c20: The Return of Illyrio
"In the past twenty days or so, they have never once spoken of leaving the manse. Did they not even ask?"
Illyrio Mopatis, his massive frame barely contained by the ornate chair, lounged in the study's main seat. He listened attentively to the steward and Ani's reports, his voice finally cutting through the heavy air.
"That's correct, my lord," the steward answered solemnly.
"You mentioned earlier," Illyrio continued, smoothing a hand over his oiled beard, "that you observed a certain... 'pattern'. What sort of pattern did you mean?"
The steward bowed his head respectfully. "It is thus: the young prince sleeps late, rarely rising before noon. In the days when the princess's injury had not yet healed, he would take a book from the sitting room cabinet after luncheon and spend the afternoon in her chambers, telling her tales from its pages. Afterward, he would leave and walk the length of the courtyard, still with book in hand, remaining outdoors until sunset.
Once the princess regained the use of her legs, he altered his habits slightly taking her arm in his and wandering through the garden with her after meals, reading aloud or having her read to him. Occasionally, he would remark on the trees or flowers. At nightfall, after supper, he locked himself in his chambers for sword practice. The clanging of wood and the shuffle of feet would echo for hours."
Illyrio tapped a thick finger against the armrest thoughtfully. "And why do you think he keeps to such a regimen?"
The steward hesitated. "I cannot claim to know his mind, my lord. But from what we have seen, reading appears to be a mere pretense. His true intent is training hard training. Like a soldier preparing for war. He moves constantly during the day, rarely resting, and in doing so has worn through a new pair of boots already. By night, he hones his swordsmanship. The change in him is plain to see. He has grown lean and strong, his posture straight and steady. He carries himself now with the bearing of a nobleman — more so than when first he arrived."
Illyrio's eyes narrowed. "You mean to say, he is fashioning himself into a king?"
"That is my belief," the steward replied gravely, lowering his gaze.
For a moment Illyrio was silent, his mind racing. His small black eyes shifted to Ani, who stood quietly to one side.
"And what say you?" Illyrio asked.
Ani curtsied lightly. "I feel the same, my lord. His manner has changed greatly. If I were to meet him for the first time today, and you told me he was of royal blood, I would not doubt it."
Illyrio's expression remained unreadable. His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. "Aside from this... any other observations?"
The steward spoke again. "There is the matter of the dragonbone necklace, my lord. One night, he placed it into a fire. The silver chain blackened, the dragonbone charred, yet he did not discard it. Instead, he wrapped the scorched chain about his wrist. Beyond that, nothing remarkable. He speaks little of himself, and even less of his past."
Illyrio leaned back heavily, digesting the report. After a moment, he asked, "And the girl?"
Ani stepped forward. "She is more guarded than even her brother. She clings to him constantly, wary and silent. She is timid, suspicious, lacking confidence. She answers no questions, requests nothing, and meets any kindness with mistrust. Often, when I attempt conversation, she listens keenly but refuses to respond.
At times, when she might have spoken, Prince Viserys would hush her, and she would obey instantly, remaining silent the rest of the day."
Illyrio's lips twisted in a small, knowing smile. "It is not the girl who guards against us it is Viserys. He places no full trust in me... and therefore none in you either."
"But there is one peculiarity," Ani added. "The girl appears wholly unafraid of pain. Once, freshly boiled water had been brought up for her bath, still near scalding. Without waiting for it to cool, she stepped into the tub without hesitation and made no cry, no complaint. Her skin flushed, but she showed no sign of discomfort.
I arranged, quietly, for Viserys to encounter similarly heated water on several occasions. He reacted each time, immediately ordering the water cooled with cold from the well."
At this, Illyrio's expression shifted subtly. His gaze grew sharp, calculating.
"A strange thing indeed," he murmured. He stroked his beard, thoughtful. "Perhaps... perhaps the blood of the dragon runs stronger in some."
He did not elaborate further. But deep in his heart, Illyrio Mopatis was pondering possibilities old prophecies half-remembered, and what value might still lie hidden in the last blood of old Valyria.
"Governor Illyrio, you have finally returned!"
Before Viserys had even appeared, a cry of delight echoed from beyond the dining hall doors.
The tone was so expectant, so eagerly prepared for Illyrio's ears, that it left the merchant prince momentarily speechless, forcing him to swallow the opening words he had intended to say.
Lifting his head, Illyrio saw Viserys Targaryen stride through the doorway first, followed by the steward who had gone to guide him, and at last, Daenerys trailing quietly behind.
Viserys wore an eager smile stretched wide across his pale face, his steps long and hurried as if he fought to maintain a noble dignity, yet could not quite restrain the excitement bubbling within him. In three quick strides he crossed the room, coming to stand before Illyrio, forcing himself to speak with an air of gravity.
"Please," Viserys said, his voice slightly breathless despite himself, "tell me what tidings have you brought, Governor of Westeros, and what fruits has your journey borne?"
Only then did Illyrio truly understand what the steward and Ani had meant when they spoke of how Viserys had changed.
The memories of their first meeting flashed vividly in Illyrio's mind. Then, the young king had been little more than a half-starved beggar "The Beggar King," as some had mockingly called him. Viserys had been clothed in threadbare finery stained and worn thin, his violet eyes sunken and feverish, his skin sickly pale, his hair a tangled, greasy mess. His frame was skeletal and frail, his back slightly stooped from hardship. When he spoke, his hands had trembled, betraying nerves he could not master, and when excited, his voice had risen to a high-pitched shriek, barely masking the wild fanaticism in his gaze.
Yet now scarcely twenty days later much had changed. His complexion was touched by color, his face clean-shaven and sharp. His cheeks, once hollow, had filled slightly, lending strength to his jaw. His silver-blond hair, so fine and precious among his bloodline, had been washed, oiled, and brushed until it shone like molten steel. Though still thin, Viserys carried himself with a straight-backed pride that lent his slender form an illusion of strength. Illyrio had little doubt that in this healthier, nobler guise, Viserys would turn many young noblewomen's heads at any court in Essos or Westeros alike.
The only thing that remained unchanged was the fervent glint in his amethyst eyes that same manic fire, lurking just beneath the polished surface.
[He is indeed molding himself into a king at least in appearance.]
When Illyrio had set out for his travels, he had made countless calculations, weighing every possibility. He had expected that the Dornish ever proud and wary of the Iron Throne might seek an alliance with Viserys through marriage. Princess Arianne Martell, the fiery and willful heir to Dorne, remained unmarried. Over the years, Prince Doran Martell had entertained many proposals for his daughter some aged, some unsuitable yet had refused them all.
Now, it seemed clear: the Dornish had already promised Arianne to Viserys, sealing a pact that would bring Dorne behind his claim when he moved to reclaim the Iron Throne.
Despite Varys' frustrating ambiguity on the matter, and despite combing the reports from the "little birds," neither Illyrio nor the Spider had ever been able to uncover when such a secret accord had been struck.
Yet now, seeing Viserys thus transformed, Illyrio grew ever more convinced: Dorne had placed its faith in the dragon prince, somewhere beyond the reach of Varys' whisperers.
Still Viserys was here, in Illyrio's grasp. If the merchant prince was to profit, he must discern the young king's true intentions quickly and plan his next moves accordingly.
Fixing a practiced smile to his lips, Illyrio inclined his head slightly. "Your Grace," he said smoothly, "pray be seated first."
What Illyrio did not know, however, was that when Viserys heard the words "Your Grace" spoken with Illyrio's usual deference, a flood of emotions roiled beneath the young king's poised exterior. His face remained radiant with excitement and pride, but guilt gnawed at him nonetheless.
When he had risen late that morning and was told by the steward that "the master waits for you in the dining hall," Viserys had been so overcome with eager joy that he barely heard the rest of the man's words missing entirely the warning meant to temper his expectations.
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