The vast throne room was empty, save for the sunlight spilling through the glass panes.
Light and shadow draped over King Viserys and Magister Illyrio of Pentos, omnipresent like the projection of power itself.
Power could make a small man cast a giant shadow.
There was no Red Viper, no Count Roland, no Syrio Forel. Illyrio didn't find this strange.
In Andalos, there was only one sun in the sky.
Viserys had gathered a loose collection of villages and runaway slaves. Without powerful old nobility to challenge him, his prestige was at its zenith.
Aegon the Conqueror might have conquered the Seven Kingdoms, but he left behind a mess that required constant compromise with the great lords.
In Andalos, however, Viserys had achieved a centralization of power his ancestors could only dream of. It was a dark sort of humor.
Viserys's guards stood on either side of the steps below the throne, silent and solemn as statues of heroes.
The warriors wore silver-plated armor, their frames powerful and imposing. Draped in cloaks of black and red, they looked like a silent, steel forest.
Illyrio was secretly astonished. These guards had an aura about them, as if they had been tempered in blood and fire.
Viserys knew how to fight, and his men followed him with absolute loyalty.
Magister Illyrio dreamed of having a powerful army. A man who couldn't afford an army didn't deserve to be called truly wealthy, but building a regular army was easier said than done.
Gold wasn't omnipotent, and armies were bottomless pits that swallowed coin without end.
A standing army was very different from mercenaries. Pentos had plenty of sellswords, but they were irritable, greedy, lecherous, and hard to trust.
Pentos had been effectively demilitarized by Braavos long ago, leaving its people soft and its martial spirit decayed. Perhaps the only martial backbone left in the city were the Unsullied guards protecting the manses of the wealthy.
But Unsullied were expensive and scattered among the households of various Magisters as guards and stewards.
Illyrio and Varys had been maneuvering for so long, yet they still had to rely on the Golden Company—the remnants of the Black Dragon—as their main force.
But even if the Golden Company's ten thousand elites were disciplined, throwing them into the vastness of Westeros would hardly make a splash. At its peak, Westeros could field hundreds of thousands of soldiers.
Yet Viserys had raised an army from nothing, and it was already impressive.
The Andals and Rhoynar were historically known for their martial prowess. Though they had long declined, Viserys had pressed the start button, and a new war machine was beginning to rumble to life.
This was a force capable of accelerating the restoration, an army right before his eyes that didn't depend on the fickle Khal Drogo.
The Andalos army was a variable Illyrio hadn't anticipated, and it filled him with both greed and fear.
"As it stands, my situation seems dire," Viserys said, looking at Illyrio and counting on his fingers. "Khal Drogo, the Tyroshi City Watch, and whatever mercenaries they hire—the Company of the Cat, the Brave Companions, the Stormcrows. Perhaps add a watchful Lys to the list."
"Your Grace, if you would accept my humble opinion, I believe you need allies," Illyrio said with great sincerity.
"That makes sense. Tyrosh finds allies, so I should find allies. If he crosses the river, I cross the river. If he attacks my Andalos, why can't I attack his Tyrosh? But I have no navy..."
"Your Grace, please consider. Pentos only has twenty warships left; we cannot strike back from the sea either," Illyrio explained. "It is better to rely on strong fortifications, imitating the Qohorik strategy."
That was the standard tactic for the Free Cities: turtling up.
"I was joking," Viserys said lightly. "But is the Golden Company truly reliable? Mercenaries value gold above honor." He feigned surprise.
Seeing Viserys's doubt, Illyrio felt more at ease.
At the Battle of the Redgrass Field, Daemon Blackfyre fell to Bloodraven, and the First Blackfyre Rebellion failed.
The Black Dragon's supporters fled the battlefield, refusing to bend the knee, and sailed across the Narrow Sea.
Among them were Daemon's many sons, Aegor "Bittersteel" Rivers himself, and hundreds of lords and knights who had lost their lands.
The Blackfyre remnants never gave up on the throne and had launched multiple invasions.
Illyrio was fat, but his mind was sharp.
The Golden Company had fought House Targaryen for over a hundred years. If Viserys didn't suspect them now that they were offering to fight for him, that would be suspicious.
"Blackfyre and Bittersteel are long dead. After Maelys the Monstrous died on the Stepstones, the Blackfyre male line was extinguished. They were bound to take this step eventually," Illyrio bowed slightly, indicating the feasibility of the plan.
Yes, the world thinks the Blackfyre male line is gone.
But the obscure corners of history never said anything about the female line. And besides Blackfyre, Aerion Brightflame might have left descendants too.
Viserys let Illyrio continue. If he didn't know the web behind the scenes, he might have been swayed by the fat Magister's sweet words.
"You seem to know them very well."
Illyrio didn't panic. He gave his prepared answer: "The Golden Company is famous in the Disputed Lands. Most nobles in the Free Cities remember them. And as a senior Magister of Pentos, I happen to know a bit more."
"And the quality of their soldiers?" Viserys asked.
Illyrio waved a chubby finger. "Your Grace knows that after Bittersteel, the Golden Company has made its living in the Disputed Lands, hired by Myr, Lys, or Tyrosh, fighting endless skirmishes while dreaming of reclaiming their fathers' homes."
"They were never pardoned. They are the descendants of exiles, with nothing to their names, surviving through failed wars," Viserys pressed.
Illyrio rejoiced internally. In business, everyone knew that you only bargained hard if you really wanted the goods.
His fantasy of the "Mummer's Dragon"—swapping the real dragon for his own son—seemed increasingly likely to succeed.
"They are the sons of losers, but they are also a powerful army," Illyrio continued, confident in his persuasion.
"How many men does the Golden Company have?"
"Mostly infantry. Additionally, one thousand archers, five hundred knights—each with three horses—and five hundred squires, each with one horse."
"And who is their Captain-General now?"
"Myles Toyne, Your Grace."
"But the gold they require..." Viserys mused, appearing to weigh the cost heavily.
After all, this was the Golden Company, a significant force.
"The Golden Company does not lack for gold. They lack an obsession that gold cannot replace," Illyrio said immediately. "Home."
"Home. Home." Viserys seemed very satisfied with the word, at least on the surface.
"I never imagined there were still loyal servants across the sea. I can hardly believe you are so devoted to me," Viserys asked.
"I am old, and tired of this hypocritical world. Before I die, why not do something righteous and bright? Helping a handsome young man reclaim his birthright—what is wrong with that?" The fat Magister's sweet words were intoxicating.
"Excellent. If I return to the Iron Throne, I shall appoint you Master of Coin. I hear the current Master of Coin is some cunning, third-rate lord." (Referring to Petyr Baelish).
"If I were to receive such a gift from you, I would cherish it for the rest of my life," Illyrio exclaimed in praise.
Internally, the Magister's thoughts spun. A gift... but the gift I want far exceeds what you can pay, Your Grace.
"Are there Magisters in Pentos who wish to side with the Horselords?" Viserys asked suddenly.
"Nothing escapes the eye of the True Dragon," Illyrio replied smoothly. "There are some Magisters getting restless, but they are petty thieves. They dare not offend anyone, nor do they dare send troops. The Braavosi broke Pentos's bones long ago."
"Good. Even so, I want you to keep them steady."
"Rest assured, Your Grace. Once you achieve victory, those Magisters will be nothing more than ghosts under the blade," Illyrio promised.
Viserys, the opposition Magisters, Khal Drogo... what a beautiful solution. Illyrio had calculated it carefully. This war was the perfect opportunity.
Viserys stared at Illyrio. Illyrio felt his heart skip a beat, sensing the taste of blood and steel in those violet eyes.
But Illyrio didn't care. Viserys was just a teenager, ruled by emotions and greed.
He believed his rhetoric could move the boy.
For a split second, Illyrio considered abandoning his grand conspiracy of swapping the dragon for the phoenix.
After all, Viserys was a tough and cunning warrior. If he discovered the threads of the plot, Illyrio would likely die a miserable death.
But Illyrio couldn't let go of his greed. He chose to trust in the plan he and Varys had hatched, trusting their wisdom and methods over the young Viserys.
They had planned this for over a decade. After so much waiting, he couldn't bear to give up.
The light at the pinnacle of power—replacing the True Dragon with his own son as King—was too beautiful a dream.
"Do it, Magister. Contact the Golden Company. Do not fear, and remember that I stand behind you," Viserys promised.
"I will do my utmost to bring you good news," Illyrio replied with a smile.