c15: Patient Viserys
After Viserys and Illyrio finished their lunch, on their way back to their rooms through the lush gardens of the magister's manse, they encountered Daenerys sitting quietly on a stone bench in the courtyard, waiting.
She seemed to have been there for some time. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead from the harsh afternoon sun beating down over Pentos.
It was Viserys who spoke first, lifting his hand casually to beckon her over:
"Dany, come here. What are you doing sitting out here? Has your fever passed?"
Daenerys noticed her brother's rare smile. He seemed to be in high spirits.
"Yes, almost," she answered softly, stepping closer, though there was still a faint limp in her stride.
Her eyes flickered to a nearby gardener, who knelt pruning bright summer roses. Around his neck was a dull copper collar the mark of a slave in Pentos, as she had learned.
"This is Governor Illyrio's slave," Ani, her assigned maid, had whispered earlier when Dany first arrived.
Now, Daenerys approached carefully and leaned toward Viserys, keeping her voice low:
"I spoke with Ani," she said. "She said she was ordered to serve me. Why is Illyrio so good to us?" she asked hesitantly. "What does he want from us?"
Dany had learned early during their years of exile that such generosity never came without expectation.
"Don't speak like that, Dany," Viserys said with a slight frown, lowering his voice to match hers. "Illyrio is a kingmaker. He knows that when I reclaim my father's throne, I won't forget those who stood by me."
Viserys noted with some surprise that Daenerys still limped slightly, favoring one foot. A simple sprain should have confined her to bed for days, even weeks.
It crossed his mind, absurdly, that perhaps Dany had hurt herself deliberately that day some instinctual act spurred by fear of him. Yet such a thought seemed far too sinister for a timid, gentle child.
Instead, Viserys decided it revealed a hidden strength of character, a resilience not unlike their ancestor Rhaenys Targaryen, who once rode Meraxes into battle.
After all, Daenerys was destined to be the Mother of Dragons.
For now, though, she was just a frightened little girl who stopped speaking at the mere mention of the throne.
Yesterday's rare kindness from her brother still seemed a dream, and hearing him speak now of power and conquest, Dany felt a familiar terror stir within her.
"My sweet sister," Viserys said warmly, "one day we will sail home. Dragonstone, King's Landing, the Red Keep itself... the Seven Kingdoms all stolen from us. And we will reclaim them."
Viserys lived entirely in dreams of return. The words king and throne were his prayer and his obsession, repeated as feverishly as the Red Priests of R'hllor repeated their chants when they came through the free cities at night to light their nightfires.
But when Dany asked questions or voiced doubts, Viserys's rage would flare quickly and terribly, as it had before.
"Today is a great day, Dany," Viserys said, still glowing with excitement, though he offered no details of why. "When they write the histories of House Targaryen, they will remember this day."
Daenerys felt uneasy, watching the fevered glint in his eye. She said nothing.
Viserys, unbothered by her silence, grabbed her hand to steady her limping gait and led her back toward the cool safety of the house.
He wanted Daenerys to rest properly, lest a lingering injury mar the Mother of Dragons. Viserys, despite everything, still took pride in her after all, she was his sister, and perhaps, in his mind, part of his claim to the throne.
The corridors were oddly empty, with no bustling servants or discreet glances from Illyrio's household guards.
Still, Viserys kept up appearances, sharing his "joy" with Dany.
He launched into a story he had repeated so many times it had nearly become a ritual.the Conquest of Aegon the Dragon and his sisters Rhaenys and Visenya, the forging of the Iron Throne with dragonfire at Harrenhal, the kneeling of the Riverlords and the burning of the Field of Fire.
Daenerys lay curled on her bed, listening listlessly, murmuring polite responses now and then.
Viserys was in high spirits, continuing all the way until the sun began to sink behind the high walls of Illyrio's manse, and he finally reached the tale of the Bent Knee Stack—where the lords of Westeros bowed to Aegon.
Viserys knew Dany's attention was flagging, but he needed to speak needed to relive the triumphs of their ancestors to sustain himself.
In truth, Viserys also worried that perhaps he had been too clever today.
Illyrio Mopatis was no fool. A corpulent man, yes, but one whose smiling eyes concealed an astute mind.
Illyrio's affable exterior masked constant calculation. He did not mind seeming foolish if it lured others into underestimating him.
Today, during their lunch, Illyrio's questions and his subtle verbal traps had forced Viserys to maintain relentless vigilance.
Had Illyrio truly believed him? Or merely pretended to?
Viserys could only rely on exaggeration, misdirection, and reckless confidence tools he had refined through bitter exile.
The only true way to measure Illyrio's sincerity would be through his actions.
That night, Viserys's throat was raw from so much speaking. Illyrio merely exchanged formal pleasantries at dinner and allowed the siblings to eat in peace.
Afterward, Viserys excused himself with exaggerated fatigue, retreating to his room.
Left to his own devices, he toyed with the dragonbone necklace Illyrio had given Daenerys its subtle magical power long since spent.
He exercised diligently, just as he had every day since his arrival in Pentos. A strong body was the foundation for everything.
Finally, before bed, he slipped into the privy room and carefully examined the faint dragon scales that had begun forming along his ribcage.
Through many quiet experiments, he had discovered that the consumed magic in his body replenished roughly once per day.
The dragon scales were formed from pure elemental magic, and he could now will them to appear or disappear by directing that magic to flow into his liver.
Viserys theorized that when he eventually transformed into a dragon or some dragon-like hybrid the elemental energy that comprised his draconic form would be concentrated around his liver, horns, and wings: the natural nexuses of magic in a dragon's body.
Would I grow wings? Three heads?
The thought was strange almost comical.
The dragon form seemed preferable. Otherwise, he feared he would resemble a grotesque "half-dragon" with leathery wings sprouting from his back, a freak even among Targaryens.
But those concerns were still far off.
Another tentative puff of dragonflame no bigger than the flame from a candle exhausted his magic reserve for the day.
He washed, dressed in a clean linen nightshirt, and collapsed into bed.
There was still much to test.
Viserys wanted to know if repeated exhaustion of magic would expand his total magical capacity, just as exercise strengthened the muscles of the body.
For the next few days, Illyrio did not return.
Perhaps the magister had indeed set sail for Westeros as he claimed.
The journey across the Narrow Sea was arduous and treacherous. Despite its name, the Narrow Sea was a vast stretch of water, closer in size to the Mediterranean than a mere strait. Even Pentos, the closest of the Free Cities to Westeros, required weeks to reach by ship.
In any case, Illyrio's absence lifted a great weight from Viserys's shoulders.
He felt freer like a king finally ruling over his own destiny.
The days slipped by uneventfully.
Viserys continued his regimen, eating heartily and exercising relentlessly, strengthening the body that would one day command dragons and armies alike.
Take more walks, record more observations, wander the courtyard of the manse in Pentos, memorize the details of the paths, the layout of the gardens, the smell of the lemon trees, the cracked flagstones underfoot. Viserys made a point to remember the faces of every servant he encountered the copper-collared slaves, the free retainers sometimes asking their names and duties in an offhand way, making sure not to appear too curious. Perhaps he would never need this information, but if the time came, he must already know.
The rest of his days, when time permitted, were spent visiting Daenerys, carefully cultivating the appearance of a warm relationship. It was an alien feeling to him: being deliberately kind, masking his emotions. He had to maintain a careful balance not too cold, not too affectionate. Dany remained withdrawn most of the time, her mind weighed down with unspoken worries. Over time, Viserys found a method that worked: borrowing storybooks from Illyrio's lavish library, tales of Pentoshi legends, Braavosi sailors, and the lost cities of Valyria, and reading them aloud to Daenerys.
It seemed to work. During the days she lay abed, nursing her sprained ankle, she grew to expect his visits, her violet eyes lighting up in anticipation of new tales. When she regained her strength and could walk again, she began trailing after him around the manse, though she spoke little.
Still, Daenerys was too quiet.
Viserys understood — after all, the original Viserys had been a tyrant in private, a boy-king who lashed out in frustration. Though he himself no longer raised his hand or voice to her, Viserys found he had replaced rage with something colder: evasion. When faced with questions he could not or would not answer, he deflected, changed the subject. He never asked after her private thoughts and, truthfully, preferred it that way. A silent Dany was easier to manage; she could not interfere with his greater plans.
At first, Daenerys had listened to his stories with wide-eyed wonder, clapping her hands and asking questions. But after several days, her enthusiasm dimmed. She was no longer a child, and she did not like being treated as one. Nevertheless, each time he brought a story, she still listened dutifully.
It was obvious: she feared his displeasure more than she feared boredom.
The girl's heart was still tender, wounded by years of mistreatment. His new, milder behavior had not brought her happiness for long. She soon realized that though Viserys no longer shouted or struck her, the subtle wounds inflicted by coldness, perfunctory conversation, and distrust were no less painful.
Viserys noticed that she flinched at phrases like "Don't say that," "Don't speak foolishly," or "We'll speak of it another time." Words that ended conversations and reminded her of how powerless she was. So he used them deliberately, shutting her down whenever she grew too curious.
He tried to make his days monotonous and uninteresting, careful to project an image of harmless idleness, lessening the risk of suspicion from Illyrio's unseen watchers.
Of course, he did not forget the other artifact — the dragonbone relic hidden somewhere within Illyrio's vaults. The pull it exerted on him was constant, gnawing at the edge of his mind. But the manse was under heavy watch. He could not risk asking about the vaults a fool's move —nor did he dare to steal it outright.
Viserys dreamed of transforming into a dragon but he knew that patience was the first test. Many spoke of endurance, but few could truly master it. He must be patient.
---
Illyrio's journey across the Narrow Sea had taken seven days and nights aboard a Pentoshi galley, the sails filled by steady eastern winds. Though it was called the Narrow Sea, it was vast, more akin to the Mediterranean of the old world. At last, Blackwater Bay opened before him, the glittering crown of King's Landing rising in the misty distance.
The ravens traveled faster than any ship, so Illyrio's contacts already awaited him. Upon arrival, he lodged at a modest inn near the bustling port, resting from afternoon until moonrise.
At night, a quiet knock came at the door. When Illyrio opened it, there was no one outside — a signal.
Without hesitation, Illyrio donned a heavy cloak, pulled up the hood, and stepped into the night. He moved quickly, navigating the labyrinth of alleys that wound away from the harbor, until he reached the mist-covered docks once more. A small fishing skiff waited. Its boatman, hidden in shadow, offered no words.
Illyrio boarded. The skiff slipped silently into the waters, hugging the coast with no lanterns to betray them.
They landed on a deserted stretch of beach not far from the city walls. The boatman shoved off and pretended to fish, fading into the darkness.
Illyrio trudged along the rocky shore until he found a low slope riddled with boulders. Hidden among them was a narrow cave entrance — nearly invisible unless one knew exactly where to look.
Beyond the mouth, the cave plunged into darkness. Illyrio retrieved a torch from a niche in the wall, lit it, and pressed deeper.
The natural stone tunnel twisted and branched. Take the wrong fork, and one could easily become trapped in claustrophobic dead-ends. Fortunately, Illyrio knew the path well. After many turnings, rough rock gave way to ancient passages marked by rotting beams and the stink of mold.
Here lay one of the Red Keep's secret entrances — the forgotten veins that spanned under King's Landing, known only to few. Varys had once boasted of knowing every tunnel and forgotten well, every bolt-hole under the castle.
At last, Illyrio entered a large cavern where a chill wind blew downward. A massive well, black and gaping, dominated the center.
Illyrio's torch guttered in the draft.
Along the well's inner wall, stones had been set like crude stairs, spiraling upwards in a dizzying ascent.
Panting, sweat beading under his silks, Illyrio began the long climb. His legs, softened by years of indulgence, strained at the effort. He paused midway, collapsing onto a step beside the well's black maw.
Above, a new light flickered into being — a torch, descending toward him.
The figure who bore it was lithe and silent, his presence marked only by the shifting shadows cast along the curved stone.
As the torchlight drew closer, Illyrio heard a familiar, sardonic voice echo down the shaft:
"It seems, old friend, that you have finally learned just how tedious it is to deal with kings."
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