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Essos – Pentos
Illyrio Mopatis's Mansion
Illyrio Mopatis's residence sat in the wealthiest district of Pentos, a grand building that blended local Pentoshi style with the lavish tastes of the Free Cities.
The white marble walls were carved with intricate patterns. The courtyard was filled with exotic flowers and plants from the Summer Isles, and the sound of fountains echoed clearly through the night.
But tonight, the atmosphere inside the mansion was anything but relaxed.
Deep within the estate, in a hidden chamber, a tense meeting was underway.
The room wasn't large, but it was decorated with extreme luxury: Myr tapestries hung on the walls, Qartheen carpets covered the floor, and the furniture was made of rare blackwood from Yi Ti. At the center stood a massive round table laden with golden and silver dishes and fresh fruit—none of which had been touched.
Five men sat around the table.
At the head sat Illyrio Mopatis himself. The Magister of Pentos was enormously fat, dressed in a purple silk robe embroidered with gold thread, his fingers heavy with jeweled rings.
He usually wore the smooth smile of a merchant, but tonight that smile looked stiff, and his eyes glittered with sharp calculation.
To his right sat Harry Strickland, the current commander of the Golden Company. He was a man in his fifties, tall and powerfully built, with a long scar running from his forehead across his left eye down to his jaw—a souvenir from decades as a sellsword.
He wore simple leather armor that looked completely out of place in the luxurious room, yet no one dared underestimate him. The Golden Company was the most powerful and disciplined mercenary force in Essos, their fighting ability rivaling any regular army.
The other three were fellow Magisters of Pentos:
Marco Volaris, the oldest at over seventy, with snow-white hair but still-sharp eyes. He represented Pentos's most traditional commercial interests and was deeply suspicious of any change that might threaten trade stability.
Lucio Renaer, around fifty, lean and perpetually serious. He was the former commander of Pentos's navy and had the strongest voice on military matters.
Gino Ferrari, the youngest at just over forty, ambitious and rising fast. His family had made a fortune in the slave trade, and he had quickly become a major player in Pentoshi politics.
If any ordinary Pentoshi noble had walked into this room right now, his jaw would have hit the floor. Nearly all of the city's most hawkish and powerful Magisters were gathered here.
"Gentlemen," Illyrio Mopatis broke the silence, his voice smooth as honeyed wine. "Thank you for coming so late. I know we're all busy men, but this concerns Pentos's future. We must reach an agreement tonight."
Illyrio was one of the most influential men in Pentos. Many believed he had risen through connections and favors. Those who truly knew him understood he was far more dangerous than that—he always seemed to know secrets others didn't, and he used them to get exactly what he wanted.
Marco Volaris spoke first, his voice dry. "Illyrio, you've mentioned this several times in private. Now that the commander of the Golden Company is here, I think it's time to be direct. Do you truly believe we should hand over the defense of Pentos entirely to a mercenary company?"
All eyes turned to Harry Strickland. The sellsword captain didn't answer immediately. He took a slow sip of wine, set the cup down, and only then spoke.
"Magister Volaris," Harry's voice was rough but clear, "the Golden Company is not just another sellsword band. We are a military organization with over a century of history. Our discipline, training, and equipment surpass most city-state armies. More importantly, once we sign a contract, we honor it. We don't run or switch sides the moment danger appears, unlike some local forces."
Lucio Renaer frowned. "Commander Strickland, no one questions the Golden Company's fighting ability. But Pentos already has its own army and navy. Small, yes, but enough to keep the city safe. Why spend a fortune hiring outsiders?"
"Because the threats have changed," Illyrio cut in, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "Gentlemen, we can no longer pretend things are the same as before. The situation on the Dothraki Sea is deteriorating. The young Khal Drogo is stronger and greedier than any khal before him."
He paused to let the words sink in. "In the past, we could buy off the Dothraki with gold, silk, and slaves. We could point them at our enemies. Drogo is different. He wants more and more. And his eyes are no longer just on plunder—he wants land, permanent tribute, and for us to bow and call him master."
Gino Ferrari snorted. "Then give him more gold. Dothraki only understand raiding, not ruling. Throw enough wealth at them and they'll move on."
"That's exactly the problem," Illyrio shook his head. "We tried. Three months ago I personally brought two chests of gold, fifty carefully chosen slaves, and twenty fine horses to meet Drogo's envoys. Do you know what they said? 'The Khal does not want gifts. The Khal wants respect. And respect can only be given—or taken—with steel.'"
The room fell into short, heavy silence. The Dothraki were the nightmare of every Free City. They built no cities, produced nothing, and lived only for riding, fighting, and plunder. Worst of all, they were numerous and their light cavalry struck like lightning—almost impossible to defend against.
"So your solution," Marco Volaris said slowly, "is to hire the Golden Company and prepare for open war with the Dothraki? Illyrio, have you lost your mind? If we go to full war with them, our farmlands, villages, and trade caravans will all become targets. We might hold the city, but everything outside the walls will be burned to ash."
"That's precisely the point," Illyrio's eyes brightened. "We cannot simply defend. We need reform. We need to use this crisis to completely reshape Pentos's military structure."
Lucio Renaer looked at him warily. "What kind of reform?"
Illyrio stood and began pacing, his shadow swaying across the candlelit walls like some great beast circling its prey.
"Pentos's problem," he began, "is that we have relied too heavily on trade and diplomacy while neglecting raw power. Look at Braavos—they have an invincible navy and a powerful intelligence network."
Braavos and Pentos had fought for a long time. Many Magisters feared that terrifying rival, especially its frightening productivity and fleet. Rumors said Braavos's shipyards could build a war galley in a single day—something most considered impossible, yet those present believed it.
"Look at Volantis with its huge slave armies. Even the smaller cities like Lys and Myr maintain their own fleets."
Braavos and Volantis were the two dominant powers on the western side of Essos—one ruling the north, the other holding glory in the south. But that balance was slowly shifting. Since the Doom of Valyria, proud Volantis had lost much of its former splendor.
Right now, Braavos stood alone as the strongest power in the eastern continent.
This was exactly why so many Pentoshi Magisters preferred keeping things as they were—they were simply too close to Braavos, and nowhere near the same weight class.
What Illyrio wanted most was to change that balance and restore Pentos to its former glory.
He stopped at the table, hands planted on the surface. "And what about us? We have a pathetic little navy, a poorly disciplined city guard, and a bunch of private household troops that answer to no one. When the Dothraki come, all we can do is close the gates and pray they take enough loot and leave."
Illyrio's words brought looks of displeasure, but no one could argue. Because he was right.
"When pirates attack our merchant ships, we beg Braavos for help. When other cities threaten our interests, we solve it with negotiation and bribes."
"What's wrong with that?" Gino Ferrari challenged. "Pentos has always been prosperous. Our merchants are rich. Our city is safe and stable. Our people live comfortable lives. Why change a system that works?"
"Because that system is about to stop working," Illyrio's voice turned hard. "The world is changing, gentlemen. The Baratheon dynasty in Westeros is unstable. I have reliable information that succession disputes may break out very soon."
Trade between Pentos and the Seven Kingdoms was heavy. As the Free City closest to King's Landing, any ripple in the capital affected Pentos immediately.
"A new and terrifyingly powerful khal has risen on the Dothraki Sea. Strange rumors keep coming out of Valyria's ruins. In times like these, wealth without strength is like a treasury without walls—it will be plundered sooner or later."
Merchants wanted peace and stability above all. Politicians and schemers craved chaos—because chaos was the ladder.
Illyrio already had everything a man could want. The only thing left was upheaval.
"Chaos is a ladder," Littlefinger hadn't invented that truth. Every sharp-eyed ambitious man already knew it.
Harry Strickland spoke then, his voice like sandpaper on stone. "Magister Mopatis is right. I've fought across Essos for thirty years. I've watched cities rise and fall. Those that relied only on gold and talk always collapsed. Only those strong enough to protect themselves endure."
Though some called him the weakest commander the Golden Company had ever had, Harry Strickland's name still carried weight across Essos.
But the Golden Company also carried a certain reputation in the Free Cities, and every man at the table felt a flicker of caution.
They all remembered how Tyrosh had been ruled for years by the "Ninepenny Kings"—a band everyone else saw as trash.
The Golden Company publicly swore they would one day return to Westeros. But none of these Magisters were fools. They knew some promises were only meant to be heard, never trusted.
Harry swept his gaze across the table. "The Golden Company can become Pentos's sword and shield. We can train your troops, reorganize your defenses, even help you build a real expeditionary force—but only if you're willing to change."
Lucio Renaer narrowed his eyes. "What kind of change? Be specific."
Illyrio sat back down. The merchant's smile returned to his face, but this time it carried a sharper edge.
"First," he said, "we form a unified military council—led jointly by Golden Company experts and our own best officers."
Everyone understood how important control of the army was. With the military under one roof, many other problems suddenly became simple.
Illyrio was confident. The promise of real military power was the kind of bait no ambitious man could ignore.
He saw the hungry glints in their eyes and dropped the next bombshell.
"Second, we triple the military budget—at minimum."
The sharp intake of breath around the table made Illyrio's smile widen.
"Pentos's current military spending is a joke. We pay too many useless mercenary bands that do nothing when it counts. Why should we trust them to protect our wealth?"
That one hit home. The loose mercenary system across Essos had zero real accountability. Too many companies took the gold and vanished when real danger showed up.
It was also why the Unsullied were so popular—they were fearless, perfectly obedient, and worth every extra coin.
"And third…"