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"I beg your forgiveness first, King Viserys of House Targaryen. My departure earlier was too abrupt, truly rude of me. I believe we can speak again." The Tattered Prince rode back in a hurry, as if he had just taken his horse for a casual stroll around the block.
"Speak of what? Will I see a Prince bend the knee? You are a highly respected elder, after all, and of noble birth. I hold friendship towards you; I have fond feelings for Pentos," Viserys said elegantly.
"Over a hundred years ago, when the Rogue Prince Daemon traveled through Pentos, he was welcomed by the Prince and the Magisters. His twin daughters were born there."
In 116 AC, Prince Daemon and his wife Laena Velaryon toured the Free Cities on dragonback. A Magister of Pentos hosted them, and their twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, were born in his manse.
"Not to bend the knee, but to make a trade. I've been muddling through Essos and the Disputed Lands longer than you, but I know a thing or two about Your Grace's reputation." The Tattered Prince felt helpless. He had seniority over Viserys, but in this game, seniority meant nothing.
In the Game of Thrones, whoever speaks first usually loses.
The key was strength. Viserys commanded tens of thousands of elite soldiers and controlled Andalos and parts of the Rhoyne—he was a rising king.
The Windblown, on the other hand, had only two thousand men and had been spinning their wheels in the Disputed Lands. That was why the Tattered Prince needed to align with Viserys.
"No gold, and so much danger. Yet the Windblown are willing to lend a hand. I didn't realize your love for Pentos ran so deep..."
"I want Pentos badly," the Tattered Prince nodded, admitting his obsession.
Viserys looked at him. The man had spent half his life adrift, never finding a lord worth serving.
"But most of your enemies are long dead," Viserys pointed out. "Magisters like that fat man Illyrio don't seem like the type to live long lives anyway."
"I must put an end to thirty years of wandering. I want revenge on those Magisters. They made me flee like a dog. I will never forget that..."
Viserys said no more. Hate was a far more potent fuel than love.
"Let me introduce my subordinates properly. My right hand, Captain Denzo D'han, the warrior-poet. The dangerous Caggo. And 'Pretty' Meris, my torturer," the Tattered Prince introduced them in turn.
"Pretty" Meris was anything but, while the other two looked like battle-hardened veterans.
"My companions: Count Donnel, Ser Agos, Ser Hugo, Ser Dick Crabb, Garin, Jalaka..." Viserys gestured to his own men.
The Red Viper needed no introduction; he was a known quantity.
"Let's speak plainly then," Viserys invited.
The Tattered Prince took a deep breath. "Rags and tatters, tricks and schemes—that is my camouflage as a mercenary. In this world, men must seize every scrap of grace the gods offer. I paid a heavy price to learn that lesson. I guarantee I can offer you a term you cannot refuse."
"Good. I'm listening."
"If Pentos is not on the table, we will not lift a finger during the first wave of attacks on Andalos. My men are sellswords; they only side with winners. But if Andalos can gain the upper hand, I will order my men to attack the enemy's flank. As Your Grace knows, I have two thousand horse. Someone always needs our swords."
"An excellent condition. I am satisfied," Viserys stared at the Tattered Prince. "But I cannot pay you in cash right now. Consider this a contract of intent."
"That matters not. If the Horselords burn Andalos to the ground, it means your army was too weak. In that case, pretend this conversation never happened; we won't intervene."
"Victory or defeat isn't decided by words," Viserys smiled.
"Some promises require gold; others require blood," Viserys replied. "As long as you show up, I will pay you fairly..."
"Standard pay will suffice. I only want friendship. I hear Viserys always repays a debt, whether it be kindness or vengeance," the Tattered Prince said, locking eyes with him.
"Not gold, but my friendship." Viserys laughed. "My friendship is worth far more than gold. Let me see the Windblown's performance. If you earn my applause, you'll get what you want."
"I guarantee you will be satisfied. I only choose suitable allies," the Tattered Prince replied seriously.
Beside him, Caggo, the man with the Valyrian steel arakh, shouted unhappily, "If we're allies, where's the contract? Why not give us some gold now? Khal Drogo is not to be trifled with, and this king looks soft and tender."
Viserys looked at the brutish warrior. These savages were always so rude.
Suddenly, Viserys's black warhorse charged forward like a thunderbolt.
The distance was short, and they were already close.
"Draw your blade," Viserys commanded, riding up to him and staring coldly at Caggo.
The Westerosi-born sellsword flushed. He hesitated, his hand hovering over his hilt, but he didn't draw. He was too slow.
Caggo tried to summon the beast within, but his warrior's instinct screamed danger.
By the time he decided to draw, it was too late.
The longsword danced in Viserys's hand, fluid as water.
"Draw."
Viserys drew his sword, the blade whipping up a purple storm.
The Tattered Prince flinched, startled. He was close to the action and in danger himself.
Caggo was a veteran of a hundred battles, but now he looked clumsy and slow.
The Tattered Prince had spent decades on the battlefield, but he had to admit Viserys's draw was like a roaring tidal wave—the fastest swordsman he had ever seen.
He had guessed Viserys was strong—rumors supported that—but he hadn't expected this.
It seemed the Magisters' predictions that Khal Drogo held the advantage might not be accurate.
The Free Cities always feared the Dothraki. They assumed Drogo's flashy record made him invincible.
"You don't even trust your own blade? What can you trust?"
Before Caggo could fully draw his arakh, he felt the cold bite of steel.
The purple-rippled Valyrian steel blade rested against Caggo's face. Viserys tapped his cheek gently with the flat of the sword.
Then, a flick of the wrist.
Red blood began to seep from the cut. Just a slice, not a killing blow.
"Don't move. This sword is very sharp," Viserys said, his voice hard as iron.
Caggo trembled, sweat beading on his face. He was a vicious butcher, famous for his brutality. He was a pure villain, the kind who would steal a runaway slave girl from a comrade, rape her, and kill her.
Most mercenaries were scum like him; the Dothraki were just purer in their malice.
But he feared death. He wanted to fight back, but he didn't dare pull his blade.
Caggo had no doubt that in the split second it would take to draw, Viserys would slit his throat.
Viserys's strike had been fast and venomous, impossible to dodge.
No one had time to react. They only saw Caggo drowning in fear.
Viserys held back. Had the blade been an inch lower, Caggo's throat would be open.
They were potential allies, after all. Starting a partnership with a corpse wasn't ideal.
"Put away your weapon, Caggo. This is a meeting, not your slaughterhouse," the Tattered Prince barked.
"Prince, you need to keep your pet on a tighter leash. Even Dothraki—or Westerosi savages—shouldn't be so arrogant. Next time, it won't be his cheek that rots, but his throat..." Viserys sheathed his sword elegantly.
"Understood. Meris, remember Caggo's insolence. He gets the whip when we return," the Tattered Prince glared at the brute.
Caggo sat dumbfounded, blood trickling down his face, too terrified to speak.
"I preferred your rebellious look from earlier." Viserys smiled faintly, and the knights around him laughed.
Caggo sat on his horse, his courage for a duel gone.
"I take Andalos as witness to our pact."
"I promise to remember it." The Tattered Prince's mind whirled, feeling a heavy weight in his chest.
The Windblown turned their horses and rode back toward their camp south of the main army.
Caggo's face bore a shallow cut. His companion quickly applied some Myrish fire paste to the wound.
"Why didn't you fight back?"
"It was too late. He's too fast. I only saw his eyes... purple eyes like the Stranger himself."
The sellsword hadn't shaken off the fear.
"Such a fast sword! If I'm not mistaken, that's a purple Valyrian steel blade. Rare indeed," the warrior-poet sighed. "Power, speed... I thought the stories about a fifteen or sixteen-year-old were exaggerated. But now I see he is a very dangerous warrior."
"I think your plan might work now, Prince. This man is no ordinary fighter," another mercenary grunted. "If Andalos actually beats Khal Drogo, we'll have a stronger ally than ever before."
The Tattered Prince frowned. The ally was strong, yes, but also ruthless.
He needed help, but he hadn't wanted help that was this domineering.
Pentos was a wolf, and Viserys was a dragon. Neither was a saint.
But the Tattered Prince had no choice.
He had waited long enough.
"Then we fight to the bitter end. Viserys is still better than the Magisters."
He had no other option. He only wanted Pentos.
At the end of his road, he only wanted to turn the tables and bathe those Magisters in blood.
Viserys found that he was seemingly destined to tangle with Pentos.
Some time after the Windblown left, Magister Illyrio of Pentos arrived again.
---
Viserys waited in the throne room to receive the guest.
Illyrio's attitude remained incredibly respectful.
"Great King Viserys, every time I see you, you look radiant, like a shining light."
"The Magister's words are like honey, soothing my heart." Viserys smiled faintly. Illyrio's gifts weren't the point; his intentions were.
Viserys ordered a seat for the fat Magister.
"What is that?" Illyrio asked curiously, spotting the massive Dragon Horn hanging on the stone wall.
It was so large and ornate that even as a decoration, it was mesmerizing.
"Just a little trinket," Viserys laughed.
Illyrio stared at the "trinket" for a moment longer. It was unique; he had never seen such a magnificent horn.
Recalling certain legends, Illyrio grew more cautious.
"Your Grace, surely you know that Khal Drogo is about to march west in force," Illyrio began.
"Of course I know. It is our war. What is your insight?" Viserys wanted to hear what Illyrio had to say.
"Andalos is impregnable, certainly, but the Khal's screamers are fierce, numbering at least thirty thousand. More importantly, I hear the Tyroshi may have hired the Company of the Cat, the Brave Companions, and the Stormcrows as auxiliary forces," Illyrio dropped a bombshell.
The Company of the Cat was second-tier, with about three thousand infantry, led by the rude and ruthless Bloodbeard.
The Brave Companions were notorious, a haven for criminals and sadists.
"Then I am beset on two sides," Viserys mused, looking hesitant. "With war so frequent, I cannot find strong reinforcements. And my sister and niece are so young; I worry for their safety here."
Illyrio watched Viserys's performance and felt calm. Now came his main act.
Feeling the satisfaction of a fisherman hooking a catch, Illyrio began to peddle his plan. "If you do not object, under the sacred peace, the two princesses could stay in Pentos, a free land. As for strong reinforcements... I believe help is closer than you think."
Viserys looked at Illyrio. His words were full of poison. The fox's tail was finally showing.
On the surface, sending children to Pentos for protection was something Rhaenyra had done during the Dance of the Dragons, sending her sons to a friendly Magister.
But Illyrio's scheme disgusted Viserys.
If Illyrio had been honest, revealed Young Griff's identity, and asked for forgiveness, perhaps there would have been a way out.
But now... Illyrio was too dangerous.
Perhaps it was normal. After investing in a power play for over a decade, one doesn't give up easily.
"What aid?" Viserys played along.
"Mercenaries. An army."
"Good. Let me hear it, Magister. I don't like dealing with sellswords. A group once ate my food, didn't do the job, and laughed at me. You know, a True Dragon dislikes liars," Viserys said slowly, emphasizing every word.
He was referring to an event that hadn't happened yet in this timeline—the feast where the Golden Company commanders ate his food, listened to his plea, and then mocked him.
It was a memory of a future that would never pass, but Viserys's opinion of mercenaries remained low.
Now, it seemed he had to deal with the Golden Company again.
"The Golden Company," Illyrio said slowly.
Beneath the gold, the bitter steel.
"Are you mistaken?" Viserys looked at Illyrio, feigning shock. "They have always been enemies of the Red Dragon."
The Golden Company was renowned as the finest mercenary company in the world, founded a century ago by Aegor "Bittersteel" Rivers, a bastard of Aegon the Unworthy.
"Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon. You can do for the exiles what Bittersteel and Blackfyre could not: bring them home..." Illyrio smiled.
"Contact them for me," Viserys said, staring at Illyrio. This man was a dead man walking.
Illyrio wanted to pluck chestnuts from the fire of war, but it remained to be seen who would get burned.
Viserys suddenly recalled a story from history where an emperor told a condemned enemy many secrets before killing him.
It seemed he felt the same way. Dead men tell no tales.