be accepted by a dragon. The blood of the Dragonlords ran far too thin in the boy's veins, so diluted it barely counted. A Valyrian like that could never hope to be embraced by a true dragon.
"As you wish, Magister," Clay replied with measured courtesy. "I hope my sudden arrival has not caused you too much distress. If it has, I offer my sincere apologies. My family and I shall make amends for any trouble we have brought upon you."
He had deliberately emphasized the words "my family." And sure enough, Illyrio's expression shifted immediately.
What? You have a family? What family? When did this world come to hold a dragonriding bloodline apart from House Targaryen?
If not that… then could this man actually be a Targaryen?
The thought sent a brief wave of dizziness through Illyrio. This dragonrider whose name he still did not know may not have the right hair color, but the fact that he could command a dragon—that alone spoke volumes.
Those with silver hair and purple eyes were not necessarily of the royal bloodline, but anyone who could ride a dragon, without exception, was descended from the Dragonlords. That truth could not be denied by anyone.
"Gaelithox, be a little kinder to our lordly host."
Clay gave Gaelithox a pat on the back. The dragon gave a reluctant snort and drew back from the food already within reach. In his eyes, the man before him looked plump with fat, and if roasted properly, might make for a delightful little snack.
Upon hearing the name Gaelithox, Illyrio, who was deeply familiar with the history of the Valyrian Empire, was struck by the reference. That was a name once tied to the god of the sun, moon, and stars. The realization made his suspicions settle deeper into certainty.
It was a name of the same grandeur as Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. The later dragons of House Targaryen had long abandoned such naming traditions, yet this young man still called his beast by such a name from antiquity.
Could it be that, when Valyria fell, more than just the Targaryens had survived the Doom?
Illyrio could not say for sure, but one thing was clear: this was no cause for celebration. For in the minds of the people, dragons meant true kingship. That idea had taken root and endured for hundreds of years.
Clay dismounted from the dragon's back and, with his left hand, discreetly activated a Quen sign. He had to be cautious. If this greasy man suddenly went mad and turned violent, Clay would need to be prepared.
"Lord Magister, I have come seeking knowledge. I wish to learn what has transpired on this continent. I believe you are in a position to enlighten me."
Clay's tone was cold and arrogant, the voice of someone who believed himself born to rule. He deliberately fashioned the image of a Dragonlord descendant, one whose blood carried the legacy of ancient Valyria. For this purpose, he had chosen a name for himself—Nori Belaerys.
This surname, which is very similar to Balerion, in fact belonged to one of the ancient Dragonlord families of the Valyrian Empire. Officially, they had perished after the collapse of the Freehold. Yet no one had ever truly confirmed their extinction.
Thus Clay invented this identity. As for the rest—he would speak as he pleased. With a dragon at his command, he could claim to be the Emperor of Valyria reborn, and the magisters would have no choice but to accept it. After all, the authority to explain lay solely in his hands.
"But of course, it is my honor," Illyrio replied quickly. "Might I ask how I should address you? My name is Illyrio Mopatis. I am the ruler of this city."
He intentionally used the word ruler, trying to subtly discourage Clay from seeking out the other magisters of Pentos. Though Illyrio knew this effort might be futile—a dragon's presence could never remain secret for long, and greedy men would surely come knocking at his gates.
"You may call me Nori," Clay said. "As for my family… heh. The noble blood of my kin runs with the purest strain of Dragonlord descent."
His voice dripped with contempt and pride, lofty and disdainful. When speaking of his lineage, Clay's tone held a haughty arrogance that left no room for doubt.
Illyrio dared not press further. This proud and enigmatic dragonrider clearly stood backed by a powerful Dragonlord house, one that was certainly not House Targaryen.
On one hand, Illyrio felt a measure of relief. This man did not seem intent on contesting young Aegon's claim to the throne of Westeros. Yet alongside that relief came a deep and growing unease.
If such a young man already commanded a dragon of this caliber, then did it mean there were more dragons scattered throughout the world? Hidden in corners unknown?
If they ever sought to rebuild the Valyrian Freehold, they would inevitably turn their eyes to Westeros. And Illyrio had no illusions about what the Dragonlords would do. He did not believe, even for a moment, that they would pass up the chance to conquer a continent.
Clay had just settled comfortably into the plush sofa in Illyrio's spacious hall when the air beyond the colonnade erupted with a sharp, grating commotion. The clash of weapons rang clearly in his ears.
Evidently, someone was not pleased that he had chosen to speak to Illyrio alone.
Lounging at ease, Clay watched Illyrio squirm across from him, his massive frame stiff with discomfort. A faint, knowing smile played on Clay's lips.
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[Chapter End's]
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