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Magister Ordello felt an immense sense of relief. Last night, he had not spent too much time indulging himself with a woman. As the pampered and privileged magister of Pentos, he had long since grown used to sampling the beauty of women from both shores of the Narrow Sea. But now, in order to live longer, he had chosen to restrain his desires.
It was precisely because his sleep had been shallow that he managed to hear the sound of the steward pounding furiously on his chamber door, boldly risking the magister's wrath to wake him. The loud knocking awoke him from the depths of slumber.
The magister, awakened in a foul mood, was like a furious bull ready to gore the lowly creature who dared disturb his rest. He stormed toward the door, sword nearly in hand, fully prepared to behead the fool on the spot. Yet the first words that spilled from his steward's lips made him halt in his tracks.
"My lord... a dragon! A dragon! A living dragon has descended into Magister Illyrio's estate!"
The steward, panting heavily, clearly understood the gravity of what he was reporting. Had he waited for his master to awaken on his own, he would have sealed his own fate. He knew the magister's temper all too well. Rather than die for hesitation, he had taken the gamble and dared to break the rules in order to rouse his master.
And fortune had favored him. For after a moment of stunned silence, Magister Ordello seized the steward by his collar. His eyes widened, bulging like bronze bells, as he shouted:
"You didn't mistake it for something else? Are you certain it was a dragon? Not just some oversized bird?"
The steward, voice rasping with urgency, pointed to the soldiers standing behind him who had been on night watch.
"My lord... they... they can all bear witness. The whole city saw it."
Ordello turned toward the group. As he took in their solemn nods, he loosened his grip, letting the frail steward collapse to the floor, gasping for breath. Ordello almost crushed him to death just now.
Without hesitating for more than a heartbeat, Ordello issued his command as magister.
"Go summon the guard. We ride to Illyrio's estate at once. I don't care where that dragon came from. Even if it crawled out of a grave, we cannot allow it to feast alone with that bloated bastard."
In mere moments, the guards had assembled. With Ordello leading them, they charged toward the gates of Magister Illyrio's luxurious estate in a thundering formation.
As fate would have it, Ordello encountered another magister of Pentos at the gates. Evidently, both had responded swiftly to the news, and their intent was the same: to ensure Illyrio did not meet the dragon alone.
Though neither of them had the faintest idea who this dragon—or its rider—truly was, nor what connection Illyrio held to them, that did not matter. In Pentos, power was a delicate balance between magisters. Anyone who dared to tip the scales would provoke swift and merciless retribution from the others.
Illyrio's household guards were startled by the sudden arrival of these troops. Though each served a different master, all of them belonged to the same governing structure. They were old acquaintances, bound by unspoken rules and longstanding familiarity.
One of them stepped forward, asking cautiously:
"Lord Magister Ordello, what is the meaning of this?"
Of course, they already knew a dragon had descended upon their master's courtyard. But at such a critical moment, every second of delay was precious. These guards, fattened under their magister's patronage, still retained a certain measure of loyalty.
Ordello, however, showed not a shred of courtesy. Clad in disheveled robes, he strode forward with grim determination. A massive sword in hand, he thrust its blade directly before the guard's face and growled:
"Stand aside. Or you will die here today."
The guard hesitated for just a breath.
That was one breath too many!
Ordello's blade came down in a flash, followed by a crimson spray of blood. At the sight of his strike, the rest of his men surged forward without hesitation. In less than a minute, the ornate gate was drenched in blood, its defenders lying lifeless in growing crimson pools. The path was clear. Ordello and the other magister stormed into Illyrio's estate.
Just as they reached the inner courtyard, their eyes fell upon the enormous dragon curled at its center. Its scales shimmered in hues of deep blue and radiant gold. Two clear, slightly reddish eyes—eyes filled with a chilling, dangerous gleam—were fixed squarely upon them.
Gaelithox was awaiting Clay's command. Had it been alone, it would have already unleashed a storm of dragonfire. There would have been no hesitation, no restraint. But now, it waited—still and watchful.
As the intruders' gazes were drawn to the beast, Clay turned to glance at Illyrio, whose face had turned an awful shade of pale. Without giving him the chance to speak, Clay took the initiative.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice calm and composed, "since you've come all this way, why not join us for a conversation? I believe Magister Illyrio is known to be quite the generous host. Is that not so, my lord?"
At those words, Illyrio fumed inwardly, cursing furiously in silence. But on his face, he managed to stretch a smile that could not have looked more strained.
"Yes, indeed, honored guests. My estate is always open to visitors."
…
Five minutes later, Ordello and the other magister were seated on separate couches within the garden pavilion. They stared daggers at one another, neither speaking, yet both sending a clear message through their eyes:
Get lost. The Dragonlord is mine!
Clay reclined lazily on the central couch, savoring a plump fruit native to Pentos. He watched the performance of the three magisters with great interest. The arrival of the other two had completely shattered Illyrio's attempt to monopolize him with sweet words and cunning promises.
After all, everyone present was no fool. Illyrio's support for Aegon Targaryen's claim to the throne was no secret to these politically savvy city rulers. They might not yet know that "Young Aegon" was Illyrio's own son, but the fact of his support was an open truth that could not be concealed from such well-informed men.
Now, an air of awkward tension clung to every breath within the courtyard. Had any one of these men been alone with Clay, the conversation might have quickly grown warm and fruitful, perhaps even leading to concrete agreements.
But with Clay seated alone across from the three of them, and a massive dragon beside him whose gaze lingered with the hungry attention of a beast admiring a rack of barbecued steaks, not one of the powerful magisters of Pentos dared to speak first.
Clay, however, remained unbothered. This place was not his home. If boredom struck, he only had to give Gaelithox a small cue to part his jaws, and the sheer threat of that might be enough to force these men to spill Daenerys's whereabouts.
As for what else he wanted from them? That was obvious. He sought gold, and troops. But sadly, the three before him were not yet aligned with his cause.
Well, perhaps that wasn't quite accurate. Illyrio, at the very least, had to be replaced. This man who supported the pretender Aegon Targaryen, challenging Clay both for the Iron Throne and for Daenerys herself—this was simply intolerable. Clay might have been willing to forgive an uncle, but never a man trying to steal both his kingdom and his woman.
Still, for now, he kept Illyrio around. It was not out of sentiment, but strategy. There was no need to provoke Pentos too much, not at this early stage. He had only just arrived in Essos as the proclaimed heir of the Dragonlord House. If he brought fire and blood from the very beginning, it might feel satisfying in the moment, but it would make his long-term goals far harder to achieve.
"Is something troubling the three of you?" Clay's voice was calm and even, though it carried a cold undercurrent. "You needn't worry. Gaelithox has already eaten his fill today. He won't be interested in any of you, not unless he grows terribly hungry again."
His words were delivered with effortless serenity, yet they sent a chill down the spines of all three magisters. The confidence with which he spoke of the dragon's diet was unsettling. Had they already tested this before? And when he said the dragon had already eaten, what exactly had it eaten? Almost in unison, the three men cast uneasy glances toward Gaelithox.
No, better not to provoke this mysterious and dangerous Dragonrider. If that great beast stirred again and grew hungry, who knew what might happen? Their lives were far too precious to be fed to a dragon.
"I have a suggestion," Clay said lightly, his tone deliberately casual, though it carried an unmistakable edge. "It seems that the three of you are unable to speak freely in one another's presence. So why don't we simplify things? Come to me one at a time. Speak with me alone. That should work, should it not?"
Before the words had fully faded from the air, Gaelithox gave a thunderous growl, filled with primal warning. The sound seemed to shake the very stones beneath their feet. At once, the three magisters agreed—there was no arguing with a man who commanded a dragon.
The first to remain behind was, naturally, their host. Illyrio Mopatis, who had only just greeted Clay before the others interrupted.
The lordly magister, wrapped in voluminous robes of golden yellow, now gripped his own beard with a fat, trembling hand. The once-glistening strands of gold had become somewhat grimy, his wide brow beaded with sweat, his whole manner betraying nerves barely held in check.
Clay eyed the man coldly. Illyrio was already marked on his list. But outwardly, Clay's expression remained one of lofty indifference, his manner arrogant and faintly disdainful. With a hint of mockery in his voice, he asked:
"Magister Illyrio, tell me. Just how many ships can Pentos muster? Think carefully before you answer. If the number is less than what I have in mind, then I shall, on behalf of my family, request that Pentos appoint a more capable magister in your place."
His words were utter nonsense, completely invented. Yet they struck Illyrio like a thunderbolt. It was not that the man lacked cunning or experience, but it was difficult to maintain composure when a dragon sat nearby, eyeing you like a meal. Any man would feel his heart falter.
"Noble Lord Nori, I cannot speak for the others, but as for my own resources, I can pledge fifty elite long-range warships to your cause."
What a marvel. Truly worthy of the label "merchant prince." A mid-ranking magister of a city-state could casually offer fifty warships, just like that. It appeared that Clay's own naval forces were in desperate need of expansion.
Clay gave a faint nod, betraying nothing of his thoughts. His gaze remained fixed on Illyrio, whose expression revealed a complex swirl of emotions. Clay, in contrast, wore that same infuriatingly smug smile, as if everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned.
"Magister, you are indeed a dear friend of House Belaerys," he said, spreading his arms in a grand, welcoming gesture. "As a friend, I shall reward your generosity. I will answer two of your questions, in return for the pledge of your fleet."
It may sound absurd, but Clay was intentionally using the old trick of borrowed power. He had conjured a fictitious House Belaerys, a supposedly surviving lineage of the Valyrian dragonlords, giving the impression that he was merely an envoy. The hidden threat was simple—refuse Clay now, and tomorrow a dozen dragons might arrive to turn their homes to ash.
This method had precedent. The dragonlords of ancient Valyria had done it. The Targaryens, who once ruled the Seven Kingdoms, had done it too. With such history behind it, no wonder the magisters of Pentos were so obedient.
"My lord," Illyrio ventured carefully, "you say you hail from House Belaerys. Might I ask you to tell me more about it?"
Clay smiled, as though he had long anticipated Illyrio's question. That part was easy. All it took was a silver tongue to weave a tale from thin air.
He spoke of ancestors who had fled the Doom of Valyria with their kin, of their desperate struggle to survive in the southern lands beyond the Smoking Sea. He painted a vivid picture of perseverance—how House Belerion had taken in the scattered remnants of the fallen empire, gradually intermarrying with the local population. Over the slow passage of generations, they had finally managed to restore a fraction of the empire's former glory.
And now, he, Nori Belaerys, the pioneer of his house, had returned to the continent of Essos, determined to learn the current state of the land once ruled by the fallen empire of Dragonlords.
It was a flawless explanation, completely reasonable. Don't believe it? That's fine. Anyone is welcome to go investigate the southern reaches of the Smoking Sea. If you actually find anything—well, then you've seen a ghost.
"The second question," said Illyrio hesitantly, "I would like to ask, my lord, does the esteemed House Belaerys have any interest in the continent of Westeros, across the Narrow Sea?"
He had hesitated for quite some time before asking this, yet in the end, Illyrio, the governor of Pentos, still brought it up. The matter of Westeros was something that, even if he chose not to mention, this Lord Nori Belaerys would eventually hear from someone else.
It would be better to take the initiative. Perhaps, with the right timing and tone, he might even win this man's favor and through him, the support of the entire Belaerys family. Their aid could prove invaluable in placing Young Aegon upon the Iron Throne. And in the worst-case scenario... the Iron Throne might simply bend the knee to the newly risen House Belaerys and pay tribute, assuming they truly were a mighty house blessed with a host of dragons.
Clay shot Illyrio a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. He hadn't expected the man to be so bold. Illyrio had dared to bring up Westeros, a land that had never even been part of the old Valyrian Empire's territory—Dragonstone being the sole exception.
In the original script, the entire continent of Westeros was nothing more than a prize waiting to be claimed by Young Aegon and his father. Now, Illyrio was actually proposing to share it with House Belaerys? How strange.
But then Clay reconsidered, and the pieces quickly fell into place. This was Illyrio's way of advancing by retreating.
Westeros was his idea. The Belaerys family was unfamiliar with it, wasn't that so? Even if they harbored ambitions, they would need someone to lead the way—and conveniently, Illyrio just so happened to be an expert on the matter.
Now was the perfect time to push Young Aegon—this false Targaryen—onto the stage. He would kneel before the proud Belaerys family as a token of submission. Once their rival in the ancient struggle for dominion over Valyria, the Targaryens would now lower their heads and offer to become mere vassal kings, ruling a distant continent on behalf of the new empire.
And for a family striving to restore the full glory of old Valyria, why reject such a generous offering? Unless, of course, their power was already so great that they had no need of allies—that they could conquer the entire world on their own.
But if that were truly the case, why would they have come to Pentos, seeking help from Illyrio and his ilk, the local nobodies?
It could be said that Illyrio Mopatis understood people. He had always known how to read a man's heart. But this time, unfortunately, he had encountered Clay Manderly, a scoundrel who talked nonsense with the confidence of a prophet. Aside from his handsome face, there wasn't a single word that came out of his mouth that could be trusted. Every one of Illyrio's carefully laid plans were wasted on him.
Clay pretended to give the question some thought. Then, after a brief pause, he waved his hand and laughed.
"Oh, I know Westeros. Our lucky old friends the Targaryens ruled that place for quite a while, didn't they? Now it looks like they've fallen. No more dragons, no more throne. Got tossed out by their own subjects. If they couldn't even hold on to it themselves, what use do we have for that place?"
Upon hearing these words, Illyrio watched Clay's expression closely. The man's face showed no sign of deceit, and Illyrio's heart surged with uncontrollable excitement. Perfect. This proud scion of House Belaerys was reacting exactly as he had hoped.
"Well then, Magister Illyrio, our conversation ends here," Clay said suddenly. "Let the next magister come in."
The tone was once again commanding, utterly imperious. Illyrio was left helpless. He had wanted to say more, to continue persuading him, but when he caught sight of the ice-cold glint in Clay's eyes, he shrank back immediately and gave up.
…
The conversation that followed—with the next magisters—was far less civil. Both magisters accused Illyrio of being the biggest fraud in all of Pentos. They warned Clay that he was in grave danger simply by being here. Each insisted that their own house was the safest place in the city and urged him to come with them.
Clay offered no response to any of this. Whether he accepted or rejected their offers remained unclear. However, from the mouth of Magister Ordello, he did learn something far more valuable: Daenerys Targaryen had been sighted just under half a month ago within the vicinity of Slaver's Bay.
Clearly, these magisters had been keeping a close eye on her movements. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to obtain such up-to-date information.
This particular magister—who evidently harbored quite a grudge against Illyrio—spilled everything he knew about Illyrio's plan to restore the Targaryen dynasty. Of course, what he revealed was based on pieced-together intelligence and guesswork, not the full truth.
But that didn't matter in the slightest. Because soon after, from the lips of another magister, Clay was able to confirm Daenerys's exact location once again. She was indeed near Slaver's Bay.
Perfect. That made things much simpler.
Time to depart!
No, wait, set off!
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[Chapter End's]
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