c13: Viserys's Rhetoric
Viserys didn't waste time. His tone was sharp and direct. "You intend to provide me with the opportunity to acquire a Dothraki horde, don't you, Illyrio?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Illyrio said smoothly, hiding nothing. "That is precisely my plan."
Viserys didn't ask how Illyrio planned to accomplish this. He seemed disinterested in the logistics as though his mind were already ahead of the conversation and Illyrio, sensing this, dared not elaborate unless asked.
Instead, Viserys posed a pointed question. "Do you think I can reclaim the Iron Throne with a foreign army at my back?"
Illyrio's reply was swift and confident. "Your Majesty, the Dothraki are the most fearless cavalry I have ever seen. They fight like wildfire impossible to extinguish once ignited."
Viserys gave a nod, his tone neither approving nor dismissive. "I must admit, Illyrio, it is a clever proposal. Feasible on paper."
Illyrio's smile faltered. A slight crease formed on his brow. "Your Majesty, do you find the plan lacking?"
His tone, still polite, was laced with an edge. Illyrio was probing Viserys now, trying to read his stance. Beneath the titles and honorifics, theirs was not truly a lord and servant relationship—it was a calculated partnership. And if his proposal was being rejected, Illyrio's tone subtly warned that his support might not be guaranteed for long.
It was a reasonable shift. From Illyrio's view, Viserys was just another exiled nobleman a desperate claimant with nothing but a name and a shadow of a legacy. If the plan was dismissed, Illyrio might well decide that his gold and influence would be better spent elsewhere. Viserys could easily be seen as yet another would-be monarch one of many.
But Viserys remained unshaken by Illyrio's subtle pressure. "No," he said coolly. "I don't think it's useless. On the contrary, Illyrio, I think you're a man of foresight. A brilliant merchant. This plan on its own isn't flawed. It's just not the plan I need right now."
Illyrio's tone grew serious. "Then Your Majesty must have a different vision?"
Viserys didn't hesitate. His voice grew firmer. "What I require isn't a horde. Not yet. What I need most now, Illyrio... is time."
Illyrio raised an eyebrow. "Time?"
"Yes," Viserys repeated. "Time."
He studied Illyrio's face, gauging his reaction. "You look unconvinced."
Illyrio blinked, caught off guard by the accusation. His silence lingered just a moment too long.
Had he revealed something in his expression?
"I wouldn't say that," Illyrio said quickly. "I'm simply trying to understand. What does Your Majesty mean by time?"
Viserys gave no answer, not directly. Instead, he returned to his earlier question, his voice low and probing. "Do you truly believe that the Dothraki can win back my kingdom?"
Illyrio answered cautiously. "I can't see how a king without an army can take back a throne."
Viserys turned away from Illyrio and looked down at the grasslands, where the Dothraki horde was slowly retreating, their 'gift' secured among them.
Why had Illyrio and Varys, no doubt chosen the Dothraki?
The Dothraki did not wear armor. They thrived on raiding and bloodshed. They lived by the horse and sword, by the laws of plunder. On the grasslands, they were feared. In Westeros, they would be abominations.
Bringing them across the Narrow Sea would not be a restoration it would be an invasion.
Even if they agreed to follow him, they wouldn't obey him. They would follow a Khal, not a king. And if they razed a city, burned a sept, butchered Westerosi nobles? Then Viserys already mocked as the "Beggar King" would become something worse: the Son of the Mad King, heir to fire, blood, and madness. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms would unite in fury, not allegiance.
Twice, Viserys asked Illyrio the same question watching his face, hoping for a flicker of intent. But Illyrio's mask was smooth, unreadable.
"A king must have an army, yes," Viserys said at last, his voice laced with a quiet arrogance. "But not this army. Not yet."
Illyrio pressed, "Then may I ask where will Your Majesty's army come from?"
Viserys opened his mouth to reply, instinctively but caught himself. Instead, he changed course.
"Tell me, Governor Illyrio," he said, voice calm but sharp. "How much do you know of the current state in Westeros?"
Illyrio didn't flinch at the sudden shift. "I imagine Your Majesty is about to enlighten me."
Viserys smiled slightly. He enjoyed this part the sense that he knew more than anyone else. "Can't you see it, Illyrio? The Seven Kingdoms today are a field of dry grass, and three crown princes walk through it holding torches. One spark just one and everything burns."
Illyrio blinked, caught off guard. He had expected secrets maybe alliances or hidden dragons. But Viserys was speaking in riddles.
Still, he played along. "Your Majesty, forgive me. I'm just a merchant. Politics is a game I only watch from the shadows."
Viserys's tone darkened, his voice filled with memory. "When the Dance of the Dragons tore House Targaryen in two, there were only two claimants Rhaenyra and Aegon. The Black Queen and the Green Prince. Their war shattered the realm."
Illyrio's brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but… are you referring to Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Aegon the Elder?"
"Yes. And they burned the realm with just two claims," Viserys said, eyes gleaming. "Now there are three."
Illyrio's voice lowered slightly, genuine curiosity now evident. "Then may I ask, Your Majesty… who are the three claimants?"
The Dance of the Dragons was a devastating civil war that erupted in the middle of the Targaryen dynasty, a conflict rooted in succession. It stemmed from a brutal power struggle between Princess Rhaenyra, eldest daughter of King Viserys I, and Prince Aegon, eldest son of his second wife, Queen Alicent Hightower. Both had legitimate claims to the Iron Throne, and their battle tore House Targaryen—and the realm—apart. It was not just kin fighting kin; it was dragon fighting dragon. This war not only plunged Westeros into chaos, but it also led to the near-extinction of the dragons themselves—the very creatures that had secured the Targaryens' rule in the first place.
Viserys leaned in, his voice low but clear. "The first crown prince, naturally, is Joffrey Baratheon—the eldest son of the so-called King Robert and his queen, Cersei Lannister. The second is Renly Baratheon, Robert's youngest brother and the current Lord of Storm's End. The third," he paused, letting the weight settle, "is Stannis Baratheon, the middle brother, holding the ancestral seat of Dragonstone."
Though he'd expected to hear something provocative, Illyrio was still caught off guard. "Your Majesty, where do you begin drawing such lines?"
"You see, Illyrio, that's precisely what most miss. Storm's End has always passed to the rightful heir of House Baratheon. And yet, Robert gave it to Renly, not to his own son, Joffrey. The supposed heir to the Iron Throne doesn't even inherit his father's house seat. That alone tells you something."
Illyrio's mouth opened as if to respond, but no words came out.
Viserys pressed on. "Dragonstone, on the other hand, has always been the seat of Targaryen crown princes—since Aegon the Conqueror. Yet Robert gave it to Stannis, his brother, not his son. Does that make sense to you, Illyrio? In effect, Robert has three people positioned as heirs, whether he admits it or not. Three rival claimants, sitting on powder kegs, waiting for a spark."
Illyrio blinked, momentarily overwhelmed by the implications. The logic was outlandish—but not entirely ungrounded. He followed Viserys's argument for now. "Even if that were true, King Robert is still young. Even if he doesn't settle these tensions in his lifetime, who's to say when—or even if—these so-called crown princes will ever clash?"
Viserys was ready. "You believe Robert is the force holding the realm together? In the Free Cities, even I hear the rumors. Robert's court is a mess. He feasts, he whores, he squanders coin. The crown is drowning in debt, and he leaves the ruling to others. The real steward of the realm is not the king—it's the Hand, Jon Arryn. And Jon Arryn is old, Illyrio. Very old. The day he dies, the fragile peace holding the Seven Kingdoms together dies with him."
Illyrio felt uneasy now. Though Viserys's theory was laced with dramatics, the foundations were worryingly sound. There were dangerous tensions brewing in the Seven Kingdoms.
In truth, the kingdom had deeper fractures than Viserys even named. The crown was over six million gold dragons in debt, most of it owed to the Lannisters. The queen, Cersei, and her twin brother, Jaime, were rumored to be far closer than siblings should be—rumors that cast a long, dark shadow on the legitimacy of the royal heirs. And the Lannisters had taken root in King's Landing like ivy, strangling every institution of governance with gold and influence.
Renly Baratheon, the charming youngest brother, had the backing of many nobles in the Stormlands and a strong alliance with House Tyrell of Highgarden—a massive army and treasury. His popularity made him a quiet but potent threat to Joffrey's succession. And Stannis, cold and uncompromising, was perhaps the most dangerous of them all. Word from King's Landing said that Stannis had begun investigating Robert's bastards, seeking the truth about the king's children—a truth that could ignite civil war.
Illyrio thought grimly: the Seven Kingdoms were indeed a simmering pot. Robert's power had rested on the unity of Houses Baratheon, Arryn, Stark, and Tully—the alliance that had won the Rebellion. But now, the king thought himself invincible, and sought to bring the Lannisters deeper into his court. The Deer, the Falcon, the Wolf, and the Fish alliance was fraying, and Robert didn't even see it.
Shaken by the implications, Illyrio ventured, "If things are as Your Majesty claims, are you already gathering support—raising an army in secret, waiting for your moment?"
Viserys shook his head slowly. "No, Illyrio. Not yet. I told you—I don't need an army. I need time."
Illyrio furrowed his brow. "But if you truly believe Jon Arryn's death will plunge the realm into chaos, why not act now? Why not prepare while the others are blind?"
Viserys didn't answer directly. Instead, he smiled thinly. "Tell me, Illyrio—have you ever watched beggars fight over stale bread?"
Illyrio blinked, unsure where this was going. "I... have."
"When a new beggar appears, do the old beggars band together to share, or do they turn and attack the newcomer first?"
"They attack the newcomer," Illyrio replied slowly.
"Exactly," Viserys said. "Let them fight. Let the lions and stags claw at each other. Let the wolves and flowers pick sides. Only when they're bloodied and blind will the dragon return—not as another claimant, but as the last rightful king."
Illyrio sat in silence. The madness in Viserys's words was undeniable—but so too was the clarity in his strategy.
"Of course not," Viserys said calmly, his tone laced with a sense of theatrical gravity. "Waiting is a form of action, Illyrio. You see, upheaval doesn't erupt overnight. But the world is shifting beneath their feet, and when the winds of change finally blow, you'll understand that the waiting was not in vain—it was necessary."
Illyrio frowned slightly, his fingers drumming against the armrest. He still seemed uncertain. "And when that time comes, will an army fall from the sky, Your Majesty?"
"You are a man of business, Illyrio," Viserys said, sidestepping the sarcasm. "A long-term investment—that's what this is. You believe in profit over time. So let me ask you: if you're already investing in my restoration, if you're backing me with coin, with ships, with your influence in Pentos and beyond… why not also invest the time? The death of one man—Jon Arryn—can topple a balance ten years in the making. And once the Seven Kingdoms turn against themselves, why would a true dragon fear not having an army?"
Illyrio looked tense now, concern evident in his voice. "But if Your Majesty has other designs in play… what role do I fulfill in them?"
"Illyrio, you've earned my trust," Viserys replied, his voice warming with calculated sincerity. "That is already more than most have. I do not need you to fight for me, or raise banners—not yet. Shelter me, advise me, give me the means to survive and wait. That alone will be enough to witness the cracks forming in the realm. Others have sheltered exiled nobles before, but none have offered a viable path to restoration. Only you. And for that, I swear this: when I sit the Iron Throne, you will be named my first Master of Coin."
Illyrio didn't speak. His silence carried weight.
This, Viserys knew, was how one claimed power—not through brute force, but by shaping the narrative. He knew Illyrio was still probing, still trying to understand where this mythical army was meant to appear from. Viserys had denied its existence, but every word, every pause, hinted otherwise.
Because the truth was, even Viserys didn't know where the army would come from. Not yet. But he had learned long ago that confidence could be just as powerful as steel. All he had to do was project unwavering belief—and let Illyrio's imagination fill the rest.
Illyrio might have seen through the posturing, the contradictions, the evasions. But even if he did, what could he truly say now? Viserys had set the stage, framed the future, and extended a hand of partnership. It was enough to make Illyrio hesitate, to force him to weigh risk against reward.
More importantly, Viserys had planted a question that would now linger in Illyrio's mind: What if the exiled prince did have a real plan? What if he had struck some hidden alliance, made some secret pact in another city, with another power?
Viserys didn't need an answer today. He only needed doubt to bloom. In war, in politics, and in exile—doubt was the seed of momentum.
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